Hazlitts Essays

"He was the fearless, the eloquent, and disinterested advocate of the rights and liberties of Man, in every cause and in every clime."- the Reverend John Johns in his memorial sermon for William Hazlitt in October 1830.

In the summer of 1830, William Hazlitt lay dying in a small upstairs bedroom at the back of a cheap Soho lodging-house. His first wife Sarah Stoddart, his son William, Charles Lamb and various friends visited him there, as stomach cancer slowly tortured him.

Like Wilde in his Paris pension, he was dying as he had lived, beyond his means; to pay for his last lodging on earth he wrote at least two essays during that tormented summer. One is called "The Sick Chamber", and in it we can glimpse the "tumbled pillows", the medicine bottles, the juleps in the "unwholesome dungeon" where he lies.

More than 12 years before, in a little-known letter, Keats's friend, John Hamilton Reynolds, described Hazlitt as "full of eloquence,- warm, lofty, & communicative on everything imaginative & intelligent,- breathing out with us the peculiar & favourite beauties of our best bards,- passing from grand & commanding argument to the gaities & graces of wit and humour,- and the elegant and higher beauties of poetry. He is indeed great company."

Keats, who attended Hazlitt's lectures, looked up to him and admired the surging, dolphin-like strength of his passionate prose, also testified to the inspiring greatness of his company. John Clare, too, met and admired him, calling him in a shocked letter written immediately after his death "a man of origional [sic] Genius," who died in the character of genius "neglected & forgotten".

For many years, the lodging-house where Hazlitt died - his landlady, eager to let his room, hid his body under the bed while she showed it to would-be tenants - has been known as Hazlitt's Hotel. It is a favourite meeting place for writers, and I remember staying there with Seamus Deane and Seamus Heaney one winter's night in the closing years of the past century. Both Deane and Heaney had studied Hazlitt at school in Derry in the 1950s - he'd been replaced by Orwell when I took the same A-level course in the 60s, and the diminution of his reputation has been fairly steady until recently.

Most of Hazlitt's work is out of print, or unavailable in paperback. He is not studied in most university English courses and those who want to read him at any length need to scour secondhand shops for old Everyman editions of his essays (gloomily each year I contemplate the tiny number of readers who buy the selection of his essays I did for Penguin a few years ago).

I often recall reading through his collected works which stand on the open shelves of the Upper Reading Room of the Bodleian library, only to find that Hazlitt's three-volume Life of Napoleon had remained there for more than 60 years with its pages uncut.

During the years I spent beside those volumes I think two students came to consult them, while there were queues to read Coleridge's lavishly edited, often unreadable prose - prose that has begotten untold acres of equally unreadable academic writing. It was like being trapped inside Gissing's New Grub Street - I felt that Hazlitt's reputation was now so dimmed, so beleaguered on the margins of the cultural memory, that it would never again be celebrated.

The appeal, co-ordinated by the Guardian, for a restored monument on his grave in St Anne's Church in Soho represents one of the most heartening and ambitious attempts to put Hazlitt back where he centrally belongs, among the great Romantic writers such as his friends Keats and Shelley, and his friends, till they deserted the radical cause, Coleridge, Southey and Wordsworth.

A master of English prose style, a beautifully modulated general essayist, the first great theatre critic in English, the first great art critic, a magnificent political journalist and polemicist like William Cobbett, whom he met and whom he describes affectionately in The Spirit of the Age, his greatest book, Hazlitt is both a philosopher and one of the supreme literary critics in the language.

He is the critic as artist, to use Wilde's phrase, because he makes critical prose into imaginative action, so that the critic is redeemed from being simply the servant of the poet, the novelist, the playwright. The readers who admire him come from all political spectrums - they include Michael Foot, Lord (that is, Kenneth) Baker, and Paul Johnson, who has been labouring for years on a long TLS review of Duncan Wu's epic, nine-volume edition of Hazlitt's works (the 20-volume collected works, edited by PP Howe, were published on the centenary of his death in 1930).

But how and where do we place this little-studied, scantly celebrated critic and journalist?

Hazlitt was born in Maidstone on April 10 1778. His mother, Grace Loftus, was the daughter of an English Unitarian ironmonger from Suffolk, his father, William, was from a family of northern Irish Presbyterians, who had moved to the south of Ireland, near Tipperary town.

Hazlitt is the issue of the English, the Scottish and - yes, I'm saying it - the Ulster Enlightenment. His father was influenced by the important, though at the moment little discussed, Ulster-Scots philosopher Francis Hutcheson through his studies at Glasgow University, and through Unitarianism, which he chose in rejection of the Calvinist presbyterianism of his parents.

It is from Hutcheson's aesthetic philosophy that the sensuous intellect Hazlitt embodies is derived. Unitarianism or Rational Dissent - that intellectual aristocracy in the ranks of Dissent, as historians often characterise it - is central to Hazlitt's writings, even though he was not a religious believer.

It is particularly appropriate that the Guardian should honour Hazlitt, as they belong to the same Unitarian family (the Manchester Guardian was founded in 1821 in a Unitarian chapel in Cross Street).

Unitarianism or Rational Dissent is one of the roots of modern English Culture - for Hazlitt's generation its three exemplars and heroes were Milton, Locke and Newton, all of whom doubted the divinity of Christ, the central Unitarian non serviam. From this puritan or presbyterian, essentially middle-class, dissenting culture flowed innovations in science, economics, political theory, publishing and education.

Hazlitt began as a philosopher, and his first book, An Essay on the Principles of Human Action, is an original work which has been neglected until recently, and which he described, unfairly, as a dry "chokepear". It contains this beautiful sentence:

"If from the top of a long cold barren hill I hear the distant whistle of a thrush which seems to come up from some warm woody shelter beyond the edge of the hill, this sound coming faint over the rocks with a mingled feeling of strangeness and joy, the idea of the place about me, and the imaginary one beyond will all be combined together in such a manner in my mind as to become inseparable."

This is like a moment from Wordsworth - Hazlitt continued to proclaim his admiration for his poetry long after they quarrelled about politics - and as we read Hazlitt we find a whole series of complex images like this which express philosophical ideas in the same way that Wordsworth's spots of time passages in The Prelude do.

If we read this passage with the ear, as Hazlitt insists we do, and not simply with the eye, we can perceive that he is running with a series of "ih" sounds which begin with "If" and end with "inseparable" - a word which also sums up the repeated uses of "in" within the sentence - a sentence which has what Hazlitt calls "keeping" - that is, structure, texture, developing form.

It is this firm and sensitive ear for the texture of an English sentence that makes him one of the greatest prose stylists, but in an age of often rebarbative critical prose, or of yuppie lifestyle journalism, this insistence on writing well - and on having the ability to analyse a piece of prose - has virtually disappeared.

Hazlitt's philosophical study was published in 1805 by Joseph Johnson, Mary Wollstonecraft's publisher and friend, a seminal figure who is known as the founder of the English book trade and who was a pillar of radical Dissenting culture. It was the year of Nelson's victory at Trafalgar and Napoleon's at Austerlitz.

It is that latter victory which Hazlitt memorialises in a famous essay, "On the Pleasure of Painting", where he describes painting his beloved father's portrait in the Unitarian chapel in Wem, in Shropshire (the house they lived in still stands, and has a memorial plaque on it, but the chapel is now a storage shed in the back yard of a small hotel).

Hazlitt remembers finishing his father's portrait on the same day as the news arrived of Napoleon's victory:

"I walked out in the afternoon, and, as I returned, saw the evening star set over a poor man's cottage with other thoughts and feelings than I shall ever have again. Oh, for the revolution of the great Platonic year, that those times might come again! I could sleep out the three hundred and sixty-five thousand intervening years very contentedly! - the picture is left: the table, the chair, the window where I learned to construe Livy, the chapel where my father preached, remain where they were; but he himself is gone to rest, full of years, of faith, of hope, and charity!"

Fortunately, Hazlitt's portrait of his father still survives - some years ago I examined it in the vaults of the Maidstone Museum and Art Gallery. It was cracked, dusty, dark, but to gaze at the craggy, doubly pocked face of the Reverend William Hazlitt is to see a benevolent Irish radical, who never compromised and who brought his children up to be fearless and outspoken critics of tyrannical governments. "Be Not Conformed to the World" is the text of one of his sermons. The museum also contains and displays Hazlitt's self-portrait (his portrait of Charles Lamb is in the National Portrait Gallery, where there is to be an exhibition devoted to Hazlitt in May).

In a series of polemical articles protesting at the treatment of American prisoners of war in Ireland during the American revolution, Hazlitt's father signed himself "an unchanging whig", and it is from this bold, turbulent, risk-taking, decisively intelligent and passionate radical culture that Hazlitt draws his inspiration.

His parents were closely associated with the Irish republican movement, and they looked after a niece of Robert Emmet, the Irish orator and patriot, during the last five years of her life.

We can see Hazlitt at his most passionate and assertive in Political Essays, which was published in 1819, the year of the Peterloo Massacre, and the year of a famous poem by his friend Keats - "To Autumn" - which is a subtly coded elegy for the Manchester dead.

In this angry volume, Hazlitt surveys the rottenness of Britain, after his hero Napoleon's defeat, and he lambasts hated figures such as the reactionary foreign secretary Lord Castlereagh, whose "tortured apprehensions" and languid style of speaking he savages. Hazlitt is always a critic of oratory and prose style, and he is particularly brilliant on William Pitt's mechanical and evasive manner of addressing the House of Commons.

Hazlitt was fascinated by oratory, and by the difference between speaking and writing. In an essay "On the Present State of Parliamentary Eloquence", he discusses the limitations of the Whig politician Henry Brougham, who has neither "warmth, nor sacred vehemence, nor nerve or impetuosity to carry the House before him. He is not a good hater."

For Hazlitt, the ability to hate the enemy is the central energy in oratory and prose, and he often quotes Milton's phrase "sacred vehemence" to illustrate an energy which for him is vital to all writing and speaking - Yeats called it "passionate intensity".

With this goes Hazlitt's sense of the power of the English popular will. In a contemporary Whig politician Samuel Whitbread he finds a representative of "the spontaneous, unsophisticated sense, of the English people: he spoke point-blank what he thought, and his heart was in his broad, honest, English face".

Though Hazlitt can be severely critical of English failings in philosophy, politics and aesthetics, he is centrally a patriot like Blake who affirms English liberty as forcefully as Cobbett does. He represents the master's values and spontaneity in the figure of the English yeoman in one of his most brilliant essays "The Fight", a study in what we now term "popular culture" (Hazlitt's essays on Indian jugglers, English games and pastimes, and on an Irish racket-player he admired are similar studies).

The yeoman in "The Fight" is part of the crowd staying at an inn in Berkshire before the big match: "He was a fine fellow, with sense, wit, and spirit, a hearty body and a joyous mind, free-spoken, frank, convivial - one of that English breed that went with Harry the fifth to the siege of Harfleur."

The yeoman talks as well as Cobbett writes, Hazlitt tells him, for here and throughout the essay he represents the spirit of English liberty and independence battling with a reactionary political culture, and also making fun of a drunken farmer with a blazing red nose who is staying at the inn.

It's like a moment out of Hazlitt's beloved Hogarth, as well as being an anticipation of Dickens, who was to become friendly with Hazlitt's son William, and who was influenced by his essays, as were Thackeray and Robert Louis Stevenson. The yeoman's robust, witty, unrelenting manner of talking is a central value, because Hazlitt loves and celebrates passionate, popular English speech, which he sees as the fountain of liberty in the culture. It shapes radical journalism and glories in giving as good as it gets.

In "On the Connection between Toad-Eaters and Tyrants", one of the most powerful polemics in Political Essays , Hazlitt asserts: "Man is a toad-eating animal," and then shows how the admiration of power turns many writers into intellectual pimps, hirelings of the press, defenders of the restored Bourbon Louis XVIII, worshippers of idols, lovers of kings.

Again and again, he hits out like a pugilist at "grovelling servility" and "petulant egotism". One of his persistent themes is that reason is a "slow, inert, speculative, imperfect faculty", and his aim is always to wrest imagination from the reactionaries such as Edmund Burke - whose prose style he admired hugely - in order to create a political discourse which is not abstract, academic, uninflected, foggy. Abstract reason, unassisted by passion, "is no match for power and prejudice, armed with force and cunning".

This is the source of one of the few passages in Hazlitt regularly quoted by literary critics. It is in his essay on Coriolanus , where he observes that the imagination is an "aristocratical faculty".

Poetry, he observes, is "right-royal. It puts the individual before the species, the one above the many, might before right." Poetry is a very "anti-levelling principle", unlike the understanding, which is "republican", but which is a dividing, measuring, rational, unexciting, prosy principle. There is a desperation in this essay, which Hazlitt wrote in the tormented aftermath of Napoleon's defeat at Waterloo.

Here, as so often, Hazlitt is trying to point radicals away from the stagnant, costive prose of Bentham and the philosophical radicals who followed him. Bentham he profiles in The Spirit of the Age , remarking "they say he has been translated into French: he ought to be translated into English".

Hazlitt wants the left to trust in and to employ an intensely passionate imagination in argument. He wants images, anger, risk-taking, eloquence, the elastic stretch of combative and confident prose - prose which is wild, lunging, rich in imagery and unfair like Burke's.

For what he terms "the friend of liberty", the love of truth is a "passion in his mind", and the love of liberty is the love of others, while "the love of power is the love of ourselves".

Here, we see the principle of disinterested benevolence Hazlitt imbibed from Unitarianism and from Hutcheson's philosophy and aesthetics. It informs everything he wrote, and in particular The Spirit of the Age , which he published anonymously in 1825, a collection of the most sophisticated newspaper profiles ever written.

Hazlitt's model is the painter he admired above all others - Titian - and he offers a series of contemporary portraits - Wordsworth, Godwin, Coleridge, Southey, Wilberforce and others, some of whom, such as the preacher the Rev. Edward Irving, are deservedly forgotten, though Irving becomes a comic turn in Hazlitt's prose, like Ian Paisley or Billy Graham let loose with Jonathan Aitken in a Kensington church.

For Hazlitt, disinterestedness is the central Dissenting and English virtue, and he based a vast anthology of parliamentary speeches, The Eloquence of the British Senate , one of his earliest books, on this principle.

Though he admired Hobbes as a philosopher and prose stylist, he disagreed vehemently with his view in Leviathan that human beings are entirely motivated by self-interest. What fascinates him are those figures who write journalism in the heat of the moment out of love for others, civic duty and a passionate identification with the liberties of the people, and a hatred of corrupt power. (Hazlitt's Irish background shows in the subject and title of his essay "On the Pleasure of Hating").

He is drawn to orators, who are prompted by what he terms "the suddenness of the emergency," and must mould the convictions and purposes of their hearers while they are under the influence of "passion and circumstances - as the glass-blower moulds the vitreous fluid with his breath".

In another lovely image he says of Cobbett "wherever power is, there is he against it: he naturally butts at all obstacles, as unicorns are attracted to oak-trees".

As Hazlitt lay dying in Frith Street, close to the churchyard he was to be buried in, he recalled his old battles, and particularly arguments with his former friends, those then committed republicans, Wordsworth, Coleridge and Southey.

He wrote to his friend, Francis Jeffrey, the editor of the Edinburgh Review, asking him for £10 (Jeffrey sent £50, which arrived after Hazlitt's death). He also wrote an essay "The Letter-Bell" which wasn't published until the year after his death.

The "Letter-Bell" is like a warmly confident apologia for his life, as Hazlitt remembers the beginning of his journey and, like a figure in a Jack Yeats painting, prepares for his final pilgrimage, as he takes us into the theatre of his imagination.

He begins by meditating on complaints of the vanity and shortness of human life, moves to trifling objects that assume in the eye of memory "the vividness, the delicacy, and importance of insects seen through a magnifying glass".

Then he mentions that as he writes "the Letter-Bell passes" a lively, pleasant sound not only fills the street but "rings clear through the length of many half-forgotten years". The jingling bell "strikes upon the ear, it vibrates to the brain, it wakes me from the dream of time, it flings me back upon my first entrance into life, the period of my first coming up to town".

He then recounts how he first set out on his journey through life by taking the road from Wem to Shrewsbury: the long blue line of Welsh hills, the golden sunset, the red leaves of the dwarf-oaks rustle in the breeze. It's like a moment, he suggests, out of Pilgrim's Progress , except the light of the French Revolution "circled my head like a glory, though dabbled with drops of crimson gore".

Here, he's representing what we might term the guilt of a fellow-traveller, a guilt which he was able to live with, unlike Wordsworth, Coleridge and Southey, who became apologists for monarchy and reaction. Wordsworth he then quotes admiringly, but also in sadness, Southey he mocks, Coleridge he dismisses as "the sleep-walker, the dreamer, the sophist, the word-hunter, the craver after sympathy".

But he also knows that it was along the road to Shrewsbury he walked early one dark January morning in 1798 to hear Coleridge deliver an unforgettable sermon in the Unitarian Chapel there - the same chapel that the young Darwin attended with his family in the next century. This sermon and his first meeting with Coleridge and Wordsworth are celebrated in the classic essay, "On My First Acquaintance with Poets", which is Tolstoyan in its youthful clarity and vigour.

Now he recalls the "unbroken integrity" of early opinions and longs for "one burst of indignation against tyrants and sycophants". These are the hated figures who subject other countries to slavery by force and prepare their own for it "by servile sophistry, as we see the huge serpent lick over its trembling, helpless victim with its slime and poison, before it devours it!"

He rejoices then in the July Revolution which overthrew the Bourbons, and says they are no longer round Coleridge's neck like the albatross (an astute interpretation of the central meaning of Coleridge's symbol).

Hazlitt then rejoices in his own obstinate refusal to change his opinions or to duck and weave: "I have never given the lie to my own soul." He cannot recollect having ever repented giving a letter to the postman, "or wishing to retrieve it after he had once deposited it in his bag".

As he remarks in his essay "On the Pleasure of Hating", he quarrelled with all of his friends at some point. Charles Lamb, though, remained true to the end, and Lamb, like Sarah Stoddart, visited him in his last weeks. So did his devoted son, William, who was to publish and republish his writings during the decades that followed.

Hazlitt was in great pain, and in "The Sick Chamber", which was published unsigned the month before he died, he describes enduring suffocating heat, grasping the pillow in agony, walking up and down the room with hasty or feeble steps, then returning back to life "with half-strung nerves and shattered strength". Typically, in his closing paragraph he mentions Lamb.

Their friendship survived political change, and the furore that followed the publication of Liber Amoris, Hazlitt's fictional account of his obsessive love - if love it can be called - for Sarah Taylor, the daughter of a couple he rented a room from in Southampton Row.

Hazlitt was savaged by the Tory press, and is one of those writers who court disaster. The willed chaos of his personal life can be glimpsed in the sudden moments of autobiography that texture his essays. Short of money, lonely, seeking out prostitutes and unable - as he admitted - to love any woman, he walks a dangerous edge in his writings.

He is fascinated by criminality, so that at times we glimpse a figure who speaks with the voice of the man from underground, except he is a leftwing critic of progress and the enlightened values he cared so much for.

Partly, this is because he spent his life writing to deadlines, writing to the moment, writing under pressure, so that he was out there in the firing line, exposed to the spirit of the age, lacerated by it. And because he knows that what is also out there is a dark malign force, which what he terms "mitigated, enlightened belief" will never tame, he knows that the irrational and the prejudiced cannot be simply dismissed. So far as I can tell he believes in evil.

Dying in Frith Street, Hazlitt said, "Well, I've had a happy life."

A friend - probably his first wife Sarah Stoddart - raised the memorial stone over his grave in the nearby churchyard. The monument was subsequently removed but thanks to hundreds of Guardian readers and other Hazlitt enthusiasts, it has now been restored.

Here rests
Born April 10, 1778, Died 18 September, 1830
He lived to see his deepest wishes gratified
as he has expressed them in his Essay,
'on the Fear of Death'.
'To see the downfall of the Bourbons.
And some prospect of good to mankind':
(Charles X
was driven from France 29th July, 1830).
'To leave some sterling work to the world':
(He lived to complete his 'Life of Napoleon').
His desire
That some friendly hand should consign
Him to the grave was accomplished to a
Limited but profound extent; on
These conditions he was ready to depart,
And to have inscribed on his tomb,
'Grateful and Contented'.
He was
The first (unanswered) Metaphysician of the age.
A despiser of the merely Rich And Great:
A lover of the People, poor or oppressed:
A hater of the Pride and Power of the Few,
As opposed to the happiness of the Many;
A man of true moral courage,
Who sacrificed Profit and present Fame
To Principle,
And a yearning for the good of Human Nature.
Who was a burning wound to an Aristocracy,
That could not answer him before men,
And who may confront him before their maker.
He lived and died
The unconquered champion
Truth, Liberty, and Humanity,
'Dubitantes opera legite'.
This stone
Is raised by one whose heart is
With him, in his grave.

· William Hazlitt's restored monument in St Anne's churchyard, Wardour Street, Soho, London, will be unveiled by Michael Foot at 1pm on Thursday, April 10 - the 225th anniversary of Hazlitt's birth.

AC Grayling and Tom Paulin will be among those speaking immediately before Mr Foot. Two to three hundred people are expected to attend the ceremony, to which all those who subscribed to the restoration fund have been invited.

· It is still possible to contribute. Send your donation to The Hazlitt Memorial Fund, c/o Helen Hodgson, The office of the Readers' Editor, The Guardian, 119 Farringdon Road, London EC1R 3ER.

Any money exceeding the sum required for the monument (about £25,000, most of which has been raised) will be passed to the Hazlitt Society for the maintenance of the monument and the promotion of an annual lecture. All subscribers will automatically become founding members of the Hazlitt Society.

· The third annual Hazlitt day school, organised by Tom Paulin, Uttara Natarjan and Duncan Wu, will be held at the Oxford English faculty on July 5. For details contact melanie.clancy@ell.ox.ac.uk.

· William Hazlitt's The Spirit of the Age: A Radical Critic's View of his Times is at the National Portrait Gallery from May 20 to October 26. Admission is free.

Editor’s Preface: William Hazlitt (1778-1830) was a preeminent man of letters—essayist, philosopher, art critic, literary critic, and social analyst. He was, as well, a practitioner, as he was a painter of considerable ability. An intimate of such figures as Charles and Mary Lamb, Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Stendhal as well as deeply acquainted with the world of Parisian art, Hazlitt also knew the seamier side of urban life as he frequented prostitutes because he felt uncomfortable around women of his own class. Despite his skills as a writer and artist (or perhaps because of them) Hazlitt was a difficult man to know and like over time and many his friendships fell apart.

“The Fight” is, arguably, his most famous essay; certainly it is one of the most famous pieces of writing not only about boxing, but about any sport. The fight described in the essay took place on Hungerford Common on December 11, 1821 between Bill Neate, a Hungerford butcher, and Tom Hickman, the “Gaslight” Man. It must be remembered that prizefighting, though tremendously popular in Regency England, was illegal at this time, so the location of fights was always something of a mystery, a rumor, a tip, or some sort of “inside dope,” for the pilgrims journeying to see them. Twenty-two thousand people attended this particular match (a crowd the size of which ought not to have eluded the attention of the police). This was Hazlitt’s first prizefight, yet he speaks like a seasoned spectator and gives the reader an insider view of the world of the Fancy, the habitués, aficionados, denizens, and patrons of the world of prizefighting. His description of the actual bout is as good as anything Pierce Egan, the premiere boxing journalist of the day, could have written. Note that under the rules of prizefighting at that time wrestling, hair pulling, butting, tripping, and holding were all legal tactics. A round ended when one of the combatants was knocked down or fell down. Each fighter then returned to his corner and given 30 seconds to “come to scratch,” a line drawn in the middle of the ring, to signify they were willing and able to continue the match. A fight ended when one of the combatants was unable to continue. Gloves were not used. Also note that “New Eloise” that Hazlitt mentions at the end of the essay as the reading matter of one of the Fancy, is the novel Julie or the New Eloise by Jean-Jacques Rousseau.

Norman Mailer in his 1975 book, The Fight, about the 1974 championship bout between Muhammad Ali and George Foreman in Zaire, structurally mimicked Hazlitt’s essay, clearly as an act of homage.

—Gerald Early


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 author 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.”


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.


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 fighting 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!


“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.


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 beau jour 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 a blockhead 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, 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 now 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 morning dawns; 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 the scene of action.


… 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.


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 to success 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.


… 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 …


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 blows 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 blow at 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 come 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!


… 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!


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 a seat 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.


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