“A most interesting match will take place on Tuesday, August 17, 1819, at five o’clock in the afternoon, in which The Nonpareil will exhibit in a new character. The Commander-in-Chief will preside. It will be a game set-to, and cutting up will prevail, while the claret will be in full supply. The visitors, if they do not find themselves in Chancery, will be in the lane that leads to it. The Hole-in-the-Wall will be the rendezvous on this occasion, where friendship and harmony will do their best to crown Jack Randall’s latest hit.”

From this period we do not hear of Jack in the ring, though he constantly put on the gloves at benefits at the Fives Court, often donning the mufflers with the scientific Tom Belcher, his brother boniface and neighbour at the Castle. The following anecdote, headed “Gallantry of the Nonpareil,” is given on the authority of “Boxiana:”—

“On Thursday evening, June 28, 1821, as the Nonpareil was taking one of his ‘training’ walks, in company with Josh. Hudson and two amateurs, near White Conduit Fields, a lady and gentlemen were passing, when some very indecent and unmanly allusions were made to them by four fellows. The gentleman endeavoured to turn away from these blackguards, when they assailed him and the lady more rudely than ever. The Nonpareil immediately put in a small taste on one of the fellow’s nobs, that floored him. On his getting up, the Nonpareil took him up to the lady, and insisted upon his begging her pardon, which the fellow did upon his knees: the other three refusing to do so, were so severely caned that they could scarcely walk afterwards. Some brick-makers, who observed the circumstance, immediately left their work, and came to the assistance of the blackguards, when Randall floored two of them. Josh. Hudson also made some play with the ‘men of clay,’ and on some person crying ‘go it, Jack Randall,’ the name was quite sufficient, and the astonished brick-makers begged his pardon and bolted, sans ceremonie.”

During the two years of Randall’s retirement, Martin had shone as a bright star in the pugilistic sphere. He had conquered the renowned Josh. Hudson, the John Bull Fighter; beaten the “hard-hitting” Bristol hero, Cabbage; disposed of the pretensions of the “slashing” Phil. Sampson, the Birmingham youth; floored the pretentious Gipsy Cooper at Lewes races; and finally disposed of Josh. Hudson’s brother David at Moulsey. This led to a second match with Ned Turner, by whom in his early career Martin had been defeated. In this affair Randall backed Turner, and with Tom Belcher seconded him in the battle. Turner’s defeat at the hands of Martin so vexed Randall that in a moment of irritation he declared his readiness to fight Martin for £300. This was foolish and in bad taste, as Randall had formally taken leave of the ring two years previously, with a public challenge to all England at eleven stone, for 500 guineas. This sudden challenge was not immediately accepted, as the backers of Martin hesitated at the largeness of the sum; but the friends of Martin, upon weighing the facts of Randall’s recent illness, his life as a publican, and the supposed inroads of “blue ruin” upon his constitution, screwed up their courage and signed articles for the £300. It is stated in contemporary papers that upwards of £200,000 were dependent upon the issue of this fight, and that one gentleman had a book of £5,000, at six and seven to four on Randall.

On Tuesday morning, September 16, 1821, long before daylight, and all the preceding night, the roads leading to Crawley Downs, Sussex, were covered with vehicles of every description, so great was the interest excited throughout the sporting world to witness the Nonpareil once more display his skill in the art of self-defence. The ring was made in a field, within a mile of East Grinstead, in which Martin threw up his hat; but, owing to some misunderstanding between the persons conducting this business in the absence of the Commander-in-chief, the fight was removed to Crawley Downs, but not till hundreds had paid a heavy toll for passing through a gate, which sums of money of course were not refunded on changing the scene of action. For a long time it was thought no fight would take place. By this time the multitude had so increased that it was deemed necessary to enlarge the ring; and about three o’clock, Randall, in a white “upper Benjamin,” arm-in-arm with his backers, appeared, and, with much coolness threw his hat into the ropes. Shortly afterwards, Martin, accompanied by his backers, displaying their white toppers, also approached the ring, and answered the token of defiance by sending his castor into the ring. Martin was loudly applauded by the spectators. Tom Spring and an amateur were seconds for “the Master of the Rolls;” Paddington Jones and “Cicero” Holt officiated for Randall. The combatants on meeting each other shook hands in the most friendly manner. Current betting six to four on Randall.

Round 1.—On stripping, the frame of Randall was a perfect picture for the anatomist, and every person was astonished at the very fine condition he exhibited. The confidence he displayed was remarkable. His face had no trait of ferocity about it, but, on the contrary, cheerfulness and true courage. Martin was lighter in person than heretofore, but his condition was said to be, by his backers, equal to the finest racehorse. His legs, which were covered with striped silk stockings, were round and elegant, and the tout ensemble was that of a boxer capable of performing great execution. He smiled and appeared confident. On placing themselves in attitude, Randall was the object of attraction all over the ring; he stood as firm as a rock. The position of Martin was good, but he did not appear to stand so steady as his opponent. A minute elapsed in looking at each other, but the eyes of Randall seemed almost to penetrate his opponent. Both anxious for an opportunity to make a hit. Martin smiled. Randall made a sort of feint with his left hand, which was well stopped by Martin. Manœuvring and dodging each other for a few steps, which was succeeded by a pause. Randall endeavoured to put in a tremendous right-handed blow, but missed his object. Martin now ventured to take the lead, and exerted himself to make his right and left hand tell, but Randall with the utmost dexterity stopped them both. Martin felt tired and dropped his arms; but, on perceiving Randall ready to take advantage of this opening, he hastily resumed a defensive attitude, when the Nonpareil immediately went to work, and planted a severe right-handed hit just above the wind, which made the Master of the Rolls bite his lips. Another pause succeeded; but the attitudes of the men were uncommonly fine. The action of the muscles was beautiful; and the arms of Martin, and the shoulders of Randall, were studies for the artist. The combatants closed on Randall’s decoying Martin to follow him to his favourite corner of the ring, and in this situation, often as the Nonpareil had astonished the amateurs with his forte for fibbing, he now put forth such a “bit of good truth” as positively to terrify the spectators with the terrible execution he was capable of administering. He fibbed Martin with his left hand in the most rapid manner, and then changed him on his arm like a baby, and repeated four or five blows on his face and neck, operating so decisively on the jugular vein that the eyes of Martin turned up, and he foamed at the mouth. A few drops of claret followed, which appeared to have been drawn from his ear, and Randall did not leave him till he was within four inches of the ground. Martin was now so stupid that the back part of his head fell against the stake; but the mischief had been done before this period. “It’s all up,” was the cry; and to describe the consternation of the ring, or to depict the countenances of the spectators, would defy the talents of a Lavater. Martin was picked up in a state of stupor, and remained insensible for a long period after time was called. He was carried out of the ring; but in the course of half an hour, when in bed, and attended by the P. C. doctor, Mr. Hughes, a gentleman possessing superior talents as a medical man, he recognized Spring, and, on opening his eyes, with the utmost astonishment inquired where he was, and if he had lost it? Randall had only a slight mark on the tip of his nose and under his right eye.

Remarks.—This fight is without a parallel, it having been won in one round, occupying nearly eight minutes. Although so short, yet the excellence of Randall was so great that no one could have complained to go fifty miles at any time to witness such a display of the art. So finished a boxer as Randall was never seen in the prize ring. The attitude of Martin attracted great attention and praise; and the extreme caution evinced on both sides established the advantages of coolness and a knowledge of tactics. Till the closing occurred, the general opinion seemed to be that Martin had none the worst of it at out-fighting; but when the Nonpareil got in (and right truly is Randall named a Nonpareil, for where is his fellow to be found among the milling coves of his weight?) he held Martin as tight in his grasp as if he had been screwed in a vice. After the fight it was ascertained that Martin did not weigh more than two pounds heavier than Randall. The character of the Master of the Rolls had hitherto stood very high in the opinion of the sporting world for his scrupulous attention to training, and it is true he was never attached to wetting his neck; but, poor fellow, like our common ancestor, Adam, it is certain he was not proof against another temptation.

and “true ’tis pity,” and “pity ’tis, ’tis true!” Martin might have lost the fight on the above account, had the battle come to a long contest, and stamina been required; but in the present instance the repeated blows he received on the jugular vein must have finished him off hand.

As to Martin he attributed the loss of the fight to an accident, and issued a challenge for a third contest. Randall replied that he had declared beforehand that, win or lose, this should be his last battle, and moreover that his challenge was the result of a promise to Turner, that if Martin beat that boxer he would fight him himself.

We shall make no apology for transferring a letter from an eyewitness, who came up from Cambridge, to a university friend, as the best report of this eventful fight and its accompanying incidents.

“Agreeably to promise, I sit down to write you some account of the great pugilistic events of yesterday, such as they appeared to my inexperienced eyes, and such probably as they would have done to yours. The intense interest excited in our minds by the sporting intelligence conveyed by the London press, and the difficulty of discriminating the plain, simple, unvarnished fact, amidst the eloquence and metaphorical colouring in which battles are narrated, renders it necessary that we ourselves should, once at least, see a prize-fight, in order perfectly to understand the events of the day, and be able to converse rationally on matters which are the subject of discussion in every body’s mouth. I was accordingly determined to see this fight, but it was a matter of tenfold more difficulty than I had anticipated.

“I had expected that our sporting friend’s letter of introduction to —— would have made everything easy, as that gentleman is supposed to be in the secret of all the sporting world. Nothing farther, however, could be learned, except that it was supposed that it would be on Crawley Downs, and a reason was given for this selection, that it would be an accommodation to the Brighton amateurs, who would in that case contribute £40 or £50 towards the reward of the performers. Nothing, however, was decided, and the amateurs, who were determined at all events to see the sports of the day, were written to by their friends to come up to London to head quarters, as the only means of making sure of not being disappointed. In fact, numerous amateurs arrived from Norwich, Canterbury, Cheltenham, Bristol, and other country towns, and at a tavern kept by Mr. Thomas Belcher, of fighting notoriety, friends from all these different places, attracted by kindred feelings, renewed their acquaintance.

“By-the-bye, you would be surprised how successful the fighting men are when they set up a place of public resort. In the country places, ale and strong liquors are best sold under the patronage of the Duke of Wellington; and his head being hung up over the door is a strong inducement for a genuine Englishman to enter, quench his thirst, and promote the revenue of his country. In Paris, at their coffee-houses, we observed they always had an elegant, young, and handsome female seated in a conspicuous place, as an object of attraction to the house; but the best painted head of the Duke of Wellington in the country, or the finest woman in Paris, never drew so respectable an assemblage as is brought together by the intense admiration felt for the heroism and manhood of Tom Cribb, Jack Randall, or Tom Belcher. The other sporting publicans all do well, and have their coteries of friends who patronise them, and find the liquors nowhere so genuine and constitutional as in the houses of these hardy supporters of English glory. It would have astonished you had you seen what an assemblage was at Belcher’s for some nights before the battle. You might have stood an hour before you could have got a seat, and barmaids and waiters were as much fatigued in serving out the liquors as the combatants after serving out to each other in the prize ring. The money was all alive. Five, ten, twenty, and fifty pound notes were common as waste paper, and were staked as freely on the event. It is wonderful how much the revenue must have benefited by the stimulus given to business before and after a great battle. One thing, however, I detest, and that is, that British amateurs should drink brandy, as many of them do. It is a suspicious liquor, and tastes of contraband. Let us stick to true brown, or real British dew; they accord best with the constitution. At Belcher’s there is a ‘Daffy Club,’ which makes this observance their leading rule. But to return to the history of the fights.

“A Council of War, as I was told, was held, at which were present a gallant general and three other amateurs, who had backed the men, and the historian of the prize ring; and, on comparing intelligence, and considering the letters from the various parts of the country, Crawley Downs was decided to be the place least likely to be subject to interruption. This was known at the sporting houses on Monday evening; and as it was upwards of thirty miles from town, and only known that night, it was put out of the power of the walking amateurs to attend. Here I cannot help regretting that the interruption given to sports occasionally by parsons and other ill-advised magistrates, should render it a matter of prudence to adopt such a course to prevent a numerous assemblage on such national occasions. It is depriving an immense mass of the lower orders of the benefits of the lessons of valour, forbearance, perseverance, and manly spirit, to be learned around the prize ring, and nowhere else. It is, I conceive, a most aristocratic proceeding, trenching on the liberties and pleasures of the people, and ought not to be continued. If we did not know our ‘patriots,’ as they call themselves, to be often mere humbugs, and to love nothing but what brings forward themselves in conspicuous characters, they would come forth and assert in Parliament and public meetings the people’s rights on such occasions. But, like the methodist and methodistical parsons, they hate all sport that withdraws attention from themselves. However, I do allow the assemblage was, in consequence of the absence of the pedestrian fancy, very select. Nine out of ten of the men on the ground had the dress and appearance of gentlemen, and the vehicles and cattle were certainly a show worth coming all the way from London to see.

“It was long before the business of the day commenced, and the amateurs walked about and friends from all parts of England met and exchanged salutations, and communicated intelligence of the state of science in their respective neighbourhoods.

“The carriages, waggons, and stands erected for viewing the fight, were arranged in some places three or four behind each other, in an oval of 200 feet by 250 feet, and were covered with spectators. The ring was at first of smaller dimensions, but it was necessary to enlarge it. There was immense trouble to the pugilistic characters on the ground with their whips in forcing back the multitude, who were within the enclosure, to the carriages. At last the men stripped and set-to. They stood before one another, with their eyes directed forward, watching every move. They changed their ground, but still their arms kept in parallel, marching and countermarching to prevent surprise. It reminded military amateurs of the parallel movements of Wellington and Marmont before the glorious ‘mill’ at Salamanca. At last they exchanged hits. Randall put in a blow on the breast, which made it appear red; he had a blow under the eye and on the nose, but made a most dreadful return, and came in on his man, caught him in one arm, and his other went to work so fast, it seemed like the motion of a mill wheel in full speed. Both fell, and were picked up; but Martin’s head hung down like an apple on its stalk. The seconds put it in its proper place, but it dropped again. They moved it backwards and forwards, like a baker rolling about a loaf in flour; they threw water on him, waved their hats to cool him, but all was not enough; and when thirty seconds had elapsed, time was called, but his senses were gone. Thus was the battle lost. The amateurs were sadly disappointed as to their hopes of a long and beautiful fight: and from the attitudes of the men, and their known science and game qualities, it was fairly to be expected. It was reported Martin was killed; but the feelings of the spectators were relieved by word that, on being bled he became sensible, and in a fair way of soon doing well.

“The conqueror walked about on the ground, and enjoyed the admiration in which he was held by the spectators, and a flight of pigeons was let off to convey the intelligence to town.

“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,

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.

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

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

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.