, for he is a
Welshman. But how shall I name them all? they were there by dozens, and
all tremendous in their way. There was Bulldog Hudson and fearless
Scroggins, who beat the conqueror of Sam the Jew. There was Black
Richmond--no, he was not there, but I knew him well; he was the most
dangerous of blacks, even with a broken thigh. There was Purcell, who
could never conquer till all seemed over with him. There was--what!
shall I name thee last? ay, why not? I believe that thou art the last of
all that strong family still above the sod, where mayst thou long
continue--true piece of English stuff, Tom of Bedford--sharp as winter,
kind as spring.

Hail to thee, Tom of Bedford, or by whatever name it may please thee to
be called, Spring or Winter. Hail to thee, six-foot Englishman of the
brown eye, worthy to have carried a six-foot bow at Flodden, where
England's yeomen triumphed over Scotland's king, his clans and chivalry.
Hail to thee, last of England's bruisers, after all the many victories
which thou hast achieved--true English victories, unbought by yellow
gold; need I recount them? nay, nay! they are already well known to
fame--sufficient to say that Bristol's Bull and Ireland's Champion were
vanquished by thee, and one mightier still, gold itself, thou didst
overcome; for gold itself strove in vain to deaden the power of thy arm;
and thus thou didst proceed till men left off challenging thee, the
unvanquishable, the incorruptible. 'Tis a treat to see thee, Tom of
Bedford, in thy "public" in Holborn way, whither thou hast retired with
thy well-earned bays. 'Tis Friday night, and nine by Holborn clock.
There sits the yeoman at the end of his long room, surrounded by his
friends: glasses are filled, and a song is the cry, and a song is sung
well suited to the place; it finds an echo in every heart--fists are
clenched, arms are waved, and the portraits of the mighty fighting men of
yore, Broughton and Slack and Ben, which adorn the walls, appear to smile
grim approbation, whilst many a manly voice joins in the bold chorus:--

"Here's a health to old honest John Bull,
When he's gone we shan't find such another,
And with hearts and with glasses brim full,
We will drink to old England, his mother".

But the fight! with respect to the fight, what shall I say? Little can
be said about it--it was soon over; some said that the brave from town,
who was reputed the best man of the two, and whose f