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No one who reads with attention the chequered career of James Burke will deny that “The Deaf’un” deserves to rank as one of the most honest, courageous, hardy, simple-minded, and eccentric fellows who ever sought praise and profit in the Prize Ring. Jem was the son of a Thames waterman who plied at the Strand Lane stairs. Left at an early age to the charge of a widowed mother, young Jem betook himself to the amphibious calling of “Jack-in-the-Water,” at the stairs where his father once plied with his “trim-built wherry.” At the time of which we write, before steam-boats, with their gangways and ugly dumb-lighters (the latter to give way yet later to a noble embankment with its broad granite-stepped landing places) had superseded the “caus’eys,” and “old stairs,” from Wapping to Westminster, the favourite and popular mode of transit of the dwellers in Cockaigne to Lambeth, to the glories of Vauxhall with its al fresco concerts and 30,00 (additional) lamps; to Cumberland Gardens, with its trellised tea-boxes, and “little gold and silver fish that wagged their little tails;” to the Red House, Battersea, with its gardens and pigeon shooting; to “Chelsea Ferry,” with its elm-bordered promenade and Soldiers’ Home, and to the numerous places of riverside resort, was by “oars or sculls,” plied by the brawny arms of the “firemen-watermen,” one of the most laborious and deserving fraternities who devoted their well-earned and well-paid services to the pleasure-seeking public who patronised the broad highway of the Thames. The popularity and consequent prosperity of the stalwart “firemen-watermen” (for most of them wore the handsome coat and badge of, and were retained by, one or other of the great London Insurance Offices, and were the only organised body for the extinguishing of fires and saving of life) extended to the humble “Jack-in-the-Water,” whose duty consisted in wading bare-legged into the rippling tide, dragging the sharp nose of the wherry on to the paved causeway, or by its pile-protected side, and there steadying it, while the “jolly young waterman” politely handed his “fare” over the rocking “thwarts” of his smart, light boat to his or her cushioned seat in the “stern-sheets.” For his services in thus holding on, and thereby securing the balance of the staggering land-lubbers, for a pair of “sea-legs” were never included in the cockney’s qualifications, “poor Jack” seldom went unrewarded by one or more “coppers,” for we had not then come to the “age of bronze.” This humble and weather-beaten calling was by no means an unprofitable one to a hardy, handy, and industrious lad, such as young Jem Burke undoubtedly was.

JAMES BURKE (“The Deaf’un”).

The date of Jem’s birth was Dec. 8th, 1809, in the closing years of the “war of giants,” and in his earlier days London was alive with war excitement; with processions on the Thames of the gilded and bannered barges of the Corporation and the public companies, with gaily painted pinnaces, shallops, and house-boats, aquatic fireworks and illuminations, and galas in honour of our victories in Portugal and Spain; to say nothing of frequent grand doings along the then bright river on all sorts of City “gaudy” days. It was moreover the line of procession on the 9th of November and other times when my Lord Mayor went in state to Westminster; and of continually recurring wager matches of skill and strength for prizes given by citizens, public bodies, and aquatic clubs, for the encouragement of the Thames watermen “between the bridges.” All these have vanished with the crowds who enjoyed them. The “fireman-waterman” is as extinct as the dodo. The half-penny or penny steam-boat of an utilitarian age has “improved him off the face of the earth,” and the picturesque silver Thames runs a paddle-churned cloaca maxima of the great towns in its upper course, by the stately buildings of our Palaces of Parliament and Palatial Hospital, sweeping by where once Strand Lane stairs offered itself as a convenient outlet for “taking the water,” along a spacious embankment, with its leafy avenues, bordered by lofty stone-built public edifices. Far different the Thames by which the young Deaf’un earned his “crust,” and added to the poor comforts of a widowed mother. Then the merry-makings we have above alluded to made the miscalled silent highway a lively and populous show-scene, to the profit of such snappers-up of unconsidered trifles as our “poor Jack,” whose Christian name was Jem. As to the “schooling” of our hero—​for a hero he unquestionably was—​it amounted to that sort of general knowledge which could be picked up in that “university” which Mr. Samuel Weller declares to be the best for sharpening a boy’s wits—​the streets. The Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge as yet was not; the “schoolmaster” was altogether “abroad,” in the wrong sense; and the Briarean School-board had not yet “comprehended all vagrom” boys and girls, and taught them the “three R’s” in spite of their teeth. “Reading, ’riting, and ’rithmetic” not being in the curriculum of young Jem’s “’varsity,” he was perfectly innocent of those accomplishments, despite Dogberry’s assertion that to “read and write comes by nature,” though at figures, we can certify from our own personal converse, the Deaf’un had, on special occasions, an almost intuitive aptitude. His knowledge too, upon out-of-the-way subjects, was occasionally surprising; he had much “mother-wit,” a quaint felicity of expression, a sly touch of humour, and a quiet stolidity of look and manner, the outcome of his infirmity of deafness, which amused the hearer, from the apparently unconscious humour with which his comical notions were set forth. Of Jem’s physical powers and muscular endowments, the story of his Ring performances in after years will sufficiently speak.

Thus the young “Jack-in-the-Water,” like Topsy, “grow’d,” and we need not say he was well furnished in these respects to take his own part in the very rough “battle of life” to which he was from his earliest infancy introduced.

That the future Candidate for the Championship, born and bred in those “fighting days,” when Gully and Gregson, Belcher and Cribb, were on every tongue, should have yearnings to “improve his gifts,” as the goody-goody books express it, was but a natural sequence to what philosopher Square calls “the eternal fitness of things.” Hard by the Strand Lane stairs stood a well-frequented public-house, known as “The Spotted Dog,” the landlord of which was an ex-pugilist of no mean renown, hight “Joe Parish, the Waterman.” What wonder, that Joe’s judicious eye noted the good “points” in the sturdy little “Jack-in-the Water’s” build and disposition, and that he befriended the boatman’s orphan, patting his head as he warmed his chilled hands by the tap-room fire, where he dried his always damp and scanty clothing, and, as the Deaf’un himself has told us, saying, “You go straight, Jemmy, and we’ll see if you won’t be a topsawyer among ’em yet”? This early patronage by Joe Parish, as we shall see hereafter, continued down to Burke’s latest days, a fact creditable to both parties.

A passing remark on the pugilistic eminence of watermen may here be in place. Jack Broughton, the Father of the Ring, was a waterman; as also was Lyons, who beat Darts for the Championship in 1769; while, passing over many boxers who plied the oar, the names of Bishop Sharpe, Harris, “The Waterman,” Harry Jones, and the Deaf’un’s “guide, philosopher, and friend,” Joe Parish, occur to us. No wonder, then, that on the 5th of February, 1828, young Jem Burke, under the wing of old Joe, was by the ring-side at Whetstone, near Barnet, an admiring spectator of the eccentric battle which there and then took place between a couple of dwarfs; one a Welshman named David Morgan, a vendor of shrimps and shell fish well known in various sporting and other public-houses, and the other Sandy M’Bean, a Scotch professor of the Highland bagpipes and the “fling.” After a ludicrous display of bantam game, Taffy was declared the conqueror, the second of the canny Scot carrying him out of the ring vi et armis, in spite of his protestations that he “wasna beaten ava’,” though the poor little fellow had not the ghost of a chance.

And now there was a pause, and a purse of £14 being collected, Ned Murphy (who had already fought M’Carthy, and a commoner or two), presented himself as a candidate for the coin. Our hero (who, doubtless, knew something of the challenger), eager of the opportunity of showing the stuff he was made of, at once, with the approval of Joe Parish, stepped into the ropes, and threw down his cap as a reply. No time was wasted in elaborate toilettes, and the ring being cleared, all eyes were bent on the “big fight” of the day, which, on this occasion, was presented as the afterpiece. Mister Murphy was so cock-sure of the money, and so eager to win, that he went off at score to polish off “the boy” for his presumption. Not only was his gallop stopped by some clever straight ’uns from the resolute young Jack, helped by an occasional upper-cut as he went in, but he, in turn, was fain to stand out, and retreat to “draw” his opponent. Young Jem, however, was not to be had twice at this game, and Mister Murphy not quite liking the look of the job, began to fight for darkness, which was fast coming on. Harry Jones, who was picking up Murphy as a “pal,” seeing the dubious state of affairs, stepped up to the referee and asked a “draw.” The men had now fought 50 rounds in the like number of minutes, and were quite capable, if they were of the same sort as the last dozen, of fighting 50 more; so the Young’un was persuaded to “whack” the stakes, and make up matters over a pot and a pipe at “The Spotted Dog,” by which arrangement Mr. Murphy got the “half a loaf” which is proverbially “better than no bread,” while the young “Jack-on-the-water” was in the seventh heaven of delight, not only at his success (for he felt he must win), but at the possession of several golden portraits of His Majesty George the Fourth, of a value which to him seemed to vie with the fabulous treasures of Aladdin’s cave.

Jem was now “a card,” not only at the Strand Lane soirées, but was a free and accepted brother at all the sporting cribs in the hundred of Drury, Wild Street, the pugnacious purlieus of Clare Market, and among the “porterhood” of Covent Garden. Those were rough times, and among other rough entertainments the “rough music” of the butchers of Clare Market was not the least popular. Their marrow-bones and cleavers were always ready to “discourse” loud, if not “sweet music,” upon occasions of a wedding, a birth, or a christening among their own fraternity, or when any popular or well-known inhabitant took unto himself a wife. Foremost in these charivaris was one Tom Hands, who further had the reputation of being “sudden in quarrel,” and with him and the Deaf’un there had passed a sharp round or two at one of these uproarious gatherings, which had ended in their being separated by their friends.

On August 14th, 1828, Ned Stockman and Sweeney were matched to fight at Old Oak Common; the affair being arranged at a dinner at Alec Reid’s, at Chelsea. The ring was pitched, the expectant crowd assembled, and “time” was called. Peter Sweeney showed in battle array, but where was the “Lively Kid”? and echo answered “where?” He didn’t show at all, and a forfeit of the stake being then and there declared, his representative urged as a reason for what Sweeney called “making a fool of the public,” that Stockman “preferred his match with Harry Jones” (in which he was deservedly thrashed on September 16th, 1828). As the day’s draw thus proved a blank, and the meet could hardly separate without sport of some kind, a whip was made for an impromptu fight. The hat went round, and the cash being gathered by Alec Reid and the renowned Frosty-faced Fogo, a hint from one of the Clare Market Guild of Kill-Bulls that Tom Hands would like to cross hands with Jem Burke, there and then, if the namesake of “the author of The Sublime and Beautiful” dared face him, was at once seized with avidity. A shout went up from a hundred lungs as the burly butcher, his hair shiny with grease, and his cheeks red as a peony, drew his blue smock over his head and proceeded to divest himself of his upper clothing; nor was “poor Jack” without friends. Behind him stood Joe Parish and Alec Reid; Hands being seconded by Sweeney and a Clare Market amateur. The fight was a sad exposé of Tom Hands’ want of skill in the opening, and lack of what a slaughterman never should be deficient in—​pluck. The Deaf’un, who looked hard as iron and solid as the trunk of a tree, fought the first three or four rounds on the retreat, jobbing the butcher fearfully, and bleeding him from every vein of his fleshy jowl; then, having got him down to his own weight, he reversed the process, and fought him all over the ring so effectively that in the 10th round, 17 minutes only having elapsed, Hands’ second threw up the sponge in token of defeat, the butcher being terribly punished, while the Deaf’un was scarcely marked.

Indeed the effects of this encounter could not have seriously affected him, seeing that, on the day but one afterwards, namely on August 16th, the Deaf’un was again on Old Oak Common, to witness the battle between Mike Driscoll and Pat M’Donnell. This affair disposed of, a new Black offered himself “under distinguished patronage,” as the advertisements say, to box anyone for “a purse.” The Deaf’un, always ready, slipped modestly into the ring, announcing to Mike Brookery, the M.C. on this occasion, that he should like to be “introduced” to Massa Sambo for the next dance. The affair was a mere farce. The black had but one qualification, that of a first-rate receiver; as a paymaster he was nowhere. After rushing in head down a dozen times, and getting upper cuts and sound right-handers on the ear innumerable, he rolled down for the last time at the close of thirty-three minutes, declaring “Me can’t fight no more,” and the purse was handed to the Deaf’un.

In 1829, the Deaf’un, who was now regularly enrolled in the corps pugilistique, was with a sparring party in the Midlands, where, in the month of March, the great contest between Jem Ward and Simon Byrne was to come off near Leicester. The reader will find this fiasco, known as “The Leicester Hoax,” in its proper place in our second volume. On the 10th of March, 1829, an immense gathering from all parts of the kingdom was assembled at Leicester; and the great event having ended in smoke, and Bill Atkinson, of Nottingham, having beaten Joe Randall, in the ring prepared for the big’un’s, the day being yet young, a purse was collected. For this a big countryman named Berridge, of Thormaston, offered to “try conclusions.” The Deaf’un joined issue, and a smart battle ensued. The countryman was so overmatched that after 22 minutes, in which 11 rounds were got through, each ending by Berridge being hit down or thrown, his backers took him away, and Burke walked off with the 10 sovereigns.

Burke was now matched with Fitzmaurice (an Irishman nearly 13 stone, who subsequently defeated Brennan and Tim Crawley), for £25 a side, to come off on Epsom Racecourse in May; the rencontre was prevented by police interference, and the affair postponed to June 9th, 1829.[14] That day being appointed for the fight between Ned Savage and Davis (the Black), at Harpenden Common, near St. Alban’s, it was arranged that the Deaf’un and Fitzmaurice should follow those worthies. It was fortunate for the travellers who went to see the first-named fight that the Deaf’un and Fitz. were in reserve, for the affair of Savage and the bit of ebony proved “a sell;” and so the second couple were on the turf in good time, and in a well-kept and well-ordered ring. Young Dutch Sam and Gaynor, who had come down with Savage, volunteered to second Fitzmaurice. On standing up Fitz. loomed large in height and length, but a survey of the sturdy Deaf’un, his firm attitude and compact strength, brought the betting to even. We shall not attempt to detail the fight, which extended to no less than 166 rounds, fought under a burning sun, and lasting two hours and fifty-five minutes. There was some clever stopping in the earlier portion of the battle on the part of the Deaf’un, but he could not reduce the strength of Fitzmaurice, and he himself became exhausted. After the 70th round the fight became a question of endurance; the Deaf’un at the end of the rounds lying on his stomach on the turf to get wind, declining to be picked up by his seconds, kicking up his heels in a comical manner, and declaring himself “all right,” in reply to their anxious inquiries. On these occasions Young Dutch Sam and Gaynor, knowing the “blown” condition of their man, cunningly kept prolonging the “time” between the rounds, Fitzmaurice generally getting down, and the Deaf’un almost always rolling across, over, or beside him. About the 150th round both men were nearly incapable of delivering a hit, and Fitz. was more than once out of time, but the Deaf’un went in again, and so condoned the offence. At last, at the end of the time mentioned, Fitz. fell in his own corner from a left-handed poke; the sponge was thrown up, after as game and scrambling a fight as could well be imagined, and the Deaf’un was hailed the victor. Burke in a few minutes walked to his carriage, while poor Fitz. was conveyed to Wildbore’s, the “Blue Boar,” St. Alban’s.

At the Deaf’un’s benefit, on the following Wednesday week, Fitzmaurice was unable to put on the gloves as promised, but Young Dutch Sam did so. Although the Deaf’un was certainly a foil to show off the brilliancy of Sam, that accomplished boxer was somewhat mortified at the improved style of Burke, who more than once gave him an opening in order to send in a clever return; keeping his temper so unruffled that loud applause followed his exertions. Indeed not a few of the “knowing ones” expressed their opinion that the Deaf’un would yet puzzle some of the “fashionable” 12-stone men.

About this time, as we learn incidentally from the report of his next battle, the Deaf’un met with a serious accident—​a rupture—​for which he received surgical treatment, and was compelled to wear a truss. Nevertheless, we find him in August under an engagement to fight Bill Cousens, who is described in Bell’s Life as a fine, fresh young Chichester man (who had already beaten Tom Sweeney and “the Cheshire Hero”), on the 25th of August, on which day they met at Whetstone. Tom Oliver and Frosty-faced Fogo were the M.C.’s, and we are told the “crowd was considerable. Swells and scavengers, drags and dust-carts,” conveying the motley groups to the scene of action. Cousens was seconded by Tom Oliver and a “Sussex friend,” Burke by Ned Stockman and Sweeney. The weather was again intensely hot. Cousens had the advantage in length of reach and height, and a trifle in weight. Cousens, though receiving most punishment, had it all his own way in throwing, and several times gave the Deaf’un such desperate falls, that the battle was supposed to be at an end; but the Deaf’un’s hardy frame seemed to resist all vicissitudes, and he came again and again; on one occasion, about the middle of the fight, so flooring Cousens that the odds went round to 2 to 1 on the Deaf’un. In the 95th round, Cousens got the Deaf’un on the ropes, and kept him there until the stake and rope gave way. The Deaf’un would not leave off, though advised to do so, when Reuben Martin stepped into the ring and threw up his hat in favour of Cousens, and the Deaf’un was withdrawn from the ring, after fighting 101 rounds in two hours and three minutes. The reporter says, “it was stated that Burke was suffering from the effects of a rupture.”

That this was not, at that time, of a very serious nature may be inferred from the fact, that the Deaf’un finished up 1829 by balancing this, his only defeat, with yet another victory. On December 1st all the pugilistic world was on the move into Sussex to witness the great (second) fight between Ned Neale and Young Dutch Sam for £220 to £200, which came to nought, owing to the arrest of Neale on his way to the battle-field on a warrant issued by Mr. Chambers. Sore was the disappointment and loud the complaints of the hundreds who had left London on this hog-shearing expedition, as they surrounded the admirably formed ring at North Chapel, Sussex, and were told that there would be “no fight,” as Messrs. Ruthven and Pople, two “active and intelligent officers,” as the penny-a-liners styled them, had grabbed Neale, and were so strict in their attentions that they had declined to lose sight of him; indeed, they had at once carried him off in a postchaise to the great Metropolis. Harry Holt stepped forward, and addressing “the inner circle and boxes” (the latter represented by several four-in-hand drags and hired wagons), proposed “a collection.” Sam also presented himself amidst applause, rattling some coin in a hat. The money-matter was soon arranged, a big countryman named Girdler stepping into the ropes, and laying claim to the guerdon against all comers. In a few seconds the well-known, hardy mug of the Deaf’un was seen as he made his way through the crowd, and, amidst some cheering, declared that “he didn’t minds a shy at that chaps, if he did lose his sticks,” while Girdler, who had many country friends, said with a grin, “He knowed all about Mister Burke, and didn’t care a varden for ’un.” To give éclat to the affair, Jem Ward and Fogo offered themselves to second the Deaf’un, whereon Young Sam and Cicero Holt volunteered to wait upon the countryman.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—​Girdler was certainly, as Sam said, “big enough for anything,” and when be threw his hands up, did it in a style that showed he was not the mere yokel he had been supposed. The Deaf’un looked as serious and as stolid as a pig in a pound, and as solid as a stump of a tree. He nodded at his opponent, and pointed down to the scratch, to which Girdler at once advanced, and the Deaf’un went a step back smiling. Girdler let fly his left; it was a little too high, but just reached the Deaf’un’s nut, who returned on Girdler’s cheek sharply; heavy exchanges, in which Burke hit oftenest and last, and both were down on hands and knees. (6 to 4 on the Deaf’un.)

2.—​The Deaf’un trying to get his distance hit short with the left; Girdler stopped his right, and popped in a sounding crack with his own right on the Deaf’un’s ribs, who broke away. (“Bravo!” cried Holt, “do that again for me.”) The Deaf’un grinned, licked his lips, and looked down slyly at his opponent’s feet. “Don’t be gammoned,” cried Young Sam. The advice came too late. Girdler rushed in, Burke popped his head aside, and the blow went over his shoulder, the countryman at the same instant receiving such a straight one in the mouth, followed by another over the left eyebrow, that he was brought up “all standing,” while the Deaf’un slipped down from his own blows. There was no mistake about the claim of first blood.

3.—​In went Girdler like a bull at a gate. The Deaf’un, not clever enough to prevent him getting on a sort of pole-axe, hit on his impenetrable nob, from which we think the countryman’s knuckles suffered most. Burke hit up, but couldn’t this time stop his man, who bored him to the ropes, and got him down in a scrambling rally.

4.—​Girdler again first; but this time Burke stopped him with one, two, and a ding-dong rally ensued, in which Girdler was first on the grass, blowing like a porpoise.

5, 6, 7, 8.—​Sam cheering on his man, who answered the call cheerfully, but always got two for one in the rally, and in the 8th round fell over the Deaf’un’s leg on his face so violently that Ward cried out to Holt to take his man away. “Take your man away,” retorted Holt; “he can’t beat mine in a week.”

9.—​Girdler came up game, but went in without any aim or precision; the Deaf’un propped him again and again, and at last ran in and threw him a burster. (Cheers for the Deaf’un.)

10, 11, 12.—​A one-sided game. Girdler down at the end of each round against his will, and beaten by his own exertions.

13, 14, 15.—​Girdler merely staggered up to be hit, and finally went down fearfully punished.

16.—​Girdler came once more and made a wild rush; the Deaf’un stepped aside, and sending in his one, two, on the side of the countryman’s head, he fell over anyhow.

17.—​Cries of “take him away!” from the Londoners; but Girdler would not have it, and was indulged with one more round, which ended in his being floored in the hitting; whereupon Holt stepped across the ring and beckoned the Deaf’un, who at once crossed and shook hands with his brave but almost insensible antagonist. Time, 89 minutes.

The immense assembly now dispersed, the roads being soon alive, especially that which led towards Chichester and London. On one of the four-in-hands was seated “White-headed Bob” (Ned Baldwin), then in the full sunshine of aristocratic patronage. Bob had spent the overnight, or rather the morning, at the Monday masquerade, then in vogue at “His Majesty’s Theatre,” in the Haymarket, and donning a most remarkable suite of grey moustaches, whiskers, and beard, the resemblance to the then Duke of Cumberland was perfect. As the populace recognised the counterfeit of the unpopular Duke, the fun was uproarious. Pulling up at the “King’s Arms,” mine host hurried out with a decanter of sherry, a waiter following with champagne. H.R.H. cried out, “No, thankee, waiter, the Duke will take something short!” The schnapps was supplied. “I’m glad to see ye, my people,” said His Royal Highness, “but d——e if I like this stopping of fights; when I come next this way I’ll give you a turn, and if there’s no one else to fight, I’ll make one in a fight myself! Drive on, coachee!” And off went His Royal Highness in what the poet Bunn called “a blaze of triumph.”

The topsawyers of the top-weights of the day set their public appearances at too high a figure for the poor, unsophisticated Deaf’un to obtain any hearing for his modest proposal to fight any 12 or 12½ stone man for £25 a side, so he sparred at benefits and at the fairs and tennis courts, and hung about looking for a job until September, 1830, when Gow, who had beaten Ned Savage in December, 1829, offered himself to the Deaf’un’s notice, and articles were signed for a meeting on October 5th. The toss being won by Gow, he named Woolwich, and thither all parties repaired. There, however, they found Superintendent Miller, of the Thames Police, with sundry row-boats, and off they moved into Essex; but they could not shake off the anti-milling Miller, who, calling on a couple of beaks, pursued the excursionists towards Leytonstone, reinforced by the “Essex lions.” A council was held, which decided that as the game was “U.P.” in Essex, a retreat to Temple Mills across the border into Middlesex was the only chance of a quiet meeting. A “horrid whisper” went round that Superintendent Miller had a warrant from the magistrates at Snaresbrook, and that two active constables were already on the track. Jack Carter, changing coat, hat, and handkerchief with the Deaf’un, with the quickness of a clown in a transformation scene, took the Deaf’un’s seat in a one-horse chaise, while both of the men made the best of their way towards Temple Mills. The ruse succeeded. Carter was yet a mile from the Essex frontier, when up rode a couple of mounted men, quickly followed by a posse of the amphibious Thames constables, and called upon the driver of the gig to “Stop, in the King’s name,” which he loyally and dutifully did, and away poor Carter was haled before the nearest beak, and his capture officially announced to the worshipful functionary. The culprit was brought forward. “James Burke,” said the awful representative of Majesty, reading the warrant, “it is my duty to commit you for a contemplated breach of the peace within this county of Essex——” “Excuse me, sir,” interposed Jack, “my name isn’t Burke at all, and why these here gentlemen——” “Then what is your name?” “I can save your worship trouble,” said Superintendent Miller. “I know this man well; his name is Jack Carter, and if I’d been at hand I shouldn’t have mistaken him.” “You are discharged, fellow,” exclaimed his worship, indignantly, and away went Jack, with a low bow to his crestfallen captors. At the bridge at Temple Mills the pursuit ceased, and all got over the river Lea.

The fight that now took place presented no features worth recording. The Deaf’un, who had always a touch of eccentricity, on this occasion appeared in the ring in a grotesque and original costume. His “nether bulk” was encased in a pair of green baize drawers, profusely bound and seamed with yellow braid, and with flying yellow ribbons at the knees, below which his sturdy pedestals were encased in a pair of bright striped worsted stockings and laced highlows. Although the day was waning, Burke managed to polish off his job before dark, Gow never getting a lead during 22 busy rounds, at the end of which his second, Birmingham Davis (who, as will be seen afterwards, fought the Deaf’un), claimed the fight for Burke, Gow not answering to the call of “Time.”

In the interim, before this affair with Gow, a curious incident illustrates the readiness of the Deaf’un, who was then always in training, to “do business at the shortest notice.” Bob Hampson, of Liverpool, visited London, where his fame as the conqueror of one Jack Pye, and subsequently of Wm. Edwards, at Bootle, and Bill Fisher, at Milbray Island, had gone before him. Bob offered himself, at £25 a side, to the notice of Burke; who expressed himself ready, as the Liverpool carpenter wanted to return northwards, to meet him at an early day as might be convenient. Two fights were “on the slate” for the 26th of the current month, one between Sam Hinton and the Bristol baker (Mike Davis), the other between the youthful Owen Swift, and an East End Israelite, of the name of Isaacs. To these the Deaf’un and Hampson were added, and all were satisfactorily got off at Harpenden Common on the same day.

Hampson, with these credentials, was the favourite at 6 and 7 to 4. Indeed, the chance of the Deaf’un looked by no means “rosy,” yet he never lost heart or confidence. Hampson came down to St. Alban’s under the wing of Tom Spring; to whose care he was recommended by no less a person than Jack Langan, Spring’s former foe, but now fast friend. Hampson came on the ground with Tom Oliver and Harry Jones as his seconds, the Deaf’un attended by Fitzmaurice (a former opponent) and Ned Stockman.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—​As the men stood up Hampson did not impress the London connoisseurs favourably, either as to his boxing skill or his capability for rough work and endurance. He looked leggy, stood wide, and fidgeted, rather than manœuvred, in an anxious and hurried manner, while the Deaf’un, who was the picture of sturdy health, stood firmly facing him, eyeing him sharply, and only just moving so much as to prevent his opponent from stealing a march on him either to right or left. The Liverpool man, after some dodging, let fly his left and caught Burke a tidy smack on the cheek, but got a return on the mouth from the Deaf’un’s left, which more than balanced the account. A brief spar, when Hampson again was first, and reached the Deaf’un’s nob. This led to a smart exchange of blows, Hampson delivering several snowy hits on Burke’s dial, which, however, left hardly a visible mark, while the Deaf’un’s returns seemed to paint and flush the countryman. In the close Hampson got the Deaf’un’s head under his left arm cleverly, and hit up, but he couldn’t hold him, and Burke lifted him over and threw him an awkward side fall. (Cheers for the Deaf’un, but no offers.)

2.—​Hampson again let off with the left, but was met with a counterhit, and Burke forced a rally; some sharp half-arm hitting at close quarters, in which the Deaf’un showed most strength. In the close both down.

3.—​Hampson came up bleeding from the mouth and nose, and Burke seemed to have damaged his left hand. Hampson hammered away, and hit for hit was the order of the day. The men closed, and after a struggle both were down. (Even betting.)

4.—​A short round. Hampson led off, but his blows left scarcely a mark, and after a break and some manœuvring Hampson slipped down.

5.—​Counterhits with the left. Burke the best of the exchanges. Hampson the quicker fighter, but Burke the steadier and harder hitter. A long rally and no flinching till Hampson fell on his knees; Burke walking to his corner.

6.—​Hampson dodging about and feinting with the left, the Deaf’un solid as a post, but moving his arms defensively. Hampson got in a smack with his left, which the Deaf’un countered, but not effectively. More weaving work, hit for hit, a close, Hampson thrown heavily. (6 to 4 on Burke.)

7.—​Hampson seemed a little lame, and sparred for wind; Burke waiting. The Liverpool man, as before, let fly with the left, and reached Burke’s head just above the left eye, stopping the Deaf’un’s return neatly, amidst applause. The Deaf’un shook his wig-block and grinned. Hampson tried it again, and got such a return from Burke’s right in his ribs that he fell on his knees, but was quickly up again, and renewed the round in a lively manner, until the Deaf’un closed and threw him over his hip by a heave. (Applause.)

8.—​Hampson came up blowing and coughed two or three times. He was evidently shaken by the last throw. He however kept in good form and led off. Burke shifted a little and retreated, but, biding his time, met Hampson with a fearful jobbing hit on the mouth that staggered him; Hampson returned to the charge and hit away wildly, and once and again the Deaf’un nailed him. This was not done without damage, for Hampson caught him with his right on the ear such a wax-melter, that if the Deaf’un could have been cured by that process he might have heard better for some time afterwards. A close embrace, in which neither man could get a hit, ended by Burke pulling Hampson down; both on the ground, blowing like grampuses.

9.—​The last struggle had told most upon Hampson. He was distressed, while the Deaf’un might be described as “much the same as usual.” Hampson pointed to the scratch as they met, Burke shook his head, grinned, toed it, and then made half a step back as Hampson tried a feint with his left. Hampson once more led off, and there were some sharp exchanges. The Deaf’un nodded to Stockman as he got away, and Hampson did not follow, saying, “He can’t hit me hard enough, Mister Neds.” “I believe you, my boy,” replied the Lively Kid. Hampson again got on Burke’s nob, receiving a rib-roaster. Hampson was first down.

10.—​Hampson made play, but the Deaf’un met him, and hit for hit was once more persevered in until Burke threw Hampson after a short wrestle.

11.—​The Carpenter showed marks of severe punishment, and the Deaf’un’s cast-iron frontispiece was ornamented with some crimson patches and bumps. Hampson was evidently less inclined to go to his man, and worked round him à la distance. The Deaf’un, with a comical grin, in turn pointed down to the scratch with his right hand forefinger; Hampson seized the opportunity, as he thought, and hit straight at Burke’s head, who, quick as lightning, countered with his left on Hampson’s jaw. “Bravo!” cried Stockman, “I’d have told him to do that, only he can’t hear me.” The men were at it again, when Burke drove Hampson on the ropes and chopped him with the right. Hampson rolled down (7 to 4 on Burke).

12, 13, 14, 15.—​Hampson came up game, and fought for a turn, but his confidence was gone, and the Deaf’un timed him, now and then putting in an ugly one, and ending the round by getting Hampson down.

16–20.—​The Deaf’un still declined to lead off, but always had the best at close quarters. In the last named round Hampson dropped on his knees in the hitting, and the Deaf’un threw up his hands, bowed comically to the spectators, and walked to his corner. (Cheers.)

21.—​Hampson, encouraged by his friends, fought vigorously, and at one time seemed to have got a turn; in the close the Deaf’un was under. (Shouts for Hampson.)

22.—​Hampson appeared to have got second wind; he manœuvred round his man, and delivered one, two, neatly. The Deaf’un laughed and shook his head, but was short in the return. “That’s the way,” cried Harry Jones, “he’s as stupid as a pig. Hit him again, Bob, he’ll stand it.” Hampson did so, but the Deaf’un countered, and then went in for close work. Hampson could not keep him out, and was forced back on the ropes, where the Deaf’un hit him heavily until he got him down anyhow.

23.—​Hampson much shaken by the last round; Burke waiting. “Why don’t you go in, Jem?” shouted Reuben Martin, “it’s all your own.” The Deaf’un nodded, and did as he was bid. The advice was not good, for Hampson nailed him sharply right and left, and in a rally Burke over-reached himself, missed his right, and slipped down.

24.—​Some amusement was created by the Deaf’un’s evident attempt at gammoning distress, to induce his opponent to come on. Hampson, however, fought shy. After some sparring they got closer, and again give-and-take was the order of the day, the pepper-box being freely handed from one side to the other. Hampson was thrown, but not heavily.

25.—​The tide was turned against Hampson. He retreated before the Deaf’un, who now assumed the offensive, and in a rally the Liverpool man was fairly hit down in his own corner.

26–40.—​In all these rounds it was clear that Hampson’s defeat was a mere question of time. In the 40th round he was thrown heavily, and his friends proposed to give in for him; he, however, refused, and came up for the 41st round, when Burke hit him on to the rope, and then let him get down, walking away to his own corner. Hampson’s backer stepped into the ring and desired the sponge to be thrown up, saying it was useless to expose a brave man to further punishment. Time 44 minutes. The Deaf’un crossed the ring, shook hands with his opponent, and then indulged in a sort of hornpipe-step in his own corner, putting on his clothes with little assistance. Hampson was carried to his carriage, severely punished, complaining that he lost his power of wrestling from an injury to his leg in the 5th round.

Remarks.—​This battle tells its own tale. The Liverpool man’s friends had much overestimated Hampson’s scientific attainments, and equally miscalculated his opponent’s cunning defence, backed as it was by extraordinary powers of endurance, indomitable pluck, and cool courage. “Hampson was, up to a certain point, the cleverer man, but, that point passed, his chance was gone, and he was beaten by toughness, readiness, and strength. The Deaf’un by this battle has shown himself a dangerous competitor for any 12-stone man on the list. He is now the winner of seven fights, mostly with big men, and must not be meddled with by any mere sparrer. However flash and wide-awake he may think himself, he will find the Deaf’un knows a thing or two that will astonish him when it comes to real work. The 200 and 300-pounders, though ‘great guns,’ will do well to take our hint.” These last remarks, which we transcribe from a contemporary sporting paper, show the good opinion which Burke was fast gaining among the most competent judges of boxing merit. Of course the 200 and 300 pounders mean the men who fixed £200 or £300 as the price for a Ring appearance.

We have just seen that our hero fought and won two sharp battles within three weeks, and we have now to record yet another arduous conflict within the three weeks next ensuing, namely, on November 16th, 1830, on which day he met Tim Crawley at the well-fought field of Whetstone, for a stake of £50.

Mister Timothy was a stalwart Milesian coalwhipper, aged twenty-three, hard upon six feet in height, and balancing 13 stone, and though no relation to “Peter the Great,” was only a shade less than the fighting weight and stature of that ponderous ex-champion. Tim was “presented at the Castle,” not of Dublin, but in Holborn, by a distinguished Hibernian field-officer, who intimated to Tom Spring his readiness to post the “needful” for Tim in a trial with any man Spring might select. There was the Deaf’un, rough and ready, “standing idle in the market place;” and as he said, when he was asked as to when he would be ready if a match were arranged, “Well, you see, Misters, I’se ready at any time—​the sooner the better—​but where’s the moneys to come from? I’ll put down five of my own, buts——” a well-known member of the Stock Exchange struck in immediately, “and I’ll find the second five, and perhaps some more, if it’s wanted.” So the articles were there and then drawn, and Tuesday, the 16th, set down.

East Barnet was the fixture, and on the appointed morning, despite a heavy storm of wind and rain, a numerous cavalcade thronged the roads from Finchley and Southgate to the rendezvous. Crawley came down in a brand-new white upper-benjamin, on the swell drag of his military patron. Tim was radiant, if the weather was gloomy, and assured his friends that “He thought mighty little of Misther Burke’s foightin”—​(Tim had seen his battle with Hampson)—​“if all he could do was what he did with that tumble down carpenther from Liverpool. By jabers,” he added, “I’m the boy that’ll tache him quite another sort o’ fun.” The storm increased in violence, the time was come, and all were waiting with what patience they could command. Crawley alighted from his vehicle and claimed the stakes, when Reuben Martin hastened up breathless and covered with mud, to announce that the Deaf’un would be there immediately. The Deaf’un had left Soho in a hired gig; the horse had proved a “bolter,” and after a gallop along the Finchley Road, and up a bye-lane into which he had been turned, had smashed the gig and deposited the Deaf’un and his pal in a clayey ditch, the former pitching on his head with no other damage than a mud-bath. The Deaf’un now hove in sight, attended by Welsh Davis (afterwards called “Birmingham”) and Ned Stockman; Crawley had the services of Harry Jones and an Irish “friend.” The colours were tied to the stakes, the ring whipped out, and amid a pelting shower of rain the men stood up for

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—​Crawley stood over the Deaf’un by at least three inches, and topped him in weight by about a stone. He was, indeed, a fine muscular specimen of humanity, though some critical anatomists pronounced him too thick about the shoulder-blades, and, therefore, what is technically termed “shoulder-tied,” a defect which detracts both from the distance and the quickness of a man’s blows. The Deaf’un’s solid, trunk-of-tree look, was by this time familiar to all ring-goers, as he stood with his comparatively short arms, the left slightly in advance, and the right across covering his side and mark. Crawley lost no time in letting his adversary know his “little game,” for in he went, swinging out his left arm rather than hitting straight, and following it with a lunge with the right, both of which would have been ugly visitations had they got well home; but the first was stopped, and the second only just reached the Deaf’un’s ribs as he shifted ground; Crawley followed up his charge with more round hits, or rather misses, in exchange for which the Deaf’un, getting within his guard, hit up so sharply, the right on Tim’s eye and the left on his mouth, that he paused a moment before he renewed his hitting out. The Deaf’un had broke away, and now led Mister Tim a short dance round the ring, during which he propped the big ’un several times. Crawley lost his temper, and made a furious grab at Burke with his open right hand, catching him round the neck, when, to the surprise of all, the Deaf’un, throwing his arms round Crawley’s waist and butting him in the breast with his head, heeled him and threw him a clear back fall, adding his own weight to the concussion, which would have been far more serious but for the fact that the ground was about the consistency of a half-baked Yorkshire pudding. (2 to 1 on Burke.)

2.—​Crawley came up with his face painted the colour of the sign of the “Red Lion,” and the claim of first blood for the Deaf’un was admitted. Tim was, however, nothing daunted, and smiled contemptuously at his opponent, who nodded his nob in reply. At it again went Tim, in the style which we at a later day recognised as peculiar to Ben Caunt, whom Crawley (though better looking and not so tall) much resembled in his bust and mode of hitting. The onslaught was again but partially successful, the Deaf’un hitting up at close quarters with unusual precision, while Mister Tim pummelled away, often at the back of Burke’s head, neck, and shoulders, until they closely embraced, when the Deaf’un got his man down somehow.

3.—​Crawley came up strong on his pins, but already much disfigured. His left eye was nearly closed, his lips swelled and bleeding, and his cheek-bones and forehead full of “bubukles, and knobs, and whelks;” yet he went to work as before. After a stop or two, the Deaf’un again got his length, and sent in a smasher on Crawley’s damaged kissing organ, but could not escape such a right-handed “polthogue” from Tim’s bunch-of-fives on the top of his head as sent him staggering across the ring, amidst the shouts of the Emerald party. Crawley tried to follow up his advantage, but the Deaf’un recovered himself, was “all there” after a few exchanges, and finished the round by slipping through Crawley’s hands as he tried to grab him at the ropes.

4.—​A short round. Burke’s nob again visited; a rally in favour of the Deaf’un and both down.

5, 6, and 7.—​Very similar. Crawley showing increasing signs of punishment; the Deaf’un’s left ear tremendously swelled, and some blue marks about his frontispiece. In a rally Crawley missed his right and struck it flush against the stake. Burke was undermost in the last-named round.

8.—​Crawley, a deplorable spectacle, rushed in and got jobbed severely; in the close Burke threw Crawley heavily. Tim had no pretence to wrestling skill, and his right hand seemed almost hors de combat from contact with Burke’s granite skull and the oaken stake.

9.—​Crawley nearly dark in one window, and the other with the shutter half-up. The Deaf’un now went in in turn. He allowed Crawley to get on his favourite right at the ribs, jumping aside at the moment with a quick step, and sending his own right as a return smash into poor Tim’s frontispiece. Ding-dong till both out of breath and Crawley down.

10–25.—​The whole of these rounds were too much alike to deserve particular description. They varied only in which of the men finished the round by being first down at the close, and in this Crawley scored a large majority. In the 25th round Crawley’s remaining daylight became so nearly darkened that his last chance seemed gone. General Barton asked him to leave off, but he refused, saying, “Sure, yer hanner, an’ I can bate that fellow yet.” So he was indulged in seven more short rounds, and then, at the thirty-third, being in total darkness, his backers withdrew him after a slogging battle of 30 minutes only!

Remarks.—​Each time the Deaf’un appears in the ring, he surprises us by his manifest improvement. True, Crawley turned out a perfect novice, still the Deaf’un’s style of hitting, stopping, and getting away from a powerful and determined assailant was a clever demonstration of the art of defence; while the way, when the time came, in which he adminstered pepper with both hands at close quarters was something astonishing. Burke walked to his conveyance; he declared himself little hurt by Crawley’s body blows. Poor Tim was carried to his patron’s drag, and was soon conversable. He declared, no doubt with truth, that he “Couldn’t for the life of him make out how he was bate, at all, at all, no more nor a babby.” Some of the fancy suggested that the great Irish champion, Simon Byrne, with whom Jem Ward’s fiasco of Leicester was yet rankling in the public mind, might find his match in the Deaf’un; but this was not yet to be.

The sky had how cleared and the wind abated, when some fun was promised by a proposed fight between two well-known eccentric characters in the fistic world. These were no other than the facetious Tommy Roundhead, the trainer, and in after-time the “Secretary” to Deaf Burke, and the renowned Frosty-faced Fogo, D.C.G. (Deputy Commissary General), C.P.M. (Chief Purveyor of Max), and P.L.P.R. (Poet Laureate to the Prize Ring), for all these honours had been conferred on him by the Press. These illustrious wights had it seems differed (so it is rumoured) about the etymology of a Greek verb, the use of the digamma, or the literary attainments of Jack Scroggins; and in one branch of the disputation Tommy had not only asserted his own superiority in prose and poetry to the Laureate, but had offered to back Scroggins against him in writing blank verse or hexameters. Fired at the insult, the Frosty-faced’un tipped Tommy such a volley of black (letter) chaff that the latter declared himself quiet dumb-founded and nonplushed; so he offered to post five bob, and to fight Fogo in the same ring as Burke and Tim Crawley, just to settle the knotty dispute. Frosty’s official duties having ceased with the exit from the ring of the two principals, the Deputy Commissary stepped into the middle of the ring, and “thrice called aloud for Richmond” (we beg pardon, Roundhead). Before, however, he was “hoarse with calling” Roundhead, Tommy appeared, ready stripped to the waist, hopping through the mud like a pelted frog. Shouts of laughter greeted his entrée to the ropes, and at once he of the Frosty-face, hearing his defiance answered, began (unlike the Homeric heroes) to divest himself of his panoply, and would have been quickly in his natural buff suit, had not the ring filled with curious inquirers, anxious to learn the cause of this unusual commotion. The matter explained, the literati (represented by the ring-reporters), the University wranglers, and the aristocracy of the P.R., decided unanimously and with one voice (remember it was “raining cats and dogs”) that it would be derogatory for so distinguished a votary of Apollo to descend from Parnassus to roll his laurelled brow in Middlesex mud. “Forbid it, Phœbus, and ye Muses nine!” exclaimed Cicero Holt, then, descending to plain prose, he added, “Come, shove on your toggery, Frosty-face, you’ll catch cold, you old muff;” and, suiting the action to the word, he tried to thrust the “pen-hand” of the irate bard into the ragged sleeve-lining of his “upper Ben.” The task was impracticable. “There’s five bob down, and I’ll have a round for it,” cried the Fancy Orpheus. “Oh, d—— your five bob, Frosty, we’ll make that right,” cried half-a-dozen voices. At that moment poor Frosty beheld with dismay the greasy sleeve of his old coat torn clean out at the shoulder, and his own naked arm protruding from the yawning rent. He felt like