CHAPTER XXVI

The flower of the grass—­Days of pugilism—­The rendezvous—­Jews—­Bruisers of England—­Winter, spring—­Well-earned bays—­The fight—­Huge black cloud—­Frame of adamant—­The storm—­Dukkeripens—­The barouche—­The rain-gushes.

How for everything there is a time and a season, and then how does the glory of a thing pass from it, even like the flower of the grass.  This is a truism, but it is one of those which are continually forcing themselves upon the mind.  Many years have not passed over my head, yet, during those which I can recall to remembrance, how many things have I seen flourish, pass away, and become forgotten, except by myself, who, in spite of all my endeavours, never can forget anything.  I have known the time when a pugilistic encounter between two noted champions was almost considered in the light of a national affair; when tens of thousands of individuals, high and low, meditated and brooded upon it, the first thing in the morning and the last at night, until the great event was decided.  But the time is past, and many people will say, thank God that it is; all I have to say is, that the French still live on the other side of the water, and are still casting their eyes hitherward—­and that in the days of pugilism it was no vain blast to say that one Englishman was a match for two of t’other race; at present it would be a vain boast to say so, for these are not the days of pugilism.

But those to which the course of my narrative has carried me were the days of pugilism; it was then at its height, and consequently near its decline, for corruption had crept into the ring; and how many things, states and sects among the rest, owe their decline to this cause!  But what a bold and vigorous aspect pugilism wore at that time! and the great battle was just then coming off:  the day had been decided upon, and the spot—­a convenient distance from the old town; and to the old town were now flocking the bruisers of England, men of tremendous renown.  Let no one sneer at the bruisers of England—­what were the gladiators of Rome, or the bull-fighters of Spain, in its palmiest days, compared to England’s bruisers?  Pity that ever corruption should have crept in amongst them—­but of that I wish not to talk; let us still hope that a spark of the old religion, of which they were the priests, still lingers in the breasts of Englishmen.  There they come, the bruisers, from far London, or from wherever else they might chance to be at the time, to the great rendezvous in the old city; some came one way, some another:  some of tip-top reputation came with peers in their chariots, for glory and fame are such fair things that even peers are proud to have those invested therewith by their sides; others came in their own gigs, driving their own bits of blood, and I heard one say:  ’I have driven through at a heat the whole hundred and eleven miles, and only stopped to bait twice.’  Oh, the blood-horses