“The battle was fought at Fig’s amphitheatre, before a splendid company, the politest house of that kind I ever saw. While the Gondolier was stripping my heart yearned for my countryman. His arm took up all observation; it was surprisingly large, long, and muscular. He pitched himself forward with his right leg, and his arm full extended; and, as Whitaker approached, caught him a blow at the side of the head which knocked him quite off the stage, which was remarkable for its height. Whitaker’s misfortune in his fall was the grandeur of the company, on which account they suffered no common people in, that usually sat on the ground, and lined the stage all round. It was thus all clear, and Whitaker had nothing to stop him but the bottom. There was a general foreign huzza on the side of the Venetian, as proclaiming our countryman’s downfall; but Whitaker took no more time than was required to get up again, when, finding his fault in standing out to the length of the other’s arm, he, with a little stoop, dashed boldly in beyond the heavy mallet, and with one English peg in the stomach,” by which the captain in another place explains he means what is called “the mark,”—“quite a new thing to foreigners, brought him on his breech. The blow carried too much of the English rudeness with it for him to bear, and finding himself so unmannerly used, he scorned to have any more doings with such a slovenly fist.” We could not resist transcribing this graphic, terse, and natural account of a prize-fight; the rarity of Captain Godfrey’s book, and the bald, diluted, silly amplification of it in “Boxiana,” pp. 22‒25, vol. i., being the moving reasons thereto. “So fine a house,” says Captain Godfrey, alluding to the company which assembled to see Whitaker fight the Gondolier, “was too engaging to Fig not to court another. He therefore stepped up, and told the gentlemen that they might think he had picked out the best man in London on this occasion; but to convince them to the contrary, he said, that if they would come on that day se’nnight, he would bring a man who should beat this Whitaker in ten minutes by fair hitting. This brought near as great and fine a company as the week before. The ‘man’ was Nathaniel Peartree, who, knowing the other’s bottom, and his deadly way of flinging, took a most judicious manner to beat him. Let his character come in here.—He was an admirable boxer, and I do not know one he was not a match for, before he lost his finger. He was famous, like Pipes, for fighting at the face, but was stronger in his blows. He knew Whitaker’s hardiness, and, being doubtful of beating him, cunningly determined to fight at his eyes. His judgment carried his arm so well, that, in about six minutes, both Whitaker’s eyes were shut; when, groping about a while for his man, and finding him not, he wisely gave out (_modernicè_, gave in), with these odd words—‘Damme, I’m not beat; but what signifies my fighting when I can’t see my man?’”