Chapter XLII: Appendix: To Period VI (1)

TOM REYNOLDS—1817–1825.

As a connecting link of two generations of pugilists and of the Irish and English P.R., Tom Reynolds deserves a niche in our gallery. He was best known in his latter days as the mentor of Jack Langan and Simon Byrne, as a sound adviser, a professor of the _ars pugnandi_, a patron of aspiring talent, and a jolly Boniface in the “swate city of Dublin,” where he died on the 15th of May, 1832, much respected.

Tom was born on the 20th of January, 1792, at Middleton, in the county of Armagh, and early in life came to London as salesman to a relative, with whom he some time lived in James Street, Covent Garden, until, being grown to man’s estate, he became a “murphy-dealer” on his own account.

Tom was decidedly, with the single exception of Henry Josiah Holt, the most erudite pugilist of his day. He had received a good education, possessed a strong mind, and could write as good a letter as any of the “scribes” of the time. Of this he was not a little proud, and the _cacoethes scribendi_ with which he was occasionally afflicted often led him into epistolary contentions in the sporting papers, in which he invariably had the best of his competitors. His “Defence of Pugilism” proves him to have been a writer of no mean pretensions, and the view which he takes of his own profession affords the best apology for its adoption as well as for its encouragement.

About the close of the great Napoleonic wars Reynolds fell into difficulties and was arrested. Reverses in trade, combined with a love of company, at length led to his introduction to the once well-known “College” in what is now Farringdon Street, then called “The Fleet.” Here he had time and opportunity for study, and, having long had a predilection for the science of milling, he attended a regular course of lectures, and became a perfect adept at the practice of fives, tennis, and the gloves, and a great favourite with his brother “Collegians.” Being at the top of his class, and rising in fame, it was determined by some envious opponent to take the shine out of him, and for this purpose the celebrated George Head, one of the most scientific sparrers of the day, was introduced as a stranger, and, in a set-to which followed, Head found it necessary to try his best before he could convince Tom that there was a superior to himself. The trial ended in a friendly manner, but both having afterwards partaken rather freely of the “rum puncheon,” some wag insinuated to Reynolds that Head had spoken contemptuously of his fistic talents. This roused Tom’s ire, and he at once challenged Head to combat. Head, nothing loth, accepted the invitation, and a battle commenced on the “College Green” (so called upon the Horatian principle of there being nothing _green_ on or around it), in which the “murphy-dealer” was down in every round. The “janitors,” at length, interfered, and Head was expelled from the “College,” but not till he had received a crack on the listener which considerably confused his senses.

Shortly after his emancipation from the thraldom of “College” duties, Tom commenced business as a professional pugilist, and on the 23rd of July, 1817, entered the lists on Moulsey Hurst with Aby Belasco, the Jew, whom he beat by his determined game in sixty-six rounds and one hour and twenty minutes. In September in the same year (the 9th) he fought and beat Church on the same ground; and on the 11th of November following beat the _Broom-Dasher_ (Johnson), in Lord Cowper’s Park, near Canterbury. Subsequent to these “slices of good fortune,” he became a publican in Drury Lane, but having fallen through a trap-door his health became impaired, and he determined on a sparring tour in the country for the benefit of his health. He was accompanied by Jack Carter and Sutton the Black, and was well received in Manchester, Liverpool, and Dublin. While in the latter city he was matched against John Dunn, a novice, for £50 a-side, and fought him on the 4th of July, 1820, in Donnelly’s Valley, on the Curragh of Kildare. In twelve rounds and fifty-four minutes Dunn was completely done up, being hit to a state of insensibility, while Reynolds had scarcely a scratch.

In his way back to London our hero took Macclesfield in his course, where he was matched against Sammons, who had beaten all the Lancashire pugilists who had been opposed to him. On August 21st, 1820, the match came off within a mile of Macclesfield, and the Lancashire hero was disposed of in seven rounds. Tom now proceeded to London, but shortly after returned to Ireland to fight Cummins, but that fight went off in consequence of a forfeit.

Tom next took Jack Langan under his tuition and care, and was his mentor when he fought Tom Spring; acting the part of his secretary, and dipping his pen in gall, then much used in the composition of ink, in the course of his correspondence. His next _protégé_ was Simon Byrne, to whom he afforded the most friendly assistance, and seconded him in his fights with Sampson, M’Kay, and Jem Ward. Previous to the last affair, which ended in the defeat of Simon, he opened a public-house in Abbey Street, Dublin, which he conducted with great regularity until “his sand was run out.” He was decidedly a brave man and a scientific boxer, and left a wife and two children to lament his loss.

As a specimen of Tom’s talent in the use of the pen we append his

DEFENCE OF PUGILISM.

“I must acknowledge the gentlemen of the Press are favourable to the
cause of pugilism; and it is not surprising when we consider that
the persons conducting it are men, in general, possessing a liberal
education, and blessed with a greater share of brains than the
average of the community. Yet there is no rule without an exception;
for two or three of the London journalists, imitated by a few
country flats, occasionally give us a ‘facer;’ though I am confident
it is not from conviction, but because they think a little
opposition to generally received opinions may suit their pockets
better than following the tide, where the brightness of their genius
would not make them conspicuous. One of these worthies speaks of us
as monsters that brutalise the country; another describes our poor
little twenty-four foot ring as the only place in the three kingdoms
where rogues and blacklegs spring up like mushrooms; a third says a
pair of boxing-gloves debase the mind, and recommends the use of the
foils as a preferable exercise; and a fourth, after a most violent
philippic against the Ring, blames Government for not immediately
putting an end to pugilism, and recommends, as a substitute, that
Government should take into their wise consideration the propriety
of giving greater encouragement to dancing assemblies. This idea is
ridiculous. Certainly, if the editor does fill up his leisure hours
as a hop-merchant, I do not blame him for putting in a good word for
the shop, but what the devil has dancing to do with fighting? Can
two men decide a mill by ‘tripping on the light fantastic toe’? The
French dance every night in the week, and all day on Sunday, and
what are they the better for that? Are they better men? Can they
boast nobler feelings than Britons? They certainly make graceful
bows, and there is no doubt dancing has an effect on the heels, for
Wellington has often scratched his head, and given them a
left-handed blessing, for their quickness in giving leg-bail.

“Because the English are not considered a dancing nation, that is no
reason they are brutalised. The most savage people dance; the
American Indian dances round his captive while he is roasting him
alive; the Italians dance, fiddle, and sing; and, if they consider
themselves offended, employ ruffians to assassinate the offender.
The dancing Frenchman would shudder with horror at the sight of two
London porters giving each other a black eye or a bloody nose, and
say ’twas a brutal practice; yet the same fellow, in his own
country, would take snuff, grin like a monkey, and cry ‘Bravo!’ at
seeing two poor devils boring holes in each other’s hide with a yard
of steel. So much for the consistency of the ‘Grande Nation,’ and
the sense of the men who recommend dancing as a substitute for
pugilism.

“I am no enemy to dancing; in fact, I am passionately fond of music;
but there is a time for all things. With every inclination in the
world to let every one ride his own hobby in his own way, I see no
reason why a poor pugilist should take a facer from the wielder of
the foil. Two hundred years ago, when the sword was worn, and
decided quarrels in the streets, fencing was, without doubt, a
necessary part of every man’s education; but, at the present day,
though the foils may be very good exercise, I consider it the height
of folly for any man to throw away his money and time in the
attainment of an art that can never be of use. But we will suppose
two pupils taking their lessons, the one with the gloves attaining a
graceful method of drawing a cork, painting the margin of an ogle
with some of the most beauteous tints of the rainbow, or directing a
customer to the victualling-office; the other, with the foil, passes
away his hours in attaining precision to pierce the centre of the
heart, or in transfixing the ball of the eye, to cause instant death
by perforating the brain. Let me ask in this mimic warfare which
man’s mind was most debased? Blacklegs are not the peculiar growth
of our Ring. Wherever men will sport on chance events, there Mr.
Blackshanks will be found walking, and that, too, on shores where
the fist is never used except by our brave tars, who often make them
scamper by the mere flourish of their bunch of fives. Thieves may be
found in the mob that surrounds our Ring; but where are they not to
be found? A Radical assembly or Bible meeting is not exempt from
their visits; and they will even be found at a charity sermon,
praying they may have good luck when the jostling comes on, and may
be considered as instruments of divine mercy, sent to deliver good
men from the sinful dross of the earth.

“The only charge that can be brought against the Ring is crossing
fights; and though the members of the Press growl, and very justly
too, whenever a x takes place, yet none of them attempt to point out
the cause or remedy. Fighting men are not all alike, neither are
kings; for who would compare the British Sovereign with the
scoundrel Ferdinand of Spain? There are men in our Ring with
integrity that would adorn a more elevated situation: men that would
sooner drop senseless under punishment, though fighting for little
more than the colours that are tied to the stakes, than receive five
hundred pounds to lose wilfully. I do deny most positively that
pugilistic exhibitions debase, demoralise, or brutalise us as a
nation; on the reverse, I am confident they introduce chivalrous
(they may be rude) notions of honour, courage, fortitude, and love
of manly fair play—characteristics so strongly indented in the
British character that they are known and acknowledged from pole to
pole. And who will be hardy enough to say the excitement to those
feelings does not originate in the very same cause which our enemies
say brutalises the feelings of the country?

“Even on the score of humanity pugilism ought to be encouraged; for,
wherever it does not exist, murder, by violence and treachery, more
frequently takes place. Without going to foreign countries for
proof, a single glance at home will strike the blindest with the
necessity of its encouragement. The men of Lancashire, twenty years
ago, were up-and-down fighters: then murder was almost an every-day
occurrence. Indeed, some of the old ones of that day took no little
pride to themselves if they could boast of having stopped the ‘smoke
of a chimney’ (choked a man), after the manner of Virginius. Since
pugilism has been introduced, though the population is fourfold, yet
murder seldom or never takes place. Compare the population of
Ireland, where the stick has been thrown aside, and the fist used,
to the other parts: the difference in the number of deaths by
violence will strike conviction on the dullest. In fact, though
chivalry did much to smooth down the roughness of the darker ages,
’tis only the boxing-gloves can give the true polish of civilisation
to the world. And, I am confident, if Adam had been a Briton, he
would have taught his sons to box; then the club would not have been
used, and the first murder prevented. Cain would have given Abel a
good milling instead of crushing his skull: and the brothers would
have been found next morning supping porridge as comfortable as the
Lord Mayor’s sons on a more recent occasion.

“Greece, the birthplace of the arts and sciences, encouraged
pugilism; and the first man of the day considered not only himself,
but his family, honoured, if lucky enough to mill his man at the
Olympic Games. Look at the effeminate beings that now parade the
streets of Rome, once trod by the conquerors of England and the
world; with them a boxing or a milling match would have had more
charms than the finest strains of a Rossini. The Government knew the
advantage of exhibitions that would excite an admiration of courage
and fortitude. ’Twas this reason induced the Athenian General to
stop his army, that they might look at a cock-fight—’tis this that
has secured our Ring the patronage of the noblest blood, rank, and
talent in the country; and long may we deserve the support of men
that soar above the braying of asses or the cant of hypocrites!

“With all due submission and thanks to the ancients, as the
inventors of boxing, I cannot help feeling pride at the vast
superiority our Ring possesses over theirs; for death was too
frequently the result, in consequence of the metal braced to their
arms. When our Ring is formed the combatants are left to themselves
without fear of interruption from a third person. Temperate, manly
courage is loudly applauded—passion, cowardice or foul play as
loudly blamed; and should either of the men display any little act
of humanity to his sinking opponent (of which I could state
numberless instances), his gallantry is cordially praised; but the
moment the dreadful word “ENOUGH” is uttered, hostilities cease and
the conqueror, shaking hands with his fallen antagonist, wishes him
better luck next time, and, in a kindly voice, expresses a wish that
he may soon recover.

“Man is the creature of habit, and of the force of example; and, I
again repeat, exhibitions of this kind have their good effects,
which can be traced to us as a nation, and, independent of fighting,
influence other actions of life. Show me the man completely opposed
to pugilism, and you will find his character to be a bad neighbour
and a tyrant under his own roof. The immortal Wyndham was the
staunch advocate and patron of our Ring, and champion for the
abolition of the slave trade. Have dealings with any other
country—will you find them, in the mass, so honest or so honourable
as Britons? In every part of the known world, who are more welcome
than our merchants? What flag more respected or feared? Quarrel in
the streets of any other country, you will have more than one to
contend with. If an object of distress is pointed out, who is more
ready to assist than a Briton? In other countries murder and robbery
go hand-in-hand; in ours the most desperate men never dip their
hands in blood, unless to protect themselves from ill-judged
resistance. And who can boast an army or a navy so gallantly brave,
or so ready to extend the hand to save, as Britons? Tell me a nation
that could meet our brave sons on equal terms in the field or on the
wave; yet, if conquered, which of them but would sooner become a
prisoner to a British sailor or soldier than any other? Theirs is
not the frenzied courage like that inspired by fanaticism, ferocity,
or brandy, which, after the first gust of passion, leaves its
helpless, hopeless, panting possessor; no, ’tis that kind of
round-after-round courage which will admit of thinking and command,
and knows no abatement till wearied nature or death closes the
scene. Fair play is a Briton’s motto; we would extend it to the
extremities of the earth, no consequence what country, religion, or
colour. The sable African, throwing aside the chains that levelled
him with the beast, now walks erect, in the majesty of freedom and
liberty, calling down blessings on the country that, in spite of all
the world, burst his bonds asunder. If these are the symptoms that
the country is brutalised by pugilism, long may she continue so!
Long may she be the home for the exile—the defender of the
oppressed—the best boxer—and the fairest arbiter of the world!

“TOM REYNOLDS.”

With hearty approval we commend “Old Tom’s” spirited “defence” to the careful perusal of Sir Wilfrid Lawson, Messrs. Bright, Agnew, Richard, the Stigginses, the saints and sinners of Exeter and St. James’s Halls, and the Peace (at-any-price) Preservation Society.

DICK CURTIS (“THE PET”)—1820–1828.

For skill, neatness, finish, straight, and therefore swift, hitting, no such boxer as Dick Curtis has appeared in the present century. His weight, nine stone, and his height, five foot six, as a matter of course precluded his appearance among the Champions; but, as Champion of the Light Weights, Richard Curtis has had no superior, if any equal, in the annals of pugilism.

He was decidedly the most perfect specimen of a miniature fighting man of modern times. His science was, we might almost say, intuitive, his judgment of time and distance extraordinary, his readiness in difficulty most remarkable, his change from a position of defence to that of attack instantaneous and astonishing, and his power of punishment, for so light a man, unparalleled. Curtis was patronised by the most distinguished admirers of pugilism of the period in which he lived, and throughout his long career was never defeated, with the single exception of his last battle, when with Perkins, of Oxford, to whom he was inferior by a stone and two pounds in weight, as well as in length and height, he fell before youth and stamina.

Richard Curtis was born in Southwark, on the 1st of February, 1802. He came of a fighting family, his brothers John and George having both figured in the ring. Young Dick’s first public appearance was at the age of eighteen, on the well-known battle-field of Moulsey Hurst, where on Tuesday, June 27th, 1820, in the same ring in which George Cooper had just defeated Shelton, he entered the lists with Watson, a Westminster boxer, of about ten stone. Watson was game, and fought desperately for twenty-five minutes, when he cried “Enough!” and Curtis was hailed the conqueror, almost without a mark. Curtis’s skill was so remarkable in this _rencontre_ that two months afterwards some Corinthians, previously to leaving town for the shooting season—which was then September—as railroads had not brought grouse and the Scottish moors within hail of the Metropolis, determined to see the smart young Bermondsey lad again show his prowess. A match for £40 was accordingly made for him with a well-known light weight, Ned Brown (the Sprig of Myrtle); and on Monday, the 28th of August, 1820, Brown, waited on by Jack Martin and Paddington Jones, tried to throw his hat into the ring on Wimbledon Common, in such a smart gale that it blew it over, and away across the heath. Shortly after, Curtis, attended by Josh Hudson and Tom Belcher, approached the ropes; but his lily-white beaver shared the same fate, so that the omen was negative. Both men were in good condition. The colours—a canary yellow for Curtis, and a blue bird’s-eye for Brown—being tied to the stakes, the men shook hands and began

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—Brown, full of confidence, made an offer to hit, but Curtis
was awake, and nothing was done. A long pause took place, each
endeavouring to get an opening, when Brown rushed in to work; a
change took place in the struggle to fib each other, when both went
down, Brown undermost. (Great shouting; and Curtis for a trifle.)

2.—This round occupied thirteen minutes, and the amateurs were
delighted with the science and manliness displayed on both sides.
Curtis hit at a longer distance, and nobbed Brown in great style.
Both of these little ones displayed as much caution as if a million
of money depended upon the event. To describe the stop-hits and
getting away would occupy a page: suffice it to say that Brown’s
right eye was nearly closed, and, after some desperate milling,
Brown went down undermost. The great length of this round showed the
good condition of both the combatants. Curtis appeared the weaker
man.

3.—Brown proved himself a fine and game fighter, but Curtis
out-fought him, put in nobbers with the utmost dexterity, and also
damaged his other eye. (Tom Owen sung out, “Go it, my white topper;
it’s as right as the day.”) Both went down, Brown undermost. Two to
one on Curtis.

4.—This was a short round; in closing, Brown endeavoured to fib his
opponent, but Curtis got down. (Any odds upon the latter.)

5.—Brown displayed good tactics, and at in-fighting was quite
clever. Curtis made some good nobbing hits, and Brown went
staggering away; but the latter returned to the charge, and, in
struggling for the throw, Brown dragged Curtis over the ring and
downed him. (Brown for £20. Curtis seemed weak.)

6.—This was rather a long round. Fibbing on both sides. Both down,
Brown undermost.

DICK CURTIS (“THE PET”).
]

7.—Curtis not only stopped in good style, but nobbed Brown away.
After some exchanges at the ropes, Curtis dropped Brown by a blow on
the side of the latter’s head.

8.—This was a famous round; and, in closing, Brown broke away twice
with great activity. The punishment was severe on both sides. Brown
was ultimately hit down, as if shot, from a tremendous blow on his
forehead. (Great shouting. The “Sprigs of Myrtle” all drooping, and
the denizens of Caleb Baldwin’s dominions upon the fret. “It’s all
over.”)

9.—Brown, however, came first to the scratch. A severe struggle took
place at the ropes, each too game to go down. (“Go down, Curtis,”
from all parts of the ring.) Both at length fell, but Brown was
undermost. (Here a near relative of Brown came close to the ropes,
and told the seconds they were not doing right in not letting Brown
“go in.”)

10.—Brown recovered a little, made a rush, and the change was
considered in his favour. Curtis got down cleverly.

11, 12.—Both combatants excited the admiration of the ring by their
fine fighting. In the last round Brown was hit down from a severe
hit in the ribs. (Two and three to one.)

13 to 15, and last.—Brown was floored in all these rounds on coming
to the scratch; he was terribly punished, but the game he displayed
was of the first quality. Here the patron of Brown stepped forward
(a more gentlemanly, liberal, or distinguished character for
humanity of disposition does not exist, nor a greater admirer of
true courage is not to be found) and said, “My man shall not fight
any more.”

REMARKS.—A better battle has not been seen for many years; 57
minutes of complete good fighting. Brown has fought eight prize
battles, and proved the conqueror in the majority of them. Curtis,
although a mere boy, bids fair to prove a teaser to any of his
weight; he is a cautious boxer and a severe hitter. The amateurs
never expressed greater satisfaction at any fight. It was the
general opinion that although Curtis appeared weak two or three
times in the conflict, yet the scale of victory was always on his
side. It is true that Brown had no other chance to win but “going
in;” yet the clever defence of Curtis rendered that plan equally
dangerous.

Curtis’s next match was with Lenney, at Moulsey Hurst, on the 24th of October, 1821. “At one o’clock,” says the reporter, “young Curtis, in a white upper-benjamin, which would have set off a Regent-street ‘pink,’ a brilliant canary round his throat, and a white beaver of the most fashionable mould, showed arm-in-arm with the President of the Daffy Club,[55] and threw his natty castor into the ring.” Lenney soon after appeared, with the Gas-light man and Curtis’s old opponent, the Sprig of Myrtle, and replied to the signal of defiance. Spring and Hickman seconded Lenney; Tom Belcher and Harry Harmer officiated for Curtis. The odds, within the previous two or three days, had changed in favour of Lenney, on whom five to four was laid. The colours were tied to the stakes by Spring and the President, who observed to the former, “I’ll bet you a trifle that I take them down.”

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—The condition of Curtis was that of the finest racehorse;
blood and bone were conspicuous, and he appeared as confident as if
the battle were over. Lenney was equally fine; he commenced the
fight with the most determined resolution of being declared the
conqueror. Curtis was in no hurry to make play: Lenney was also on
his guard. After some little manœuvring, Curtis let fly on the nob
of his opponent, without return. This hit operated as a sort of
stopper, and some little sparring occurred. Lenney endeavoured to go
to work, and some blows were exchanged. The science displayed by
Curtis was fine in the extreme, and he planted two sharp facers,
right and left, that floored Lenney on his face, and the claret
trickled down his cheek. (Loud shouting, and two to one all round
the ring.)

2.—Lenney came to the scratch with a severe cut under his right eye.
Curtis planted a severe body hit without a return; he also put in
two severe facers. It was evident that Lenney could not protect his
face from the out-fighting of his opponent, and to go in seemed
equally dangerous. Curtis kept nobbing his man, and getting away
with the utmost ease. In closing, Lenney was fibbed down, and Curtis
fell upon him. (Thunders of applause, and “You’re a pretty boy,
Curtis.”)

3.—This was a short round; a close took place, and the fibbing
tactics went on till Lenney went down.

4.—The coolness of Curtis was the theme of the ring. He measured his
distances with the accuracy of a mathematician, and nobbed his
opponent with the severity of a hammer-man at an anvil. Lenney could
make no impression on the mode adopted by Curtis. The latter
followed Lenney up to the ropes, and, with his right hand, planted
such a tremendous facer that it was heard all over the ring. In the
struggle for the throw both combatants were hanging on the ropes;
Curtis’s nose touched them, as they both came to the ground; but
previous to this he put in some heavy blows on his opponent’s loins.

5.—Lenney came like a gamecock to the scratch; but his nob had
undergone a strange alteration. Some exchanges occurred. Curtis, by
a dreadful right-handed blow, sent down his adversary like a shot.
(Three to one. “What a beautiful fighter!” exclaimed Randall.)

6, 7, 8.—Lenney stopped several blows with considerable skill; but
his head was completely at the service of his opponent. Oliver made
so sure of the event that he asked if any gentleman would oblige him
by taking ten to two.

9, 10.—The fine fighting of Curtis now rendered the battle quite
safe to him; so much so, that he could take his time about it
without danger. Curtis astonished the ring with his execution as
well as his science: he put such a tremendous blow on Lenney’s mouth
that his ivories were on the chatter like dice in a box, and he felt
it so seriously that his left arm dropped for an instant. (“It’s all
safe now—it’s the Bank of England to a screen,” was the chaffing
throughout the crowd.)

11, 12.—Lenney received so much punishment about the nob that he was
quite groggy. Twenty to one was offered.

13, 14, 15, 16, 17.—All these rounds were nearly similar to the
preceding ones. Any odds.

18 to 29, and last.—Lenney was game to the backbone, but he had not
a shadow of chance. He ought to have been taken away several rounds
previous to the last. He was hit out of time; and remained in a
state of stupor for a short period. The battle occupied thirty-eight
minutes and a half.

REMARKS.—A more elegant or scientific fighter than Curtis was never
seen in the Prize Ring. He could have won in half the time if he had
wished, but he was determined not to give half a chance away,
consequently no long rally took place in the battle. Curtis also
proved the stronger man, and left the ring without a scratch upon
his face; but his hands were much bruised from the severe punishment
he had administered to his opponent. Lenney was carried out of the
ring and put to bed. The attitude of the latter was not a judicious
one; he leaned too far back, not only to do execution, but such a
position must have distressed him much: in fact, Lenney could not
reach Curtis with any degree of certainty. It seemed to be the
general opinion of the Fancy that no one on the list of Curtis’s
weight can beat him.

DICK AT EPSOM RACES.—Although it was nearly five o’clock before the last race—the Maiden Stakes—was over, on Thursday, May 26th, 1822, and most excellent sport had been afforded, yet numbers of the sporting fraternity seemed to think the day was not exactly complete—that it wanted a sort of finish. As some of the lads from the Metropolis were upon the look-out for a little job, a mill was proposed by way of dessert, and a subscription purse of £16 was collected in a very short time. Little Dick Curtis, with as much blood as any horse upon the course, made his bow to the amateurs, and said he had not the least objection to peel, more especially as he had been cleaned out of all his loose rag by backing Deaf Davis on the previous Tuesday. “You’re a good lad,” replied a swell; “and it is a thousand pities you should be suffered to remain idle.” A gipsy pricked up his ears upon hearing these remarks, and offered himself to the notice of the “Pink of Society,” just to have a small taste, for the amusement of the company, if his honour had no objection. “Why,” said the pink, “you seem to have been a little bit about the hedges lately. By your looks you are a gipsy. What set do you belong to?” The brown-visaged hero, with pride, answered, “The Coopers.” “That will do,” replied the swell; “show yourself at the scratch without delay.” Dick Curtis was seconded by Ould Tom Jones and Harry Holt; and Cooper was handled by Gipsy Cooper and another “traveller.” Seven to four on Dick.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—The Gipsy stripped well, and was what the fair sex term
rather a handsome young man. He seemed, by the attitude he placed
himself in, to meet his opponent as if he knew something about
milling. Dick measured the Gipsy from head to foot with much
confidence; but he was in no hurry to go to work. The Gipsy at
length let fly, and missed, when Dick, lively as a dancing-master,
put in some telling hits, and in the struggle the Bohemian went down
amidst thunders of applause. (“Two to one!” lustily roared out.)

2.—Dick came laughing to the scratch, as keen as a stockbroker and
cunning as a fox, giving the wink to his friends it was all right.
Still he would not hit first. The Gipsy was again gammoned to make
play, when his domino box got as much slashing as if seven had been
the main. The rattling of the ivories was repeated, and the Gipsy
floored. (Five to one, and no takers.)

3.—This round took the conceit out of the Gipsy, who ran furiously
at Curtis, but the latter, with the utmost ease, stopped him, by
giving him the pepper-box on his sensitive plant. Dick now commenced
fighting, and put in four such complete facers that they made the
Gipsy all abroad; he went down like a log. (Ten to one, and the
multitude chevying from one end of the ring to the other, “What a
prime little fellow Dick is!”)

4.—This was short and sweet to Curtis; he sent the Gipsy down to
cool himself on the turf for half a minute. (Any odds, but no
takers.)

5.—It was clear to the judges that it must be soon over, and that
the Gipsy must be milled off-hand. Curtis again drew his cork, and
the hero of the bush once more embraced his mother earth. It was all
stuff to offer odds, for no person seemed inclined to take ten to
one.

6.—The pepper-box and vinegar cruet were again made use of by Dick,
till the Gipsy had nearly let it escape out of his mouth that it was
no go. Gipsy down.

7, and last.—The Gipsy napped a rum one on his canister, and he went
down immediately, saying “he would not fight any more, as he had not
room enough for his strength.” Curtis gave a jump, and pocketed the
purse almost without receiving a hit, exclaiming, “Success to Epsom
Races!”

REMARKS.—It is true it was a very bad ring, owing to the vast
multitude that pressed in upon the boxers from all sides; but if the
Gipsy had had the whole of Epsom Downs to shift in he would never
have been able to defeat Curtis. The latter is decidedly one of the
best boxers of the day; no commoners must think of having a turn
with him, and first-rate fighters must make a pause before they
enter the lists with Dick. Two bystanders gave Dick a sovereign each
for winning, which he generously made a present of to the Gipsy.

It would unnecessarily swell the bulk of the present volume to reproduce the numerous ring encounters in which Curtis was engaged during the succeeding years, in which time he fought with Peter Warren no less than five times, defeating that boxer on four occasions, and on the second the contest terminating in a drawn battle. The dates and duration of these are here given:—

1. Beat Peter Warren, 20 min., 10 rounds, £30 a-side, at Colnbrook, July 23rd, 1822.

2. Draw with Peter Warren, £25 a-side, 16 min., Moulsey, April 16th, 1823. On this occasion a wrangle and riot ended in the stakeholder returning the stakes to each party’s backers. A third contest was therefore arranged, for £50 a-side.

3. The third battle was decided at Crawley Hurst, July 8th, 1823. On this occasion Warren was defeated in one round, occupying nine minutes only, having sprained his kneecap so severely as to put him at once _hors de combat_.

4. After defeating Dick Hares, as we shall presently detail, Curtis beat Warren (£20 a-side) on Epsom Downs, in six sharp rounds, occupying eight minutes only, and finally—

5. Defeated his pertinacious opponent at Warwick, in 7 rounds, time 16 minutes, for a stake of £100 to £90, on July 19th, 1825.

Dick Hares was in the interim matched with Curtis, for £50 a-side, to come off April 13th, 1824, but the affair was prevented by an information laid at Bow Street, and two officers were sent down to Moulsey to stop the fight. It will perhaps raise a smile if we state the “reason” assigned for this prompting of the magisterial energy. The information of the “impending breach of the peace” was laid by a theatrical manager, who, his house being shut up because it was “Passion week,” did not see “why other public amusements should be tolerated”! _Hinc illæ lachrymæ_, the laying of the information, and the disappointment of the Fancy.

A new match was accordingly made, as neither party desired a “draw;” and on Tuesday, July 8th, 1823, on Moulsey Hurst, on the ring being cleared after Ned Neale had defeated Gaynor (see _ante_, Life of NEALE, PERIOD IV., CHAP. V.), Hares, attended by Peter Crawley and Tom Shelton, threw his hat within the ropes. Curtis followed, waited on by Josh Hudson and Tom Owen, the Sage of the East, whose admiration of Curtis as a boxer had been long loudly expressed. Curtis’s hat was about to go over the ropes with the wind, when Bill Moss caught it cleverly in both hands, and dropped it within the enclosure. Curtis fought under a yellowman, and Hares sported an emerald green flag. Six to four on Curtis.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—On stripping, the condition of Hares was the admiration of
every amateur present. He looked like a new man, instead of an old
one. Such are the advantages of training, if an athlete is not
absolutely used up. “Curtis must be licked to-day; he has not
stamina enough to get rid of Hares,” was the cry. We also heard Jack
Randall express the same opinion. On setting-to, Curtis appeared
well in health; but he looked thin, boyish, and little compared to
his opponent. The attitudes of both men were pretty, and the anxiety
of Curtis to get the first advantage remarkable. Hares too was eager
to let fly, but he could not get an opening. Not so with the Pet; he
embraced the first opportunity that presented itself, and his left
hand alighted very heavily on the nose of Hares. An exchange of
blows followed, in which Curtis received a small grain of pepper on
his left cheek; but Hares napped a full dose. Standing still for a
minute, nothing to be done. Curtis again let fly his left hand,
which nearly sent Hares’s teeth on a journey down his throat. The
men closed soon afterwards at the ropes, when the fibbing of Curtis
was terrific—he spoiled the look of his man, got Hares down, and
fell upon him. A deafening shout for Curtis, the “Bermondseys”
nearly out of their senses with joy. Two to one on the Pet.

2.—Hares was bleeding at the nose, his face much disfigured, and
Curtis a little distressed and winking. Hares made an excellent
stop. (“Well done, Hares!”) Dick put in another nobber, the claret
following. Counter-hits, and Curtis received a heavy blow on his
cheek. An exchange of blows, and no light play. Hares made another
good stop. Curtis slipped a little near the ropes, when Hares ran up
to him, and planted a heavy body hit; the Pet endeavoured to
retreat, when his opponent stuck close to him, and put in another
blow. Curtis recovered himself, and let fly his left hand in the
middle of his opponent’s head. Counter-hits. Two more terrific,
stupefying facers by Curtis, and no return. In closing, the fibbing
administered by the Pet was tremendous, and Hares went down, Curtis
uppermost. (“What an extraordinary little fellow! He hits as hard as
Cribb. The other man has no chance; take him away.”)

3, and last.—Hares came up game as a pebble; but his head was
quite altered; and his seconds, with all their industry and
attention, could not keep his face clean. Both offering, but
nothing done. Hares stopped a tremendous nobber. Rather a long
pause. “Go to work, Hares.” The latter made a second and also a
third attempt with great skill; but after this time the execution
was so decisive on the part of Curtis that it was positively one
hundred pounds to a farthing. The left hand of Curtis went flush
into the middle of Hares’s head; a profusion of claret followed.
(“What a limner this Pet is!” said the Sage of the East to Josh.
“I never saw such a painter before. Why, he is a master of colour!
What an artist!”) The succession of hits planted by Curtis in the
middle of Hares’s head, without return, was surprising. It was a
nobber, and claret—ditto—ditto—ditto. “Take the brave fellow
away,” said his backer—“I will not suffer him to fight any more.
He has no chance.” But Hares, regardless of the humane entreaties
of his friends, stood up to receive punishment till Nature
deserted him, when he fell in a state of stupor. Curtis jumped for
joy, but immediately ran up to shake the hand of the fainting
Hares. He was at once carried off the ground, and medical advice
procured. It is but justice to say that Shelton and Crawley
deserve great praise for the humanity and attention they paid to
the brave but fallen little man.

REMARKS.—We have no hesitation in pronouncing the execution of
Curtis the most decisive thing we ever witnessed in the Prize Ring.
He won the fight with his left hand only, as he never made but two
blows with his right hand during the battle. The Pet is the very
first of boxers, and we think all pugilists will accede to the
remark. He won the fight in twenty minutes, but did not prove the
conqueror without receiving some heavy blows. Three or four
tremendous hits were made by Hares. Although Curtis won the fight in
such superior style he was certainly overmatched in weight and
strength. The position of Curtis was so extremely fine that he was
guarded at all points. Curtis dressed himself immediately, and
walked about the ring receiving compliments from his friends. His
left hand, however, if not quite gone, was terribly damaged.

Barney Aaron, whose weight was 10st., and who had beaten in succession Ned Stockman, Lenney, Frank Redmond, and Peter Warren, now challenged Curtis, and articles were signed for £100 a-side. The battle was to have been decided on Tuesday, November 23rd, 1824, on the stage at Warwick, after Josh Hudson and Cannon had settled their differences; but on this occasion Curtis received forfeit of the battle-money, under very suspicious circumstances as regarded some of the Israelitish speculators, who had calculated on “getting at Curtis” in such a way as to secure what was then called “a slice of ready-made luck.”

Soon after the match was made, Curtis being the favourite, such eagerness was shown in certain quarters to take the odds, and subsequently to lay even as much as six to four on the Jew “rather than not do bishnesh,” that strong suspicions were excited, and a x, in which Curtis was to “chuck the fight,” was publicly talked of. Alarm spread at the sporting houses, and on inquiry Curtis came forward and declared “that he had rather lose his life than his fame.” Upon this declaration the odds veered about, and Curtis was the favourite at five to four, giving chance, at any rate, of hedging. Then the assertions of dishonest intentions became stronger, and Barney was declared a safe winner. Thus matters stood when, some days previous to the big fight, Barney Aaron and his backers left London for Leamington, and made their headquarters at the “Crown.” In due time, also, Curtis and his friends arrived at Warwick. Still such doubts existed that betting was at an end, until some heavy stakes were sported on the night before the fight, at the “George,” at Warwick, and Barney again taken for choice. At an early hour in the day a report was circulated through the Race Stand that “the fight was off.” This circumstance created regret among the true sporting men. However, in a few minutes after Hudson and Cannon had left the stage, Curtis appeared, attended by Tom Belcher and his backers, and threw up his hat amidst loud cheers. Aaron was called for, but not showing himself, Curtis addressed the multitude. He said, “I attended here according to the articles, and I call upon Barney Aaron to face me according to articles.” He repeated the challenge twice without reply being made. Curtis then declared that “he would wait one quarter of an hour, and if Aaron did not appear, he should claim the stakes, £100, as a forfeit.” Previous to the quarter of an hour having elapsed, Curtis wished it to be known that he would fight any man of his weight in the world, for £200 a-side, and give half a stone.

Tom Belcher said he was the stakeholder, and the forfeit being claimed, he considered it his duty to give the £100 to Curtis, according to the rules of sporting. (“Perfectly correct, Tom,” from the spectators.) Belcher then presented Curtis with a new £100 Bank of England note, which the Pet smilingly deposited in his pocket. Belcher then took the nattily shaped “Pet” on his back, and lightly carried him, amidst laughter and applause, through the mud to the Grand Stand, where his health was drunk in sparkling “cham” by his friends, backers, and the admirers of straight-forward honesty.

At Ned Neale’s benefit at the Fives Court, two days after this fiasco, Curtis and Aaron met in the most friendly manner. Curtis said: “I would rather have fought for the money; but I am sure, Barney, it was not your fault.”

Aaron then proceeded to explain. He said he was told the place was Oxford, and there he was taken by his backers in a post-chaise, contrary to his intention, which had been to meet Curtis. He had with him his drawers and shoes. “Had I been licked,” said he, “which I don’t think I should have been” (a laugh from Curtis), “I should have got some blunt; but I have been regularly dished.” “I hope you will get backed,” replied Curtis; “I know you’re a brave man, and I hope next time we shall have a _comfortable_ fight!”

Some chaffering about the amount of stakes followed this interview; Curtis proposing to fight for £200, and Aaron’s backers modestly suggesting that Curtis (in consideration of the forfeit of £100—the forfeit was only £50) should fight Barney £200 to £100. The subjoined stanzas, conveying the challenge, seem of sufficient merit to deserve snatching from oblivion:—

THE PET’S INVITATION.

_Richard Curtis to Barney Aaron—Greeting._

Come, Barney, ’tis Curtis, the Pet, who invites thee;
No longer to fight for two hundred refuse;
For while all the pride of “the Peoplesh” excites thee,
You can’t need the needful, my star of the Jews!

Remember the glories of ancient Mendoza,
And hard-drinking, hard-hitting, shifting Dutch Sam;
Think on old Ikey Pig, and Big Bittoon, who knows thee,
With the rush of a lion, yet mild as a lamb.

What though Mrs. Aaron thy mug may delight in,
And thinking of black eyes, turns fretful and wan?
She’ll say, when convinced that you really mean fighting,
“Mine husband, Cot plesh him, ’s a brave little man.”

I’ll own that as good as e’er pulled off a shirt is
The lad I now call to the old milling game;
And remember, friend Barney, though challenged by Curtis,
No _Cur_-’tis invites to combat for fame.

Then try all the good ones who live in the Minories,
Kick the shins of the dwellers in Petticoat Lane—
Get blunt, which of all sorts of milling the sinew is;
Drop chaffing, and take to fair fighting again.

_August 28th, 1825._

THE STAR’S ANSWER.

_Barney Aaron to Richard Curtis—Greeting._

I come, Mr. _Cur_-’tis the Star of the Sheenies
Who advances to pluck from thy brow the high crest,
With a _sufficit quantum_ of courage—and guineas—
To lower thy _caput_, my Flower of the West.

You fought Peter Warren a hundred to ninety,
Then why not fight me for the first-mention’d name?
But being all bounce you the scratch will not come to,
To show your much-vaunted pretensions to fame.

You say that the ochre—the metal—the rhino,
Is flush ’mong the Sheenies of Petticoat Lane;
’Tish more scarsh nor you think—I vish it vash mine, oh!
I’d fight for my losht reputation again.

Now hear! For one hundred, I’m ready to fight you,
Surely, out of mere fairness, you cannot refuse;
You’ll have to contend with no Warren, my _Cur_-tis,
But with brave Barney Aaron, the Star of the Jews!

DUKE’S PLACE,
_September 3rd, 1825_.

These poetic effusions, with a dozen prosy letters to boot, failed to bring the men to terms.

Curtis was now indeed “the Pet of the Fancy;” no sparring exhibition of any pretension was perfect in its programme without the Light weight Champion displayed his skill in the art of which he was such a consummate master; and as Dick never hesitated to put on the gloves, and give away a stone or two and a few inches, the disparity of his opponents added a keener interest than usual to his demonstrations. The newspapers of the period are full of them. Curtis was now perforce idle, for there was no boxer near his weight who could get matched against him. Of course he was the object of envy to many of the fraternity, and as

“Envy doth merit like its shade pursue,
And by the shadow proves the substance true,”

so with one Mister Edward Savage, whose anger at the want of appreciation of his own merits, and the favour lavished on “the Pet,” carried him beyond all bounds of common civility. Edward Savage, an eleven stone man, was one of three Savages, the others named William and Cab. (or Jack) Savage, who were professed boxers. Ned Savage, on the evening of the 5th of August, 1825, entered the parlour of Tom Belcher’s, the “Castle,” Holborn, where Curtis and other friends were taking their whiff and their wet. The conversation turning upon pugilistic affairs, Mister Savage made some most insulting remarks upon the diminutive size of Curtis, coupled with regrets that he (Savage) could not get himself down to ten stone (Dick had challenged all comers and to give a stone), and concluded with a ruffianly threat of what he would do if Curtis would “give him a chance.” The Pet was about to leave when Savage, true to his name, struck him severely in the eye. The return on Mister Savage’s optic was made with lightning celerity, and the next instant the little one had his man round the neck, and delivered a succession of left-handers of such cutting severity that when Savage got down his head was a piteous spectacle. The company now interfered, but Curtis declared that he “must teach this Savage a lesson.” Savage rushed in blind with rage, and it is charity to suppose somewhat upset by liquor, when he was met by one, two, three steadiers in the head, his returns being parried, until he fairly staggered down. The affair now became a regular battle. Curtis threw off his upper garments, and Savage did the same. Savage rushed at his man so fiercely that Dick, stepping aside, delivered his blow on the ear of a bystander, to the man’s great astonishment and the amusement of the company, while Curtis simultaneously delivered alternately with both hands in such style that Savage turned away from the punishment. He was, however, game, if nothing else, and came up as receiver-general until the sixteenth round, when he was so completely cut up and beaten that he cried, “Enough!” Not more than sixteen minutes elapsed from the first assault to the close of this unexpected performance, the description of which by a few of the scientific spectators raised the fame of Curtis to a height hardly exceeded by that attained by his victories in the twenty-four foot. Tom Belcher’s concluding remark when narrating this little episode used to be—“It wouldn’t be lucky for some of us if Dick was twelve stone. There wouldn’t be much chaff about who would be Champion then”—a remark in which the heavy weights present usually coincided, some of them perhaps with a slight mental reservation in favour of his own brave self.

A ridiculous encounter with Ned Stockman, on the day of the fight between Gaynor and Bishop Sharpe (Tuesday, May 16th, 1826) is recorded. In this affair Stockman, after challenging Curtis and offering to fight him, laid down like a cur after a single round, as recorded in the reports of the time.