REMARKS.—Hall, not the “John,” but the “_Pugilistica: The History of British Boxing, Volume 2 (of 3) Containing Lives of the Most Celebrated Pugilists; Full Reports of Their Battles from Contemporary Newspapers, With Authentic Portraits, Personal Anecdotes, and Sketches of the Principal Patrons of the Prize Ring, Forming a Complete History of the Ring from Fig and Broughton, 1719-1740, to the Last Championship Battle Between King and Heenan, in December 1863

great surprise and satisfaction of his friends, appeared at the

Castle Tavern as early as eight o’clock on the same evening, thus

contradicting the alarming rumours of his death. It appears that his

recollection did not return to him till after he had been twice

bled, and twenty-five minutes had elapsed, and even then his ideas

were in a very confused state, so tremendous were the effects of the

blow. Hall informed the company he did not feel himself any the

worse, except from the sore state of his arm, rendered so by the

instruments of the surgeon. The latter thought Hall in fine

condition. It was now evident to the amateurs that Sampson was an

improved man; and this little slice of fortune increased his

confidence so much that he returned to Birmingham with all the

honours of war.

In January, 1823, we find Sampson inditing insulting letters on

Israelites in general, and Belasco in particular, in the _Weekly

Dispatch_, which were responded to in more parliamentary language in the

columns of _Bell’s Life_, and “these paper pellets of the brain,” after

five months of popping, assumed the form of “Articles of Agreement,”

dated June 19th, 1823, whereby Philip Sampson and Abraham Belasco

mutually bound themselves to fight in a twenty-four foot ring,

half-minute time, for £100 a-side, on Tuesday, the 25th of August, 1823,

Mr. Jackson to name the place. “On signing the articles,” says the

reporter, “Sampson poured out a couple of glasses of port, and, handing

one of them to his opponent, gave the toast, ‘May the best man win.’ ‘I

hope he will,’ said Belasco, tossing off his glass.”

Crawley Downs, in Sussex, was the fixture, and such of the Fancy as

respected their nags too much to give the animals some sixty-six miles

in a day were to be seen on the Monday trotting through Riddlesdown,

Reigate, and East Grinstead, stopping to bait, “blow a cloud,” and enjoy

a chaff with Boniface, whose jocund countenance bespoke his pleasure at

sight of such good customers.

In the morning Crawley Downs were alive with arrivals from all quarters

of the compass. Sampson came on the ground in a barouche and four,

enveloped in a large blue military cloak; while Belasco trotted over the

turf behind eighty guineas’ worth of horseflesh, driven by a well-known

East-end sportsman. At a few minutes past one Sampson threw his white

nob-cover into the ring, and taking his bright crimson kerchief from his

throat handed it to Josh Hudson, who, with Ben Burn, were his chosen

seconds. Belasco quickly followed suit, dropping his beaver quietly

within the ropes, and his colours, “a yellowman,” were also fixed to the

centre stake. Peter Crawley, in a bright green Newmarket and Belcher

tie, with Bill Richmond, in West End Corinthian costume, acted as

“esquires of the body” to Aby, who said to Josh across the ring, “Now,

let’s have a quiet fight, let it go which way it will.” The seconds

concurred, and we must say we never saw a mill better conducted, as a

whole, by all parties concerned. The betting opened at five to four on

Belasco.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—Sampson never looked better. The appellation hitherto borne

by him of the Birmingham Youth seemed a thing of the past; the

gristle had become bone, and the smoothness of limb laced and

knotted with hard and well-marked muscle. In fact, he looked a model

athlete. Belasco was also a picture of a man in fine health; his

bust, a perfect anatomical study, together with his black nob,

penetrating eye, and Mosaic countenance, rendered the Jew an

interesting object in this ballet of action. Confidence sat on his

brow; he was cool, collected, and evidently anticipated victory.

Upon shaking hands it was the general opinion that Sampson would

have attempted to slaughter Belasco, in order to win off-hand, as a

long fight might prove dangerous to him. Not so; Sampson was

cautious in the extreme. Belasco placed his hands very high,

convinced the spectators he was an adept in science, and appeared

armed at all points against the slashing onset of his adversary.

Considerable dodging occurred, and several slight offers were made

on both sides, but neither of them was to be deceived by the feints

of the other. Belasco’s left hand told slightly on Sampson’s body

without a return; it was soon after repeated. Both eyeing each other

for a short period, when Sampson put down his hands and rubbed them

on his drawers. Sampson still cautious. The left hand of Belasco

again told slightly on his antagonist’s body. A pause. Each

combatant attempted to hit, but their blows fell short. (Four

minutes had elapsed.) Sampson at length made himself up for

mischief, and let fly at the Jew’s nob with tremendous force, but

Belasco stopped it in the most skilful style. (“Beautiful! bravo!”)

Sampson again tried it on, when an exchange of blows occurred, and

Belasco’s right eye received a little damage. The Jew got away

cleverly from another well-aimed nobber; and, in closing at the

ropes, Belasco had the best of the fibbing, till Sampson went down

on his back, and his opponent upon him. (Applause on both sides. The

Sheenies said “it was all right,” and the Brums observed “nothing

was the matter.”)

2.—Sampson hit the Jew in the body, but Belasco soon afterwards put

in a sharp facer, and followed his opponent to do mischief.

Counter-hitters and nobbers were the result. A short rally followed,

the left eye of Sampson received a touch. In closing, both down,

Sampson undermost. (“First blood,” exclaimed Josh; “look at the side

of Belasco’s nose.” The claret was just peeping, as it were, between

his ogles.)

3.—The fine science displayed by Belasco, in stopping the heavy hits

of his opponent, was the admiration of the spectators. The Jew went

sharply towards his antagonist, when, after an exchange of blows,

Sampson got down.

4.—This was a pretty round, and fine fighting on both sides was

conspicuous. In struggling at the ropes, Sampson went down rather

awkwardly, and Belasco, being in the act of hitting, struck his

opponent on the nob. “Foul, foul!” by the Sampsonites; “Fair, fair!”

by the Sheenies. The referee said “nothing wrong had occurred; but

he felt afraid that he had consented to take upon himself a very

difficult situation, as the opposite parties did not appear to agree

on the true principles of prize-fighting. However, he had not one

farthing upon the fight, and he should do his duty if called on to

decide.”

5.—This round was decidedly in favour of Belasco. He not only got

away from a nobber that might have proved a settler, but in turn

gave Sampson so heavy a hit on his head that the latter turned round

from the force of it, and went a yard or two away; but he soon

returned to fight. In closing at the ropes, pepper was used between

them till both were down, Belasco undermost. (The latter was much

applauded, and, up to this period of the fight, continued the

favourite.)

6.—The Jew was also the hero in this round. Sampson appeared rather

distressed. Belasco proved himself a more troublesome customer than

his opponent had anticipated; he was indeed very difficult to be got

at. Some blows were exchanged, when they closed at the ropes, and

ultimately the Jew had the best of it, planting a blow on Sampson’s

nob as he was going down.

7.—Sampson was on the look-out to put in a slogger on the nob of the

Jew, but the science of the latter prevented him. In fact, Sampson,

although rather evil-disposed towards his opponent, which he let

escape now and then in words, was nevertheless cool in his conduct.

The cunning of the Jew, and the firmness of his guard, pointed out

clearly to Sampson that he must be careful to avoid committing

mistakes when opposed to so accomplished a boxer as Belasco, which

accounts, in a great measure, for the Birmingham hero altering his

hitherto smashing mode of fighting. The Jew stopped well; and, after

an exchange of blows, Belasco dexterously planted a heavy body hit

about an inch and a half below the mark, which sent Sampson down on

his latter end. (A great burst of applause from the partisans of

Belasco, who now, without hesitation, offered £10 to £5—100 to

50—two to one, all over the ring. “It’s ash right ash the tay, Aby;

feel for his vind next time.”)

8.—Sampson, however, did not appear a great deal the worse for his

floorer, for he came to the scratch instantly at the call of time.

This was a well-fought round on both sides; but the science

displayed by Belasco extorted applause from all parts of the ring.

He planted a body blow with his left hand, and protected his head so

finely with his right as to stop a well-meant heavy hit.

Counter-hitting, but Sampson’s blows were most severe, from his

length; still in closing at the ropes the Jew fibbed Sampson down

and fell upon him.

9.—Sampson went in quickly to do mischief, but Belasco made as usual

some excellent stops. The Jew, in making a body blow, hit rather

low. “What do you call that?” said Sampson. In closing, Sampson went

down.

10.—This round was against Belasco. The Jew stopped delightfully at

the commencement, but in counter-hitting Belasco received a terrific

blow in the middle of his head, which almost knocked him backwards;

but he returned to the attack as game as a pebble, and in closing at

the ropes had the best of it while hanging upon them, until Sampson,

by a desperate effort, extricated himself, and, strange to say,

placed the Jew in his own former situation, fibbing Belasco till he

went down, bleeding profusely. (The faces of the Brums, which had

hitherto been very grave, now assumed a smile, and “Sampson for

ever!” was the cry.)

11.—The face of Belasco exhibited punishment. Sampson had also the

lead in this round, but he determined not to give a chance away, and

in closing he went down. (Murmuring from the Sheenies.)

12.—Belasco endeavoured to plant a hit, but Sampson got away. In

closing, Sampson again went down.

13.—The Jew put in a heavy body blow, but one of Sampson’s hard hits

met Belasco in the middle of his head. The battle was now alive, all

parties highly interested, and doubts and fears expressed on both

sides. The Jew, full of game, tried to get the lead, obtained it,

and Sampson went down.

14.—The length and height of Sampson enabled him to stand over his

opponent, and this, added to his excellent knowledge of boxing and

increased strength, rendered him no easy opponent for Belasco. (The

Jew was irritated in this round from the expressions of Sampson,

while they were sparring together, who observed, “I have got you

now, Belasco, and I’ll not only lick you, but drive your Jew brother

out of Birmingham.” “Be quiet,” said Josh; “fight, and don’t talk

so.” “You can do neither,” replied Belasco, “but you are an

illiberal fellow.” “Keep your temper,” urged Crawley.) Belasco ran

in and planted two hits; and, in closing, Sampson went down in the

best way he could, and received a hit in consequence, which

occasioned cries of “Foul!” and “Fair!”

15.—Belasco displayed superior skill in stopping two blows, but in

counter-hitting he received such a tremendous blow near his temple

that he fell out of the ropes on his head quite stunned. (“It is all

up,” was the cry; and “Ten to one he does not fight again!”) The

Sheenies were alarmed, and none but the gamest of the game would

ever have come again. Belasco might have left off with honour.

16.—No sailor “three sheets in the wind” appeared more groggy at the

scratch when time was called. In fact, Belasco did not know where he

was—his eyes had lost their wonted fire, and it really was a pity to

see him standing up to a fine, strong young man like Sampson. The

latter, very cautious, did not make play, and the Jew had none the

worst of the round. Both down, but Sampson undermost. Six to four on

Sampson.

17.—Belasco, recovered a little, fought like a brave man till he was

hit down.

18.—The Jew seemed better—he exchanged hits, and was again sent

down. Two to one on Sampson.

19.—Against Belasco; but he held up his arms well, and, after

stopping a hit or two, got down.

20.—The Jew had recovered considerably; and, although he had the

worst of it, Sampson thought it prudent to fight cautiously. Belasco

made play with great spirit; but, in counter-hitting, received

another severe blow on his head, which sent him out of the ropes. If

he had not been a truly game man when time was called he would not

have paid attention to it. Three to one.

21.—The Jew resolved that “his people” should have no reason to

complain. He commenced fighting, although sorely distressed. The

result of the round was that Sampson received a hit, and went down

on his knees. (“Bravo, Belasco, you are a game fellow,” from Tom

Owen, “but you are overmatched.”)

22.—The finish of this round was in favour of Belasco, and he fibbed

Sampson down. (“It is anybody’s battle, now,” cried an old

sportsman; “a good hit would decide it either way.” “I’ll lay forty

to ten,” said Tom Oliver, “Sampson wins!” “Stake,” said a gentleman

from Houndsditch, “and I will take it.” Oliver didn’t.)

23.—The face of Belasco was piteous, and his right eye swelled

prodigiously; but he came to the scratch determined to dispute every

inch of ground while a chance remained. “A little one for Mother

Melsom,” said Josh, “and the battle is at an end.” Sampson saw that

conquest was within his grasp, and he was determined to win it

without risk. He accordingly let Belasco commence fighting before he

offered to return. The Jew went down from a straight blow, quite

exhausted. (“Take the brave fellow away; he ought not to be suffered

to come again.” “I am not licked yet,” said Belasco.)

24, and last.—It was evident the battle must be soon over, but

Belasco answered the call of time like a man. The Jew was too

distressed to protect himself with his usual skill, and he received

a hit in the middle of his face that floored him slap on his back.

He was picked up by his seconds, but in a state of stupor. When the

half-minute had elapsed Belasco remained insensible, and Sampson was

declared the winner. It was over in forty-two minutes.

REMARKS.—Sampson retired from the contest with very trifling marks

upon his face. He is altogether an improved man; his frame is set,

and his fighting eminently superior to the style he exhibited in his

battles with Martin, Gybletts, and Abbott. We think that he ought to

have won the last-named fight. Nevertheless, it confers honour upon

his milling talents to conquer so accomplished a boxer as Belasco

proved himself to be. To speak of the Jew as he deserves, or of one

brave man that has surrendered to another, it is thus: It is true

Belasco has been defeated, but he stands higher in the estimation of

his friends than ever; let no more slurs be thrown upon him as to “a

white feather”! He had to contend against height, length, weight,

and youth, added to which Sampson was also a good fighter and a

high-couraged man. He has not disgraced “his people.” The Jew was

brought into the ring in spirited style, but we applaud most the

feeling manner in which he was supported out of it. Every attention

that humanity could suggest was paid to Belasco. A medical

gentleman, of his own persuasion, brought down from London solely

for that purpose, had the care of him. We could, if necessary,

mention a list of Israelites who were most assiduous on this

occasion, but we feel assured the sporting world will appreciate

such feeling, generosity, and gentlemanly conduct. The weight of

Sampson was said to be twelve stone three pounds; his height, five

feet ten-and-a-half inches—Belasco, in his clothes, eleven stone six

pounds; his height, five feet seven inches. To the credit of both

men it may be stated that they now shook hands and became friends;

Belasco, as we shall see, becoming a zealous second to Sampson on

several important occasions.

Phil now flew at high game. He challenged Jem Ward, then the most

promising of the candidates for the Championship. Jem, nothing loth,

accommodated him for £100 a-side, and on Monday, June 21st, 1824, gave

Mr. Sampson an indisputable thrashing in fifty minutes, as chronicled in

the memoir of WARD (_ante_, p. 206).

One of the peculiarities of Sampson, which he shared with the renowned

Blucher, was that of “not knowing when he was beaten.” He had further

the remarkable faculty of talking and writing other people over to his

own opinion. Thus, in December of the same year, 1824, he got himself

backed a second time against Jem Ward, and on this occasion it took “the

Black Diamond” only thirty-seven minutes and a half to finally floor

“the strong man,” all the circumstances of which will be found fully

written in the book of “Pugilistica,” in the Life of WARD (_ante_, p.

207), to which we beg to refer the reader.

Phil’s “vaulting ambition, which o’erleaps the lists and falls on the

other side,” had now a temporary check, and “My Uncle Ben,” who was

looking out for a job for his “Nevvy,” Jem Burn, proposed a battle with

Sampson for £50 a-side. After much ink-spilling the articles were

formulated, and Tuesday, June 22nd, 1825, fixed. Mr. Jackson named

Harpenden Common, near St. Albans, and thither, on the day appointed,

the Fancy repaired. Unfortunately on the previous evening a whisper had

gone forth that it was to be a squared fight, in consequence of which

unfounded rumour lots of gents made up their minds to turn their backs

upon the thing altogether. Burn, of course, as he was to win, and

nothing else, according to “the man in the street,” was backed at six to

four, seven to four, and sooner than go without a bet those wiseacres (a

wonderfully numerous class at all times) who thought they were in

possession of the secret laid two to one. A meddlesome man in office,

“dressed in a little brief authority,” also turned up, and forbade the

mill taking place on the old spot at No Man’s Land. The Fancy, always

ready to obey the mandates of the authorities, accordingly toddled on a

few miles farther, and the ring was formed at Shere Mere, in

Bedfordshire. Sampson declared he had been ill-treated by these sinister

reports, and hoped his conduct would soon give the lie to his enemies.

Jem Burn, at one o’clock, attended by Randall and Uncle Ben, threw his

hat into the Ring, and was received with loud cheers. Sampson soon

followed, and planted his topper within the ropes, waited upon by Josh

Hudson and Rough Robin.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—Young Jem looked well; he was highly fancied, and the

general opinion seemed to be that the Young One would win it. The

canvas of Sampson appeared to be the tougher, and with the utmost

coolness he himself went and tied his colours to the stakes, over

his opponent’s, confidently observing, “These belong to me.” The

caution displayed by Sampson showed he was anxious to win; and the

steadiness of Jem told the fanciers victory was the object he had in

view. Two minutes elapsed in eyeing each other, when the Young One

let fly, and touched Sampson’s body. Sampson gave a grin. A long

pause. (The John Bull Fighter was so tired that he laid himself down

in the ring, observing, “We are all right; Phil will win at his

leisure.”) Sampson put in a small taste on Jem’s cheek. (“Bravo,

Samsy!”) The caution observed on both sides was so tiresome to the

spectators that “night caps” were called for. At length Burn went

spiritedly to work, but Sampson skilfully stopped him right and

left. Sampson planted one on the head of his adversary, which

provoked Jem to rush in, when Sampson caught him with an

uphanded-hit, and My Nevvy fell on his face. The blow was a stunner,

and visible on his forehead; the umpires, however, did not decide

this to be a knock-down blow. Thirteen minutes and a half.

2.—Jem appeared to be fighting according to “orders”—he was over

cautious. (“Never mind,” said Josh, “let them do as they like; it is

the ‘Rising Sun’ against the ‘Half Moon’—the Moon for my money!”)

Sampson had decidedly the best of this round, hitting his man right

and left. In closing, Burn was hit down. This round decided first

blood and the first knock-down blow. Five to four on Sampson.

3.—Jem was not deficient in pluck, and came to the scratch like a

good one. Jem planted a nobber, but Sampson countered well. A rally,

in which Jem was sent down. Seven to four on Brummagem.

4.—This was a fine round, and good fighting on both sides. Burn was

troublesome; but the skill and coolness displayed by Sampson were

the admiration of the spectators. Some exchanges that told on both

sides, but Jem had the worst of it. The claret made its appearance

under Burn’s left ogle, and Sampson, by way of a finish, hit his

antagonist down. Two to one on the Brum.

5.—Burn, full of spirit, tried to punish the Brum, but he was

stopped, nobbed right and left, and thrown into the bargain.

6.—This was short but sweet to Phil. Sampson stopped capitally, and,

in turn, planted two facers—botherers—so much so that Burn

staggered, turned round, and fell on his face.

7.—The nob of Jem was changed, but his courage never forsook him.

The coolness of Sampson enabled him to plant his blows with effect.

Jem lost many hits by being on the blinking system; he rushed in to

mill, but Sampson caught him as he came. In a sharp rally, Jem went

down.

8.—A tiny bit of a change for Jem—he sent Sampson down at the close

of the round. (Loud shouting for Burn. “Do that once more; Phil

don’t like it—you’ll soon make his knees tremble.” “Tremble,

indeed!” replied the Brum. “Fetch a fiddle, and I’ll bet a pound I

dance a hornpipe.”)

9.—Jem was piping, and Sampson a little winded. The latter planted a

jobber over the left eye of his opponent, and got away. (Great

applause. “Fighting such as this looks like a +, don’t it?” said

jolly Josh, rubbing his hands.) Some excellent stops on both sides,

and sharp exchanges of blows, till Burn napped an out-and-out one on

his nob, which dropped My Nevvy. Three to one on Brummagem.

10.—Forty-eight minutes had elapsed, and Sampson was as fresh as a

four-year-old. Burn, notwithstanding the state of his face, was game

as a pebble, and stood to his work like a man. Sampson received a

note of hand on his conk, without giving the return. Sharp fighting,

till Burn went down.

11.—This round was a fine specimen of the art of self-defence; and

both combatants displayed great skill. The right eye of Jem was

nearly in the dark, and he raised his hand to wipe it. Sampson,

quick as lightning, endeavoured to take advantage of the opening,

let fly with his left, but to the surprise of the spectators Burn

stopped him. This circumstance produced thunders of applause for

Jem. Burn again stopped several blows; but at the conclusion of the

round he was floored like a shot by a tremendous hit on the mouth.

Jem put his hand to his head as he lay on the ground.

12.—This round, by the decided manner in which he took the lead, and

also in finishing it by a heavy throw, rendered Sampson the

favourite at four to one.

13.—The friends of Jem still stuck to him, and were filled with

hopes that, as he had displayed so much real game, he might be able

to wear out Sampson; but the latter was cool and collected. Jem was

countered, and, in a hard struggle at the ropes, severely fibbed

down. (“The ‘Half Moon’ now,” said Josh, “has nearly put the ‘Rising

Sun’ into darkness. Very nasty, Mr. Broad Day, eh?”)

14.—Jem went down from a left-handed blow.

15.—Burn was really mischievous, and in close quarters nobbed

Sampson heavily. (“Keep off,” said Josh, “don’t give a chance

away.”) Sampson measured his distance well, and poor Jem again went

down.

16.—It was booked that Jem could not win; but the brave fellow had

not the slightest notion of saying “No!” Sampson waited for an

opportunity, and by a flush hit nearly took the fight out of Jem by

a floorer. (“Take him away!”)

17.—It was now lick or be licked with Jem, and he acted boldly on

this determination. Notwithstanding his blinking state, he

administered several heavy thumps on Sampson’s nob when in close

quarters. In closing, Sampson caught Burn’s nob under his arm,

fibbed, and dropped poor Jem with ease.

18.—A little turn in favour of Burn; the latter, by his boldness,

planted some heavy hits, one of which made Sampson stagger, and he

fell on the ropes. (A tremendous shout from the friends of Burn, who

did not give up hopes of victory.)

19.—Jem came to the scratch, but he was nearly blind. He was soon

thrown.

20.—It was piteous to see Jem throw his blows away; he could not see

his opponent. Burn received a heavy blow on the nose, and fell on

his back. Ten to one, but no takers.

21.—It was nearly “all up” with Jem; he appeared like a man groping

in the dark. The humanity of Sampson is worthy of record; he

scarcely touched him, and only planted a tap to put an end to the

battle. Burn was sent down quite exhausted. (“Take him away.”)

22.—Jem, like a drowning man catching at a straw, made a desperate

effort, and in a rush at Sampson received another floorer. (“Don’t

let the brave fellow fight any more—take him away.”)

23, and last.—It is worse than death to a man of true courage to

experience defeat, and Jem had made up his mind not to pronounce the

afflicting “No.” Burn had scarcely arrived at the scratch when he

was sent down by a trifling touch. (“He shall fight no more,” said

Uncle Ben, positively, stepping up to the umpires.) It occupied an

hour and ten minutes. Sampson immediately shook hands with his

fallen opponent. Burn was severely punished about the head, but

scarcely any body blows were given throughout the battle.

REMARKS.—Burn fought according to orders. Had he adopted the milling

style which characterised the last seven or eight rounds, even if he

had not proved victorious, it might have rendered the fight a more

even thing. Sampson in all his battles has proved himself a good

fighter. Like Jem Burn, he began his career too young. This battle

was a most honourable contest, and reflected credit on both the

combatants. Jem Burn is a truly game man. Every person returned home

well satisfied with the fairness and honesty of the battle.

Hall, of Birmingham, now declared himself anxious to try his luck in a

third battle with Sampson; and Phil, with the utmost politeness, agreed

to accommodate him without delay for £50 a-side. This mill was decided

on Tuesday, November 22nd, 1825. The fight was booked as a certainty;

“if,” as the chaff went, “it was not already made right.” Sampson was

the favourite at six to four.

Early on Tuesday morning the Fancy were on the alert at Birmingham,

Worcester, Coventry, Lichfield, &c., to arrive at Basset’s Pole, between

Birmingham and Tamworth. Few of the London Fancy were present, as their

“minds were completely made up,” from the capital fight Sampson made

with Ward at Stony Stratford, that Phil must win the battle in a canter;

therefore “it would not pay” to undertake so long a trot.

The description of the fight between Sampson and Hall lies in a

nutshell, one round having put an end to the contest. Sampson was in

prime condition, and certain of winning. Hall was upon equally good

terms with himself. Sampson was seconded by Ward and Holland, and Hall

by two brothers. On setting-to Sampson did not treat his opponent with

indifference, but waited for him cool and collected. Three minutes had

nearly elapsed in dodging about, when Hall planted a bodier. (“Bravo!”

from his friends.) Sampson returned the compliment with great activity;

hit for hit soon took place, and a sharp rally was the result. The men

separated, and a trifling pause occurred. Sampson made himself up for

mischief, and with his left delivered a heavy blow under his opponent’s

ear which gave him the doldrums; by way of quietus he then planted with

his right so severe a facer that Hall was floored like a shot. When time

was called Hall was insensible, and remained in a state of stupor for

several minutes. Thus Sampson was pronounced the conqueror in the short

space of four minutes and three-quarters. The backers of Hall looked not

a little blue on viewing their man so easily disposed of by Sampson, and

the spectators in general were much disappointed at so short a contest.

The winners, however, held a contrary opinion, and were in high spirits,

observing “the fight was long enough for them;” and Sampson, with a

smile upon his face, stated that “he should like to be paid for such

another job, as £100 for under five minutes was not to be done every

day, even in the highest professions.” The “Sage of the East,” in a

discourse upon the event, declared Sampson’s right-hander to be “a

golden hit”!

Owing to a quarrel with Josh Hudson at the East End, January 31st, 1826,

Josh being by no means _compos_, Sampson beat the “John Bull Fighter” in

six rounds, not much to the credit of the former. As a _per contra_, on

June 30th, 1826, his bounce and quarrelsomeness got him a _third_

thrashing from Jem Ward, which was administered by the Champion in ten

rounds, at Norwich, while on a sporting tour. Sampson also put out at

this time a challenge to Brown, of Bridgnorth, to fight for £50 a-side;

but the “big one” replied that the price did not suit him, so Sampson

wrote again and again to show that Brown _ought_ to fight for that sum!

Paul Spencer, a native of Ireland, elegantly designated the “Mud Island

Devil,” having defeated Manning, of Manchester, felt anxious to obtain a

higher situation on the pugilistic roll, and challenged Sampson for £50

a-side. Phil approved of this match, observing at the same time, “No

Irishman can lick me.” The articles stated that the fight should take

place on Tuesday, November 27th, 1827, between Birmingham and Liverpool;

and Newcastle-under-Lyme was named as the rallying point. During the

Sunday and Monday previous to the battle the above town was filled with

visitors from Liverpool, Birmingham, and Manchester. About two miles

from Newcastle-under-Lyme the ring was made in front of the grand stand

on the race-course. A few minutes before one o’clock the men arrived on

the ground. Sampson threw his hat into the ring, attended by Tom Oliver

and Young Gas; and Spencer was waited upon by Donovan and Bob Avery.

Both combatants were in excellent condition. Spencer was an object of

great interest to his Irish friends. He was a fine strong young fellow,

in height five feet eleven inches and a half, weighing thirteen stone

one pound. The colours were a crimson fogle for Sampson, and a green

with a yellow spot for Spencer. Six to four on Sampson.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—The men prepared for action in good style, Spencer adopting

Ned Neale’s mode of keeping up his left hand. Sampson was also on

the alert. After a short time occupied in manœuvring, Spencer

endeavoured to make his right and left tell, but Phil got out of

danger. A short pause; both on the look-out for an opening, when the

Mud Island Devil planted his right hand on Sampson’s nob; the latter

boxer returned left and right, and a brisk rally was the result. In

closing Phil fell on his knee, and Spencer, in fibbing, hit Sampson

as he was down. (“Foul!” “Fair!”) The friends of Sampson claimed the

fight, but the umpires ordered the battle to proceed.

2.—Caution on both sides. Spencer held his left still up, and let

fly with his right. Sampson stopped him skilfully, and hit out right

and left, delivering well on the nob. A desperate rally followed, in

which sharp hits were exchanged. Sampson planted his right on

Spencer’s mouth as he was rushing in, when Spencer caught him on top

of his canister with his right, and made a slight incision. Sampson

then closed, and fibbed at the body with his right, while Spencer

peppered away at his upper works, but without much effect. At length

Spencer got the lock with his right leg, and threw Sampson a

cross-buttock, falling heavily upon him. (The Liverpool blades in an

uproar; and, “You are sure to win it, Pat.”)

3.—Sampson showed blood from his nob, and Spencer from his mouth.

Spencer looked a little flushed and dropped his left. Sampson saw

the opening, rushed in, and hit him down with a straight one, two,

right and left. (“Sampson for ever!” and “Phil, it’s all your own!”)

4.—Sampson again planted his right and left from the shoulder,

cutting Spencer on the left eye. Spencer was not to be shook off,

but instantly went to work, hitting out right and left, but wildly.

Sampson met Spencer as he rushed in with a few flush hits—a close

followed, and some good in-fighting ensued, Sampson feeling for the

bread-basket, and Spencer at the nob. Spencer then tried for another

cross-buttock, but Sampson was not to be had, and slipped down in

time. (Two to one on Sampson.)

The fight was now stopped by the interference of a magistrate. “You

cannot fight any longer,” said he; “I will not permit it.” “It won’t be

long,” cried Sampson; “I’ll soon finish him, so let us have it out.”

“No,” said his worship, “I must not. I should have no objection myself,

but I have been applied to in my magisterial capacity, and I am forced

to act. I am sorry for it, but ‘needs must.’” Submission was the order

of the day; his worship retired, and the men adjourned back to

Newcastle, there to deliberate on further proceedings, Sampson

proclaiming to his friends that he was sure to win, and offering three

to one on the issue. The men had fought just eight minutes.

On reaching Newcastle Spencer was put to bed, while Sampson remained up

with his friends. At length it was agreed, according to the “articles,”

that the fight should be fought out, and the word was given for taking

up new ground at a village called Woore, in Shropshire, on the borders

of Cheshire. The moment the signal was given, “The devil take the

hindmost!” was the order of the day, and the rush of the motley group to

arrive at the scene of action in time beggared description. It was

half-past four, and quite dusk, before the cavalcade reached the “Horse

and Jockey,” at Woore, in a meadow behind which the ring was again

pitched by Tom Oliver.

The best pedestrians were completely knocked up in the run, and several

first-rate roadsters beaten to a stand-still. The entire group, owing to

the wretched state of the road, were nothing but mudlarks.

No time was lost, both men appearing “eager for the fray,” and each

feeling equal confidence. Sampson showed first in the ring.

SECOND FIGHT.

Round 1.—The eagerness of Spencer to go to work delighted his

friends. He cut away right and left, but the superior science of

Sampson enabled him to stop the Mud Island Devil’s efforts. Still

Spencer would not be denied; he bored in so hard and fast that

Sampson was a little bothered, turned round, and retreated to

prepare himself for the rude attacks of his opponent. The strength

of Spencer was so great that he caught hold of Phil by the neck,

and, in going down, pulled Sampson on him.

2.—Phil let fly right and left, and produced the claret from

Spencer’s domino-box; nevertheless Spencer peppered away with

rapidity; but Sampson’s counters were heaviest, and in the close

both were down.

3.—Sampson waited for his opponent and popped in his left with

terrific force. Spencer was not to be deterred, but rushed to

in-fighting, when Sampson hit him up severely. Spencer then closed

and delivered some home thrusts, grappled for the fall, and Sampson

slipped down.

4.—Sampson planted his left hand on Spencer’s muzzle. Spencer fought

wildly, and in closing Sampson went down to avoid being thrown.

(Cries of “Foul!” answered by shouts of “Fair!”)

5.—Spencer took the lead, and hit out right and left, making his

blows tell. Sampson went to work, but missed a terrific right-handed

blow, which went over Spencer’s shoulder. A good rally followed, and

Sampson fell on his knees, receiving a hit as he went down.

6.—Neale called to Spencer to keep his left hand up. Sampson waited,

and at length popped in his left on the ear. Counter-hits followed,

and Spencer, in closing, pulled Sampson down.

7.—Counter-hitting in a spirited rally. Sampson down.

8.—Sampson was mischievous with his left, Spencer rushed in, when

Sampson went down cleverly.

9.—Sampson stopped well, and both fought to a rally; heavy hits were

exchanged, when Spencer seized Sampson round the waist and threw

him.

10.—This was a capital milling round. Counter-hitting, and no

flinching. Spencer planted right and left, but Sampson caught him

dreadfully on the jaw with his right. In the close, Sampson would

not be thrown, and got down.

11.—Sampson delivered heavily on Spencer’s mug with his left, and

broke away. Spencer rushed in, and some good in-fighting followed.

In closing Sampson was thrown.

12.—Sampson again put in a dangerous nobber with his left. Spencer

countered, but again received right and left, and in the close

Sampson went down.

13, and last.—Sampson waited for his man and delivered heavily with

his left. Spencer would go in vigorously, but Sampson met him right

and left with punishing hits, and jobbed him down. Spencer was hit

stupid; he rolled about, and could not stand when “time” was called.

Sampson was proclaimed the victor. The second mill lasted fifteen

minutes, making the fight, in the whole, twenty-three minutes.

Spencer was heavily punished about the head, but Sampson was not

much hurt. Both men were reconducted to Newcastle the same night.

REMARKS.—Spencer was the right sort of boxer for Sampson. Men that

will go and fight with Phil stand a good chance to be polished

off-hand. A rushing boxer like Spencer is a sort of gift to him. It

is, however, but common justice to observe that Spencer proved

himself a game man and a troublesome customer to the Birmingham

hero. The amateurs pronounced it a good battle. The right hand of

Phil is at all times dangerous, and his experience in the P.R. and

his science united render him a fit opponent for any countryman, let

him be as strong as Hercules.

After this slice of luck the friends of Sampson rallied round him, and

he immediately sent forth all sorts of challenges to all sorts of boxers

by means of his editorial amanuensis and his weekly paper. As, however,

these epistles, from their bad grammar and attempts at rude wit, do not

commend themselves as “elegant extracts,” we pass them by. One, to

White-headed Bob (who was under articles to fight Ned Neale), was pure

“buncombe;” others, such as those to Jem Ward, proposed ridiculously low

stakes, and others were mere “gag.” One to Big Brown, of Bridgnorth,

however, had better fortune.

One of Phil’s challenges having taken the form of “Brown giving me

(Phil) £20 to make a match for £300 a-side,” the Big ’un thus replied in

another weekly journal:—

“_To the Editor of_ ‘BELL’S LIFE IN LONDON.’

“SIR,—I apprehend that addressing Philip Sampson through the medium

of your valuable paper will be to little purpose. There seems to

have been a little bounce, but I wish I could flatter myself there

was any reliance to be placed on what he has sent forth to the

public.

“With regard to his proposal of my giving him £20 to fight me for

£300, my intention was to propose fighting him £320 to £300; for be

it remembered that he once got £20 of my money in a way not very

satisfactory to myself; but it is not my intention that he shall

have any more of it unless I am fairly beat out of time by him,

which, if he should happen to do, he shall be most welcome to.

“I will fight him £320 to £300, half-way between Birmingham and

Bridgnorth, and I will attend at the place he appoints—the

‘Woodman,’ Birmingham—on Monday the 24th inst., between the hours of

eight and ten p.m., for the purpose of making a deposit and entering

into the necessary articles.

“I remain, &c., yours respectfully,

“THOMAS BROWN.

“Bottle-in-Hand Inn, Bridgnorth, December 19th, 1827.”

The hero of Bridgnorth in this instance was mistaken about the bounce of

the thing; for Sampson’s friends were at the place at the appointed

time, at the “Woodman,” and articles were signed without delay, Mr.

Beardsworth, of the Birmingham Repository, being stakeholder.

This big affair was decided at Bishop’s Wood, in Shropshire, one hundred

and thirty-four miles from London, on Tuesday, April 8th, 1828; and,

since the battle between Spring and Langan, no pugilistic event had

excited more interest. It appears that Sampson had some difficulty in

making up the battle-money, and had it not been for little Arthur

Matthewson—who not only stuck to Phil during his training, but procured

him the last £70—a forfeit might have been the result of a rash

engagement.

The principal patrons of the Ring left London in considerable numbers,

on the Sunday and Monday previous, for Birmingham and Wolverhampton. The

latter place was overflowing with company of every description, all the

inns crowded to excess, and beds not to be had at any price. The towns

and villages contiguous to Wolverhampton came in also for their share of

visitors.

Wolverhampton Racecourse was named as the scene of action, in front of

the grand stand, an erection capable of accommodating upwards of a

thousand spectators, which had been pointed out as a most convenient

arena; but a magistrate interposed his authority, and Bishop’s Wood was

chosen, a lofty eminence, commanding an extensive and delightful

prospect. It is situated in Shropshire, on the borders of Staffordshire,

twelve miles from Wolverhampton, and about the same distance from

Bridgnorth.

On Tuesday morning vast multitudes were _en route_ for the scene of

action. Vehicles of all sorts were in motion; equestrians and

pedestrians thronged the way from Birmingham, Walsall, Dudley,

Wednesbury, Bridgnorth, and Stafford, Lichfield, Shrewsbury, and other

towns. Brown cut a dash on his turn-out to the ground; he was seated,

with his friend Spring and several others, in a landau, his own

property, decorated on the panels with the sign of his house at

Bridgnorth (a hand holding a bottle), and drawn by four fine horses,

while a great number of well-mounted gentlemen formed, as it were, a

body-guard. Both Sampson and Brown waited at the “Bradford Arms” till

the time arrived for entering the ring. Arrangements on the ground had

been made with much judgment. A circle of wagons, with a stage on a

convenient spot, formed the external barrier; in front of these the

spectators on foot were kept at a distance of several yards from the

twenty-four feet ring by a strong circle of ropes and stakes. The ring

itself was formed with posts of great thickness, deeply fixed in the

earth, and three ropes (one more than the usual number) were affixed to

them. The number of spectators could not have been less than 25,000—some

persons guessed their numbers at 30,000; of these, at least 15,000 were

unable to see the twenty-four feet ring, and were consequently

continually pressing forward.

A few minutes before one o’clock, Brown, leaning on the arm of Tom

Spring, threw his hat into the ring. He was received with a loud

welcome. The appearance of the Bridgnorth hero was prepossessing; he was

dressed in the then country gentleman’s costume, a blue coat, white cord

breeches, and top boots. Sampson appeared soon afterwards, and his

friends, in their turn, rent the air with applause. Phil was also well

got up. On the entrance of the latter boxer, Brown, who was sitting on

the hamper containing the bottles, &c., rose up, and, holding out his

hand with a good-natured smile, said, “Well, my boy, how are you?”

Sampson gave him his hand, but turned another way with an angry scowl,

and merely repeated, “How are you?” Harry Holt and Dick Curtis seconded

Sampson, and never was man better attended to. Harry had sported his

money on Brown, but he communicated that fact to Sampson’s backers, and

they at once decided on trusting to his honour to do the best he could

for Phil, promising, at the same time, to make up his losses if Sampson

won. Brown was seconded by his friend Tom Spring and by Bill Richmond.

The toss for sides was won by Sampson, and at about twenty minutes after

one the fight commenced. Colours—crimson for Sampson; and crimson with

white stripes for Brown. Betting, two to one, and in some parts of the

ring five to two, on the latter.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—Brown, when divested of his outer garments, looked

extremely well, not to say gigantic, weighing, at the least

estimate, fifteen stone. A smile of confidence embellished his mug,

and he seemed to say to himself, “I shall lick this Sampson like

fun.” Phil was equally slap-up in condition—in truth, we never saw

him to more advantage in any of his previous encounters; he weighed

nearly thirteen stone. His countenance indicated composure,

calculation, and perfect preparation for the job he had undertaken.

On setting-to, Brown did not appear exactly “at home;” he put up his

arms more like a pupil who had been taught the rudiments of the art

of self-defence than as a pugilist acting from his own suggestions.

He scarcely seemed to know whether he should commence offensive

operations or wait for his active adversary to make the onset. The

science displayed by Sampson was judicious, correct, and decisive;

he crept in, as it were, to measure his distance, and having

ascertained he was right, he let fly with both hands. The mug of

Brown felt them; when Sampson, in the style of Curtis, stepped

backwards, by which means Brown, in returning, did not reach his

opponent. (“Well done, Sampson!”) The Birmingham blade again tried

on the manœuvre with increased effect, and planted a heavy blow just

under the temple of Brown. The latter now attempted to fight first,

but his movements were slow, and his right hand did little more than

touch the side of Sampson’s nob. Some sharp exchanges occurred, but

the hitting of the “big one” was round, while Sampson planted his

straight facers with electrifying effect, and had the best of the

rally. Brown, by his superior strength, bored his adversary to the

ropes, where he held Sampson, and endeavoured to fib him with his

right hand but not _à la_ Randall. The “big one” kept pegging at

Phil everywhere until he was down. (Great disapprobation, and loud

cries of “Foul,” “Fair,” &c.) It was the general opinion that a foul

blow had been given by the hero of Bridgnorth, but perhaps not

intentionally; therefore the umpires did not notice the transaction.

(“First blood!” said Curtis; “that’s an event worth summut to me.”)

2.—The skill of Sampson again was the admiration of the ring. He, as

in the previous round, coolly measured his distance so correctly as

to plant two facers, and stepped back out of trouble. Sampson

repeated the offence without delay by another left-hander on the mug

of the “big one,” when the latter returned a blow on the side of

Phil’s head. Sampson kept a good look-out; when, at length, he saw

an opening, he planted a precious teaser on the left peeper of

Brown, which not only damaged it, but placed it on the winking

system. (“Go in,” cried the friends of Brown; “don’t stand out to be

punished.”) The Bridgnorth hero rushed to a close, laid hold of Phil

at the ropes, and would have made mincemeat of him if Sampson had

not got down cleverly.

3.—Of no importance. Sparring for a short period, when Brown

endeavoured to plant a right-handed hit on the upper works of

Sampson, but Phil got away from mischief, and Brown, with the force

of the blow, fell on his knees. The “big one” jumped up, ready to

renew the contest; Sampson was also on the alert to hit; but Spring,

considering the round at an end, drew Brown back, who immediately

seated himself on the knee of his second.

4.—Phil took the lead, like a master of the art; his left hand told

twice successively on the mug of his adversary, and he retreated

from mischief. Sampson put in a tremendous blow with his right on

the left cheek of Brown, the claret following profusely. (“He’s

winning it nicely,” said the Brums.) The hero of Bridgnorth, rather

wild at such unexpected rough treatment, went to work desperately;

but Sampson kept milling on the retreat—jobbing Brown, as he

followed, with both his hands, until the “big one” closed, got the

fall, and dropped on Sampson.

5.—The nob of Brown was considerably damaged; he was also piping.

The “big one” made a good stop, but Sampson, undismayed, went to

work, and had the best of a short rally. Phil, with a sneer of

derision and ill-nature, observed, “You Champion of England!” then,

planting a heavy blow on Brown’s left eye, exclaimed, “There’s a

small taste for your Championship!” The hero of Bridgnorth,

irritated at the taunts, went in to do mischief, but Sampson met his

rush with two heavy blows in the front of his head, which floored

the _soi-disant_ Champion. (The applause was deafening. “Sampson for

ever!” “Sampson for choice!” “He can’t fight at all!” “Send him back

to Bridgnorth!”)

6.—Sampson, quick as lightning, went to work, and Brown fought with

him; but the former took the lead and had the best of it. Brown, in

his anxiety to punish his opponent, stumbled, and his head went

against a stake.

7.—The weight of the “big one,” enabled him to drive Sampson against

the ropes. The situation was rather dangerous. Brown held him as if

he had been screwed in a vice, and kept milling his ribs with his

right hand. (The row was immense—applause by the friends of the “big

one,” and the Sampsonites hissing and hooting beyond description.)

Phil shifted his arm, and changed his position, but still it was

most distressing. (“Don’t hang the man, Brown!”) The struggle was

terrible on both sides. Phil at length got down, Holt sticking to

him closely, and giving him advice how to get out of the clutches of

his powerful adversary.

8.—Sampson came to the scratch much better than could be expected

after the severe hugging at the ropes in the last round. Phil put in

two facers, but received in return a heavy blow on the side of his

head. Brown closed, but, failing in a cross-buttock, he dragged

Sampson off his legs and fell by the side of him.

9.—The left ogle of Brown was almost in darkness, and one of his

listeners and his nasal organ much swelled and out of shape.

Sampson, on the sharp look-out, planted another facer with his left.

Brown bored in, and caught Phil at the ropes; here the latter not

only got out of danger well, but faced his opponent suddenly, and

sent in a couple of blows as he went down. (“Well done, Sampson; you

are sure to win.”)

10.—Short. Brown was again met in his rush in the middle of his nob;

he nevertheless bored in and got Sampson down.

11.—Sampson commenced fighting, and took great liberties with the

pimple of Brown, using it for a drum by repeated hits upon the face

of the Bridgnorth hero; the latter rallied in the most decisive

manner, until they were both down. (Here the outer ring was broken,

and thousands of persons rushed forward to the ropes, which were

trodden down, in spite of all the opposition of whips, sticks,

blows, &c. It was “dangerous to be safe,” and the combatants were

compelled to fight in the midst of a mob. Sticks and whips were at

work, even to get for the men the space of a yard. No description

can be given of the confusion; the heat was intolerable, and the

spectators jammed together almost to suffocation.)

12.—Brown could not protect his face from the repeated visits of

Sampson’s fists, and went in to bustle him, until they both went

down.

13.—The right hand of the Bridgnorth hero told on Sampson’s pimple,

but not until the latter had planted two facers. In closing, Sampson

down.

14.—Brown was of little use in this round. Sampson hit his nob as if

he had a sack of flour before him. It was first a facer—ditto,

ditto, and ditto. The hero of Bridgnorth went down covered with

claret. (“Sampson for a thousand!” and rounds of applause.)

15.—Brown was distressed beyond measure when he appeared at the

scratch, but he recovered and went to work. Sampson again nobbed

him, but the strength of Brown obtained him the fall.

16.—The confusion within the ring was dreadful; in fact, it was a

mob of persons pushing and hitting each other to keep out of the way

of the combatants. The men were suffering severely under the

deprivation of air, violent perspiration streaming down their faces.

Sampson took the lead as to blows, but he was fought down by his

opponent.

17.—The coolness displayed by Tom Spring in this round was the

admiration of the spectators, and showed his desire that the battle

should be fought out fairly. In all probability, had he returned a

blow for the one given to him by Phil, the battle might have been

prematurely ended, or at all events brought to a wrangle. In

bringing Brown up to the scratch, Spring got before his man,

observing Sampson was on the wrong side of the mark. Phil considered

the conduct of Spring wrong, and without hesitation gave him a

facer, pushed Spring out of his way, and suddenly floored the

Bridgnorth hero like a shot.

18.—The “big one” showed game, and came up like a man. But he was of

“no use to himself,” and reduced to a bad lot for his friends. He

napped it in every way, and a floorer finished the round.

19.—Sampson lost no time, but went to work as soon as he had got his

adversary before him. Brown fought wildly, till the punishment was

too much for him, when he drew back, and Sampson, catching him with

an upright hit, dropped him on his knees, giving him a facer as he

was going down. (“If that ain’t doing him brown, I never saw

anything like it before,” said a Brum who had taken the long odds.)

20.—The heat of the weather and pressure of the crowd operated

terribly on Sampson; so much so that froth came from his lips, and

he seemed nearly exhausted; nevertheless he came to his work like a

man determined to conquer. Phil only wanted room for the display of

his milling capabilities. The Championship was completely out of the

grasp of Brown, and he might now be registered as Receiver-General.

He was hit to a stand-still, and then dropped. (“It’s all over!” was

the cry.)

21.—The customers from Bridgnorth now began to look all manner of

colours; the secret was told—Brown was beaten against his will.

Sampson sent his adversary down like winking.

22–23.—The weight of Brown, in close quarters, enabled him, in

closing, to roll Sampson down in both of these rounds.

24.—It was now clear to every spectator that Sampson must prove the

hero of the tale. Brown, as a last effort, exerted himself to

overwhelm his adversary, but he napped it right and left as he went

in, and was sent down like a sack of sand.

25–28.—Brown down. Ditto. Repeated by Sampson. Of a similar

description.

29.—Brown staggering like a drunken sailor three sheets in the wind

until Sampson hit him down. (“Take him home—take him away; he’s of

no use!”)

30–31.—It is true Brown answered the call of “Time,” yet his

appearance at the scratch was only to receive additional unnecessary

punishment. Sampson sent him down almost as soon as placed before

him.

32–42, and last.—The calls of “time” were obeyed by the “big one” in

the whole of these rounds, but he had not the slightest chance in

his favour. Indeed, it was a pity he was permitted to contest them.

At the conclusion of the forty-second round, when he was down, he

complained of his shoulder, and was not able to come again. The

battle was over in forty-nine minutes. The “big one” was reduced to

a complete state of distress—his left peeper completely in darkness,

his right severely damaged, and his face fearfully cut. His left

shoulder was afterwards found to have been dislocated. His feelings,

we have no doubt, were equally cut up, for he had flattered himself

that the Championship was within his grasp. He displayed game of the

first quality, and after a short period walked out of the ring to

his carriage, assisted by Spring and Richmond. Sampson had scarcely

a mark upon his face, except a touch under his left eye; but the

same side of his nob was peppered a little, and several other

contusions were visible. Sampson left the ring amidst loud and

repeated shouts in honour of his victory.

REMARKS.—No person could dispute the bravery and game exhibited by

Brown throughout the fight; he was out-fought by the superior skill

and tactics of Sampson. The latter entered the ring with a

confidence which surprised the oldest ring-goers; his conduct was

decisive in every round, and he never lost sight of the idea of

conquest during the battle. The broken state of the ring and the

very confined space for the men to fight in were certainly great

drawbacks to Sampson against so powerful an opponent as Brown. It

was evident that Sampson had improved in strength, and he altogether

appeared a better man than in any of his former battles; his

right-hand blows were tremendous. The hero of Bridgnorth must have

suffered severely from the injury to his shoulder, and none but a

brave man would have contested the battle after so severe an

accident against such precision and straight hitting as met Brown’s

repeated efforts to get on to his opponent.

The return was full of bustle and incident. Sampson’s colours were

flying in all directions, out of the windows of houses on the road, on

the tops of the coaches, and “Sampson for ever!” to the end of the

chapter. The roadside houses never experienced such a day for the return

of the ready; and “success to milling” was on the tip of the tongue of

every landlord in the county.

Sampson left the ground under the patronage of Mr. Beardsworth in style,

and during part of his journey on his victorious return to Birmingham

the carriage which conveyed Phil and his friend was drawn by eight

horses. Through the streets of Birmingham his reception was

enthusiastic; Sampson was loudly cheered by crowds, and drawn by six

fresh horses, until he reached the house of Arthur Matthewson. Every

room in Arthur’s crib was crowded to excess, and the anxiety of the

persons in the street to gain admittance, to get a peep at the conqueror

of “Big Brown,” defied description.

The Shropshire folks looked upon their champion as invincible, and

accordingly dropped their money heavily. In no previous instance of a

big fight was there such an unanimity on the side of the “talent” and

the “professionals.” Careful betting men laid rash odds and suffered the

proper penalty, as the “knowing ones” were thrown out. This battle was

followed by an epidemic of letter-writing in the newspapers, provincial

and metropolitan. First came our old friend Thomas Winter Spring, who,

favoured by the ablest writer who ever devoted his talents to ring

reporting (we mean Vincent George Dowling, Esq., Editor of _Bell’s Life_

for upwards of thirty years), gave a graphic account of poor Brown’s

dislocated shoulder, which took place in the _fourth round_, and which

fully accounts for Brown’s incapacity to ward off Sampson’s “nobbers.”

Spring was justly indignant at Sampson’s blow, and thus, after

commenting warmly on the “ruffianism” of Sampson’s friends, he wound up

with a formal challenge to Sampson to meet him for £200 a-side, “as it

is not my principle to submit to a blow without wishing, like a man, to

return it.” Sampson’s reply was characteristic of the man and his wordy

amanuensis—full of boasting, bombast, and scurrility. Spring was taunted

with “not daring to fight Ward,” beating “stale old men,” Oliver and

Painter to wit, &c., &c. Attack, reply, and rejoinder stuffed the

columns of the _Dispatch_, Pierce Egan’s short-lived weekly paper, _Life

in London_, and _Bell’s Life_. Spring was at last provoked by the

repeated threats of Sampson, who boasted in all company how he would

serve the “old woman,” to retort with a promise of chastisement. He

says:—

“Sampson accuses me of acting wrong in the ring, but he forgets to

say in what respect. I defy him or any person to say I did wrong. He

also says I wanted to bring it to a wrangle. If that had been my

object, I had a very good chance when he struck me—not once nor

twice, but thrice; had I returned the blows, it must have put a stop

to the fight.

“I think, Mr. Editor, I have answered quite enough of Mr. Sampson’s

scurrilous language; but when he speaks of chastising me I pity his

weakness, and would have him take care that chastisement does not

fall upon himself; for, the first time I meet him, I will put the

toe of my boot against his seat—not of honour, Mr. Editor, he has

none about him—but where his sense of feeling may be readily

reached.

“I hope, Mr. Editor, you will pardon me for taking up so much room

in your valuable paper, but unless Mr. Sampson chooses to come

forward with his money I shall not condescend to take the least

notice of anything he may say after this.

“I am, Sir, your obliged,

“THOMAS WINTER SPRING.

“Hereford, April 24th, 1828.”

All this gasconading, so foreign to Spring’s character, came to a “most

lame and impotent conclusion.” Sampson could not get backed, and the

affair fell through. Spring, meeting Sampson soon after at Epsom races,

in Merryweather’s booth, declared his intention to fulfil his promise,

made under sore provocation, to have satisfaction or an apology for the

blow received by him at the fight with Brown. Sampson began to argue the

matter, but Spring threw off his coat and called upon Sampson to defend

himself. Sampson set to with his coat and hat on. “The crowd and

confusion,” says _Bell’s Life_, “were so great that we have not been

able to learn who gave the first blow.” The rally was, however, a

determined one, and after being separated the belligerents got together

again and fought four sharp rounds. Spring, it is well known, required

room to show off his fine fighting, and thus Sampson had the best of the

tussle, for such it was. The combatants were of course soon parted by

their friends, neither having fulfilled his intent of giving the other

“the value of a bating.” Spring, it was stated, was struck by other

persons besides Sampson. It ought to be mentioned that Spring proposed

to Sampson to come out of the booth and meet him on the course in the

open, but the latter declined the offer. The next evening, at the Castle

Tavern, Holborn, Sampson declared himself ready to fight Spring for £300

a-side, half-way between London and Bridgnorth. Spring accepted the

challenge at Tom Cannon’s benefit, at the Tennis Court, the very next

day.

A meeting was appointed to take place at Harry Holt’s, where the

battle-money in Neale’s fight with Baldwin was to be given up. Here,

after some argument, mutual explanations took place. Sampson said that

when he “challenged Spring for £300 he was rather fresh; that he would

retract it, and declare he had no animosity against Spring.” The latter

said he would have an apology for the blows he had received, and

Sampson, persuaded by his friends, expressed his regret. Finally Spring

offered his hand to Sampson, who accepted it; and over a cheerful glass

it was agreed to bury the past in oblivion.

Phil’s next encounter was with Simon Byrne, the Irish champion, for £200

a-side. The battle was fought on a stage at Albrighton, on the 30th

June, 1829, when Sampson succumbed after a severe fight of forty-five

rounds, occupying one hour forty-three and a half minutes. This, with

the disgraceful draw with Big Brown, at Doncaster, in 1831, the details

of which will be found in our memoir of BROWN (Chapter XII., p. 451),

closed the chequered pugilistic career of Phil Sampson, “the Birmingham

Youth.”

APPENDIX TO PERIOD VI.

TOM REYNOLDS—1817–1825.

As a connecting link of two generations of pugilists and of the Irish

and English P.R., Tom Reynolds deserves a niche in our gallery. He was

best known in his latter days as the mentor of Jack Langan and Simon

Byrne, as a sound adviser, a professor of the _ars pugnandi_, a patron

of aspiring talent, and a jolly Boniface in the “swate city of Dublin,”

where he died on the 15th of May, 1832, much respected.

Tom was born on the 20th of January, 1792, at Middleton, in the county

of Armagh, and early in life came to London as salesman to a relative,

with whom he some time lived in James Street, Covent Garden, until,

being grown to man’s estate, he became a “murphy-dealer” on his own

account.

Tom was decidedly, with the single exception of Henry Josiah Holt, the

most erudite pugilist of his day. He had received a good education,

possessed a strong mind, and could write as good a letter as any of the

“scribes” of the time. Of this he was not a little proud, and the

_cacoethes scribendi_ with which he was occasionally afflicted often led

him into epistolary contentions in the sporting papers, in which he

invariably had the best of his competitors. His “Defence of Pugilism”

proves him to have been a writer of no mean pretensions, and the view

which he takes of his own profession affords the best apology for its

adoption as well as for its encouragement.

About the close of the great Napoleonic wars Reynolds fell into

difficulties and was arrested. Reverses in trade, combined with a love

of company, at length led to his introduction to the once well-known

“College” in what is now Farringdon Street, then called “The Fleet.”

Here he had time and opportunity for study, and, having long had a

predilection for the science of milling, he attended a regular course of

lectures, and became a perfect adept at the practice of fives, tennis,

and the gloves, and a great favourite with his brother “Collegians.”

Being at the top of his class, and rising in fame, it was determined by

some envious opponent to take the shine out of him, and for this purpose

the celebrated George Head, one of the most scientific sparrers of the

day, was introduced as a stranger, and, in a set-to which followed, Head

found it necessary to try his best before he could convince Tom that

there was a superior to himself. The trial ended in a friendly manner,

but both having afterwards partaken rather freely of the “rum puncheon,”

some wag insinuated to Reynolds that Head had spoken contemptuously of

his fistic talents. This roused Tom’s ire, and he at once challenged

Head to combat. Head, nothing loth, accepted the invitation, and a

battle commenced on the “College Green” (so called upon the Horatian

principle of there being nothing _green_ on or around it), in which the

“murphy-dealer” was down in every round. The “janitors,” at length,

interfered, and Head was expelled from the “College,” but not till he

had received a crack on the listener which considerably confused his

senses.

Shortly after his emancipation from the thraldom of “College” duties,

Tom commenced business as a professional pugilist, and on the 23rd of

July, 1817, entered the lists on Moulsey Hurst with Aby Belasco, the

Jew, whom he beat by his determined game in sixty-six rounds and one

hour and twenty minutes. In September in the same year (the 9th) he

fought and beat Church on the same ground; and on the 11th of November

following beat the _Broom-Dasher_ (Johnson), in Lord Cowper’s Park, near

Canterbury. Subsequent to these “slices of good fortune,” he became a

publican in Drury Lane, but having fallen through a trap-door his health

became impaired, and he determined on a sparring tour in the country for

the benefit of his health. He was accompanied by Jack Carter and Sutton

the Black, and was well received in Manchester, Liverpool, and Dublin.

While in the latter city he was matched against John Dunn, a novice, for

£50 a-side, and fought him on the 4th of July, 1820, in Donnelly’s

Valley, on the Curragh of Kildare. In twelve rounds and fifty-four

minutes Dunn was completely done up, being hit to a state of

insensibility, while Reynolds had scarcely a scratch.

In his way back to London our hero took Macclesfield in his course,

where he was matched against Sammons, who had beaten all the Lancashire

pugilists who had been opposed to him. On August 21st, 1820, the match

came off within a mile of Macclesfield, and the Lancashire hero was

disposed of in seven rounds. Tom now proceeded to London, but shortly

after returned to Ireland to fight Cummins, but that fight went off in

consequence of a forfeit.

Tom next took Jack Langan under his tuition and care, and was his mentor

when he fought Tom Spring; acting the part of his secretary, and dipping

his pen in gall, then much used in the composition of ink, in the course

of his correspondence. His next _protégé_ was Simon Byrne, to whom he

afforded the most friendly assistance, and seconded him in his fights

with Sampson, M’Kay, and Jem Ward. Previous to the last affair, which

ended in the defeat of Simon, he opened a public-house in Abbey Street,

Dublin, which he conducted with great regularity until “his sand was run

out.” He was decidedly a brave man and a scientific boxer, and left a

wife and two children to lament his loss.

As a specimen of Tom’s talent in the use of the pen we append his

DEFENCE OF PUGILISM.

“I must acknowledge the gentlemen of the Press are favourable to the

cause of pugilism; and it is not surprising when we consider that

the persons conducting it are men, in general, possessing a liberal

education, and blessed with a greater share of brains than the

average of the community. Yet there is no rule without an exception;

for two or three of the London journalists, imitated by a few

country flats, occasionally give us a ‘facer;’ though I am confident

it is not from conviction, but because they think a little

opposition to generally received opinions may suit their pockets

better than following the tide, where the brightness of their genius

would not make them conspicuous. One of these worthies speaks of us

as monsters that brutalise the country; another describes our poor

little twenty-four foot ring as the only place in the three kingdoms

where rogues and blacklegs spring up like mushrooms; a third says a

pair of boxing-gloves debase the mind, and recommends the use of the

foils as a preferable exercise; and a fourth, after a most violent

philippic against the Ring, blames Government for not immediately

putting an end to pugilism, and recommends, as a substitute, that

Government should take into their wise consideration the propriety

of giving greater encouragement to dancing assemblies. This idea is

ridiculous. Certainly, if the editor does fill up his leisure hours

as a hop-merchant, I do not blame him for putting in a good word for

the shop, but what the devil has dancing to do with fighting? Can

two men decide a mill by ‘tripping on the light fantastic toe’? The

French dance every night in the week, and all day on Sunday, and

what are they the better for that? Are they better men? Can they

boast nobler feelings than Britons? They certainly make graceful

bows, and there is no doubt dancing has an effect on the heels, for

Wellington has often scratched his head, and given them a

left-handed blessing, for their quickness in giving leg-bail.

“Because the English are not considered a dancing nation, that is no

reason they are brutalised. The most savage people dance; the

American Indian dances round his captive while he is roasting him

alive; the Italians dance, fiddle, and sing; and, if they consider

themselves offended, employ ruffians to assassinate the offender.

The dancing Frenchman would shudder with horror at the sight of two

London porters giving each other a black eye or a bloody nose, and

say ’twas a brutal practice; yet the same fellow, in his own

country, would take snuff, grin like a monkey, and cry ‘Bravo!’ at

seeing two poor devils boring holes in each other’s hide with a yard

of steel. So much for the consistency of the ‘Grande Nation,’ and

the sense of the men who recommend dancing as a substitute for

pugilism.

“I am no enemy to dancing; in fact, I am passionately fond of music;

but there is a time for all things. With every inclination in the

world to let every one ride his own hobby in his own way, I see no

reason why a poor pugilist should take a facer from the wielder of

the foil. Two hundred years ago, when the sword was worn, and

decided quarrels in the streets, fencing was, without doubt, a

necessary part of every man’s education; but, at the present day,

though the foils may be very good exercise, I consider it the height

of folly for any man to throw away his money and time in the

attainment of an art that can never be of use. But we will suppose

two pupils taking their lessons, the one with the gloves attaining a

graceful method of drawing a cork, painting the margin of an ogle

with some of the most beauteous tints of the rainbow, or directing a

customer to the victualling-office; the other, with the foil, passes

away his hours in attaining precision to pierce the centre of the

heart, or in transfixing the ball of the eye, to cause instant death

by perforating the brain. Let me ask in this mimic warfare which

man’s mind was most debased? Blacklegs are not the peculiar growth

of our Ring. Wherever men will sport on chance events, there Mr.

Blackshanks will be found walking, and that, too, on shores where

the fist is never used except by our brave tars, who often make them

scamper by the mere flourish of their bunch of fives. Thieves may be

found in the mob that surrounds our Ring; but where are they not to

be found? A Radical assembly or Bible meeting is not exempt from

their visits; and they will even be found at a charity sermon,

praying they may have good luck when the jostling comes on, and may

be considered as instruments of divine mercy, sent to deliver good

men from the sinful dross of the earth.

“The only charge that can be brought against the Ring is crossing

fights; and though the members of the Press growl, and very justly

too, whenever a x takes place, yet none of them attempt to point out

the cause or remedy. Fighting men are not all alike, neither are

kings; for who would compare the British Sovereign with the

scoundrel Ferdinand of Spain? There are men in our Ring with

integrity that would adorn a more elevated situation: men that would

sooner drop senseless under punishment, though fighting for little

more than the colours that are tied to the stakes, than receive five

hundred pounds to lose wilfully. I do deny most positively that

pugilistic exhibitions debase, demoralise, or brutalise us as a

nation; on the reverse, I am confident they introduce chivalrous

(they may be rude) notions of honour, courage, fortitude, and love

of manly fair play—characteristics so strongly indented in the

British character that they are known and acknowledged from pole to

pole. And who will be hardy enough to say the excitement to those

feelings does not originate in the very same cause which our enemies

say brutalises the feelings of the country?

“Even on the score of humanity pugilism ought to be encouraged; for,

wherever it does not exist, murder, by violence and treachery, more

frequently takes place. Without going to foreign countries for

proof, a single glance at home will strike the blindest with the

necessity of its encouragement. The men of Lancashire, twenty years

ago, were up-and-down fighters: then murder was almost an every-day

occurrence. Indeed, some of the old ones of that day took no little

pride to themselves if they could boast of having stopped the ‘smoke

of a chimney’ (choked a man), after the manner of Virginius. Since

pugilism has been introduced, though the population is fourfold, yet

murder seldom or never takes place. Compare the population of

Ireland, where the stick has been thrown aside, and the fist used,

to the other parts: the difference in the number of deaths by

violence will strike conviction on the dullest. In fact, though

chivalry did much to smooth down the roughness of the darker ages,

’tis only the boxing-gloves can give the true polish of civilisation

to the world. And, I am confident, if Adam had been a Briton, he

would have taught his sons to box; then the club would not have been

used, and the first murder prevented. Cain would have given Abel a

good milling instead of crushing his skull: and the brothers would

have been found next morning supping porridge as comfortable as the

Lord Mayor’s sons on a more recent occasion.

“Greece, the birthplace of the arts and sciences, encouraged

pugilism; and the first man of the day considered not only himself,

but his family, honoured, if lucky enough to mill his man at the

Olympic Games. Look at the effeminate beings that now parade the

streets of Rome, once trod by the conquerors of England and the

world; with them a boxing or a milling match would have had more

charms than the finest strains of a Rossini. The Government knew the

advantage of exhibitions that would excite an admiration of courage

and fortitude. ’Twas this reason induced the Athenian General to

stop his army, that they might look at a cock-fight—’tis this that

has secured our Ring the patronage of the noblest blood, rank, and

talent in the country; and long may we deserve the support of men

that soar above the braying of asses or the cant of hypocrites!

“With all due submission and thanks to the ancients, as the

inventors of boxing, I cannot help feeling pride at the vast

superiority our Ring possesses over theirs; for death was too

frequently the result, in consequence of the metal braced to their

arms. When our Ring is formed the combatants are left to themselves

without fear of interruption from a third person. Temperate, manly

courage is loudly applauded—passion, cowardice or foul play as

loudly blamed; and should either of the men display any little act

of humanity to his sinking opponent (of which I could state

numberless instances), his gallantry is cordially praised; but the

moment the dreadful word “ENOUGH” is uttered, hostilities cease and

the conqueror, shaking hands with his fallen antagonist, wishes him

better luck next time, and, in a kindly voice, expresses a wish that

he may soon recover.

“Man is the creature of habit, and of the force of example; and, I

again repeat, exhibitions of this kind have their good effects,

which can be traced to us as a nation, and, independent of fighting,

influence other actions of life. Show me the man completely opposed

to pugilism, and you will find his character to be a bad neighbour

and a tyrant under his own roof. The immortal Wyndham was the

staunch advocate and patron of our Ring, and champion for the

abolition of the slave trade. Have dealings with any other

country—will you find them, in the mass, so honest or so honourable

as Britons? In every part of the known world, who are more welcome

than our merchants? What flag more respected or feared? Quarrel in

the streets of any other country, you will have more than one to

contend with. If an object of distress is pointed out, who is more

ready to assist than a Briton? In other countries murder and robbery

go hand-in-hand; in ours the most desperate men never dip their

hands in blood, unless to protect themselves from ill-judged

resistance. And who can boast an army or a navy so gallantly brave,

or so ready to extend the hand to save, as Britons? Tell me a nation

that could meet our brave sons on equal terms in the field or on the

wave; yet, if conquered, which of them but would sooner become a

prisoner to a British sailor or soldier than any other? Theirs is

not the frenzied courage like that inspired by fanaticism, ferocity,

or brandy, which, after the first gust of passion, leaves its

helpless, hopeless, panting possessor; no, ’tis that kind of

round-after-round courage which will admit of thinking and command,

and knows no abatement till wearied nature or death closes the

scene. Fair play is a Briton’s motto; we would extend it to the

extremities of the earth, no consequence what country, religion, or

colour. The sable African, throwing aside the chains that levelled

him with the beast, now walks erect, in the majesty of freedom and

liberty, calling down blessings on the country that, in spite of all

the world, burst his bonds asunder. If these are the symptoms that

the country is brutalised by pugilism, long may she continue so!

Long may she be the home for the exile—the defender of the

oppressed—the best boxer—and the fairest arbiter of the world!

“TOM REYNOLDS.”

With hearty approval we commend “Old Tom’s” spirited “defence” to the

careful perusal of Sir Wilfrid Lawson, Messrs. Bright, Agnew, Richard,

the Stigginses, the saints and sinners of Exeter and St. James’s Halls,

and the Peace (at-any-price) Preservation Society.

DICK CURTIS (“THE PET”)—1820–1828.

For skill, neatness, finish, straight, and therefore swift, hitting, no

such boxer as Dick Curtis has appeared in the present century. His

weight, nine stone, and his height, five foot six, as a matter of course

precluded his appearance among the Champions; but, as Champion of the

Light Weights, Richard Curtis has had no superior, if any equal, in the

annals of pugilism.

He was decidedly the most perfect specimen of a miniature fighting man

of modern times. His science was, we might almost say, intuitive, his

judgment of time and distance extraordinary, his readiness in difficulty

most remarkable, his change from a position of defence to that of attack

instantaneous and astonishing, and his power of punishment, for so light

a man, unparalleled. Curtis was patronised by the most distinguished

admirers of pugilism of the period in which he lived, and throughout his

long career was never defeated, with the single exception of his last

battle, when with Perkins, of Oxford, to whom he was inferior by a stone

and two pounds in weight, as well as in length and height, he fell

before youth and stamina.

Richard Curtis was born in Southwark, on the 1st of February, 1802. He

came of a fighting family, his brothers John and George having both

figured in the ring. Young Dick’s first public appearance was at the age

of eighteen, on the well-known battle-field of Moulsey Hurst, where on

Tuesday, June 27th, 1820, in the same ring in which George Cooper had

just defeated Shelton, he entered the lists with Watson, a Westminster

boxer, of about ten stone. Watson was game, and fought desperately for

twenty-five minutes, when he cried “Enough!” and Curtis was hailed the

conqueror, almost without a mark. Curtis’s skill was so remarkable in

this _rencontre_ that two months afterwards some Corinthians, previously

to leaving town for the shooting season—which was then September—as

railroads had not brought grouse and the Scottish moors within hail of

the Metropolis, determined to see the smart young Bermondsey lad again

show his prowess. A match for £40 was accordingly made for him with a

well-known light weight, Ned Brown (the Sprig of Myrtle); and on Monday,

the 28th of August, 1820, Brown, waited on by Jack Martin and Paddington

Jones, tried to throw his hat into the ring on Wimbledon Common, in such

a smart gale that it blew it over, and away across the heath. Shortly

after, Curtis, attended by Josh Hudson and Tom Belcher, approached the

ropes; but his lily-white beaver shared the same fate, so that the omen

was negative. Both men were in good condition. The colours—a canary

yellow for Curtis, and a blue bird’s-eye for Brown—being tied to the

stakes, the men shook hands and began

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—Brown, full of confidence, made an offer to hit, but Curtis

was awake, and nothing was done. A long pause took place, each

endeavouring to get an opening, when Brown rushed in to work; a

change took place in the struggle to fib each other, when both went

down, Brown undermost. (Great shouting; and Curtis for a trifle.)

2.—This round occupied thirteen minutes, and the amateurs were

delighted with the science and manliness displayed on both sides.

Curtis hit at a longer distance, and nobbed Brown in great style.

Both of these little ones displayed as much caution as if a million

of money depended upon the event. To describe the stop-hits and

getting away would occupy a page: suffice it to say that Brown’s

right eye was nearly closed, and, after some desperate milling,

Brown went down undermost. The great length of this round showed the

good condition of both the combatants. Curtis appeared the weaker

man.

3.—Brown proved himself a fine and game fighter, but Curtis

out-fought him, put in nobbers with the utmost dexterity, and also

damaged his other eye. (Tom Owen sung out, “Go it, my white topper;

it’s as right as the day.”) Both went down, Brown undermost. Two to

one on Curtis.

4.—This was a short round; in closing, Brown endeavoured to fib his

opponent, but Curtis got down. (Any odds upon the latter.)

5.—Brown displayed good tactics, and at in-fighting was quite

clever. Curtis made some good nobbing hits, and Brown went

staggering away; but the latter returned to the charge, and, in

struggling for the throw, Brown dragged Curtis over the ring and

downed him. (Brown for £20. Curtis seemed weak.)

6.—This was rather a long round. Fibbing on both sides. Both down,

Brown undermost.

[Illustration:

DICK CURTIS (“THE PET”).

]

7.—Curtis not only stopped in good style, but nobbed Brown away.

After some exchanges at the ropes, Curtis dropped Brown by a blow on

the side of the latter’s head.

8.—This was a famous round; and, in closing, Brown broke away twice

with great activity. The punishment was severe on both sides. Brown

was ultimately hit down, as if shot, from a tremendous blow on his

forehead. (Great shouting. The “Sprigs of Myrtle” all drooping, and

the denizens of Caleb Baldwin’s dominions upon the fret. “It’s all

over.”)

9.—Brown, however, came first to the scratch. A severe struggle took

place at the ropes, each too game to go down. (“Go down, Curtis,”

from all parts of the ring.) Both at length fell, but Brown was

undermost. (Here a near relative of Brown came close to the ropes,

and told the seconds they were not doing right in not letting Brown

“go in.”)

10.—Brown recovered a little, made a rush, and the change was

considered in his favour. Curtis got down cleverly.

11, 12.—Both combatants excited the admiration of the ring by their

fine fighting. In the last round Brown was hit down from a severe

hit in the ribs. (Two and three to one.)

13 to 15, and last.—Brown was floored in all these rounds on coming

to the scratch; he was terribly punished, but the game he displayed

was of the first quality. Here the patron of Brown stepped forward

(a more gentlemanly, liberal, or distinguished character for

humanity of disposition does not exist, nor a greater admirer of

true courage is not to be found) and said, “My man shall not fight

any more.”

REMARKS.—A better battle has not been seen for many years; 57

minutes of complete good fighting. Brown has fought eight prize

battles, and proved the conqueror in the majority of them. Curtis,

although a mere boy, bids fair to prove a teaser to any of his

weight; he is a cautious boxer and a severe hitter. The amateurs

never expressed greater satisfaction at any fight. It was the

general opinion that although Curtis appeared weak two or three

times in the conflict, yet the scale of victory was always on his

side. It is true that Brown had no other chance to win but “going

in;” yet the clever defence of Curtis rendered that plan equally

dangerous.

Curtis’s next match was with Lenney, at Moulsey Hurst, on the 24th of

October, 1821. “At one o’clock,” says the reporter, “young Curtis, in a

white upper-benjamin, which would have set off a Regent-street ‘pink,’ a

brilliant canary round his throat, and a white beaver of the most

fashionable mould, showed arm-in-arm with the President of the Daffy

Club,[55] and threw his natty castor into the ring.” Lenney soon after

appeared, with the Gas-light man and Curtis’s old opponent, the Sprig of

Myrtle, and replied to the signal of defiance. Spring and Hickman

seconded Lenney; Tom Belcher and Harry Harmer officiated for Curtis. The

odds, within the previous two or three days, had changed in favour of

Lenney, on whom five to four was laid. The colours were tied to the

stakes by Spring and the President, who observed to the former, “I’ll

bet you a trifle that I take them down.”

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—The condition of Curtis was that of the finest racehorse;

blood and bone were conspicuous, and he appeared as confident as if

the battle were over. Lenney was equally fine; he commenced the

fight with the most determined resolution of being declared the

conqueror. Curtis was in no hurry to make play: Lenney was also on

his guard. After some little manœuvring, Curtis let fly on the nob

of his opponent, without return. This hit operated as a sort of

stopper, and some little sparring occurred. Lenney endeavoured to go

to work, and some blows were exchanged. The science displayed by

Curtis was fine in the extreme, and he planted two sharp facers,

right and left, that floored Lenney on his face, and the claret

trickled down his cheek. (Loud shouting, and two to one all round

the ring.)

2.—Lenney came to the scratch with a severe cut under his right eye.

Curtis planted a severe body hit without a return; he also put in

two severe facers. It was evident that Lenney could not protect his

face from the out-fighting of his opponent, and to go in seemed

equally dangerous. Curtis kept nobbing his man, and getting away

with the utmost ease. In closing, Lenney was fibbed down, and Curtis

fell upon him. (Thunders of applause, and “You’re a pretty boy,

Curtis.”)

3.—This was a short round; a close took place, and the fibbing

tactics went on till Lenney went down.

4.—The coolness of Curtis was the theme of the ring. He measured his

distances with the accuracy of a mathematician, and nobbed his

opponent with the severity of a hammer-man at an anvil. Lenney could

make no impression on the mode adopted by Curtis. The latter

followed Lenney up to the ropes, and, with his right hand, planted

such a tremendous facer that it was heard all over the ring. In the

struggle for the throw both combatants were hanging on the ropes;

Curtis’s nose touched them, as they both came to the ground; but

previous to this he put in some heavy blows on his opponent’s loins.

5.—Lenney came like a gamecock to the scratch; but his nob had

undergone a strange alteration. Some exchanges occurred. Curtis, by

a dreadful right-handed blow, sent down his adversary like a shot.

(Three to one. “What a beautiful fighter!” exclaimed Randall.)

6, 7, 8.—Lenney stopped several blows with considerable skill; but

his head was completely at the service of his opponent. Oliver made

so sure of the event that he asked if any gentleman would oblige him

by taking ten to two.

9, 10.—The fine fighting of Curtis now rendered the battle quite

safe to him; so much so, that he could take his time about it

without danger. Curtis astonished the ring with his execution as

well as his science: he put such a tremendous blow on Lenney’s mouth

that his ivories were on the chatter like dice in a box, and he felt

it so seriously that his left arm dropped for an instant. (“It’s all

safe now—it’s the Bank of England to a screen,” was the chaffing

throughout the crowd.)

11, 12.—Lenney received so much punishment about the nob that he was

quite groggy. Twenty to one was offered.

13, 14, 15, 16, 17.—All these rounds were nearly similar to the

preceding ones. Any odds.

18 to 29, and last.—Lenney was game to the backbone, but he had not

a shadow of chance. He ought to have been taken away several rounds

previous to the last. He was hit out of time; and remained in a

state of stupor for a short period. The battle occupied thirty-eight

minutes and a half.

REMARKS.—A more elegant or scientific fighter than Curtis was never

seen in the Prize Ring. He could have won in half the time if he had

wished, but he was determined not to give half a chance away,

consequently no long rally took place in the battle. Curtis also

proved the stronger man, and left the ring without a scratch upon

his face; but his hands were much bruised from the severe punishment

he had administered to his opponent. Lenney was carried out of the

ring and put to bed. The attitude of the latter was not a judicious

one; he leaned too far back, not only to do execution, but such a

position must have distressed him much: in fact, Lenney could not

reach Curtis with any degree of certainty. It seemed to be the

general opinion of the Fancy that no one on the list of Curtis’s

weight can beat him.

DICK AT EPSOM RACES.—Although it was nearly five o’clock before the last

race—the Maiden Stakes—was over, on Thursday, May 26th, 1822, and most

excellent sport had been afforded, yet numbers of the sporting

fraternity seemed to think the day was not exactly complete—that it

wanted a sort of finish. As some of the lads from the Metropolis were

upon the look-out for a little job, a mill was proposed by way of

dessert, and a subscription purse of £16 was collected in a very short

time. Little Dick Curtis, with as much blood as any horse upon the

course, made his bow to the amateurs, and said he had not the least

objection to peel, more especially as he had been cleaned out of all his

loose rag by backing Deaf Davis on the previous Tuesday. “You’re a good

lad,” replied a swell; “and it is a thousand pities you should be

suffered to remain idle.” A gipsy pricked up his ears upon hearing these

remarks, and offered himself to the notice of the “Pink of Society,”

just to have a small taste, for the amusement of the company, if his

honour had no objection. “Why,” said the pink, “you seem to have been a

little bit about the hedges lately. By your looks you are a gipsy. What

set do you belong to?” The brown-visaged hero, with pride, answered,

“The Coopers.” “That will do,” replied the swell; “show yourself at the

scratch without delay.” Dick Curtis was seconded by Ould Tom Jones and

Harry Holt; and Cooper was handled by Gipsy Cooper and another

“traveller.” Seven to four on Dick.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—The Gipsy stripped well, and was what the fair sex term

rather a handsome young man. He seemed, by the attitude he placed

himself in, to meet his opponent as if he knew something about

milling. Dick measured the Gipsy from head to foot with much

confidence; but he was in no hurry to go to work. The Gipsy at

length let fly, and missed, when Dick, lively as a dancing-master,

put in some telling hits, and in the struggle the Bohemian went down

amidst thunders of applause. (“Two to one!” lustily roared out.)

2.—Dick came laughing to the scratch, as keen as a stockbroker and

cunning as a fox, giving the wink to his friends it was all right.

Still he would not hit first. The Gipsy was again gammoned to make

play, when his domino box got as much slashing as if seven had been

the main. The rattling of the ivories was repeated, and the Gipsy

floored. (Five to one, and no takers.)

3.—This round took the conceit out of the Gipsy, who ran furiously

at Curtis, but the latter, with the utmost ease, stopped him, by

giving him the pepper-box on his sensitive plant. Dick now commenced

fighting, and put in four such complete facers that they made the

Gipsy all abroad; he went down like a log. (Ten to one, and the

multitude chevying from one end of the ring to the other, “What a

prime little fellow Dick is!”)

4.—This was short and sweet to Curtis; he sent the Gipsy down to

cool himself on the turf for half a minute. (Any odds, but no

takers.)

5.—It was clear to the judges that it must be soon over, and that

the Gipsy must be milled off-hand. Curtis again drew his cork, and

the hero of the bush once more embraced his mother earth. It was all

stuff to offer odds, for no person seemed inclined to take ten to

one.

6.—The pepper-box and vinegar cruet were again made use of by Dick,

till the Gipsy had nearly let it escape out of his mouth that it was

no go. Gipsy down.

7, and last.—The Gipsy napped a rum one on his canister, and he went

down immediately, saying “he would not fight any more, as he had not

room enough for his strength.” Curtis gave a jump, and pocketed the

purse almost without receiving a hit, exclaiming, “Success to Epsom

Races!”

REMARKS.—It is true it was a very bad ring, owing to the vast

multitude that pressed in upon the boxers from all sides; but if the

Gipsy had had the whole of Epsom Downs to shift in he would never

have been able to defeat Curtis. The latter is decidedly one of the

best boxers of the day; no commoners must think of having a turn

with him, and first-rate fighters must make a pause before they

enter the lists with Dick. Two bystanders gave Dick a sovereign each

for winning, which he generously made a present of to the Gipsy.

It would unnecessarily swell the bulk of the present volume to reproduce

the numerous ring encounters in which Curtis was engaged during the

succeeding years, in which time he fought with Peter Warren no less than

five times, defeating that boxer on four occasions, and on the second

the contest terminating in a drawn battle. The dates and duration of

these are here given:—

1. Beat Peter Warren, 20 min., 10 rounds, £30 a-side, at Colnbrook, July

23rd, 1822.

2. Draw with Peter Warren, £25 a-side, 16 min., Moulsey, April 16th,

1823. On this occasion a wrangle and riot ended in the stakeholder

returning the stakes to each party’s backers. A third contest was

therefore arranged, for £50 a-side.

3. The third battle was decided at Crawley Hurst, July 8th, 1823. On

this occasion Warren was defeated in one round, occupying nine minutes

only, having sprained his kneecap so severely as to put him at once

_hors de combat_.

4. After defeating Dick Hares, as we shall presently detail, Curtis beat

Warren (£20 a-side) on Epsom Downs, in six sharp rounds, occupying eight

minutes only, and finally—

5. Defeated his pertinacious opponent at Warwick, in 7 rounds, time 16

minutes, for a stake of £100 to £90, on July 19th, 1825.

Dick Hares was in the interim matched with Curtis, for £50 a-side, to

come off April 13th, 1824, but the affair was prevented by an

information laid at Bow Street, and two officers were sent down to

Moulsey to stop the fight. It will perhaps raise a smile if we state the

“reason” assigned for this prompting of the magisterial energy. The

information of the “impending breach of the peace” was laid by a

theatrical manager, who, his house being shut up because it was “Passion

week,” did not see “why other public amusements should be tolerated”!

_Hinc illæ lachrymæ_, the laying of the information, and the

disappointment of the Fancy.

A new match was accordingly made, as neither party desired a “draw;” and

on Tuesday, July 8th, 1823, on Moulsey Hurst, on the ring being cleared

after Ned Neale had defeated Gaynor (see _ante_, Life of NEALE, PERIOD

IV., CHAP. V.), Hares, attended by Peter Crawley and Tom Shelton, threw

his hat within the ropes. Curtis followed, waited on by Josh Hudson and

Tom Owen, the Sage of the East, whose admiration of Curtis as a boxer

had been long loudly expressed. Curtis’s hat was about to go over the

ropes with the wind, when Bill Moss caught it cleverly in both hands,

and dropped it within the enclosure. Curtis fought under a yellowman,

and Hares sported an emerald green flag. Six to four on Curtis.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—On stripping, the condition of Hares was the admiration of

every amateur present. He looked like a new man, instead of an old

one. Such are the advantages of training, if an athlete is not

absolutely used up. “Curtis must be licked to-day; he has not

stamina enough to get rid of Hares,” was the cry. We also heard Jack

Randall express the same opinion. On setting-to, Curtis appeared

well in health; but he looked thin, boyish, and little compared to

his opponent. The attitudes of both men were pretty, and the anxiety

of Curtis to get the first advantage remarkable. Hares too was eager

to let fly, but he could not get an opening. Not so with the Pet; he

embraced the first opportunity that presented itself, and his left

hand alighted very heavily on the nose of Hares. An exchange of

blows followed, in which Curtis received a small grain of pepper on

his left cheek; but Hares napped a full dose. Standing still for a

minute, nothing to be done. Curtis again let fly his left hand,

which nearly sent Hares’s teeth on a journey down his throat. The

men closed soon afterwards at the ropes, when the fibbing of Curtis

was terrific—he spoiled the look of his man, got Hares down, and

fell upon him. A deafening shout for Curtis, the “Bermondseys”

nearly out of their senses with joy. Two to one on the Pet.

2.—Hares was bleeding at the nose, his face much disfigured, and

Curtis a little distressed and winking. Hares made an excellent

stop. (“Well done, Hares!”) Dick put in another nobber, the claret

following. Counter-hits, and Curtis received a heavy blow on his

cheek. An exchange of blows, and no light play. Hares made another

good stop. Curtis slipped a little near the ropes, when Hares ran up

to him, and planted a heavy body hit; the Pet endeavoured to

retreat, when his opponent stuck close to him, and put in another

blow. Curtis recovered himself, and let fly his left hand in the

middle of his opponent’s head. Counter-hits. Two more terrific,

stupefying facers by Curtis, and no return. In closing, the fibbing

administered by the Pet was tremendous, and Hares went down, Curtis

uppermost. (“What an extraordinary little fellow! He hits as hard as

Cribb. The other man has no chance; take him away.”)

3, and last.—Hares came up game as a pebble; but his head was

quite altered; and his seconds, with all their industry and

attention, could not keep his face clean. Both offering, but

nothing done. Hares stopped a tremendous nobber. Rather a long

pause. “Go to work, Hares.” The latter made a second and also a

third attempt with great skill; but after this time the execution

was so decisive on the part of Curtis that it was positively one

hundred pounds to a farthing. The left hand of Curtis went flush

into the middle of Hares’s head; a profusion of claret followed.

(“What a limner this Pet is!” said the Sage of the East to Josh.

“I never saw such a painter before. Why, he is a master of colour!

What an artist!”) The succession of hits planted by Curtis in the

middle of Hares’s head, without return, was surprising. It was a

nobber, and claret—ditto—ditto—ditto. “Take the brave fellow

away,” said his backer—“I will not suffer him to fight any more.

He has no chance.” But Hares, regardless of the humane entreaties

of his friends, stood up to receive punishment till Nature

deserted him, when he fell in a state of stupor. Curtis jumped for

joy, but immediately ran up to shake the hand of the fainting

Hares. He was at once carried off the ground, and medical advice

procured. It is but justice to say that Shelton and Crawley

deserve great praise for the humanity and attention they paid to

the brave but fallen little man.

REMARKS.—We have no hesitation in pronouncing the execution of

Curtis the most decisive thing we ever witnessed in the Prize Ring.

He won the fight with his left hand only, as he never made but two

blows with his right hand during the battle. The Pet is the very

first of boxers, and we think all pugilists will accede to the

remark. He won the fight in twenty minutes, but did not prove the

conqueror without receiving some heavy blows. Three or four

tremendous hits were made by Hares. Although Curtis won the fight in

such superior style he was certainly overmatched in weight and

strength. The position of Curtis was so extremely fine that he was

guarded at all points. Curtis dressed himself immediately, and

walked about the ring receiving compliments from his friends. His

left hand, however, if not quite gone, was terribly damaged.

Barney Aaron, whose weight was 10st., and who had beaten in succession

Ned Stockman, Lenney, Frank Redmond, and Peter Warren, now challenged

Curtis, and articles were signed for £100 a-side. The battle was to have

been decided on Tuesday, November 23rd, 1824, on the stage at Warwick,

after Josh Hudson and Cannon had settled their differences; but on this

occasion Curtis received forfeit of the battle-money, under very

suspicious circumstances as regarded some of the Israelitish

speculators, who had calculated on “getting at Curtis” in such a way as

to secure what was then called “a slice of ready-made luck.”

Soon after the match was made, Curtis being the favourite, such

eagerness was shown in certain quarters to take the odds, and

subsequently to lay even as much as six to four on the Jew “rather than

not do bishnesh,” that strong suspicions were excited, and a x, in which

Curtis was to “chuck the fight,” was publicly talked of. Alarm spread at

the sporting houses, and on inquiry Curtis came forward and declared

“that he had rather lose his life than his fame.” Upon this declaration

the odds veered about, and Curtis was the favourite at five to four,

giving chance, at any rate, of hedging. Then the assertions of dishonest

intentions became stronger, and Barney was declared a safe winner. Thus

matters stood when, some days previous to the big fight, Barney Aaron

and his backers left London for Leamington, and made their headquarters

at the “Crown.” In due time, also, Curtis and his friends arrived at

Warwick. Still such doubts existed that betting was at an end, until

some heavy stakes were sported on the night before the fight, at the

“George,” at Warwick, and Barney again taken for choice. At an early

hour in the day a report was circulated through the Race Stand that “the

fight was off.” This circumstance created regret among the true sporting

men. However, in a few minutes after Hudson and Cannon had left the

stage, Curtis appeared, attended by Tom Belcher and his backers, and

threw up his hat amidst loud cheers. Aaron was called for, but not

showing himself, Curtis addressed the multitude. He said, “I attended

here according to the articles, and I call upon Barney Aaron to face me

according to articles.” He repeated the challenge twice without reply

being made. Curtis then declared that “he would wait one quarter of an

hour, and if Aaron did not appear, he should claim the stakes, £100, as

a forfeit.” Previous to the quarter of an hour having elapsed, Curtis

wished it to be known that he would fight any man of his weight in the

world, for £200 a-side, and give half a stone.

Tom Belcher said he was the stakeholder, and the forfeit being claimed,

he considered it his duty to give the £100 to Curtis, according to the

rules of sporting. (“Perfectly correct, Tom,” from the spectators.)

Belcher then presented Curtis with a new £100 Bank of England note,

which the Pet smilingly deposited in his pocket. Belcher then took the

nattily shaped “Pet” on his back, and lightly carried him, amidst

laughter and applause, through the mud to the Grand Stand, where his

health was drunk in sparkling “cham” by his friends, backers, and the

admirers of straight-forward honesty.

At Ned Neale’s benefit at the Fives Court, two days after this fiasco,

Curtis and Aaron met in the most friendly manner. Curtis said: “I would

rather have fought for the money; but I am sure, Barney, it was not your

fault.”

Aaron then proceeded to explain. He said he was told the place was

Oxford, and there he was taken by his backers in a post-chaise, contrary

to his intention, which had been to meet Curtis. He had with him his

drawers and shoes. “Had I been licked,” said he, “which I don’t think I

should have been” (a laugh from Curtis), “I should have got some blunt;

but I have been regularly dished.” “I hope you will get backed,” replied

Curtis; “I know you’re a brave man, and I hope next time we shall have a

_comfortable_ fight!”

Some chaffering about the amount of stakes followed this interview;

Curtis proposing to fight for £200, and Aaron’s backers modestly

suggesting that Curtis (in consideration of the forfeit of £100—the

forfeit was only £50) should fight Barney £200 to £100. The subjoined

stanzas, conveying the challenge, seem of sufficient merit to deserve

snatching from oblivion:—

THE PET’S INVITATION.

_Richard Curtis to Barney Aaron—Greeting._

Come, Barney, ’tis Curtis, the Pet, who invites thee;

No longer to fight for two hundred refuse;

For while all the pride of “the Peoplesh” excites thee,

You can’t need the needful, my star of the Jews!

Remember the glories of ancient Mendoza,

And hard-drinking, hard-hitting, shifting Dutch Sam;

Think on old Ikey Pig, and Big Bittoon, who knows thee,

With the rush of a lion, yet mild as a lamb.

What though Mrs. Aaron thy mug may delight in,

And thinking of black eyes, turns fretful and wan?

She’ll say, when convinced that you really mean fighting,

“Mine husband, Cot plesh him, ’s a brave little man.”

I’ll own that as good as e’er pulled off a shirt is

The lad I now call to the old milling game;

And remember, friend Barney, though challenged by Curtis,

No _Cur_-’tis invites to combat for fame.

Then try all the good ones who live in the Minories,

Kick the shins of the dwellers in Petticoat Lane—

Get blunt, which of all sorts of milling the sinew is;

Drop chaffing, and take to fair fighting again.

_August 28th, 1825._

THE STAR’S ANSWER.

_Barney Aaron to Richard Curtis—Greeting._

I come, Mr. _Cur_-’tis the Star of the Sheenies

Who advances to pluck from thy brow the high crest,

With a _sufficit quantum_ of courage—and guineas—

To lower thy _caput_, my Flower of the West.

You fought Peter Warren a hundred to ninety,

Then why not fight me for the first-mention’d name?

But being all bounce you the scratch will not come to,

To show your much-vaunted pretensions to fame.

You say that the ochre—the metal—the rhino,

Is flush ’mong the Sheenies of Petticoat Lane;

’Tish more scarsh nor you think—I vish it vash mine, oh!

I’d fight for my losht reputation again.

Now hear! For one hundred, I’m ready to fight you,

Surely, out of mere fairness, you cannot refuse;

You’ll have to contend with no Warren, my _Cur_-tis,

But with brave Barney Aaron, the Star of the Jews!

DUKE’S PLACE,

_September 3rd, 1825_.

These poetic effusions, with a dozen prosy letters to boot, failed to

bring the men to terms.

Curtis was now indeed “the Pet of the Fancy;” no sparring exhibition of

any pretension was perfect in its programme without the Light weight

Champion displayed his skill in the art of which he was such a

consummate master; and as Dick never hesitated to put on the gloves, and

give away a stone or two and a few inches, the disparity of his

opponents added a keener interest than usual to his demonstrations. The

newspapers of the period are full of them. Curtis was now perforce idle,

for there was no boxer near his weight who could get matched against

him. Of course he was the object of envy to many of the fraternity, and

“Envy doth merit like its shade pursue,

And by the shadow proves the substance true,”

so with one Mister Edward Savage, whose anger at the want of

appreciation of his own merits, and the favour lavished on “the Pet,”

carried him beyond all bounds of common civility. Edward Savage, an

eleven stone man, was one of three Savages, the others named William and

Cab. (or Jack) Savage, who were professed boxers. Ned Savage, on the

evening of the 5th of August, 1825, entered the parlour of Tom

Belcher’s, the “Castle,” Holborn, where Curtis and other friends were

taking their whiff and their wet. The conversation turning upon

pugilistic affairs, Mister Savage made some most insulting remarks upon

the diminutive size of Curtis, coupled with regrets that he (Savage)

could not get himself down to ten stone (Dick had challenged all comers

and to give a stone), and concluded with a ruffianly threat of what he

would do if Curtis would “give him a chance.” The Pet was about to leave

when Savage, true to his name, struck him severely in the eye. The

return on Mister Savage’s optic was made with lightning celerity, and

the next instant the little one had his man round the neck, and

delivered a succession of left-handers of such cutting severity that

when Savage got down his head was a piteous spectacle. The company now

interfered, but Curtis declared that he “must teach this Savage a

lesson.” Savage rushed in blind with rage, and it is charity to suppose

somewhat upset by liquor, when he was met by one, two, three steadiers

in the head, his returns being parried, until he fairly staggered down.

The affair now became a regular battle. Curtis threw off his upper

garments, and Savage did the same. Savage rushed at his man so fiercely

that Dick, stepping aside, delivered his blow on the ear of a bystander,

to the man’s great astonishment and the amusement of the company, while

Curtis simultaneously delivered alternately with both hands in such

style that Savage turned away from the punishment. He was, however,

game, if nothing else, and came up as receiver-general until the

sixteenth round, when he was so completely cut up and beaten that he

cried, “Enough!” Not more than sixteen minutes elapsed from the first

assault to the close of this unexpected performance, the description of

which by a few of the scientific spectators raised the fame of Curtis to

a height hardly exceeded by that attained by his victories in the

twenty-four foot. Tom Belcher’s concluding remark when narrating this

little episode used to be—“It wouldn’t be lucky for some of us if Dick

was twelve stone. There wouldn’t be much chaff about who would be

Champion then”—a remark in which the heavy weights present usually

coincided, some of them perhaps with a slight mental reservation in

favour of his own brave self.

A ridiculous encounter with Ned Stockman, on the day of the fight

between Gaynor and Bishop Sharpe (Tuesday, May 16th, 1826) is recorded.

In this affair Stockman, after challenging Curtis and offering to fight

him, laid down like a cur after a single round, as recorded in the

reports of the time.

This brings us to the match at length arranged, by the concession of

Curtis, for £100 a-side, with Barney Aaron. The battle came off on

Tuesday, February 27th, 1827, at Andover, Hants, upon a stage erected in

a field at the back of the “Queen Charlotte” public-house, opposite that

where Spring defeated Neale, in 1823, one mile from the town. The stage

was erected by the townspeople free of expense, and upwards of forty

wagons were sent to form an outer ring by the jolly Hampshire farmers of

the neighbourhood. The pugilistic division from London was in great

force. Jem Ward, Tom Oliver, Ben Burn, Young Gas (Jonathan Bissell),

Harry Holt, Ned Neale, with Fogo the Laureate and Joe Fishwick the

Commissary, had joined the wagon-train. Curtis, valeted by Young Dutch

Sam, took up his quarters at the “White Hart,” and Barney Aaron and

Gipsy Cooper at the “Catherine Wheel,” opposite. Curtis was the

favourite, at five to four. At one o’clock Barney, accompanied by Mr.

Nathan and Jem Ward, ascended the stage amidst loud cheering. Curtis,

attended by his backer, and Josh Hudson with Ben Burn, soon followed,

and were welcomed with acclamation. The men then shook hands, and the

colours were tied to the stakes; a bright yellow for Curtis and a deep

red with yellow spots for the Israelite; and the battle commenced.

THE FIGHT.

Pugilistica: The History of British Boxing, Volume 2 (of 3) Containing Lives of the Most Celebrated Pugilists; Full Reports of Their Battles from Contemporary Newspapers, With Authentic Portraits, Personal Anecdotes, and Sketches of the Principal Patrons of the Prize Ring, Forming a Complete History of the Ring from Fig and Broughton, 1719-1740, to the Last Championship Battle Between King and Heenan, in December 1863 · 第 12 / 14 章

REMARKS.—Hall, not the “John,” but the “mad,” bull fighter, to the