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　of　old　England！　but　they；　too；　have　had　their
  day　…　for　everything　beneath　the　sun　there　is　a　season　and　a　time。
  But　the　greater　number　come　just　as　they　can　contrive；　on　the　tops
  of　coaches；　for　example；　and　amongst　these　there　are　fellows　with
  dark　sallow　faces　and　sharp　shining　eyes；　and　it　is　these　that　have
  planted　rottenness　in　the　core　of　pugilism；　for　they　are　Jews；　and；
  true　to　their　kind；　have　only　base　lucre　in　view。
  It　was　fierce　old　Cobbett；　I　think；　who　first　said　that　the　Jews
  first　introduced　bad　faith　amongst　pugilists。　　He　did　not　always
  speak　the　truth；　but　at　any　rate　he　spoke　it　when　he　made　that
  observation。　　Strange　people　the　Jews　…　endowed　with　every　gift　but
  one；　and　that　the　highest；　genius　divine　…　genius　which　can　alone
  make　of　men　demigods；　and　elevate　them　above　earth　and　what　is
  earthy　and　grovelling；　without　which　a　clever　nation　…　and；　who
  more　clever　than　the　Jews？　…　may　have　Rambams　in　plenty；　but　never
  a　Fielding　nor　a　Shakespeare。　　A　Rothschild　and　a　Mendoza；　yes　…
  but　never　a　Kean　nor　a　Belcher。
  So　the　bruisers　of　England　are　come　to　be　present　at　the　grand
  fight　speedily　coming　off；　there　they　are　met　in　the　precincts　of
  the　old　town；　near　the　field　of　the　chapel；　planted　with　tender
  saplings　at　the　restoration　of　sporting　Charles；　which　are　now
  become　venerable　elms；　as　high　as　many　a　steeple；　there　they　are
  met　at　a　fitting　rendezvous；　where　a　retired　coachman；　with　one
  leg；　keeps　an　hotel　and　a　bowling…green。　　I　think　I　now　see　them
  upon　the　bowling…green；　the　men　of　renown；　amidst　hundreds　of
  people　with　no　renown　at　all；　who　gaze　upon　them　with　timid　wonder。
  Fame；　after　all；　is　a　glorious　thing；　though　it　lasts　only　for　a
  day。　　There's　Cribb；　the　champion　of　England；　and　perhaps　the　best
  man　in　England；　there　he　is；　with　his　huge　massive　figure；　and　face
  wonderfully　like　that　of　a　lion。　　There　is　Belcher；　the　younger；
  not　the　mighty　one；　who　is　gone　to　his　place；　but　the　Teucer
  Belcher；　the　most　scientific　pugilist　that　ever　entered　a　ring；
  only　wanting　strength　to　be；　I　won't　say　what。　　He　appears　to　walk
  before　me　now；　as　he　did　that　evening；　with　his　white　hat；　white
  greatcoat；　thin　genteel　figure；　springy　step；　and　keen；　determined
  eye。　　Crosses　him；　what　a　contrast！　grim；　savage　Shelton；　who　has　a
  civil　word　for　nobody；　and　a　hard　blow　for　anybody　…　hard！　one
  blow；　given　with　the　proper　play　of　his　athletic　arm；　will　unsense
  a　giant。　　Yonder　individual；　who　strolls　about　with　his　hands
  behind　him；　supporting　his　brown　coat　lappets；　under…sized；　and　who
  looks　anything　but　what　he　is；　is　the　king　of　the　light　weights；　so
  called　…　Randall！　the　terrible　Randall；　who　has　Irish　blood　in　his
  veins；　not　the　better　for　that；　nor　the　worse；　and　not　far　from　him
  is　his　last　antagonist；　Ned　Turner；　who；　though　beaten　by　him；
  still　thinks　himself　as　good　a　man；　in　which　he　is；　perhaps；　right；
  for　it　was　a　near　thing；　and　'a　better　shentleman；'　in　which　he　is
  quite　right；　for　he　is　a　Welshman。　　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