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THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—Spring never looked so big, nor so well, in any of his previous contests; he appeared perfectly at his ease: coolness sat upon his brow, and his deportment altogether was a fine personification of confidence; indeed, it was observed by a noble lord, “There is something about the person of the Champion, if not truly noble, yet manly and elegant.” Langan also looked well; his face exhibited a tinge of the sun, and his frame was robust and hardy; his loins appeared smaller than in his former contest. His countenance was as pleasant as his opponent’s, and his eyes sparkled with fire and animation. Previous to setting-to, Langan went up to Spring, opening his drawers, and observed, “See, Tom, I have no belt about me,” the Champion immediately followed his example, and said (also opening his drawers), “Nor I neither, Jack!” This circumstance elicited great applause from all parts of the ring. “Well done, Langan; bravo, Spring!” Spring now shook his brave opponent by the hand. Cribb laid hold of Tom Belcher’s fist, and Ned Painter shook the bunch of fives of big Paddy O’Neil (shortly afterwards beaten by “my nevvy,” Jem Burn.^[5]) The men placed themselves in attitude. The glorious moment had arrived, and the seconds, in compliance with the articles, retired to the corners of the stage. This time Langan stood up within the reach of his adversary, and it was pleasing to witness the activity displayed by the combatants moving over the stage to obtain the first hit. A stand still, steadfastly looking at the eyes of each other; at length Langan made an offer, which Spring stopped well. The Champion made a hit, which told slightly on Langan’s nob; the latter fought his way into a close, in which Spring endeavoured to fib his antagonist. Here the struggle began for the throw—it was desperate; the art of wrestling was not resorted to by either of the boxers, and main strength was the trial. Langan broke from the arms of Spring, and a stand still was the result. Langan observed, “First blood, Tom;” which slightly appeared at the corner of Spring’s mouth. The Irish Champion made a good stop, but was blowing a little. Spring planted another facer, when Langan fought his way into a close: a desperate struggle ensued: fibbing was again attempted, when Langan went down on his knees. Spring patted the Irish Champion on the back with the utmost good humour, as much as to say, “You are a brave fellow,” (A thundering report of approbation, and “Well done, Spring!”) Four minutes and a few seconds. The referee, on being asked who drew the first blood, replied, “He did not see any on Spring; but he saw a little on the left cheek of Langan, just under his eye.”