“SIR,――My having placed £25 in your hands will, I hope, remove all doubt as regards Caunt’s money being ready; and it remains with the friends of Brassey alone to appoint a day, either Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday week, through the medium of your paper, to meet at my house, to draw up articles and put down their dust; and unless this be attended to, for my part I shall consider they do not mean business. I have taken the responsibility on myself of detaining the money a little longer; that would give Brassey time to join his friends at Norwich, which, I understand, is all that prevents the match being made now. “I am, &c., “P. CRAWLEY, “‘Queen’s Head and French Horn,’ Duke Street, West Smithfield. “August 21st, 1840.” All difficulties were now smoothed, and a match for £100 a side was made, to be decided on the 26th October, 1840. As the deposits were made good, and the day approached, the interest in sporting circles rose to an intense height, and at the last deposit Tom Spring’s “Castle” was literally stormed by eager crowds. As a relief from these prosaic matter-of-fact proceedings, we will here enliven our page with a few rhymes in the shape of―― “AN HEROIC EPISTLE FROM BRASSEY TO BIG CAUNT.” To thee I send these lines, illustrious Caunt! Of courage tried, and huge as John of Gaunt, To thee my foolscap with black ink I blot, To tell the big ’un Brassey fears him not, And that in battle, should the fates allow, He means to snatch the laurels from his brow, At all his boasted pluck and prowess smile, And give him pepper in superior style. Yes, gallant Caunt, next Tuesday will declare If you or I the Champion’s belt shall wear; And be assured, regardless of the tin, I’ll go to work, and do my best to win, Prove that in fight _one_ Briton can surpass ye, And if you ask his name, I thunder――_Brassey_! What proof of milling prowess did you show In your two scrambling fights with Bendigo? When of your foeman’s punishment aware, You roughly squeezed him like a polar bear, Nearly extinguished in his lungs the breath, And almost hugged him in your arms to death―― Such a base system I pronounce humbugging; Don’t call it fighting, Caunt, I call it hugging, And if bold Brassey with that game you tease, The bear may soon be minus of his grease, And for a practice cowardly as foul, Receive a lesson that may make him growl. But bounce I bar――plain dealing is my plan, And in the ring I’ll meet you man to man, And do, most certainly, the best I can.