Chapter I: Tom Spring (champion)—1814–1824 (4)

42.—Langan was undermost in this round, but Spring really had his
work to do to place his opponent in that situation.

43.—Langan again undermost, and Spring fell heavily upon him.

44.—Spring planted a facer, but met with a return. In struggling for
the throw, Langan took hold of the drawers of Spring, when Cribb and
Painter called out “Let go his drawers.” Langan immediately
relinquished his hold. The Irish Champion was thrown.

45.—Langan hit Spring on the side of his head, and fought well in an
exchange of blows. Spring, however, obtained the throw.

46.—It was astonishing, after getting the worst of it in the
previous rounds, to witness the resolute manner in which Langan
contested this round. He was still dangerous in the exchanges, and,
in struggling, both fell upon the stage. Langan undermost.

47.—Langan, on being placed at the scratch, was ready for the
attack. In a short time, after struggling, both went down. (The John
Bull fighter roared out—“I’m sorry for you, Tom Belcher; you will
certainly be ‘lagged’ if you don’t take your man away.” “Well done,
Josh,” replied Belcher, “that comes well from you; but we shall win
it; Spring can’t hurt a mouse now.”) Langan took a little brandy and
water.

48.—Spring exhibited weakness, but threw Langan.

49.—Langan still made a fight of it, to the surprise of all. In an
exchange of blows, however exhausted the brave boy from Paddy’s land
appeared to be, Spring used his harlequin step to prevent accidents.
In struggling for the throw, both down.

50.—Langan again showed himself ready at the scratch. “My dear boy,”
said Belcher, “it’s all your own if you will but fight first.”
Langan put in a body blow, and also countered with his opponent, but
had the worst of it, and went down.

51.—Seeing is believing; but to the reader who has perused the whole
of the above rounds, it must almost appear like romance to state,
that Langan held Spring for a short time against the rails to get
the throw, till they both went down, and Spring fell on him.

52.—Spring stopped a blow, and also got away from another;
ultimately Langan was hit down.

53.—Langan went to work and hit Spring on the nose; but the Champion
returned the favour, with interest, by nobbing his brave adversary
down. (“Is there anything the matter with that hand, I should like
to know? Lord! how Spring did hit him in the middle of the head!”
exclaimed Cribb.)

54.—“’Pon my soul, it’s no lie!” Langan threw Spring cleverly. Great
applause followed this momentary turn. (“He’s an extraordinary
fellow,” said Mr. Jackson; “he is really a very good man.”)

55.—Spring again had all the best of this round; but Langan kept
fighting till he went down.

56.—This round, it was thought, had settled the business. Langan
exchanged several blows, but, in closing, Spring hit up terrifically
on the face of his opponent, who went down like a log of wood.

57.—Langan commenced milling, and planted a blow on the side of
Spring’s head! “Do that again,” said Belcher. Langan endeavoured to
follow the directions of his master, but the Champion got away.
Spring now hit him staggering, repeated the dose, and Langan went
down.

58.—This was a good round, considering the protracted period of the
battle. Langan returned some blows till he went down.—(“Take him
away,”—“he has no chance.”)

59.—Langan appeared so exhausted that every round was expected to be
the last. He went down from a slight hit, little more than a push.

60.—“Wonders will never cease!” said a cove who had lost a trifle
that Langan was licked in forty minutes—“why he has got Spring down
again; it’s not so safe to the Champion as his friends may think.”

61.—Langan was now as groggy as a sailor three sheets in the wind,
and a slight blow sent him down. “I never saw such a fellow,” said
Jack Randall; “he’ll fight for a week! He don’t know when to leave
off.”

62.—The distress exhibited by Langan was so great that every time he
went down it was thought he could not again toe the scratch. If the
spectators did not think Langan dangerous, Spring got away from all
his hits, to prevent anything being the matter. Langan was once more
sent down.

63.—Langan, still determined to have a shy for the £500, made a hit
at Spring, but was shoved, rather than hit, down.

64.—For the last fifteen minutes it was next to an impossibility
Spring could lose, yet, contrary to all calculations on the subject,
Langan still contested the fight. The hands of Spring were in such
an inefficient, not to say painful, state, that he could not hit.
Here was the danger, as it was possible that he might be worn out,
but his caution and generalship did everything for him. Langan was
so distressed that a slight touch on his arm sent him down. A good
blow must have put an end to the fight, but Spring could not hit
effectively.

65.—Langan, when at the scratch, not only showed fight, but hit
Spring on the head; the latter, however, had the best of the round,
though Langan got the throw, Spring undermost. (“Where’s the
brandy?” said Belcher. “Here it is,” replied Tom Cribb; “a brave
fellow shall not want for anything in my possession.” “Bravo!” cried
Belcher; “that’s friendly, and I won’t forget it.”)

66.—The chance was decidedly against the Irish Champion;
nevertheless, he attempted to be troublesome to his opponent. Spring
put in a nobber, and also threw him.

67.—Exchange of blows. A pause. Langan on the totter, but he planted
two slight hits on the Champion’s face. Spring followed him up, and
gave Langan two blows, one in the body and one in the head, which
dropped the hero of the black fogle.

68.—The bravery of Langan was equal to anything ever witnessed in
the prize ring. The hands of Spring were in such a swollen state
that he could scarcely close them, and most of his blows appeared to
be open-handed. Langan was hit down. (“Take him away!” “Do you hear
what they say, Jack?” said Belcher. “Yes,” replied Langan: “I will
not be taken away; I can win it yet.”)

69.—In struggling for the throw, Langan’s head fell against the
rails. Both down.

70.—Langan again napped on the nobbing system, and was sent down.
One hour and forty-two minutes had elapsed. (Loud cries of “Take him
away!”)

71.—The backers of Spring were anxious to have it over; and the
spectators in general cried out, on the score of humanity, that
Langan ought not to be suffered to fight any more. Colonel O’Neil,
the friend and backer of the Irish Champion, assured the umpire that
he did not want for humanity; and he was well satisfied in his own
mind that, from the tumefied state of Spring’s hands, no danger
could arise. Langan was fighting for £200 of his own money,
therefore he had no right to interfere; he had, previous to the
fight, left it in the hands of his skilful second, Belcher, who, he
was certain, would not suffer the fight to last longer than was safe
to all parties. Langan, after a short round, was sent down.

72.—Langan was brought to the scratch by Belcher, who said, “Fight,
my dear boy; Spring can’t hurt you.” Langan, with undaunted
resolution, plunged in to hit his opponent; but, after receiving
more punishment, was sent down. (Repeated cries of “Take him away!”)

73.—It was now evident to all persons that Langan, while he retained
the slightest knowledge of what he was about, would not give in.
Spring fibbed Langan as severely as he was able, to put an end to
the fight, till he went down. (Here Jack Randall came close to the
stage, and said, “Tom Belcher, take him away; he cannot win it now.”
“He says he will not, Jack, and that he can fight longer,” replied
Tom Belcher.)

74.—This round was a fine picture of resolution under the most
distressing circumstances. Langan, without the slightest shadow of a
chance, seemed angry that his limbs would not do their duty; he came
again to the scratch, and, with true courage, fought till he was
sent down. While sitting on the knee of his second, Cribb thus
addressed him: “You are a brave man, Langan!” “A better was never
seen in the prize ring,” rejoined Painter; “but you can’t win,
Langan; it is no use for you to fight, and it may prove dangerous.”
“I _will_ fight,” said Langan; “no one shall take me away.”

75.—When time was called, Langan was brought to the scratch, and
placed himself in attitude. He attempted to hit, when Spring caught
hold of him and again fibbed him. (“Give no chance away now,” said
Cribb; “you must finish the battle.”) Langan went down quite stupid.
(“Take him away!” from all parts of the ring.)

76 and last.—Strange to relate, Langan again showed at the scratch;
it might be asserted that he fought from instinct. It did not
require much punishment, at this period, to send the brave Langan
off his legs; and, to the credit of Spring be it recorded, he did
his duty towards his backers as a fighting man, and acted so
humanely towards an opponent, that, to the end of life, Langan had
the highest respect for him as a man. Langan put up his arms in
attitude, but they were soon rendered useless, Spring driving him
down without giving punishment. When time was called, Langan was
insensible to the call, and thus, after a contest of one hour and
forty-nine minutes, the hat was thrown up, and Spring was declared
the conqueror, amidst the loudest shouts of approbation. Mr. Jackson
and Mr. Sant immediately ascended the stage. Mr. Sant congratulated
Spring on his victory, but concluded, “If you ever fight again, I
will never speak to you any more, Tom; I never saw such bad hands in
any battle.” Spring replied, “Sir, I never will.” He then left the
knee of his second, and went up to Langan, and laid hold of his
hand. The Irish Champion had not yet recovered, but on opening his
eyes, he asked in a faint tone, “Is the battle over?” “Yes,” replied
Belcher. “Oh dear!” articulated Langan. Spring immediately shook his
hand again, and said, “Jack, you and I must be friends to the end of
our lives; and anything that is within my power, I will do to serve
you. When I see you in town I will give you £10.”

REMARKS.—This contest was one of the fairest battles ever witnessed.
The principals had twenty-four square feet for their exertions,
without the slightest interruption throughout the mill. The seconds
and bottle-holders did their duty like men; they remained as
fixtures during the whole of the fight, except when the rounds were
at an end, and their assistance became necessary.[9] The umpires
were gentlemen—an Englishman for Spring, and an Irishman for
Langan—and they both did their duty. They watched every movement of
the men, that nothing like foul play should be attempted on either
side, and had the satisfaction of feeling there was no difference of
opinion between them in any instance whatever, and therefore no
necessity to call on the referee. Langan was beaten against his
will; and the conduct of Belcher deserves the highest praise as a
second: he stuck to his man; and we must here observe that his
humanity ought not to be called in question. He was anxious that no
reports should reach Ireland, or be scattered over England, that he
had given in for his man. Langan, previous to the battle, requested,
nay, insisted, that neither his bottle-holder nor second should take
upon themselves that decision, which, he declared, only rested in
his own bosom. They complied with it. After thirty minutes had
elapsed, it appeared to be the general opinion of the ring, by the
advantages Spring had gained, that the battle would be decided in
forty minutes; but at that period Langan recovered, and Spring
became weaker, and the best judges declared they did not know what
to make of it. The strength of Langan, certainly for several rounds,
did not make it decidedly safe for Spring. The superior science of
Spring won him the battle; and this confirmed a celebrated tactician
in the memorable observation that he “always viewed Tom as an
artificial fighter—he meant that he had no ‘natural’ hits belonging
to him; and hence always placed him in the highest place on the
boxing list.” So Tom Spring overcame the defects of nature, and,
without what are vulgarly called great “natural” capabilities for
fighting, has become the Champion of England. He is the greatest
master of the art of self-defence, and, if he could not hit hard
himself, almost prevented others from hitting him at all. His
stopping in this battle was admirable, and he continually got out of
danger by the goodness of his legs. Always cool and collected, he
proved himself one of the safest men in the P.R. to back, because he
could not be gammoned out of his own mode of milling. Before the
company quitted the ground £50 were collected for Langan, which was
afterwards increased three-fold. Spring was much bruised by his
falls on the stage, and complained of them as his principal
inconvenience. He now announced, a second time, his retirement from
the ring.

Spring beat all the men he ever fought with in the prize ring; and in the whole of his contests lost but one battle. It is a curious coincidence, that on Whit-Tuesday, 1823, he defeated the formidable Neat, near Andover, and on Whit-Tuesday, 1824, he overcame the brave Langan. Spring, therefore, won three great battles in one twelvemonth, and one thousand pounds into the bargain; for instance—

With Neat £200
With Langan 300
Ditto 500
——————
£1,000

On Spring’s return to the Swan Hotel, Chichester, he was received by the shouts of the populace all along the road; the ladies waving their handkerchiefs at the windows as he passed along. Langan, so soon as he had recovered a little from the effects of the battle, left the stage amidst loudly expressed approbation: “You are an extraordinary fellow, Langan,” “A brave man,” etc. The Irish Champion, accompanied by Belcher and his backer, also received great applause on his return to the Dolphin, in Chichester. Spring was immediately put to bed, and bled, and a warm bath prepared for him. His hands were in a bad state, and his face exhibited more punishment than appeared upon the stage, yet he was cheerful, and quite collected. The same kind attention was paid to Langan; and on being asked how he felt himself? he replied, “Very well; I have lost the battle, but it owing to my want of condition; I am not quite twelve stone; I have been harassed all over the country; I have travelled two hundred and sixty miles within the last two days; I was feverish, and on the road instead of my bed on Saturday night; I wanted rest.” After making his man comfortable, Belcher, accompanied by his bottle-holder, and also Colonel O’Neil, in the true spirit of chivalry, all rivalry now being at an end, paid a visit to the bedside of Spring. Here all was friendly, as it should be, and all parties were only anxious for the recovery of both the pugilists. “How is Langan?” said Spring to Belcher. “He is doing well,” replied Tom. “I am glad of it,” said Spring. “We have had a fair fight, we have been licked, and I am satisfied,” observed Belcher. All parties shook hands over the bed of the conqueror. On leaving Spring, Mr. Sant, followed by Tom Cribb and Ned Painter, immediately returned with Colonel O’Neil to the bedside of Langan. Mr. Sant observed, “Well Langan, how do you do—do you know me? You can’t see me.” “Yes, sir,” replied the fallen hero. “I am Spring’s backer,” said Mr. Sant, “but, nevertheless, your friend.” “I am obliged to you, sir,” answered Langan; “if it was not for such gentlemen as you in the sporting world, we should have no fights. Indeed, Spring is a smart, clever fellow, and I wish him well.” “That is liberal,” said Painter; “I am happy to hear one brave man speak well of another.” The visitors now retired, and left Langan to repose.

Spring left his bed early in the evening; and his first visit he paid to Langan, at the Dolphin; they met like brave men, and on taking his departure he shook Langan by the hand, leaving ten pounds in it.

The Champion left Chichester at eight o’clock on Wednesday morning, in an open barouche, accompanied by Mr. Sant. He was cheered out of the town by the populace; and, on his entrance into the metropolis, he was also greeted with loud marks of approbation.

We here close the unstained and untarnished career of Tom Spring, as a pugilist; if we wished to point a moral to his brother professors, a better proof that “honesty is the best policy,” than the esteem which Spring earned and held throughout his long career, could not be desired. This respect has exhibited itself in several public testimonials, to say nothing of innumerable private marks of respect. Spring, who had been keeping a house, the Booth Hall, in the city of Hereford, on the retirement of Tom Belcher became landlord of the Castle, in Holborn; and, as the present seems the most fitting opportunity for a brief sketch of this headquarters of sporting, we shall make no apology for here introducing a brief history of this once noted sporting resort.

The Castle Tavern was first opened as a sporting house about seventy years ago, by the well-known Bob Gregson; and designated, at that period, “Bob’s Chop House.” (See GREGSON, _ante_.)

The Castle Tavern was viewed as a “finger-post” by his countrymen, as the “Lancashire House;” and considered by them a most eligible situation to give their Champion a call on their visits to the metropolis. It is rather singular that Bob Gregson rose, in the estimation of the sporting world, from defeat; he fought only four battles in the P.R., and lost them all. Indeed, Bob’s character as a boxer reminds us of the simile used in the House of Commons, by Charles James Fox, who observed of the fighting Austrian General, Clairfait, who had been engaged in one-and-twenty battles in the cause of his country, that he might be compared to a drum, for he was never heard of but when he was beaten. Just so with Gregson. Nevertheless, the Castle Tavern rose rapidly into note, soon after Bob showed himself the landlord of it.

In mine host’s parlour, or little snuggery, behind the bar—considered a sort of _sanctum sanctorum_, a house of lords to the fancy, where commoners never attempted to intrude upon the company—Gregson carried on a roaring trade. “Heavy wet,” or anything in the shape of it, except at meal-times, was entirely excluded from this “Repository of Choice Spirits,” where Champagne of the best quality was tossed off like ale, Madeira, Claret, Hock, and other choice wines, handed about, while Port and Sherry were the common drink of the snuggery. It might be invidious, if not improper, to mention the names of the visitors who spent an hour or two, on different occasions, in this little spot, famed for sporting, mirth, harmony, and good fellowship; let it suffice, and with truth, to observe, that persons of some consequence in the state were to be seen in it, independent of officers, noblemen, actors, artists, and other men of ability, connected with the “upper ten thousand.” John Emery, distinguished as a comedian on the boards of Covent Garden, and a man of immense talent in every point of view, spent many of his leisure hours in “the snuggery.” George Kent, the ring reporter, was also eminent here for keeping the game alive. He was of a gay disposition, fond of life in any shape; when perfectly sober one of the most peaceable men in the kingdom, and an excellent companion, but, when he got a little liquor in his noddle, a word and a blow were too often his failings, and which came first doubtful. The late Captain D——, connected with one of the most noble families in the kingdom, and one of the highest fanciers in the sporting world, in consequence of being six feet four inches and a half in height, was likewise a great frequenter of the “Repository of Choice Spirits.” Numerous others might be noted, but these three will be sufficient as a sample of the company to be met with in Bob Gregson’s snuggery—where there was wit at will, the parties sought out each other to please and be pleased, “Dull Care” could never obtain a seat, and fun to be had at all times. Sporting was the general theme, but not to the exclusion of the topics of the day. Heavy matches were made here; and certainly the period alluded to may be marked as the “Corinthian age of the Fancy.”

The sun, for a time, shone brilliantly over this Temple of the Fancy; but poor Bob, like too many of his class, did not make hay while it was in his power. The scene changed, the clouds of misfortune overwhelmed him, and, in 1818, the Lancashire hero was compelled to take a voyage on board his Majesty’s “Fleet,” not only for the recovery of his health, but to obtain a certificate against future attacks of the enemy. Thus ended the reign of Bob Gregson, at the Castle Tavern, Holborn.

For a few months a sort of stoppage occurred at the Castle; the sporting world was missing, and comparative silence reigned throughout the house, when the sprightly, stylish, well-conducted Tom Belcher, in the summer of 1814 (under the auspices of his sincere friend, and almost father, Mr. John Shelton), appeared in the character of landlord. The house had undergone repairs; the rooms were retouched by the painter; elegance and cleanliness, backed by civility, became the order of the day, and a prime stock of liquors and wines was laid in. Tom’s opening dinner was completely successful, and the Fancy immediately rallied round a hero who had nobly contended for victory in thirteen prize battles. Tom was considered the most accomplished boxer and sparrer of the day; and the remembrance, likewise, that he was the brother of the renowned Jem Belcher, were points in themselves of great attraction in the sporting world. The Castle again became one of the most favourite resorts of the Fancy in general.

During the time Tom Belcher was the landlord of the Castle Tavern the famous Daffy Club was started by Mr. James Soares.

During the principal time of Tom’s residence at the Castle, the members of the sporting world were in “high feather.” Patrons “came out” to give it support. No man knew better how to get up a purse, make a match, or back a man, than Tom Belcher. He was always smart, and exemplarily well dressed, whenever he made his appearance in the ring, upon a race-course, or indeed in any situation before the public. Belcher was a keen observer of society: he measured his way through life, and every step he took turned to good account. He had lots of sporting dinners, numerous gay little suppers, and plenty of matches on the board to excite the attention of the fancy. “The Daffy Club” became very popular in the sporting world, and for a long time was crowded to excess; indeed,

“Fortune seem’d buckled to his back!”

Everything went right; Tom stuck to the Castle—he was always to be found at his post; and the Castle in turn fortified him at all points; and although Tom was prompt at times to lay a heavy bet, prudence was generally at his elbow to prevent him from getting out of his depth. Tom was far from a gambler; the hazard table had no charms for him, and he scarcely ever sported a shilling, except upon a horse-race or a fight. His principal style of betting was, to use his own words, “Blow my dicky, I’ll bet a guinea and a goose!” and if he did not like to make a bet, he would observe, “I’ll leave it all to the cook!”

Tom Belcher, after fourteen years’ residence at the Castle Tavern, was enabled, by his civil conduct, attention to business, and good luck, to retire from the busy world. If Tom did not retire in a “shower of gold,” he, nevertheless, put by a good quantity of the “sweeteners of life,” to render his retreat to the country safe and pleasant.

At this juncture Tom Spring, who had not only been losing his time amongst his countrymen at the Booth Hall, in the city of Hereford, but, what was worse, his hard-earned money, was determined, when the opportunity offered, to have another “shy” in London: therefore, after several sets-to had taken place between the “two Toms,” the match was made, the money posted, and Tom Spring appeared in the character of “mine host,” at the Castle Tavern, Holborn.

The subject of this memoir did not enter upon his new capacity without possessing the highest claims to the notice of the patrons of boxing, from his victorious career; and no man, from his general conduct and deportment, was considered by the sporting world so eligible in every point of view to succeed Tom Belcher.

With the close of Spring’s life the glories of the Castle were extinguished; but ere we chronicle this event we will pause to notice the testimonials with which his many admiring friends at various times presented him.

The first was a vase in silver, entitled “The Hereford Cup,” of the weight of fifty ounces. The inscription on this local mark of esteem from the inhabitants of his native place sufficiently explains the motive of its donors. Its presentation and inscription will be found at page 23.

In the following year (1824), after his first battle with Langan, some Manchester sporting men, out of respect to his honour, integrity, and noble maintenance of the English championship against all comers, decided upon their testimonial in the form of a silver vase, of elegant proportions and massive weight. This, called “The Manchester Cup,” also decorated Tom’s buffet on public and festive occasions. It was thus inscribed:—

“This Cup was presented to
THOMAS WINTER SPRING
By a Party of his Friends in Manchester,
Not only for the Upright and Manly Conduct uniformly displayed by him in
the Prize Ring,
But also as a Man,
And as a Sincere Token of the Esteem
In which they hold his Private Character.
Manchester, 12th of April, 1824.”

The third and most valuable public testimonial (for Tom had many gifts of snuff-boxes, canes, pencil-cases, etc., from private friends), was known as “The Champion Testimonial,” and consisted of a noble tankard in silver, of the capacity of one gallon, or six bottles of wine, with a lining of 450 sovereigns, the balance of a subscription of over £500 raised by the ex-Champion’s friends. The tankard, which was executed by Messrs. Hunt and Roskell, is a beautiful work of art, ornamented with chased bands of leaves of the British oak and English rose. The cover was surmounted by a bold acorn, the outer edge having, in raised letters, “THE SPRING TESTIMONIAL.” On the shield it bears the inscription:—

“Presented
By Public Subscription to
THOMAS WINTER SPRING,
EX-CHAMPION OF ENGLAND,
In Testimony of the Sincere Respect in which he is held
For his Pure and Honourable Conduct
During his Long and Unblemished Career
In Public and Private Life.
1846.”

After an excellent dinner (on Tuesday, May 19, 1846), presided over by the editor of _Bell’s Life in London_ (Vincent George Dowling, Esq.), the Chairman took occasion thus to allude to the letters of various distant subscribers: “Every letter he had seen bore testimony to the public and private worth of Spring, and spoke of him as a man whose unblemished integrity, benevolence of heart, urbanity of disposition, and unquestionable courage, entitled him to the highest praise. In all and every of these sentiments he concurred. From the first hour he had known him he had watched his conduct, and he could conscientiously say that in his opinion a more honest or a more high-principled man did not exist. But in whatever light he might regard this testimony towards Spring, it had a higher value in his eyes, as being the representative of those sentiments of admiration with which the feelings of honour and honesty were regarded by every class of the community. It was a proof that such qualities were not overlooked, and he only regretted that every pugilist in England could not be assembled in that room to witness the fruits of a career distinguished by these virtues, as it would afford them the best encouragement to persevere in the same course, and probably elicit similar marks of favour.” After some further laudatory remarks, the Chairman presented the testimonial, with an earnest belief that it would be received with becoming sentiments of gratitude, and in the hope that Spring might long live to see it grace his table, in addition to his other cups, as a sterling representative of his merits, and of the sincere respect to which he had entitled himself.

After a short pause Spring rose, almost overpowered by his feelings. He knew not, he said, how to express in words the overflowing sentiments of gratitude with which his heart was bursting. He had certainly endeavoured through life to steer the straight-forward and honest course, and when he looked inwardly he could not charge himself with ever having given ground for shaking the confidence of his friends (hear). Still he could not persuade himself he was better than other men, or that he had entitled himself to this magnificent token of public favour—for public it was, arising as it had from the spontaneous contribution of a large and mixed portion of his countrymen—to whom he could not say how sincerely he was obliged, or how deeply sensible he was of their munificent liberality. When he received the cup presented to him at Manchester, and subsequently that given to him by his friends in Herefordshire, both of which were then on the table, and when to these were added other tokens, less in value, but not less dearly appreciated, he could not but feel proud; but when these were followed by the testimonial now presented to him, he candidly confessed the fondest wishes of his ambition had been realised. He should indeed cherish it with a becoming sense of its intrinsic and representative value, and would, in the closing years of his life, look back to this day as one of surpassing interest to himself and to all those who were dear to him. Here Spring could no longer sustain his self-possession, and placing his hand on the tankard with deep emotion, he concluded by saying, “I can only thank you, and all else I might say I must leave to your own hearts to imagine.” (Loud and continued cheers.)

Caunt, Ned Neale, Frank Redmond, Johnny Broome, Owen Swift, Dan Dismore, Joe Phelps, etc., were among the pugilists present; and Mr. Sant, one of the earliest backers and a constant friend of Tom Spring, after a warm eulogy on mine host, proposed “The Subscribers to the Testimonial.”

TOM SPRING’S MONUMENT IN NORWOOD CEMETERY.
]

From this period to that of his death, on the 20th of August, 1851, Spring dispensed the hospitalities of the Castle, never losing a friend, except by the hand of death. In his later days, family difficulties, and too great a confidence in self-styled friends, who induced him to execute turf commissions, and when the thing went wrong were absentees or defaulters, added to his embarrassments. Still he held on, universally respected by all who knew him until his 56th year, when pale death struck him down somewhat suddenly, the blow being dealt through a heart disease of some years’ standing. His funeral took place with becoming solemnity on Sunday, the 25th of August, 1851, his remains being followed by several mourning coaches and other carriages to the grave. In the first carriage were his only surviving son, Melchior Winter; Mr. Price, of Hereford, his solicitor and executor; his firm friend, Mr. Elbam, of Piccadilly; and the writer of these pages. Poor Tom lies buried in the Norwood Cemetery, beneath the monument which we have here engraved. “Peace be to his manes!” Few men who have led a public life have less reason to dread the last call of “Time,” than Thomas Winter Spring.