of murder, had armed them with steel, that none might meet him with impunity.
To oppose him in the field, came forth a warrior, under the protection of Peter Anvil. No foreign blood flowed in his veins, but courage and fortitude were the characteristics of his family. Purple, orange, indigo, and white, mingled their shades with infinite variety, to give lustre to his vesture. The dignity of his air added to the elegance of his external appearance; never was more of beauty and majesty blended; and, like the splendid garments of the eastern monarch's soldiers, they excited a sigh of regret, that plumes of such exquisite richness should be stained with blood. As they entered the floor, every eye was fixed, and every tongue was hushed in silence. They rushed upon each other with impetuosity; fierce was their onset, and desperate the conflict; feathers bestrewed the floor, and blood sprung around. The delight of the spectators increased with the fury of the combatants; a burst of transport went round the pit. Bets were laid-two to one-three to one-all were interested in the carnage, and impatient for its issue. Guineas were sported by the farmers; crowns and half-crowns by the more cautious mechanics; while the motley mass of spectators confined their bettings to gills or half-mutchkins of whisky toddy.
Now the hero in black, with his armour of steel, like Napoleon's Cuirassiers, seems to drive all before him. Anon, the speckled champion, like a Scotch Highlander clad in his native tartan, fetches a stroke that makes his antagonist reel. Anxiety
