and send for reinforcements of "bobbies,"
or policemen, by the great tale-teller, the
electric telegraph. So the river was decided
on. The steamer has been freighted with
bottled stout, wines, spirits, cigars, captain's
biscuits, and sandwiches; and, at an early
hour, she receives a motley bevy of passengers
—all, however, respectable in the Thurtellian
or gig-keeping sense of respectability, for
they have all paid a guinea for their voyage
and back. Several nobs, several first-rate
men, several City men—all peculiar and
distinct varieties of the genus sporting man,
but on which I cannot stay to descant now—
are present; and I am compelled to acknowledge
the presence of many, very many of the
gentlemen we met last night—the chained
and ringed dandies—the bucks who know
where Brixton is, and who sits at Bow Street
on Monday mornings. Take care of your
pockets, oh! my young student of "Bell's
Life," for, of all the out-and-out thieves—-

There are some temporary difficulties,
occupying, indeed, a considerable portion of the
forenoon, before a battle-ground can be finally
selected. In one parish a fierce country magistrate
sallies forth against the Fancy, with the
whole of the posse comitatus he has been able to
muster at his heels; in another, a detachment
of the rural police puts them to rout, with the
loss of a considerable portion of their baggage.
At last, a sweet little slip of waste land,
skirted on one side by a towing-path and on
the other by a brickfield, is selected, and
possession taken without molestation. There is a
slight disturbance at first with a drunken
horse-chaunter and a sporting blacksmith, who
persist in offering to fight Snaggs and Pepper
themselves for any number of pots of ale.
These, however, are speedily disposed of—
the horse-chaunter by being settled
off-hand by three facers and a crack under the
left ear, and sent home in a cart with his
bloody sconce wrapped round with one of the
staring shawls; the blacksmith by being
tilted into a wet ditch, and left to get sober
at his leisure. Then, business begins in right
earnest. Sundry vans, omnibuses, and
knowing-looking livery stable breaks have been
following the course of the steamboat down the
river; together with a locust crowd of
chaise-carts, dog-carts. Hansom cabs, and a few
private cabriolets—one with the smallest tiger and
the largest grey mare to be found probably in
England, and containing the Mæcenas of the
Ring, rather pink about the eyes, and yellow
about the cheek-bones from last night's
Champagne. An amateur trotting-match or
two has been got up on the road, and Jack
Cowcabbidge, the nobby greengrocer, of the
Old Kent Road, has broken the knees of
Handsome Charley's mare Peppermint, for
which Charley swears that he will "pull him."
All these vehicles cluster together in a widish
outer ring, having sundry scouts or videttes
posted, to give notice of the approach of
inimical forces; and, in addition, there are
several horsemen, hovering on the skirts of
the ring, well-mounted gentlemen in garb,
and apparently half interested and delighted
with the prospect of the sport, and half
ashamed to be seen in such company. Old
Squire Nobsticks, of Nobstick Hall, close by,
has come in spite of his gout in a roomy
velocipede, and navigates into the inner
ring amid the cheers of the Fancy. He
never misses a fight. This inner ring I
speak of is now formed. The stakes are
firmly driven into the turf, the ropes passed
through circular orifices in their tops, and all
made snug and comfortable. Now, Monsieur
Tyro, if you please, button up all your pockets,
and essay not to enter the inner ring, for the
swell mobsmen will stone you from it if you
do, and hustle and rifle you as you come out.
Stand on the top of this hackney cab, and you
will be enabled to view the proceedings with
greater ease and comfort. None but the
veterans of the Fancy and the Mæcenasses (?)
of the Ring have the privilege of sitting on
the grass close to the ropes.

     "'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view."

The heroes peel, and, divesting themselves
of the grubby or chrysalis-like covering of
great-coats and wrap-rascals, appear in the
bright butterfly bravery of denuded torsos,
white drawers and stockings, flaring
waist-handkerchiefs and sparrow-bill shoes. We
have no time to ponder on the magnificent
muscular development of these men's chests
and arms. The bottleholders are at their
respective corners, with their bottles and
sponges; the referee stands watch in hand (I
hope he will not lose it ere the fight be done);
the swell mobsmen make a desperate rush at
anything they can lay hands on; and these two
men proceed to pound each other's bodies.

I could describe the scene that follows, but
cui bono? Content yourself with fancying
who first drew claret; how often the referee
cried time; who got down whom at the
ropes; who put out cleverly with his left;
whose face bore severe marks of punishment,
hit out wildly, hung like a mass of butcher's
meat on his second's knee; and, failing at last
to come up to time, fell down senseless on the
turf, caused the sponge to be thrown up, and
victory to be declared for his opponent. What
need is there for me to state who officiated
for Snaggs, and who did the needful for the
Kiddy; how there was a savage foray on this
latter's party by the Nottingham Roughs;
how there was a cry of "Foul!" and how
the swell mobsmen robbed right and left,
hitting wildly meanwhile, till the Mæcenas of
the Ring—fleeing from before them—fell into
the ditch a-top of the tinker, and had an after-fight
or fancy epilogue with him. We have
had enough of it. .

And I am not half through "Bell's Life" yet,
though you must be as weary of it and of me
as ever was Mariana in the Moated Grange.
But, as I said before, "Bell's Life" is as