t
introduced bad faith amongst pugilists. He did not always speak the
truth, but at any rate he spoke it when he made that observation. Strange
people the Jews--endowed with every gift but one, and that the highest,
genius divine,--genius which can alone make of men demigods, and elevate
them above earth and what is earthy and what is grovelling; without which
a clever nation--and who more clever than the Jews?--may have Rambams in
plenty, but never a Fielding nor a Shakespeare; a Rothschild and a
Mendoza, yes--but never a Kean nor a Belcher.

So the bruisers of England are come to be present at the grand fight
speedily coming off; there they are met in the precincts of the old town,
near the Field of the Chapel, planted with tender saplings at the
restoration of sporting Charles, which are now become venerable elms, as
high as many a steeple; there they are met at a fitting rendezvous, where
a retired coachman, with one leg, keeps an hotel and a bowling-green. I
think I now see them upon the bowling-green, the men of renown, amidst
hundreds of people with no renown at all, who gaze upon them with timid
wonder. Fame, after all, is a glorious thing, though it lasts only for a
day. There's Cribb, the champion of England, and perhaps the best man in
England; there he is, with his huge, massive figure, and face wonderfully
like that of a lion. There is Belcher, the younger, not the mighty one,
who is gone to his place, but the Teucer Belcher, the most scientific
pugilist that ever entered a ring, only wanting strength to be, I won't
say what. He appears to walk before me now, as he did that evening, with
his white hat, white greatcoat, thin, genteel figure, springy step, and
keen, determined eye. Crosses him--what a contrast!--grim, savage
Shelton, who has a civil word for nobody, and a hard blow for
anybody--hard! one blow, given with the proper play of his athletic arm,
will unsense a giant. Yonder individual, who strolls about with his
hands behind him, supporting his brown coat lappets, under-sized, and who
looks anything but what he is, is the king of the light weights, so
called,--Randall! the terrible Randall, who has Irish blood in his veins;
not the better for that, nor the worse; and not far from him is his last
antagonist, Ned Turner, who, though beaten by him, still thinks himself
as good a man, in which he is, perhaps, right, for it was a near thing;
and "a better shentleman," in which he is quite right