his right arm was stiff andi helpless; and he
was freely spitting blood. The immortal
Heenan's right eye was closed-up with a huge
lump of blue flesh, produced by the Englishman's
well-directed and determined blows; his
upper lip, too, was puffed out, as if there
were six rows of gums and teeth behind it.
When Sayers gave a telling hit, he stopped,
and looked inquisitively at his adversary, to see
what damage he had done; and after Heenan
had knocked his opponent down, he turned to his
seconds, threw up both his arms, and opened
his swollen mouth in a gasping manner.

The excitement was now at its height; and a
constant roar of voices was kept up round the
ring. People at the back made desperate
attempts to mount the shoulders of those in front.
Nervous betting men, with heavy stakes upon
the contest, got out of the crowd, and walked
about the meadow. The wind hissed through
the trees, and the hundreds who clung to the
bending branches shouted loudly for each
combatant, according to the tide of battle. A few
county policemen came upon the field, to keep
up appearances, and, when they timidly
ventured to push into the ring, were quietly hustled
on one side by the savage spectators. A few
oaths were heard, but not many; the pale faces
round the inner circle became paler, the
compressed lips more compressed; bets of various
amounts were still loudly offered, and loudly
taken; outsiders leaped up and down with ceaseless
activity; the smacking blows of the
combatants were heard, and their visible effect was
described to excited inquirers, and the news
passed from mouth to mouth; opinions
fluctuated; the Englishman was abused or praised,
so was the American; the referee was nearly
smothered; and the only men who really seemed
to retain calmness were the two combatants,
their seconds, and the leading prize-fighters
present. When, at the end of two hours, and in
the thirty-seventh round, the American got the
neck of the Englishman across the rope, it was
not the fault of the general multitude that murder
was not presented to them as a crowning
treat for their money. The American was
requested to “hold him” by a thousand voices on
the ground, and in the trees; but at the height
of the uproar the ring was broken, the referee
was forced out of his place, and all became wild
confusion. This is no new ending to such a
contest. The referee was the editor already
referred to, who for years has done as much as a
gentleman in resolute earnest could, to imbue
these men with principles of honour, justice, and
self-restraint. Surely there is something wrong,
after all, in the “Noble Art” when he is set at
nought when most needed, and when the well-
conducted men among the pugilists cannot rely
upon their own brethren to preserve a clear
stage and no favour, but are forced to the
declaration (as they have been in this case) that
even the men of their careful selection are not
to be trusted with the limited responsibility of
keeping the Ring.

This fight has been declared “a draw,” and a
draw it certainly was in every sense of the word.
It drew hundreds of people from many parts of
the globe; it drew thousands from their beds; it
drew four or five thousand pounds sterling for a
special railway train, one half of which sum will
be divided, by arrangement, between the two men.
It drew all England from its usual business
engagements about mid-day, on the memorable
Tuesday, the 17th of April, 1860. It drew
thirty-five bales, containing two tons of
newspapers (the largest number ever shipped aboard
one ship), to America, at the earliest possible
moment. It drew several distinguished
mercantile bodies into subscribing testimonials for
the English champion; it drew uncountable
numbers of people into supporting a great
pugilistic revival.

It has been my misfortune to see many chance
fights of a determined character—one particularly
between two navigators in a sewer—and
though there was less “science” about them,
less (as one may say) of the ring dancing-master,
there was more real “punishment.” I find
it difficult to reconcile the appearance of both
Sayers and Heenan, the day after the fight, with
the accounts that were printed of the awful
character of the battle. There must surely be a little
exaggeration somewhere—perhaps everywhere?

Think what the unconscious exaggeration
floating about, is likely to be, when the
exaggeration of wild sentiment on this subject
gets Stock Exchanges, and Mercantile Exchanges,
and Heaven knows what agglomerations
of sensible and sober men together, to
receive the immortal Sayers with high public
distinction, and shower money on him. I do not
doubt that the sturdy and bold champion of
England is a thoroughly good fellow in his way
and in his place; I am very far from taking
on myself to assert that, within those limits, he
has not his honest uses; but I cannot forbear
asking now, after a pause of a few weeks, when
there has been time to cool, whether this great
pugilistic Revival, in this extravagant aspect,
is not a new and noteworthy instance of a great
moral epidemic? Is it not well that we should
turn it to advantage by so accounting and
remembering  it? Then, when we observe in
another country not our own, the next strange
contagion that may seize it, we shall be more
tolerant thereof. Then, when some new frenzy
sets in here, we shall not fall to tearing one
another to pieces about it, or to wresting Heaven
and Earth out of shape to account for it, but
shall say “it is a fever—an infection—will soon
expend its force as a disease, and go the mortal
way of the two immortal prize-fighters.”

To keep up appearances is a constant British
effort. In the keeping up of appearances
concerning this fight, the thing has been reduced to
a point so transparently absurd and hypocritical,
that the force of Humbug can go no further.
Will any member of Parliament, who was at the
fight, be so exemplary, therefore, as to “back his
opinions,” like a man and a Briton? Will he
protest against the professors and amateurs
of pugilism being steamed down a railway and