carried him a limb at a time. How he could have been persuaded to select two such assistants we are at a loss to conceive. Jack Gill could not have had much experience in his new vocation, and Jemmy Shaw will excuse us for saying that, however staunch a friend and good fellow he has proved himself in other ways, his stature and proportions by no means qualify him as a porter to either Gog or Magog, should those gigantic worthies need to be picked up from a horizontal position. At a quarter to four the seconds proceeded to knot the colours on the centre stake――a blue, with white spot, for Langham, orange with a blue border for Caunt. The betting on the ground was trifling in the extreme; nothing was laid between the men, and but small sums at 5 and 6 to 4 on Caunt. As to Nat’s training, he went first to Dover and then to Stockbridge, in Hampshire, where by steadiness and perseverance he got himself into extraordinary fettle; to our eye, he looked bigger, stronger, and healthier, though of course somewhat older, than when he fought either Harry Orme or Tom Sayers. And now, having brought our men to the “post,” we will start them for THE FIGHT. Round 1.――On toeing the scratch the disparity between the men was of course extraordinary. Ben Caunt, barring his mug, was a study for a sculptor. His massive frame and powerful legs and arms――the former set off to the best advantage by pink silk stockings and well-made drawers――presented a sight worth going some distance to see; and as he stood over old Nat any one would have agreed with Jerry Noon, who declared that it was “Chelsea Hospital to a sentry-box” in his favour. He smiled good-humouredly, and had clearly made up his mind to win in a trot. Nat was, as usual, clear in skin, and neatly made at all points. His shoulders and arms were well covered with muscle, and for an encounter with a man of his own size he looked all that could be desired; but as to his being a match for Ben Caunt it seemed too absurd to be credited, and few, we think, expected to see him “perform” with anything like effect. His attitude, as of yore, was perfection, and his dangerous left was playing about close to his side all in readiness for one of his neat deliveries as Ben came in. Caunt stood just as he ever stood, very square on his pins, his brawny arms almost straight out before him, which he ever and anon moved backward and forward with all the deliberation of a couple of pendulums. He had come, however, not to spar, but to fight, and after very little feinting he went up to Nat, who retreated towards the ropes, and Ben at length lunged out left and right, just catching Nat with the former on the ribs, and Nat was down laughing.