Tom Sayers, the prize-fighter, who died of consumption, was buried
at Highgate Cemetery on Wednesday, in the presence of a great crowd of animal admirers, a brown dog being the chief, and it is said the most dignified and respectable, mourner. The brown dog was in a mail phaeton alone,—the horse led by a man,—the dog's collar being bound up in crape. In the cemetery the prize-fighter's professional admirers sprang, says an eye- witness who describes the scene in the Pall Mall Gazette, into a holly tree close to the grave, which cracked under them, or under their curses as they fell. The poor man had Christian burial, and we suppose at least as sure and certain a hope of a better life, as many of us who,have not been steeped in that sort of brutality from youth upwards. If he is to have another life at all, it could not well be a worse. Hell itself could scarcely be more foul than a life spent amidst oaths, and violence, and coarse slang, and ' game' companions, and we suppose poor Sayers's first step upwards would be to feel something of its foulness.
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