fashion, there was at this time a famous pugilistic battle -
the last of the old kind - fought between the English

champion, Tom Sayers, and the American champion, Heenan.
Bertie Mitford and I agreed to go and see it.

The Wandering Minstrels had given a concert in the Hanover
Square Rooms. The fight was to take place on the following

morning. When the concert was over, Mitford and I went to
some public-house where the 'Ring' had assembled, and where

tickets were to be bought, and instructions received. Fights
when gloves were not used, and which, especially in this

case, might end fatally, were of course illegal; and every
precaution had been taken by the police to prevent it. A

special train was to leave London Bridge Station about 6 A.M.
We sat up all night in my room, and had to wait an hour in

the train before the men with their backers arrived. As soon
as it was daylight, we saw mounted police galloping on the

roads adjacent to the line. No one knew where the train
would pull up. Ten minutes after it did so, a ring was

formed in a meadow close at hand. The men stripped, and
tossed for places. Heenan won the toss, and with it a

considerable advantage. He was nearly a head taller than
Sayers, and the ground not being quite level, he chose the

higher side of the ring. But this was by no means his only
'pull.' Just as the men took their places the sun began to

rise. It was in Heenan's back, and right in the other's
face.

Heenan began the attack at once with scornful confidence; and
in a few minutes Sayers received a blow on the forehead above

his guard which sent him slithering under the ropes; his head
and neck, in fact, were outside the ring. He lay perfectly

still, and in my ignorance, I thought he was done for. Not a
bit of it. He was merely reposing quietly till his seconds

put him on his legs. He came up smiling, but not a jot the
worse. But in the course of another round or two, down he

went again. The fight was going all one way. The Englishman
seemed to be completely at the mercy of the giant. I was so

disgusted that I said to my companion: 'Come along, Bertie,
the game's up. Sayers is good for nothing.'

But now the luck changed. The bull-dog tenacity and splendid
condition of Sayers were proof against these violent shocks.

The sun was out of his eyes, and there was not a mark of a
blow either on his face or his body. His temper, his

presence of mind, his defence, and the rapidity of his
movements, were perfect. The opening he had watched for came

at last. He sprang off his legs, and with his whole weight
at close quarters, struck Heenan's cheek just under the eye.

It was like the kick of a cart-horse. The shouts might have
been heard half-a-mile off. Up till now, the betting called

after each round had come to 'ten to one on Heenan'; it fell
at once to evens.

Heenan was completely staggered. He stood for a minute as if
he did not know where he was or what had happened. And then,

an unprecedented thing occurred. While he thus stood, Sayers
put both hands behind his back, and coolly walked up to his

foe to inspect the damage he had inflicted. I had hold of
the ropes in Heenan's corner, consequently could not see his

face without leaning over them. When I did so, and before
time was called, one eye was completely closed. What kind of

generosity prevented Sayers from closing the other during the
pause, is difficult to conjecture. But his forbearance did

not make much difference. Heenan became more fierce, Sayers
more daring. The same tactics were repeated; and now, no

longer to the astonishment of the crowd, the same success
rewarded them. Another sledge-hammer blow from the

Englishman closed the remaining eye. The difference in the
condition of the two men must have been enormous, for in five

minutes Heenan was completely sightless.
Sayers, however, had not escaped scot-free. In countering

the last attack, Heenan had broken one of the bones of
Sayers' right arm. Still the fight went on. It was now a

brutal scene. The blind man could not defend himself from
the other's terrible punishment. His whole face was so

swollen and distorted, that not a feature was recognisable.
But he evidently had his design. Each time Sayers struck him

and ducked, Heenan made a swoop with his long arms, and at
last he caught his enemy. With gigantic force he got Sayers'

head down, and heedless of his captive's pounding, backed
step by step to the ring. When there, he forced Sayers' neck

on to the rope, and, with all his weight, leant upon the
Englishman's shoulders. In a few moments the face of the

strangled man was black, his tongue was forced out of his
mouth, and his eyes from their sockets. His arms fell

powerless, and in a second or two more he would have been a
corpse. With a wild yell the crowd rushed to the rescue.

Warning cries of 'The police! The police!' mingled with the
shouts. The ropes were cut, and a general scamper for the

waiting train ended this last of the greatest prize-fights.
We two took it easily, and as the mob were scuttling away

from the police, we saw Sayers with his backers, who were
helping him to dress. His arm seemed to hurt him a little,

but otherwise, for all the damage he had received, he might
have been playing at football or lawn tennis.

We were quietly getting into a first-classcarriage, when I
was seized by the shoulder and roughly spun out of the way.

Turning to resent the rudeness, I found myself face to face
with Heenan. One of his seconds had pushed me on one side to

let the gladiator get in. So completely blind was he, that
the friend had to place his foot upon the step. And yet

neither man had won the fight.
We still think - profess to think - the barbarism of the

'Iliad' the highest flight of epic poetry; if Homer had sung
this great battle, how glorious we should have thought it!

Beyond a doubt, man 'yet partially retains the
characteristics that adapted him to an antecedent state.'

CHAPTER XLIII
THROUGH the Cayley family, I became very intimate with their

near relatives the Worsleys of Hovingham, near York.
Hovingham has now become known to the musical world through

its festivals, annually held at the Hall under the patronage
of its late owner, Sir William Worsley. It was in his

father's time that this fine place, with its delightful
family, was for many years a home to me. Here I met the

Alisons, and at the kind invitation of Sir Archibald, paid
the great historian a visit at Possil, his seat in Scotland.

As men who had achieved scientific or literarydistinction
inspired me with far greater awe than those of the highest

rank - of whom from my childhood I had seen abundance -
Alison's celebrity, his courteous manner, his oracular

speech, his voluminous works, and his voluminous dimensions,
filled me with too much diffidence and respect to admit of

any freedom of approach. One listened to him, as he held
forth of an evening when surrounded by his family, with

reverential silence. He had a strong Scotch accent; and, if
a wee bit prosy at times, it was sententious and polished

prose that he talked; he talked invariably like a book. His
family were devoted to him; and I felt that no one who knew

him could help liking him.
When Thackeray was giving readings from 'The Four Georges,' I

dined with Lady Grey and Landseer, and we three went to hear
him. I had heard Dickens read 'The Trial of Bardell against

Pickwick,' and it was curious to compare the style of the two
great novelists. With Thackeray, there was an entire absence

of either tone or colour. Of course the historical nature of
his subject precluded the dramaticsuggestion to be looked