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. In fact it was I, and not my fair companion, who
was a muff, for having imagined that a young American woman, nearly
fresh from the other side of the Atlantic, was likely to know or ever
have heard anything about the Champion of England.

There happened to be several Lincolnshire men that year in Florence,
and there was a dinner at which I, as one of the "web-footed," by
descent if not birth, was present, and I told them the story of my