Chapter VI (3)

“After the first fight, the multitude inundated the ground, and
there was no order observed afterwards. The commander-in-chief was
absent, and republican government will never do. It was attempted to
clear the ground, but the multitude was not forced half so far back
as the carriages. If the circle had been larger, they might all have
seen; but one half of them saw nothing, and attempted to push
forward, and they partly hid the view from the spectators on the
carriages. Individuals exerted themselves to keep a wider ring, laid
on the whip, but there was no system of acting in concert, and if
such were usually the case, few people would be induced to go to see
a fight. The men hit away well; some beautiful stops of blows were
made, but many told home. Their bodies, which were white at the
commencement, exhibited patches of scarlet at a distance. They often
closed and hugged, and their arms were in motion like two mill
wheels. They threw each other down, and frequently over the ropes.
The seconds applied the water, and rubbed them like the grooms do
horses in the stable, put their men in condition, and made them
respectable in their appearance. The contest was well supported to
the last, and both men were very much punished.

“On a moderate calculation, I presume £10,000 or £12,000 would not
cover the travelling expenses of the amateurs assembled. What a pity
we do not enjoy the glorious liberty of the days of King George II.
We might have had all the sport in a theatre in Oxford Street, or in
Tottenham Court Road; and a fraction of the money now spent in
travelling would reward the men for their exertions. Much valuable
time might also be saved for business. But it is a matter of
infinite regret, that the pretended friends of liberty abandon the
interests of the people, and never defend public meetings, except
those at which they themselves may exhibit. But let us hope for
better times, and there are some promising symptoms, and we may have
sports at once commodious, agreeable, and at a moderate expense. I
shall tell you more when I return, and meanwhile,

“I am, dear sir, etc.
“* * * * *.”

A voluminous correspondence, some of it very angry and vulgar, appeared in Pierce Egan’s newspaper, in relation to a third fight between Randall and Martin, together with some “Lines to John Randall,” in the _Morning Chronicle_, from the pen of Tom Moore, which we must preserve. Of course the author of “Cash, Corn, and Catholics” adopted Pierce’s Irish origin for Randall.

“LINES TO JOHN RANDALL,

_On the Subject of Mr. Martin’s Letter in the “Weekly Dispatch” of
November 18_.”

“Come, Randall, my dear! Come, the hodmen entreat thee
To idle no longer in Chancery Lane!
Shall the Baker out-write thee, who never could beat thee!
Come, up with thy beaver, my jewel, again!
The green turf of Crawley is soft to receive thee—
The voice of thy Patlanders never will leave thee,
And Martin, the divil, can’t ‘fib’ thee or ‘weave’ thee
So answer the troublesome cretur, and train!

“Oh! answer the letter, Jack, (Goneril nor Regan
Could ne’er use more hard-hearted words to ould Lear);
And I wonder, I must say I do, that Pierce Egan
Should let the word ‘cur’ be applied to thee, dear!
But answer the letter, in little; thou writest
A good fist at times, Jack—the best when thou fightest,
And settest thy mark on the bravest and brightest;
Write, write!—Mrs. Randall will look to the beer!

“Write, write, Jack! with fist quite as cool and as steady
As when it is raised at the ‘General’s’ call,
That the Randall is willing, the money is ready,
And both of them wait at the Hole in the Wall
For the love of the Holy Land, check this Drawcansir,
For thou art our footguard, our hero, our lancer,
In the _Weekly Dispatch_ of next week print thy answer—
Oh! print it, my jewel, and silence them all.

“AN IRISH GENTLEMAN, BRED AND BORN

“_Somewhere in St. Giles’s, November 23, 1821._

“P.S.—If the money runs short, we will aise us
Of all our spare linen to help thee a bit;
Our stockings will fetch us but little, by Jasus!
But then we can raise a small sum by our wit!
Only say, my dear boy, if the ‘nonsense’ is wanted,
And soon shalt thou have all thy wishes supplanted;
The stuff will drop in these parts, when ’tis chaunted
That Randall is short—Oh! the lad that hath _fit_!”

To this brilliant squib poor Pierce innocently puts it upon record that he “wrote a poetical reply,” which he forwarded to the editor of the _Morning Chronicle_, “who did not publish it.” We should have wondered if John Perry had done so. Accordingly Pierce resolved to “print it, and shame the fools.” Those who delight in doggrel will find this “rejected address” at pp. 112 and 113 of the fourth volume of “Boxiana.”

A third match was, however, hastily made on March 11, 1822, after a dispute; it ended in a wrangle, and a forfeit of Randall’s backers’ money, owing to failure in a deposit, fixed to be made good at Spring’s; Martin received the £200 down.

“More last words” appear from time to time in the papers, in the shape of challenges, acceptances, replies, and rejoinders, signed by Randall, Martin, and a host of pseudonymous friends, backers, “Impartial Observers,” “Justitias,” and the like, till the public became sick of this vamped up “literature of the ring,” as the historian innocently calls it. Pages of this rubbish are stuffed into the volumes of “Boxiana.” The “third great match between Randall and Martin,” was made for 1,000 guineas, and “the money all made good over a sporting dinner at Randall’s, November 5, 1822.” On the 15th of the same month, however (we condense from “Boxiana”), at Jackson’s rooms, Bond Street, it was announced that Mr. J. had received a letter from Mr. Elliot, the backer of Martin, requesting that he would send him a cheque for the £500, stating that his man should not fight against nothing, as Martin would be sued for the £200 forfeit he had received from the backers of Randall. Randall expressed himself warmly on the subject, declaring he had been ill-treated. He had lost his time, left his business to go into training, and spent a considerable sum of money. A benefit was accordingly organised for Randall, which took place at the Fives Court, on the 4th of December, 1822, and was overflowingly attended.

In January, 1823, Randall and Josh Hudson wishing to give Jack’s old Hampstead trainer, the well-known Bob Pilch, a turn, were enjoying themselves at the Horse and Groom. It is and always has been a penalty of celebrity in any line of life to be intruded upon by the impertinent, the curious, and the conceited. Jack Randall and his friend Josh. were soon objects of vulgar attention, when they went out to take the air in the village. An elderly man among their followers, who ought to have known better, and who had been indulging too freely, several times touched Randall in the back with an umbrella as he was ascending the steep hill, when the Nonpareil forbearingly asked him to desist; no further notice would have been taken of the rudeness had it not been for a brewer’s servant and his companions. This fellow, known as “The Cock of Hampstead,” six feet in height, and about thirteen stone, had, it seems, a hankering for a “shy at Randall,” and thought this a fine opportunity for the experiment. We quote from “Boxiana.” “He put out his tongue by way of derision, saying, ‘Who cares for Randall or Josh. Hudson, I wonder? They would be afraid to talk to a younger man so!’ and, without further notice, gave Randall a flip on his nose, by way of notice of his intentions. Jack returned the compliment with interest, not wishing to remain long in debt to the man of grains. During the first and second rounds nothing but sharp work was displayed, the fighting being all on the side of Randall, and the strength on that of the Cock. In the third round Jack received so severe a blow on the tip of his shoulder, added to the tightness of his coat, that he could not lift up his arm, and immediately tore off his Benjamin. The little trump, being disencumbered from his togs, then went to work with the big one in terrific style (something like the slaughtering mill in which he so dreadfully served out Baruk, the Jew); and in two more rounds the man of grains was so punished about his nob, that it was pitiable to behold. Randall, in going down with the Cock, never left him, but tremendously fibbed his opponent. On Josh picking up Randall, he felt a little surprised on viewing the face of the latter, which, to all appearance, looked as bad as his adversary’s; but, on wiping of it, Hudson laughingly exclaimed, ‘Oh, I perceive you have only fell into the paint-pot, you are not hurt; but you should not have robbed your opponent of any of his colour. A novice serve you so, very likely indeed!’ The sixth round put an end to the crowing of the Cock; he was quite done up, and was so altered in complexion, as scarcely to be recognized by his friends. His pal, another big one, also fell foul of Jack, when Josh was about to tackle him. ‘Never mind,’ said Randall, ‘I have got a little one for him presently.’ One round completely satisfied the second hero of the grain fraternity, who received in that small space of time pepper enough to last him for a twelvemonth. Randall and Josh now reached the Horse and Groom without any further molestation; but as they were blowing a cloud, and laughing over the various scenes which had crossed their career, a third hero of the grain department put in his appearance, with £100 to fight Randall. On Hudson chaffing this chap, that ‘he believed Jack could wap the brewery all round,’ he took fire, and thought he could punish Josh. ‘Well,’ replied Hudson, ‘perhaps you may; but if you will take a little bit of amusement with me on the heath, as I would not on any account create a riot in honest Bob’s house, you will then know a little more about the matter.’ The grain cove entertained an opinion, ‘the weather was rather too cold for the sport,’ fobbed up his blunt, and on his ‘better half’ looking into the room after him, he retired in a whole skin. The Nonpareil and John Bull fighter then spent the evening pleasantly, returned to London comfortably, and reached their places of roost in perfect safety.

“The name of Randall was now known in the religious world, for it is said one of the lower order of ranting preachers, not a hundred miles from Bolton-in-the-Moors, addressed his auditors in the following metaphorical language:—‘I dare say you’d all pay to see a boxing-match between Turner and Randall, and yet you don’t like to pay to see a pitched battle between me and Beelzebub. Oh, my friends, many a hard knock, and many a cross-buttock have I given the black bruiser for your sakes! Pull, do pull off these gay garments of Mammon; strike the devil a straight blow, and darken his spiritual day-lights! At him manfully, and I’ll be your bottle-holder. I ask nothing but the money, which I hope you’ll not forget before you go.’” “Boxiana,” vol. iv., pp. 120‒122.

At Dick Curtis’s benefit (March 27, 1823), Randall asked Gipsy Cooper if he had challenged him for £200 a-side as was reported. Cooper replied, “No, I did not, you are too good a fighter for me, Jack.” At Spring’s benefit, however (May 5th, 1823), the Gipsy challenged Randall for £200 a-side, authorised by Mr. Elliott, his backer, so to do. Randall replied he would fight for £300 a-side; he was settled in business, and had a wife and three children to provide for, less would not suit him; indeed he did not mean to fight any more prize battles. Randall’s challenger did not persevere, and from this time Randall attended to his business at the Hole-in-the-Wall, which is frequently named in the progress of pugilistic matches and deposits for sporting events. One little episode of Jack’s publican’s life, as we find it reported in the papers for January, 1826, we will find room for, as it gives us a glimpse of the character for forbearance which has always marked, in our experience, the true-bred and courageous pugilist.

“HATTON GARDEN, JANUARY 24TH.—A fashionably dressed man about the middle age was brought up from the Eagle Street Watchhouse, where he had passed the previous night, on the introduction of Mr. John Randall, mine host of the Hole-in-the-Wall, Chancery Lane, the unvanquished hero of the P. R. Jack’s science, every one knows, does not consist in sophistry, though his arguments have often been considered forcible, nay, irresistible. In his own straightforward way, he told Sergeant Sellon a round unvarnished tale, about ‘this ere bit of business,’ as he called it. On Monday night, about a quarter after eleven, the Hole-in-the-Wall was closed up, and Jack was settling the accounts of the day in the bar, as was his wonted custom, when a loud knocking announced the arrival of late visitors. ‘You can’t come in,’ cried Jack, ‘I wish to keep my house regular, and no man comes in here to-night, for it’s after hours, d’ye see.’ This, however, did not satisfy the thirsty party without, and a voice demanded instant admittance, in a rather peremptory tone. ‘You don’t know who I am, Randall,’ quoth the speaker. ‘No, nor I does’nt care,’ responded the Nonpareil. ‘Why, I am Cooper, the mayor of Canterbury; don’t you remember meeting me at the races at Doncaster?’ Randall’s reminiscences are often pleasing, but, at all events, without designing to admit his old acquaintance, he resolved to have the ‘ocular proof;’ he straightway opened the door, when in bolted the pretended mayor and his satellites. ‘Do you know me now?’ ‘No, I don’t,’ said Jack, ‘not a bit of it, neither now nor then; so you’ll please to bundle off, Mr. Mayor.’ This was not intended, and the latter replied, that as he was a ‘flash man,’ he had an undoubted right to accommodation in a ‘flash house,’ and stay there he would; and if Jack pleased, he would have a ‘turn-up’ for it. Jack very good-humouredly hinted, that he would rather see a ‘turn-out;’ whereupon the Canterbury Mayor struck him in the face. The hero of the fistic art, though accustomed to return compliments of this sort with cent. per cent. acknowledgments, very prudently held back, and calling in the watch to his aid, the mayor was put _hors de combat_, and found himself eventually in the watch-house. The defendant pleaded hard that he never did assume the character which Mr. Randall described. His name was simply John Samuel Powell, that he was a plain country gentleman, and never had the honour of filling the civic chair of Canterbury, though he certainly had met Mr. Randall in company with Mr. Cooper, who held that distinguished station, at the aforesaid races. With respect to the assault complained of, he would not deny the charge, though he had no recollection of it, his senses being steeped in forgetfulness. Having the highest respect for the talents of Mr. Randall, he was anxious to make the _amende honorable_, if it would be accepted. ‘There now,’ exclaimed Jack, extending his hand, ‘that’s enough, man; but if I had treated you as you treated me, you wouldn’t be standing afore his worship just now.’ The complaint was then dismissed at Randall’s request.”

Randall’s constitution—he was a persistent drinker of ardent spirits—gave way under the irregularities of a licensed victualler’s life; Jack never possessed the moral courage to say “No” to a drop with every customer who proposed to “wet an eye,” and but rarely with those who suggested to “wet the other.” He was a martyr to gout, complicated with a disorganisation of the liver and a fatty degeneration of the heart. These disorders prostrated him, and finally carried him off at the early age of 34 years. He died March 12th, 1828, at the Hole-in-the Wall, Chancery Lane.

A leash of sonnets, from an accomplished pen, which appeared in _Blackwood’s Magazine_, with a few passages from an obituary notice, will form an appropriate _finale_ to the biography of Jack Randall, the Nonpareil

“SONNET.

“‘_None but himself can be his parallel!_’

“With marble coloured shoulders—and keen eyes
Protected by a forehead broad and white,—
And hair cut close, lest it impede the sight,
And clenched hands, firm and of punishing size,
Steadily held, or motion’d wary-wise,
To hit or stop,—and ‘kerchief too drawn tight
O’er the unyielding loins, to keep from flight
The inconstant wind, that all too often flies—
The Nonpareil stands! Fame, whose bright eyes run o’er
With joy to see a chicken of her own:
Dips her rich pen in ‘claret,’ and writes down
Under the letter R, first on the score,
‘Randall, John—Irish parents—age not known—
Good with both hands, and only ten stone four!’”

“TO JOHN RANDALL, THE FAMOUS PUGILIST.”

(_In imitation of Milton’s celebrated Sonnet._)

“Randall, whom now the envious ‘millers’ own
Fighter indeed, cautious, and quick, and true,
Fit to stand up with those who science knew,
The master-spirits ‘grassed’ by death alone;
Big Ben, who made the great Tom Johnson groan,
And Pearce, who dext’rous Belcher overthrew,
Aye, and with him who turns black eyes to blue,
Cribb, negro conqueror,[156] famous champion;
Well hast thou fought thy way to wealth and fame,
Jack Randall; and although there be who think
(For some are careless of the laurell’d brow,)
But little of thy glory or thy game,
Yet when they learn that thou hast touch’d the ‘chink,’
Some value to thy labours must allow.”

“RANDALL’S FAREWELL TO THE RING.

“Farewell to the ring, where my claret-stained glory
Arose and obscured the ‘prime dons’ with my fame,
I abandon her now, but ‘Pancratia’ thy story
Shall render quite fadeless the ‘Nonpareil’s’ name.
Oh, sad is the heart that can say the ‘deuce take her,’
To Fame when she’s backing a blade of the fist;
But Turner I’ve cleaned out, and Martin the baker
I’d very near put on the bankruptcy list.

“Then blame me not kids, swells, or lads of the fancy,
For opening a ‘lush crib’ in Chancery Lane,
An appropriate spot ’tis, you doubtless all can see,
Since ‘heads’ I have placed there, and let out again.
Farewell then, thou ring, whence I first drew my glory,
Farewell to Bill Gibbons—Tom Owen farewell;
And when to green-horns you’re telling some tight milling story,
Then think of Jack Randall, the prime ‘Nonpareil!’”

The “Laureate” of _Bell’s Life_, too, the facetious poetic illustrator of the Gallery of Comicalities, who so much extended the popularity of the ablest of sporting journals, penned a “warning” under the title of

“JACK RANDALL’S GHOST.

“‘_I can call spirits from the vasty deep._‘

“When all in midnight gloom was lost,
All silent in the street,
In stalked Jack Randall’s slender ghost,
And stood at Fogo’s feet.

“Pale, wan, and wasted, was his frame,
So muscular of yore,
And thrice he called on Fogo’s name,
Thrice bade him cease to snore.

“‘Wake, Laureate, wake!’ exclaimed the sprite,
‘Start from thy peaceful rug—
Though ’tis an awkward time of night
To sport my dismal mug.

“‘With friendly feeling fraught I come,
For well I know thy merits—
Perhaps you’ll think a visit _rum_
Paid from the land of _spirits_.

“‘Look at this lean and wither’d shape,
These cheeks as white as paper—
Alas! ’twas drinking too much _tape_
That made my system _taper_.

“‘When the past follies I review,
Which hasten’d my undoing—
I often _rue_ with visage _blue_,
My fondness for _blue ruin_.

“‘O Laureate! warning take in time.
And let a ghost exhort,
Think of Jack Randall in his prime
Subdued at _length_ by _short_.

“‘Peace might have reign’d within my breast,
And Time his honours shed—
Alack! from swallowing _Deady’s best_,
I’m number’d with the _dead_.

“‘My pugilistic deeds recal—
His men whoe’er beat quicker?
Successively I floor’d them all,
Till I was _lick’d_ by _liquor_.

“‘Bard of the fancy, seize your lyre,
In solemn warning strike it!’
‘I wish,’ growl’d Fogo, ‘you’d retire;
For blow me if I like it.

“‘To your last home vy can’t you keep,
I do not vant your varning—
I’d like to have a nap of sleep,
For now it’s nearly morning.

“‘Indeed, I vish you’d say farewell,
And hasten under hatches—
I judges by your brimstone smell,
That you’ve been _making matches_.

“‘And can you find no soul but me
To tease about your noggins—
Suppose you go, by vay of spree,
And vorry ould Jack Scroggins.’

“‘Cease,’ cried the ghost, ‘at once desist,
And hold your idle jaw,
Or straightway with my phantom fist
Your frosty face I’ll thaw.

“‘To you I came with kind intent,
Such was my purpose here;
But if on _max_ and _swipes_ you’re bent,
You’ll soon be on your _bier_.

“‘Henceforth you’ll see this mug no more!
A long adieu, my Fogo!’
He said, and vanish’d through the floor,
In clouds of Oronoko.”

Randall’s pugilistic and personal merits are thus summed up by a contemporary:—In a twenty-four feet ring a better general or a more consummate tactician was never seen: judgment and decision were manifest in all his movements. His heart is in the right place; his head cool and collected, to take advantage in the most prompt style of the disorder of the opponent before him; his mind looking confidently forward to nothing but victory. In short, as a pugilist, he is the Nonpareil. Randall’s style seems the _ne plus ultra_ of the art of self-defence. Out of the ropes, however, he is one of the most simple of human beings. Yet Lavater, with all his knowledge of physiognomy, might have looked at his mug, and looked at it again and again, and not have discovered his real character from the lineaments of his face. If Randall cannot express himself in the sentimental manner of Sterne, gammon the tender path of society with the Platonic taste of a Rousseau, or wind up a tale with the speciousness of a Joseph Surfage, he can be backed against them all for the possession of genuine feeling. A common observer might say he was a rough, illiterate fellow, for he does not attempt to conceal his deficiencies. He has no affectation about his composition—deception does not belong to him, and bluntness is his forte. He is indignant at what he thinks wrong; and is not over nice in his expressions, whenever such a subject is the theme of argument. He admires truth; and his honesty, if not Brutus-like, is as staunch and incorruptible. A liar will be sure to hear of his faults from him. Though education has done little for him, experience has given him “the time of day.” But, kind reader, if thou hadst seen him relieve an ould Irish woman, at “peep of day,” with the only half-crown he was master of, as she was going to market with an empty pocket and basket, anxious to support two of her orphan grandchildren to prevent their going to the parish, when she had solicited him for only two-pence to aid her charitable design;—if you had seen the effect of her plaintive tale, and the blessings she invoked upon his head for this real act of benevolence; his turning aside to weep; and the jeers he experienced from his companions upon the weakness he had displayed;—if you had also witnessed him pushing the crowd aside the instant he was proclaimed the conqueror over Turner, to grapple with the hand of his great rival in friendship, and seen the big tear stealing down his cheek, in admiration of the bravery of his opponent;—if you had known, as the writer did, of his refusal to prosecute a man and his wife, whom he had trusted in the bosom of his family, and who, under the mask of friendship, had robbed him at various periods of £300—I don’t know what you might have said of him, but Burns would have told us, despite his defects, “a man’s a man for a’ that.” And such a man was Jack Randall.