I have a notion that I have seen this story of mine told
somewhere, with a change of names and circumstances that spoil it,
after the fashion of the people "who steal other folks' stories and
disfigure them, as gipsies do stolen children to escape detection."
I had one evening at the Pitti, some years however after my first
appearance there, a very pretty and naively charming American lady on
my arm, whom I was endeavouring to amuse by pointing out to her all
the personages whom I thought might interest her, as we walked through
the rooms. Dear old Dymock, the champion, was in Florence that winter,
and was at the Pitti that night.--I dare say that there may be
many now who do not know without being told, that Dymock, the last
champion, as I am almost afraid I must call him--though doubtless
Scrivelsby must still be held by the ancient tenure--was a very small
old man, a clergyman, and not at all the sort of individual to answer
to the popular idea of a champion. He was sitting in a nook all by
himself, and not looking very heroic or very happy as we passed, and
nudging my companion's arm, I whispered, "That is the champion." The
interest I excited was greater than I had calculated on, for the lady
made a dead stop, and facing round to gaze at the old gentleman, said
"Why, you don't tell me so! I should never have thought that that
could be the fellow who licked Heenan! _But he looks a plucky little
chap!_"
Perhaps the reader may have forgotten, or even never known, that the
championship of the pugilistic world had then recently been won by
Sayers--I think that was the name--in a fight with an antagonist of
the name of Heenan.
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