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 mayest thou long continue--true piece of English stuff, Tom of Bedford--sharp as winter, kind as spring.
All this is very accurate history.

We know that there really was this wonderful gathering of the bruisers of England assembled in the neighbourhood of Norwich in July 1820, that is to say, sixteen miles away at North Walsham.