In the following month Cashel Byron, William Paradise, and Robert
Mellish appeared in the dock together, the first two for having
been principals in a prize-fight, and Mellish for having acted as
bottle-holder to Paradise. These offences were verbosely described in
a long indictment which had originally included the fourth man who had
been captured, but against whom the grand jury had refused to find a
true bill. The prisoners pleaded not guilty.
The defence was that the fight, the occurrence of which was admitted,
was not a prize-fight, but the outcome of an enmity which had subsisted
between the two men since one of them, at a public exhibition at
Islington, had attacked and bitten the other. In support of this, it was
shown that Byron had occupied a house at Wiltstoken, and had lived there
with Mellish, who had invited Paradise to spend a holiday with him
in the country. This accounted for the presence of the three men at
Wiltstoken on the day in question. Words had arisen between Byron and
Paradise on the subject of the Islington affair; and they had at last
agreed to settle the dispute in the old English fashion. They had
adjourned to a field, and fought fairly and determinedly until
interrupted by the police, who were misled by appearances into the
belief that the affair was a prize-fight.
Prize-fighting was a brutal pastime, Cashel Byron’s counsel said; but
a fair, stand-up fight between two unarmed men, though doubtless
technically a breach of the peace, had never been severely dealt with
by a British jury or a British judge; and the case would be amply met by
binding over the prisoners, who were now on the best of terms with one
another, to keep the peace for a reasonable period. The sole evidence
against this view of the case, he argued, was police evidence; and the
police were naturally reluctant to admit that they had found a
mare’s nest. In proof that the fight had been premeditated, and was a
prize-fight, they alleged that it had taken place within an enclosure
formed with ropes and stakes. But where were those ropes and stakes?
They were not forthcoming; and he (counsel) submitted that the reason
was not, as had been suggested, because they had been spirited away, for
that was plainly impossible; but because they had existed only in the
excited imagination of the posse of constables who had arrested the
prisoners.
Again, it had been urged that the prisoners were in fighting costume.
But cross-examination had elicited that fighting costume meant
practically no costume at all: the men had simply stripped in order that
their movements might be unembarrassed. It had been proved that Paradise
had been--well, in the traditional costume of Paradise (roars of
laughter) until the police borrowed a blanket to put upon him.
That the constables had been guilty of gross exaggeration was shown by
their evidence as to the desperate injuries the combatants had inflicted
upon one another. Of Paradise in particular it had been alleged that his
features were obliterated. The jury had before them in the dock the man
whose features had been obliterated only a few weeks previously. If that
were true, where had the prisoner obtained the unblemished lineaments
which he was now, full of health and good-humor, presenting to them?
(Renewed laughter. Paradise grinning in confusion.) It was said
that these terrible injuries, the traces of which had disappeared so
miraculously, were inflicted by the prisoner Byron, a young gentleman
tenderly nurtured, and visibly inferior in strength and hardihood to his
herculean opponent. Doubtless Byron had been emboldened by his skill in
mimic combat to try conclusions, under the very different conditions of
real fighting, with a man whose massive shoulders and determined cast of
features ought to have convinced him that such an enterprise was nothing
short of desperate. Fortunately the police had interfered before he had
suffered severely for his rashness. Yet it had been alleged that he had
actually worsted Paradise in the encounter--obliterated his features.
That was a fair sample of the police evidence, which was throughout
consistently incredible and at variance with the dictates of
common-sense.
Attention was then drawn to the honorable manner in which Byron had come
forward and given himself up to the police the moment he became aware
that they were in search of him. Paradise would, beyond a doubt, have
adopted the same course had he not been arrested at once, and that, too,
without the least effort at resistance on his part. That was hardly
the line of conduct that would have suggested itself to two lawless
prize-fighters.
An attempt had been made to prejudice the prisoner Byron by the
statement that he was a notorious professional bruiser. But no proof of
that was forthcoming; and if the fact were really notorious there could
be no difficulty in proving it. Such notoriety as Mr. Byron enjoyed was
due, as appeared from the evidence of Lord Worthington and others, to
his approaching marriage to a lady of distinction. Was it credible that
a highly connected gentleman in this enviable position would engage in
a prize-fight, risking disgrace and personal disfigurement, for a sum of
money that could be no object to him, or for a glory that would appear
to all his friends as little better than infamy?
The whole of the evidence as to the character of the prisoners went to
show that they were men of unimpeachable integrity and respectability.
An impression unfavorable to Paradise might have been created by the
fact that he was a professional pugilist and a man of hasty temper;
but it had also transpired that he had on several occasions rendered
assistance to the police, thereby employing his skill and strength in
the interests of law and order. As to his temper, it accounted for the
quarrel which the police--knowing his profession--had mistaken for a
prize-fight.
Mellish was a trainer of athletes, and hence the witnesses to his
character were chiefly persons connected with sport; but they were not
the less worthy of credence on that account.
In fine, the charge would have been hard to believe even if supported by
the strongest evidence. But when there was no evidence--when the police
had failed to produce any of the accessories of a prize-fight--when
there were no ropes nor posts--no written articles--no stakes nor
stakeholders--no seconds except the unfortunate man Mellish, whose
mouth was closed by a law which, in defiance of the obvious interests
of justice, forbade a prisoner to speak and clear himself--nothing, in
fact, but the fancies of constables who had, under cross-examination,
not only contradicted one another, but shown the most complete ignorance
(a highly creditable ignorance) of the nature and conditions of a
prize-fight; then counsel would venture to say confidently that the
theory of the prosecution, ingenious as it was, and ably as it had been
put forward, was absolutely and utterly untenable.
This, and much more argument of equal value, was delivered with relish
by a comparatively young barrister, whose spirits rose as he felt the
truth change and fade while he rearranged its attendant circumstances.
Cashel listened for some time anxiously. He flushed and looked moody
when his marriage was alluded to; but when the whole defence was
unrolled, he was awestruck, and stared at his advocate as if he half
feared that the earth would gape and swallow such a reckless perverter
of patent facts. Even the judge smiled once or twice; and when he did
so the jurymen grinned, but recovered their solemnity suddenly when the
bench recollected itself and became grave again. Every one in court knew
that the police were right--that there had been a prize-fight--that the
betting on it had been recorded in all the sporting papers for weeks
beforehand--that Cashel was the mostterrible fighting man of the day,
and that Paradise had not dared to propose a renewal of the interrupted
contest. And they listened with admiration and delight while the advocate
proved that these things were incredible and nonsensical.
It remained for the judge to sweep away the defence, or to favor the
prisoners by countenancing it. Fortunately for them, he was an old man;
and could recall, not without regret, a time when the memory of Cribb
and Molyneux was yet green. He began his summing-up by telling the jury
that the police had failed to prove that the fight was a prize-fight.
After that, the public, by indulging in roars of laughter whenever they
could find a pretext for doing so without being turned out of court,
showed that they had ceased to regard the trial seriously.
Finally the jury acquitted Mellish, and found Cashel and Paradise guilty
of a common assault. They were sentenced to two days’ imprisonment,
and bound over to keep the peace for twelve months in sureties of one
hundred and fifty pounds each. The sureties were forthcoming; and as the
imprisonment was supposed to date from the beginning of the sessions,
the prisoners were at once released.