But how shall I name them all? they were there by dozens, and all tremendous in their way.  There was Bulldog Hudson, and fearless Scroggins, who beat the conqueror of Sam the Jew.  There was Black Richmond—­no, he was not there, but I knew him well; he was the most dangerous of blacks, even with a broken thigh.  There was Purcell, who could never conquer till all seemed over with him.  There was—­what! shall I name thee last? ay, why not?  I believe that thou art the last of all that strong family still above the sod, where mayst thou long continue—­true piece of English stuff, Tom of Bedford—­sharp as Winter, kind as Spring.

Hail to thee, Tom of Bedford, or by whatever name it may please thee to be called, Spring or Winter.  Hail to thee, six-foot Englishman of the brown eye, worthy to have carried a six-foot bow at Flodden, where England’s yeomen triumphed over Scotland’s king, his clans and chivalry.  Hail to thee, last of England’s bruisers, after all the many victories which thou hast achieved—­true English victories, unbought by yellow gold; need I recount them? nay, nay! they are already well known to fame—­sufficient to say that Bristol’s Bull and Ireland’s Champion were vanquished by thee, and one mightier still, gold itself, thou didst overcome; for gold itself strove in vain to deaden the power of thy arm; and thus thou didst proceed till men left off challenging thee, the unvanquishable, the incorruptible.  ’Tis a treat to see thee, Tom of Bedford, in thy ‘public’ in Holborn way, whither thou hast retired with thy well-earned bays.  ’Tis Friday night, and nine by Holborn clock.  There sits the yeoman at the end of his long room, surrounded by his friends; glasses are filled, and a song is the cry, and a song is sung well suited to the place; it finds an echo in every heart—­fists are clenched, arms are waved, and the portraits of the mighty fighting men of yore, Broughton, and Slack, and Ben, which adorn the walls, appear to smile grim approbation, whilst many a manly voice joins in the bold chorus: 

   Here’s a health to old honest John Bull,
   When he’s gone we shan’t find such another,
   And with hearts and with glasses brim full,
   We will drink to old England, his mother.

But the fight! with respect to the fight, what shall I say?  Little can be said about it—­it was soon over; some said that the brave from town, who was reputed the best man of the two, and whose form was a perfect model of athletic beauty, allowed himself, for lucre vile, to be vanquished by the massive champion with the flattened nose.  One thing is certain, that the former was suddenly seen to sink to the earth before a blow of by no means extraordinary power.  Time, time! was called; but there he lay upon the ground apparently senseless, and from thence he did not lift his head till several seconds after the umpires had declared his adversary victor.