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"Did you ever see Big Ben?"

"No, why do you ask?" But here we heard a noise, like that of a gig
driving up to the door, which was immediately succeeded by a violent
knocking and ringing, and after a little time, the servant who had
admitted me made his appearance in the room.

"Sir," said he, with a certain eagerness of manner, "here are two
gentlemen waiting to speak to you."

"Gentlemen waiting to speak to me! who are they?"

"I don't know, sir," said the servant; "but they look like sporting
gentlemen, and--and"--here he hesitated; "from a word or two they
dropped, I almost think that they come about the fight."

"About the fight," said the magistrate. "No! that can hardly be;
however, you had better show them in."

Heavy steps were now heard ascending the stairs, and the servant ushered
two men into the apartment. Again there was a barking, but louder than
that which had been directed against myself, for here were two intruders;
both of them were remarkable looking men, but to the foremost of them the
most particular notice may well be accorded: he was a man somewhat under
thirty, and nearly six feet in height. He was dressed in a blue coat,
white corduroy breeches, fastened below the knee with small golden
buttons; on his legs he wore white lamb's-wool stockings, and on his feet
shoes reaching to the ankles; round his neck was a handkerchief of the
blue and bird's eye pattern; he wore neither whiskers nor moustaches, and
appeared not to delight in hair, that of his head, which was of a light
brown, being closely cropped; the forehead was rather high, but somewhat
narrow; the face neither broad nor sharp, perhaps rather sharp than
broad; the nose was almost delicate; the eyes were grey, with an
expression in which there was sternness blended with something
approaching to feline; his complexion was exceedingly pale, relieved,
however, by certain pock-marks, which here and there studded his
countenance; his form was athletic, but lean; his arms long. In the
whole appearance of the man there was a blending of the bluff and the
sharp. You might have supposed him a bruiser; his dress was that of one
in all its minutiae; something was wanting, however, in his manner--the
quietness of the professional man; he rather looked like one performing
the part--well--very well--but still performing a part. His
companion!--there, indeed, was the bruiser--no mistake about him: a tall
massive man, with a broad countenance and a flattened nose; dressed like
a bruiser, but not like a bruiser going into the ring; he wore white
topped boots, and a loose brown jockey coat. As the first advanced
towards the table, behind which the magistrate sat, he doffed a white
castor from his head, and made rather a genteel bow; looking at me, who
sat somewhat on one side, he gave a kind of nod of recognition.

"May I request to know who you are, gentlemen?" said the magistrate.

"Sir," said the man in a deep, but not unpleasant voice, "allow me to
introduce to you my friend, Mr. ---, the celebrated pugilist;" and he
motioned with his hand towards the massive man with the flattened nose.

"And your own name, sir?" said the magistrate.

"My name is no matter," said the man; "were I to mention it to you, it
would awaken within you no feeling of interest. It is neither Kean nor
Belcher, and I have as yet done nothing to distinguish myself like either
of those individuals, or even like my friend here. However, a time may
come--we are not yet buried; and whensoever my hour arrives, I hope I
shall prove myself equal to my destiny, however high--

'Like a bird that's bred amongst the Helicons.'"

And here a smile half theatrical passed over his features.

"In what can I oblige you, sir?" said the magistrate.

"Well, sir; the soul of wit is brevity; we want a place for an
approaching combat between my friend here and a brave from town. Passing
by your broad acres this fine morning we saw a pightle, which we deemed
would suit. Lend us that pightle, and receive our thanks; 'twould be a
favour, though not much to grant: we neither ask for Stonehenge nor for
Tempe."

My friend looked somewhat perplexed; after a moment, however, he said,
with a firm but gentlemanly air, "Sir, I am sorry that I cannot comply
with your request."

"Not comply!" said the man, his brow becoming dark as midnight; and with
a hoarse and savage tone, "Not comply! why not?"

"It is impossible, sir; utterly impossible!"

"Why so?"

"I am not compelled to give my reason to you, sir, nor to any man."

"Let me beg of you to alter your decision," said the man, in a tone of
profound respect.

"Utterly impossible, sir; I am a magistrate."

"Magistrate! then fare ye well, for a green-coated buffer and a
Harmanbeck."

"Sir!" said the magistrate, springing up with a face fiery with wrath.
But, with a surly nod to me, the man left the apartment; and in a moment
more the heavy footsteps of himself and his companion were heard
descending the staircase.

"Who is that man?" said my friend, turning towards me.

"A sporting gentleman, well known in the place from which I come."

"He appeared to know you."

"I have occasionally put on the gloves with him."

"What is his name?"

CHAPTER XXV.

Doubts--Wise King of Jerusalem--Let Me See--A Thousand Years--Nothing
New--The Crowd--The Hymn--Faith--Charles Wesley--There He Stood--Farewell,
Brother--Death--Sun, Moon, and Stars--Wind on the Heath.

There was one question which I was continually asking myself at this
period, and which has more than once met the eyes of the reader who has
followed me through the last chapter. "What is truth?" I had involved
myself imperceptibly in a dreary labyrinth of doubt, and, whichever way I
turned, no reasonable prospect of extricating myself appeared. The means
by which I had brought myself into this situation may be very briefly
told; I had inquired into many matters, in order that I might become
wise, and I had read and pondered over the words of the wise, so called,
till I had made myself master of the sum of human wisdom; namely, that
everything is enigmatical and that man is an enigma to himself; thence
the cry of "What is truth?" I had ceased to believe in the truth of that
in which I had hitherto trusted, and yet could find nothing in which I
could put any fixed or deliberate belief. I was, indeed, in a labyrinth!
In what did I not doubt? With respect to crime and virtue I was in
doubt; I doubted that the one was blameable and the other praiseworthy.
Are not all things subjected to the law of necessity? Assuredly; time
and chance govern all things: yet how can this be? alas!

Then there was myself; for what was I born? Are not all things born to
be forgotten? That's incomprehensible: yet is it not so? Those
butterflies fall and are forgotten. In what is man better than a
butterfly? All then is born to be forgotten. Ah! that was a pang
indeed; 'tis at such a moment that a man wishes to die. The wise king of
Jerusalem, who sat in his shady arbours beside his sunny fishpools,
saying so many fine things, wished to die, when he saw that not only all
was vanity, but that he himself was vanity. Will a time come when all
will be forgotten that now is beneath the sun? If so, of what profit is
life?

In truth, it was a sore vexation of spirit to me when I saw, as the wise
man saw of old, that whatever I could hope to perform must necessarily be
of very temporary duration; and if so, why do it? I said to myself,
whatever name I can acquire, will it endure for eternity? scarcely so. A
thousand years? Let me see! What have I done already? I have learnt
Welsh, and have translated the songs of Ab Gwilym, some ten thousand
lines, into English rhyme; I have also learnt Danish, and have rendered
the old book of ballads cast by the tempest upon the beach into
corresponding English metre. Good! have I done enough already to secure
myself a reputation of a thousand years? No, no! certainly not; I have
not the slightest ground for hoping that my translations from the Welsh
and Danish will be read at the end of a thousand years. Well, but I am
only eighteen, and I have not stated all that I have done; I have learnt
many other tongues, and have acquired some knowledge even of Hebrew and
Arabic. Should I go on in this way till I am forty, I must then be very
learned; and perhaps, among other things, may have translated the Talmud,
and some of the great works of the Arabians. Pooh! all this is mere
learning and translation, and such will never secure immortality.
Translation is at best an echo, and it must be a wonderful echo to be
heard after the lapse of a thousand years. No! all I have already done,
and all I may yet do in the same way, I may reckon as nothing--mere
pastime; something else must be done. I must either write some grand
original work, or conquer an empire; the one just as easy as the other.
But am I competent to do either? Yes, I think I am, under favourable
circumstances. Yes, I think I may promise myself a reputation of a
thousand years, if I do but give myself the necessary trouble. Well! but
what's a thousand years after all, or twice a thousand years? Woe is me!
I may just as well sit still.

"Would I had never been born!" I said to myself; and a thought would
occasionally intrude. But was I ever born? Is not all that I see a
lie--a deceitful phantom? Is there a world, and earth, and sky?
Berkeley's doctrine--Spinosa's doctrine! Dear reader, I had at that time
never read either Berkeley or Spinosa. I have still never read them; who
are they, men of yesterday? "All is a lie--all a deceitful phantom," are
old cries; they come naturally from the mouths of those who, casting
aside that choicest shield against madness, simplicity, would fain be
wise as God, and can only know that they are naked. This doubting in the
"universal all" is most coeval with the human race: wisdom, so called,
was early sought after. All is a lie--a deceitful phantom--was said when
the world was yet young; its surface, save a scanty portion, yet
untrodden by human foot, and when the great tortoise yet crawled about.
All is a lie, was the doctrine of Buddh; and Buddh lived thirty centuries
before the wise king of Jerusalem, who sat in his arbours, beside his
sunny fishpools, saying many fine things, and, amongst others, "There is
nothing new under the sun!"

* * * * *

One day, whilst I bent my way to the heath of which I have spoken on a
former occasion, at the foot of the hills which formed it I came to a
place where a wagon was standing, but without horses, the shafts resting
on the ground; there was a crowd about it, which extended halfway up the
side of the neighbouring hill. The wagon was occupied by some half-a-
dozen men; some sitting, others standing--they were dressed in
sober-coloured habiliments of black or brown, cut in a plain and rather
uncouth fashion, and partially white with dust; their hair was short, and
seemed to have been smoothed down by the application of the hand; all
were bare-headed--sitting or standing, all were bare-headed. One of
them, a tall man, was speaking as I arrived; ere, however, I could
distinguish what he was saying, he left off, and then there was a cry for
a hymn "to the glory of God"--that was the word. It was a strange
sounding hymn, as well it might be, for everybody joined in it: there
were voices of all kinds, of men, of women, and of children--of those who
could sing, and of those who could not--a thousand voices all joined, and
all joined heartily; no voice of all the multitude was silent save mine.
The crowd consisted entirely of the lower classes, labourers and
mechanics, and their wives and children--dusty people, unwashed people,
people of no account whatever, and yet they did not look a mob. And when
that hymn was over--and here let me observe that, strange as it sounded,
I have recalled that hymn to mind, and it has seemed to tingle in my ears
on occasions when all that pomp and art could do to enhance religious
solemnity was being done--in the Sistine Chapel, what time the papal band
was in full play, and the choicest choristers of Italy poured forth their
melodious tones in presence of Batuschca and his cardinals--on the ice of
the Neva, what time the long train of stately priests, with their noble
beards and their flowing robes of crimson and gold, with their ebony and
ivory staves, stalked _along_, chanting their Sclavonian litanies in
advance of the mighty Emperor of the North and his Priberjensky guard of
giants, towards the orifice through which the river, running below in its
swiftness, is to receive the baptismal lymph:--when the hymn was over,
another man in the wagon proceeded to address the people; he was a much
younger man than the last speaker; somewhat square built and about the
middle height; his face was rather broad, but expressive of much
intelligence, and with a peculiar calm and serious look; the accent in
which he spoke indicated that he was not of these parts, but from some
distant district. The subject of his address was faith, and how it could
remove mountains. It was a plain address, without any attempt at
ornament, and delivered in a tone which was neither loud nor vehement.
The speaker was evidently not a practised one--once or twice he hesitated
as if for words to express his meaning, but still he held on, talking of
faith, and how it could remove mountains: "It is the only thing we want,
brethren, in this world; if we have that, we are indeed rich, as it will
enable us to do our duty under all circumstances, and to bear our lot,
however hard it may be--and the lot of all mankind is hard--the lot of
the poor is hard, brethren--and who knows more of the poor than I?--a
poor man myself, and the son of a poor man: but are the rich better off?
not so, brethren, for God is just. The rich have their trials too: I am
not rich myself, but I have seen the rich with careworn countenances; I
have also seen them in mad-houses; from which you may learn, brethren,
that the lot of all mankind is hard; that is, till we lay hold of faith,
which makes us comfortable under all circumstances; whether we ride in
gilded chariots or walk bare-footed in quest of bread; whether we be
ignorant, whether we be wise--for riches and poverty, ignorance and
wisdom, brethren, each brings with it its peculiar temptations. Well,
under all these troubles, the thing which I would recommend you to seek
is one and the same--faith; faith in our Lord Jesus Christ, who made us,
and allotted to each his station. Each has something to do, brethren. Do
it, therefore, but always in faith; without faith we shall find ourselves
sometimes at fault; but with faith never--for faith can remove the
difficulty. It will teach us to love life, brethren, when life is
becoming bitter, and to prize the blessings around us; for as every man
has his cares, brethren, so has each man his blessings. It will likewise
teach us not to love life over much, seeing that we must one day part
with it. It will teach us to face death with resignation, and will
preserve us from sinking amidst the swelling of the river Jordan."

And when he had concluded his address, he said, "Let us sing a hymn, one
composed by Master Charles Wesley--he was my countryman, brethren.

'Jesus, I cast my soul on thee,
Mighty and merciful to save;
Thou shalt to death go down with me,
And lay me gently in the grave.

This body then shall rest in hope,
This body which the worms destroy;
For thou shalt surely raise me up,
To glorious life and endless joy.'"

Farewell, preacher with the plain coat, and the calm serious look! I saw
thee once again, and that was lately--only the other day. It was near a
fishing hamlet, by the seaside, that I saw the preacher again. He stood
on the top of a steep monticle, used by pilots as a look-out for vessels
approaching that coast, a dangerous one, abounding in rocks and
quicksands. There he stood on the monticle, preaching to weather-worn
fishermen and mariners gathered below upon the sand. "Who is he?" said I
to an old fisherman who stood beside me with a book of hymns in his hand;
but the old man put his hand to his lips, and that was the only answer I
received. Not a sound was heard but the voice of the preacher and the
roaring of the waves; but the voice was heard loud above the roaring of
the sea, for the preacher now spoke with power, and his voice was not
that of one who hesitates. There he stood--no longer a young man, for
his black locks were become gray, even like my own; but there was the
intelligent face, and the calm serious look which had struck me of yore.
There stood the preacher, one of those men--and, thank God, their number
is not few--who, animated by the spirit of Christ, amidst much poverty,
and, alas! much contempt, persist in carrying the light of the Gospel
amidst the dark parishes of what, but for their instrumentality, would
scarcely be Christian England. I should have waited till he had
concluded, in order that I might speak to him and endeavour to bring back
the ancient scene to his recollection, but suddenly a man came hurrying
towards the monticle, mounted on a speedy horse, and holding by the
bridle one yet more speedy, and he whispered to me, "Why loiterest thou
here?--knowest thou not all that is to be done before midnight?" and he
flung me the bridle; and I mounted on the horse of great speed, and I
followed the other, who had already galloped off. And as I departed, I
waved my hand to him on the monticle, and I shouted, "Farewell, brother!
the seed came up at last, after a long period!" and then I gave the
speedy horse his way, and leaning over the shoulder of the galloping
horse, I said, "Would that my life had been like his--even like that
man's."

I now wandered along the heath, until I came to a place where, beside a
thick furze, sat a man, his eyes fixed intently on the red ball of the
setting sun.

"That's not you, Jasper?"

"Indeed, brother!"

"I've not seen you for years."

"How should you, brother?"

"What brings you here?"

"The fight, brother."

"Where are the tents?"

"On the old spot, brother."

"Any news since we parted?"

"Two deaths, brother."

"Who are dead, Jasper?"

"Father and mother, brother."

"Where did they die?"

"Where they were sent, brother."

"And Mrs. Herne?"

"She's alive, brother."

"Where is she now?"

"In Yorkshire, brother."

"What is your opinion of death, Mr. Petulengro?" said I, as I sat down
beside him.

"My opinion of death, brother, is much the same as that in the old song
of Pharaoh, which I have heard my grandam sing--

Canna marel o manus chivios ande puv,
Ta rovel pa leste o chavo ta romi.

When a man dies, he is cast into the earth, and his wife and child sorrow
over him. If he has neither wife nor child, then his father and mother,
I suppose; and if he is quite alone in the world, why, then, he is cast
into the earth, and there is an end of the matter."

"And do you think that is the end of man?"

"There's an end of him, brother, more's the pity."

"Why do you say so?"

"Life is sweet, brother."

"Do you think so?"

"Think so!--There's night and day, brother, both sweet things; sun, moon,
and stars, brother, all sweet things; there's likewise a wind on the
heath. Life is very sweet, brother; who would wish to die?"

"I would wish to die--"

"You talk like a gorgio--which is the same as talking like a fool--were
you a Rommany Chal you would talk wiser. Wish to die, indeed!--A Rommany
Chal would wish to live for ever!"

"In sickness, Jasper?"

"There's the sun and stars, brother."

"In blindness, Jasper?"

"There's the wind on the heath, brother; if I could only feel that, I
would gladly live for ever. Dosta, we'll now go to the tents and put on
the gloves; and I'll try to make you feel what a sweet thing it is to be
alive, brother!"

CHAPTER XXVI.

The Flower of the Grass--Days of Pugilism--The Rendezvous--Jews--Bruisers
of England--Winter Spring--Well-earned Bays--The Fight--Huge Black
Cloud--Frame of Adamant--The Storm--Dukkeripens--The Barouche--The Rain
Gushes.

How for everything there is a time and a season, and then how does the
glory of a thing pass from it, even like the flower of the grass. This
is a truism, but it is one of those which are continually forcing
themselves upon the mind. Many years have not passed over my head, yet,
during those which I can call to remembrance, how many things have I seen
flourish, pass away, and become forgotten, except by myself, who, in
spite of all my endeavours, never can forget anything. I have known the
time when a pugilistic encounter between two noted champions was almost
considered in the light of a national affair; when tens of thousands of
individuals, high and low, meditated and brooded upon it, the first thing
in the morning and the last at night, until the great event was decided.
But the time is past, and many people will say, thank God that it is; all
I have to say is, that the French still live on the other side of the
water, and are still casting their eyes hitherward--and that in the days
of pugilism it was no vain boast to say, that one Englishman was a match
for two of t'other race; at present it would be a vain boast to say so,
for these are not the days of pugilism.

But those to which the course of my narrative has carried me were the
days of pugilism; it was then at its height, and consequently near its
decline, for corruption had crept into the ring; and how many things,
states and sects among the rest, owe their decline to this cause! But
what a bold and vigorous aspect pugilism wore at that time! and the great
battle was just then coming off: the day had been decided upon, and the
spot--a convenient distance from the old town; and to the old town were
now flocking the bruisers of England, men of tremendous renown. Let no
one sneer at the bruisers of England--what were the gladiators of Rome,
or the bull-fighters of Spain, in its palmiest days, compared to
England's bruisers? Pity that ever corruption should have crept in
amongst them--but of that I wish not to talk; let us still hope that a
spark of the old religion, of which they were the priests, still lingers
in the breasts of Englishmen. There they come, the bruisers, from far
London, or from wherever else they might chance to be at the time, to the
great rendezvous in the old city; some came one way, some another; some
of tip-top reputation came with peers in their chariots, for glory and
fame are such fair things, that even peers are proud to have those
invested therewith by their sides; others came in their own gigs, driving
their own bits of blood, and I heard one say: "I have driven through at a
heat the whole hundred and eleven miles, and only stopped to bait twice."
Oh, the blood-horses of old England! but they too have had their day--for
everything beneath the sun there is a season and a time. But the greater
number come just as they can contrive; on the tops of coaches, for
example; and amongst these there are fellows with dark sallow faces, and
sharp shining eyes; and it is these that have planted rottenness in the
core of pugilism, for they are Jews, and, true to their kind, have only
base lucre in view.

It was fierce old Cobbett, I think, who first said that the Jews first
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 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 great coat, 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, 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.