Where there's a will, there's a way. - I said so to myself, as I walked down  Chancery-lane, about half-past six o'clock on Monday the 10th of December, to  inquire at Jack Randall's where the fight the next day was to be; and I found  "the proverb" nothing "musty" in the present instance. I was determined to see  this fight, come what would, and see it I did, in great style. It was my first  fight, yet it more than answered my expectations. Ladies! it is to you I dedicate this description; nor let it seem out of character for the fair to
notice the exploits of the brave. Courage and modesty are the old English virtues; and may they never look cold and askance on one another! Think, ye fairest of the fair, loveliest of the lovely kind, ye practisers of soft enchantment, how many more ye kill with poisoned baits than ever fell in the ring; and listed with subdued air and without shuddering, to a tale tragic only in appearance, and sacred to the FANCY!
 

I was going down Chancery-lane, thinking to ask at Jack Randall's where the fight was to be, when looking through the glass-door of the "Hole in the Wall," I heard a gentleman asking the same question at Mrs. Randall, as the author2 of "Waverley" would express it. Now  Mrs. Randall stood answering the gentlemen's question, with the authenticity of  the lady of the Champion of the Light Weights. Thinks I, I'll wait till this  person comes out, and learn from him how it is. For to say a truth, I was not  fond of going into this house to call for heroes and philosophers, ever since  the owner of it (for Jack is no gentleman) threatened once upon a time to kick  me out of doors for wanting a mutton-chop at his hospitable board, when the  conqueror in thirteen battles was more full of blue ruin than of good manners. I  was the more mortified at this repulse, inasmuch as I had heard Mr. James  Simpkin, hosier in the Strand, one day when the character of the "Hold in the  Wall" was brought in question, observe - "The house is a very good house, and  the company
quite genteel: I have been there myself!" Remembering this unkind  treatment of mine host, to which mine hostess was also a party, and not wishing  to put her in unquiet thoughts at a time jubilant like the present, I waited at  the door, when, who should issue forth but my friend Jo. Toms, and turning  suddenly up Chancery-lane with that quick jerk and impatient stride which  distinguishes a lover of the FANCY, I said, "I'll be hanged if that fellow is  not going to the fight, and is on his way to get me to go with him." So it  proved in effect, and we agreed to adjourn to my lodgings to discuss measures  with that cordiality which makes old friends like new, and new friends like old,  on great occasions.
We are cold to others only when we are dull in ourselves,  and have neither thoughts nor feelings to impart to them. Give a man a topic in  his head, a throb of pleasure in his heart, and he will be glad to share it with  the first person he meets. Toms and I, though we seldom meet, were an alter  idem on this memorable occasion, and had not an idea that we did not  candidly impart; and "so carelessly did we fleet the time," that I wish no  better, when there is another fight, than to have him for a companion on my  journey down, and to return with my friend Jack Pigott, talking of what was to  happen or of what did happen, with a noble subject always at hand, and liberty  to digress to others whenever they offered. Indeed, on my repeating the lines  from Spenser in an involuntary fit of enthusiasm,
 

What more felicity can fall to creature, than to enjoy delight with liberty?


my last-named ingenious friend stopped me by saying that  this, translated into the vulgate, meant "Going to see a fight."
Jo. Toms and I could not settle about the method of going down. He said there was a caravan, he understood, to start from Tom Belcher's at two, which would go  there right out and back again the next day. Now I never travel all night, and  said I should get a cast to Newbury by one of the mails. Jo. swore the thing was  impossible, and I could only answer that I had made up my mind to it. In short,  he seemed to me to waver, said he only came to see if I was going, had letters  to write, a cause coming on the day after, and faintly said at parting (for I  was bent on setting out that moment) - "Well, we meet at Philippi!" I made the  best of my way to Piccadilly. The mail coach stand was bare. "They are all  gone," said I - "this is always the way with me - in the instant I lose the  future - if I had not stayed to pour out that last cup of tea, I should have  been just in time" - and cursing my folly and ill- luck together, without  inquiring at the coach-office whether the mails were gone or not, I walked on in  despite, and to punish my own dilatoriness and want of determination. At any  rate, I would not turn back: I might get to Hounslow, or perhaps farther, to be  on my road the next morning. I passed Hyde Park Corner (my Rubicon), and trusted  to fortune. Suddenly I heard the clattering of a Brentford stage, and the fight  rushed full upon my fancy. I argued (not unwisely) that even a Brentford  coachman was better company than my own thoughts (such as they were just then),  and at his invitation mounted the box with him. I immediately stated my case to  him - namely, my quarrel with myself for missing the Bath or Bristol mail, and  my determination to get on in consequence as well as I could, without any  disparagement or insulting comparison between longer or shorter stages. It is a  maxim with me that stage-coaches, and consequently stage-coachmen, are  respectable in proportion to the distance they have to travel: so I said nothing  on that subject to my Brentford friend. Any incipient tendency to an abstract  proposition, or (as he might have construed it) to a personal reflection of this  kind, was however nipped in the bud; for I had no sooner declared indignantly  that I had missed the mails, than he flatly denied that they were gone along,  and lo! at the instant three of them drove by in rapid, provoking, orderly  succession, as if they would devour the ground before them. Here again I seemed  in the contradictory situation of the man in Dryden who exclaims,

I follow Fate, which does too hard pursue!


If I had stopped to inquire at the "White Horse Cellar,"  which would not have taken me a minute, I should now have been driving down the  road in all the dignified unconcern and ideal perfection of mechanical  conveyance. The Bath mail I had set my mind upon, and I had missed it, as I  missed everything else, by my own absurdity, in putting the will for the deed,  and aiming at ends without employing means. "Sir," said he of the Brentford,  "The Bath mail will be up presently, my brother-in-law drives it, and I will  engage to stop him if there is a place empty." I almost doubted my good genius;  but, sure enough, up it drove like lightning, and stopped directly at the call  of the Brentford Jehu. I would not have believed this possible, but the  brother-in-law of a mail-coach driver is himself no mean man. I was transferred  without loss of time from the top of one coach to that of the other, desired the  guard to pay my fare to the Brentford coachman for me as I had no change, was  accommodated with a great coat, put up my umbrella to keep off a drizzling mist,  and we began to cut through the air like an arrow. The mile-stones disappeared  one after another, the rain kept off; Tom Turtle, the trainer, sat before me on  the coach-box, with whom I exchanged civilities as a gentleman going to the  fight; the passion that had transported me an hour before was subdued to pensive  regret and conjectural musing on the next day's battle; I was promised a place  inside at Reading, and upon the whole, I thought myself a lucky fellow. Such is  the force of imagination! On the outside of any other coach on the 10th of  December, with a Scotch mist drizzling through the cloudy moonlight air, I  should have been cold, comfortless, impatient, and, no doubt, wet through; but  seated on the Royal mail, I felt warm and comfortable, the air did me good, the  ride did me good, I was pleased with the progress we had made, and confident  that all would go well through the journey. When I got inside at Reading, I  found Turtle and a stout valetudinarian, whose costume bespoke him one of the  FANCY, and who had risen from a three months' sick bed to get into the mail to  see the fight. They were intimate, and we fell into a lively discourse. My  friend the trainer was confined in his topics to fightin dogs and men, to bears  and badgers; beyond this he was "quite chap-fallen," had not a word to throw at  a dog, or indeed very wisely fell asleep, when any other game was started. The  whole art of training (I, however, learnt from him), consists in two things,  exercise and abstinence, abstinence and exercise, repeated alternately without  end. A yolk of an egg with a spoonful of rum in it is the first thing in a  morning, and then a walk of six miles till breakfast. This meal consists of a  plentiful supply of tea and toast and beef steaks. Then another six or seven  miles till dinner-time, and another supply of solid beef or mutton with a pint  of porter, and perhaps, at the utmost, a couple of glasses of sherry. Martin  trains on water, but this increases his infirmity on another very dangerous  side. The Gas-man takes now and then a chirping glass (under the rose) to  console him, during a six weeks' probation, for the absence of Mrs. Hickman - an  agreeable woman, with (I understand) a pretty fortune of two hundred pounds. How  matter presses on me! What stubborn things are facts! How inexhaustible is  nature and art! "It is well," as I once heard Mr. Richmond observe, "to see a  variety." He was speaking of cock-fighting as an edifying spectacle. I cannot  deny but that one learns more of what is (I do not say of what ought to be) in  this desultory mode of practical study, than from reading the same book twice  over, even though it should be a moral treatise. Where was I? I was sitting at  dinner with the candidate for the honours of the ring, "where good digestion  waits on appetite, and health on both." Then follows an hour of social chat and  native glee; and afterwards, to another breathing over heathy hill or dale. Back  to supper, and then to bed, and up by six again - Our
hero

Follows the ever-running sun With profitable ardour -


to the day that brings him victory or defeat in the green  fairy circle. Is not this life more sweet than mine? I was going to say; but I  will not libel any life by comparing it to mine, which is (at the date of these  presents) bitter as coloquintida and the dregs of aconitum!The invalid in the Bath mail soared a pitch above the trainer, and did not sleep so sound, because he had "more figures and more fantasies." We talked the hours away merrily. He had faith in surgery, for he had had three ribs set right, that had been broken in a turn-up at Belcher's, but thought physicians old women, for they had no antidote in their catalogue for brandy. An indigestion is an excellent commonplace for two people that never met before.
By  way of ingratiating myself, I told him the story of my doctor, who, on my earnestly representing to him that I thought his regimen had done me harm, assured me that the whole pharmacopeia contained nothing comparable to the prescription he had given me; and, as a proof of his undoubted efficacy, said, that, "he had had one gentleman with my complaint under his hands for the last fifteen years." This anecdote made my companion shake the rough sides of his three great coats with boisterous laughter; and Turtle, starting out of his sleep, swore he knew how the fight would go, for he had had a dream about it. Sure enough, the rascal told us how the first rounds went off, but "his dream," like others, "denoted a foregone conclusion." He knew his men. The moon now rose  in silver state, and I ventured, with some hesitation, to point out this object  of placid beauty, with the blue serene beyond, to the man of science, to
which  his ear he "seriously inclined," the more as it gave promise d'un beaujour for the morrow, and showed the ring undrenched by envious showers, arrayed in sunny smiles. Just then, all going on well, I thought on  my friend Toms, whom I had left behind, and said innocently, "There was ablockhead of a fellow I left in town, who said there was no possibility of getting down by the mail, and talked of going by a caravan from Belcher's at two  in the morning, after he had written some letters." "Why," said he of the lapells, "I should not wonder if that was the very person we saw running about like mad from one coach-door to another, and asking if anyone had seen a friend of his, a gentleman going to the fight, whom he had missed stupidly enough by staying to write a note." "Pray, Sir," said my fellow-traveller, "he had a plaid-cloak on?" - "Why, no," said I, "not at the time I left him, but he very well might afterwards, for he offered to lend me one." The plain-cloak and the letter decided the thing. Joe,3 sure enough, was in the  Bristol mail, which preceded us by about fifty yards. This was droll enough. We  had now but a few miles to our place of destination, and the first thing I did  on alighting at Newbury, both coaches stopping at the same time, was to call  out, "Pray, is there a gentleman in that mail of the name of Toms?" "No," said  Joe, borrowing something of the vein of Gilpin, "for I have just got out."  "Well!" says he, "this is lucky; but you don't know how vexed I was to miss you;  for," added he, lowering his voice, "did you know when I left you I went to  Belcher's to ask about the caravan, and Mrs. Belcher said very obligingly, she  couldn't tell about that, but there were two gentlemen who had taken places by  the mail and were gone on in a landau, and she could frank us. It's a pity I  didn't meet with you; we could then have got down for nothing. But mum's the  word." It's the devil for anyone to tell me a secret, for it's sure to come out  in print. I do not care so much to gratify a friend, but the public ear to too  great a temptation to me.Our present business was to get beds and a supper at an inn; but this was no easy task. The public-houses were full, and where you saw a light at a private house, and people poking their heads out of the casement to see what was going on, they instantly put them in and shut the window, the moment you seemed advancing with a suspicious overture for accommodation. Our guard and coachman thundered away at the outer gate of the "Crown" for some time without effect - such was the greater noise within; - and when the doors were unbarred, and we got admittance, we found a party assembled in the kitchen round a good hospitable fire, some sleeping, others drinking, others talking on politics and on the fight. A tall English yeoman (something like Matthews in the face, and quite as great a wag) -


A lusty man to ben an abbot able, -was making such a prodigious noise about rent and taxes,  and the price of corn no and formerly, that he had prevented us from being  heard at the gate. The first thing I heard him say was to a shuffling fellow who  wanted to be off a bet for a shilling glass of brandy and water - "Confound it,  man, don't be insipid!" Thinks I, that is a good phrase. It was a good omen. He  kept it up so all night, nor flinched with the approach of morning. He was a  fine fellow, with sense, wit, and spirit, a hearty body and a joyous mind,  free-spoken, frank, convivial - one of that true English breed that went with  Harry the Fifth to the siege of Harfleur - "standing like greyhounds in the  slips," etc. We ordered tea and eggs (beds were soon found to be out of the  question) and this fellow's conversation was sauce piquante. It did one's  heart good to see him brandish his oaken towel and to hear him talk. He made  mince-meat of a drunken, stupid, red-faced, quarrelsome, frowsy farmer, whose  nose "he moralised into a thousand similes," making it out a firebrand like  Bardolph's. "I'll tell you what my friend," says he, "the landlady has only to  keep you here to save fire and candle. If one was to touch your nose, it would  go off like a piece of charcoal." At this the other only grinned like an idiot,  the sole variety in his purple face being his little peering grey eyes and  yellow teeth; called for another glass, swore he would not stand it; and after  many attempts to provoke his humorous antagonist to singe combat, which the  other turned off (after working him up to a ludicrous pitch of choler) with  great adroitness, he fell quietly asleep with a glass of liquor in his hand,  which he could not lift to his head. His laughing persecutor made a speech over  him, and turning to the opposite side of the room, where they were all sleeping  in the midst of this "loud and furious sun,"said, "There's a scene, by G-d, for  Hogarth to paint. I think he and Shakespeare were our two best men at copying  life." This confirmed me in my good opinion of him. Hogarth, Shakespeare, and  Nature, were just enough for him (indeed for any man) to know. I said, "You read  Cobbett, don't you? At least," says I, "you talk just as well as he writes." He  seemed to doubt this. But I said, "We have an hour to spare; if you'll get pen,  ink, and paper, and keep on talking, I'll write down what you say; and if it  doesn't make a capital 'Political Register,' I'll forfeit my head. You have kept  me alive to-night, however. I don't know what I should have done without you. He  did not dislike this view of the thing, nor my asking if he was not about the  size of Jem Belcher; and told me soon afterwards, in the confidence of  friendship, that "the circumstance which had given him nearly the greatest  concern in his life, was Cribb's beating Jem after he had lost his eye by  racket-playing." - The morningdawns; that dim but yet clear light appears,  which weighs like solid bars of metal on the sleepless eyelids; the guests drop  down from their chambers one by one - but it was too late to think of going to  bed now (the clock was on the stroke of seven), we had nothing for it but to  find a barber's (the pole that glittered in the morning sun lighted us to his  shop), and then a nine miles' march to Hungerford. The day was fine, the sky was  blue, the mists were retiring from the marshy ground, the path was tolerably  dry, the sitting-up all night had not done us much harm - at least the cause was  good; we talked of this and that with amicable difference, roving and sipping of  many subjects, but still invariably we returned to the fight. At length, a mile  to the left of Hungerford, on a gentle eminence, we saw the ring surrounded by covered carts, gigs, and carriages, of which hundreds had passed us on the road;  Toms gave a youthful shout, and we hastened down a narrow lane to thescene of  action.

 Reader, have you ever seen a fight? If not, you have a pleasure to come, at least if it is a fight like that between the Gas-man and Bill Neate. The crowd was very great when we arrived on the spot; open carriages were coming up, with streamers flying and music playing, and the country-people were pouring in over hedge and ditch in all directions, to see their hero beat or be beaten. The odds  were still on Gas, but only about five to four. Gully had been down to try Neate, and had backed him considerably, which was a damper to the sanguine confidence of the adverse party. About two hundred thousand pounds were pending.  The Gas says, he has lost £3,000 which were promised him by different gentlemen  if he had won. He had presumed too much on himself, which had made others  presume on him. This spirited and formidable young fellow seems to have taken  for his motto the old maxim, that "there are three things necessary tosuccess  in life - Impudence! Impudence! Impudence!" It is so in matters of opinion, but  not in the FANCY, which is the most practical of all things, though even here  confidence is half the battle, but only half. Our friend had vapoured and  swaggered too much, as if he wanted to grin and bully his adversary out of the  fight. "Alas! the Bristol man was not so tamed!" - "This is the grave digger"  (would Tom Hickman exclaim in the moments of intoxication from gin and success,  showing his tremendous right hand), "this will send many of them to their long  homes; I haven't done with them yet!" Why should he - though he had licked four  of the best men within the hour, yet why should he threaten to inflict  dishonourable chastisement on my old master Richmond, a veteran going off the  stage, and who has borne his sable honours meekly? Magnanimity, my dear Tom, and  bravery, should be inseparable. Or why should he go up to his antagonist, the  first time he ever saw him at the Fives Court, and measuring him from head to  foot with a glance of contempt, as Achilles surveyed Hector, say to him, "What,  are you Bill Neate? I'll knock more blood out of
that great carcase of thine,  this day fortnight, than you ever knock'd out of a bullock's!" It was not manly,  'twas not fighter- like. If he was sure of the victory (as he was not), the less  said about it the better. Modesty should accompany the FANCY as its shadow. The  best men were always the best behaved. Jem Belcher, the Game Chicken (before  whom the Gas-man could not have lived) were civil, silent men. So is Cribb, so  is Tom Belcher, the most elegant of sparrers, and not a man for every one to  take by the nose. I enlarged on this topic in the mail (while Turtle was  asleep), and said very wisely (as I thought) that impertinence was a part of no  profession. A boxer was bound to beat his man, but not to thrust his fist,  either actually or by implication, in every one's face. Even a highwayman, in  the way of trade, may blow out your brains, but if he uses foul language at the  same time, I should say he was no gentleman. A boxer, I would infer, need not be  a blackguard or a coxcomb, more than another. Perhaps I press this point too  much on a fallen man -

Mr. Thomas Hickman has by this time learnt that first of  all lessons, "That man was made to mourn." He has lost nothing by the late fight  but his presumption; and that every man may do as well without! By an  overly-display of this quality, however, the public has been prejudiced against  him, and the knowing-ones were taken in. Few but those who had bet on him wished  Gas to win. With my own prepossessions on the subject, the result of the 11th of  December appeared to me as fine a piece of poetical justice as I had ever  witnessed. The difference of weight between the two combatants (14 stone to 12)  was nothing to the sporting men. Great, heavy, clumsy, long-armed Bill Neate  kicked the beam in the scale of the Gas-man's vanity. The amateurs were  frightened at his big words, and thought that they would make up for the  difference of six feet and five feet nine. Truly, the FANCY are not men of  imagination. They judge of what has been, and cannot conceive of anything that  is to be. The Gas-man had won hitherto; therefore he must beat a man half as big  again as himself - and that to a certainty. Besides, there are as many feuds,  factions, prejudices, pedantic notions in the FANCY as in the state or in the  schools. Mr. Gully is almost the only cool, sensible man among them, who  exercises an unbiassed discretion, and is not a slave to his passions in these  matters. But enough of reflections, and to our tale. The day, as I have said,  was fine for a December morning. The grass was wet, and the ground miry, and  ploughed up with multitudinous feet, except that, within the ring itself, there  was a spot of virgin-green closed in and unprofaned by vulgar tread, that shone  with dazzling brightness in the mid-day sun. For it was noon now, and we had an  hour to wait. This is the trying time. It is then the heart sickens, as you  think what the two champions are about, and how short a time will determine  their fate. After the first blow is struck, there is no opportunity for nervous  apprehensions; you are swallowed up in the immediate interest of the scene - but

Between the acting of a dreadful thing And the first motion, all the interim is Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream


I found it so as I felt the sun's rays clinging to my back,  and saw the white wintry clouds sink below the verge of the horizon. "So," I  thought, "my fairest hopes have faded from my side! - so will the Gas-man's  glory, or that of his adversary, vanish in an hour." The swells were parading in  their white box-coats, the outer ring was cleared with some bruises on the heads  and shins of the rustic assembly (for the cockneys had been distanced by the  sixty- six miles); the time drew near, I had got a good stand; a bustle, a buzz,  ran through the crowd, and from the opposite side entered Neate, between his  second and bottle-holder. He rolled along, swathed in his loose great coat, his  knock-knees bending under his huge bulk; and, with a modest cheerful air, threw  his hat into the ring. He then just looked round, and began quietly to undress;  when from the other side there was a similar rush and an opening made, and the  Gas-man came forward with a conscious air of anticipated triumph, too much like  the cock-of-the-walk. He strutted about more than became a hero, sucked oranges  with a supercilious air, and threw away the skin with a toss of his head, and  went up and looked at Neate, which was an act of supererogation. The only  sensible thing he did was, as he strode away from the modern Ajax, to fling out  his arms, as if he wanted to try whether they would do their work that day. By  this time they had stripped, and presented a strong contrast in appearance. If  Neate was like Ajax, "with Atlantean shoulders, fit to bear" the pugilistic  reputation of all Bristol, Hickman might be compared to Diomed, light, vigorous,  elastic, and his back glistened in the sun, as he moved about, like a panther's  hide. There was now a dead pause - attention was awe-struck. Who at that moment,  big with a great event, did not draw his breath short - did not feel his heart  throb? All was ready. They tossed up for the sun, and the Gas-man won. They were  lead up to the scratch - shook hands, and went at it.
In the first round everyone thought it was all over. After making play a short time, the Gas-man flew at his adversary like a tiger, struck five blow in  as many seconds, three first, and then following him as he staggered back, two  more, right and left, and down he fell, a might ruin. There was a shout, and I  said, "There is no standing this." Neate seemed like a lifeless lump of flesh  and bone, round which the Gas-man's blows played with the rapidity of  electricity or lighting, and you imagined he would only be lifted up to be knocked down again. It was as if Hickman held a sword or a fire in the right hand of his, and directed it against an unarmed body. They met again, and Neate seemed, not cowed, but particularly cautious. I saw his teeth clenched together and his brows knit close against the sun. He held out both his arms at full-length straight before him, like two sledge-hammers, and raised his left an  inch or two higher. The Gas-man could not get over this guard - they struck mutually and fell, but without advantage on either side. It was the same in the next round; but the balance of power was thus restored - the fate of the battle was suspended. No one could tell how it would end. This was the only moment in which opinion was divided; for, in the next, the Gas-man aiming a mortal blowat  his adversary's neck, with his right hand, and failing from the length he had to  reach, the other returned it with his left at full swing, planted a tremendous  blow on his cheek-bone and eyebrow, and made a red ruin of that side of his  face. The Gas-man went down, and there was another shout - a roar of triumph as  the waves of fortune rolled tumultuously from side to side. This was a settler.  Hickman got up, and "grinned horrible a ghastly smile," yet he was evidently  dashed in his opinion of himself; it was the first time he had ever been so  punished; all one side of his face was perfect scarlet, and his right eye was  closed in dingy blackness, as he advanced to the fight, less confident, but  still determined. After one or two rounds, not receiving another such remembrancer, he rallied and went at it with his former impetuosity. But in vain. His strength had been weakened, - his blows could not tell at such a distance, - he was obliged to fling himself at his adversary, and could not strike from his feet; and almost as regularly as he flew at him with his right hand, Neate warded the blow, or drew back out of its reach, and felled him with the return of his left. There was little cautious sparring - no half-hits - no tapping and trifling, none of the petit-maîtreship of the art - they were  almost all knock-down blows: - the fight was a good stand-up fight. The wonder  was the half-minute time. If there had been a minute or more allowed between  each round, it would have been intelligible how they should by degrees recover  strength and resolution; but to see two men smashed to the ground, smeared with  gore, stunned, senseless, the breath beaten out of their bodies; and then,  before you recover from the shock, to see them rise up with new strength and  courage, stand steady to inflict or receive mortal offence, and rush upon each  other, "like two clouds over the Caspian" - this is the most astonishing thing  of all: - this is the high and heroic state of man! From this time forward the  event became more certain every round; and about the twelfth it seemed as if it  must have been over. Hickman generally stood with his back to me; but in the  scuffle, he had changed positions, and Neate just then made a tremendous lunge  at him, and hit him full in the face. It was doubtful whether he would fall  backwards or forwards; he hung suspended for about a second or two, and then  fell back, throwing his hands in the air, and with his face lifted up to the  sky. I never saw anything more terrific than his aspect just before he fell. All  traces of life, of natural expression, were gone from him.
His face was like a  human skull, a death's head, spouting blood. The eyes were filled with blood,  the nose streamed with blood, the mouth gaped blood. He was not like an actual  man, but like a preternatural, spectral appearance, or like one of the figures  in Dante's "Inferno." Yet he fought on after this for several rounds, still striking the first desperate blow, and Neate standing on the defensive, and  using the same cautious guard to the last, as if he had still all his work to  do; and it was not till the Gas-man was so stunned in the seventeenth or  eighteenth round, that his senses forsook him, and he could not ome to time,  that the battle was declared over. Ye who despise the FANCY, do something to  show as much pluck, or as much self-possession as this, before you assume a  superiority which you have never given a single proof of by any one action in  the whole course of your lives! - When the Gas-man came to himself, the first  words he uttered were,

"Where am I? What is the matter!" "Nothing is the matter,  Tom - you have lost the battle, but you are the bravest man alive." And Jackson  whispered to him, "I am collecting a purse for you, Tom." - Vain sounds, and  unheard at that moment! Neate instantly went up and shook him cordially by the  hand, and seeing some old acquaintance, began to flourish with his fists,  calling out, "Ah, you always said I couldn't fight - What do you think now?" But  all in good humour, and without any appearance of arrogance; only it was evident  Bill Neate was pleased that he had won the fight. When it was all over, I asked  Cribb if he did not think it was a good one? He has, "Pretty well!" The  carrier-pigeons now mounted into the air, and one of them flew with the news of  her husband's victory to the bosom of Mrs. Neate. Alas, for Mrs. Hickman!
Mais au revoir, as Sir Fopling Flutter says. I went down with Toms;

I returned with Jack Pigott, whom I met on the ground. Toms is a rattle-brain; Pigott is a sentimentalist. Now, under favour, I am a sentimentalist too - therefore I say nothing, but that the interest of the excursion did not flag as I came back. Pigott and I marched along the causeway leading from Hungerford to Newbury, now observing the effect of a brilliant sun on the tawny meads or moss-coloured cottages, now exulting in the fight, now digressing to some topic of general and elegant literature. My friend was dressed in character for the occasion, or like one of the FANCY; that is, with a double portion of great coats, clogs, and overhauls: and just as we had agreed with a couple of country-lads to carry his superfluous wearing- apparel to the next town, we were  overtaken by a return post-chaise, into which I got, Pigott preferring  to eat on  the bar. There were two strangers already in the chaise, and on their observing  they supposed I had been to the fight, I said I had, and concluded they had done  the same. They appeared, however, a little shy and sore on the subject; and it  was not fill after several hints dropped, and questions put, that it turned out  that they had missed it. One of these friends had undertaken to drive the other  there in his gig: they had set out, to make sure work, the day before at three  in the afternoon. The owner of the one- horse vehicle scorned to ask his way,  and drove right on to Bagshot, instead of turning off at Hounslow: there they  stopped all night, and set off the next day across the country to Reading, from  whence they took coach, and got down within a mile or two of Hungerford, just  half an hour after the fight was over. This might be safely set down as one of  the miseries of human life. We parted with these two
gentlemen who had been to  see the fight, but had returned as they went, at Wolhampton, where we were  promised beds (an irresistible temptation, for Pigott had passed the preceding  night at Hungerford, as we had done at Newbury; and we
turned into an old  bow-windowed parlour with a carpet and a snug fire; and after devouring a  quantity of tea, toast, and eggs, sat down to consider, during an hour of  philosophic leisure, what we should have for supper. In the midst of an  Epicurean deliberation between a roasted fowl and mutton chops with mashed  potatoes, we were interrupted by an inroad of Goths and Vandals - O
procul  este profani - not real flash-men, but interlopers, noisy pretenders,  butchers from Tothillfields, brokers from Whitechapel, who called immediately  for pipes and tobacco, hoping it would not be disagreeable to the gentlemen, and  began to insist that it was a cross. Pigott withdrew from the smoke and noise  into another room, and left me to dispute the point with them for a couple of  hours sans intermission by the dial. The next morning we rose refreshed; and on  observing that Jack had a pocket volume in his hand, in which he read in the  intervals of our discourse, I inquired what it was, and learned to my particular  satisfaction that it was a volume of the New Eloise." Ladies, after this, will  you contend that a love for the FANCY is incompatible with the cultivation of  sentiment? - We jogged on as before, my friend setting me up in a genteel drab  great coat and green silk handkerchief (which I must say became me exceedingly),  and after stretching our legs for a few miles, and seeing Jack Randall, Ned  Turner, and Scroggins, pass on the top of one of the Bath coaches, we engaged  with the driver of the second to take us to London for the usual fee. I got  inside, and found three other passengers. One of them was an old gentleman with  an aquiline nose, powdered hair, and a pigtail, and who looked
as if he had  played many a rubber at the Bath rooms. I said to myself, he is very like Mr.  Windham; I wish he would enter into conversation, that I might hear what fine  observations would come from those finely-turned features. However, nothing  passed, till, stopping to dine at Reading, some inquiry was made by the company  about the fight, and I gave (as the reader may believe) an eloquent and animated  description of it. When we got into the coach again, the old gentleman, after a  graceful exordium, said, he had, when a boy, been to a fight between the famous  Broughton and George Stevenson, who was called the Fighting Coachman, in the  year 1770, with the late Mr. Windham. This beginning flattered the spirit of  prophecy within me and rivetted my attention. He went on - "George Stevenson was  coachman to a friend of my father's. He was an old man when I saw him some years  afterwards. He took hold of his own arm and said, There was muscle here once,  but now it is no more than this young gentleman's.' He added, 'Well, no matter;  I have been here long, I am willing to go hence, and I hope I have done no more  harm than another man.' Once," said my unknown companion, "I asked him if he had  ever beat Broughton? He said Yes; that he had fought with him three times, and  the last time he fairly beat him, though the world did not allow it. 'I'll tell  you how it was, master. When the seconds lifted us up in the last round, we were  so exhausted that neither of us could stand, and we fell upon one another, and  as Master Broughton fell
uppermost, the mob gave it in his favour, and he was  said to have won the battle. But,' says he, 'the fact was, that as his second  (John Cuthbert) lifted him up, he said to him, "I'll fight no more, I've had  enough;" 'which,' says Stevenson, 'you know gave me the victory. And to prove to  you that this was the case, when John Cuthbert was on his death-bed, and they  asked him if there was anything on his mind which he wished to confess, he  answered, "Yes, that there was one thing he wished to set right, for that  certainly Master Stevenson won that last fight with Master Broughton; for he  whispered him as he lifted him up in the last round of all, that he had had  enough."'" "This," said the Bath gentleman, "was a bit of human nature;" and I  have written this account of the fight on purpose that it might not be lost to  the world. He also stated as a proof of the candour of mind in this class of  men, that Stevenson acknowledged that Broughton could have beat him in his best  day; but that he (Broughton) was getting old in their last encounter. When we  stopped in Piccadilly, I wanted to ask the gentleman some questions about the  late Mr. Windham, but had not courage. I got out, resigned my coat and green  silk handkerchief to Pigott (loth to part with these ornaments of life), and  walked home in high spirits.

 P.S. Toms called upon me the next day, to ask me if I did not think the fight was a complete thing? I said I thought it was. I hope he will relish my account of it.