E-text prepared by MWS, Wayne Hammond, and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made
available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 57329-h.htm or 57329-h.zip:
(https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/57329/pg57329-images.html)
or
(https://www.gutenberg.org/files/57329/57329-h.zip)
Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive. See
https://archive.org/details/knucklesgloves00lyncuoft
Transcriber’s note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
A carat character is used to denote superscription. A
single character following the carat is superscripted
(example: N^o). Multiple superscripted characters are
enclosed by curly brackets (example: S^{ir}).
[Illustration: “THE CLOSE OF THE BATTLE, OR THE CHAMPION TRIUMPHANT.
1. Round.--Sparring for one minute, Cribb made play right and left, a
right-handed blow told slightly on the body of Molineux, who returned
it on the head, and a rally followed, the Black knocked down by a hit
on the throat. 2.--Cribb showed first blood from the mouth, a dreadful
rally, Cribb put in a good body-hit, returned by the Moor on the head.
Closing, Cribb thrown. 3.--Cribb’s right eye nearly closed, another
rally, the Black deficient in wind receives a doubler in the body.
Cribb damaged in both eyes and thrown. 4.--Rally, hits exchanged. Cribb
fell with a slight hit and manifested first weakness. 5.--Rallying
renewed. Cribb fell from a blow and received another in falling.
6.--The Black, fatigued by want of wind, a blow at the body-mark
doubles him up, and is floored by a hit at great length. 7.--Black
runs in intemperately, receives several violent blows about the neck
and juggler, falls from weakness. 8.--Black rallies, Cribb nobs him,
gets his head under his left arm, and just fibbed till the Moor fell.
9.--Black runs in, met with a left-handed blow which broke his jaw,
and fell like a log. 10.--Black, with difficulty, made an unsuccessful
effort and fell from distress. 11.--This round ended the fight. Black
received another knock-down and unable again to stand up.”
_Frontispiece._]
KNUCKLES AND GLOVES
* * * * * *
_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_:
GLAMOUR
CAKE
UNOFFICIAL
THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN
THE TENDER CONSCIENCE
FORGOTTEN REALMS
MAX BEERBOHM IN PERSPECTIVE
THE COMPLETE AMATEUR BOXER
* * * * * *
KNUCKLES AND GLOVES
by
BOHUN LYNCH
With a Preface by Sir Theodore Cook
Illustrated
[Illustration]
London: 48 Pall Mall
W. Collins Sons & Co. Ltd.
Glasgow Melbourne Auckland
Copyright
First Impression, October, 1922
Second ” November, 1922
Manufactured in Great Britain
To H. G. B. L.
Though I deplore the pain you felt
When you had broken my command,
And I had taken you in hand,
Planting my blows beneath your belt,
I like to think of future years
When skin that’s fair shall change to brown,
When ‘listed in a fairer fight,
You shall return to others’ ears
Blows straightly dealt with left and right,
Blows you encountered lower down!
PREFACE
In the brickwork of a well-known London house, not far from Covent
Garden, there is a stone with the date, 1636, which was cut by the
order of Alexander, Earl of Stirling. It formed part of a building
which sheltered successively Tom Killigrew, Denzil Hollis, and Sir
Henry Vane; and that great kaleidoscope of a quack, a swordsman, and
a horse-breaker, Sir Kenelm Digby, died in it. Within its walls was
summoned the first Cabinet Council ever held in England, by Admiral
Russel, Earl of Orford. Its members belonged to a set of jovial
sportsmen, of whom Lord Wharton and Lord Godolphin may be taken as
excellent types. About the same time, out of the mob that peoples
Hogarth’s pictures, out of the faces with which Fielding and Smollett
have made us familiar, and in a society for which Samuel Richardson
alternately blushed and sighed, arose the rough but manly form of Figg,
the better educated but equally lusty figure of Broughton, who first
taught “the mystery of boxing, that truly British art” at his academy
in the Haymarket in 1747.
But, unfortunately, the beginnings of prize-fighting, or boxing for
money with bare fists, were more romantic than its subsequent career,
for it lived on brutality and it died of boredom. The house near
Covent Garden has become the National Sporting Club. Knuckles have
been replaced by gloves. To-day we see Carpentier knock his man out
scientifically in less than a single round, instead of watching Tom
Sayers, with one arm, fighting the Benicia Boy, and only getting a
draw after two hours and twenty minutes. Mr. Bohun Lynch’s description
of the battle is one of the best I have ever read, and he gives full
credit to each man for the fine spirit shown throughout an encounter in
which neither asked for mercy and neither expected any.
On the afternoon of June 16, 1904, there was sold in King Street,
Covent Garden, the belt presented to J. C. Heenan (who was called the
Benicia Boy from the San Francisco workshops, where he was employed)
after the great fight was over. It was a duplicate of the championship
belt, and it bore the same title as that presented at the same time
to Sayers: “Champion of England.” The price it fetched in 1904 was,
I fear, a true reflection of the interest now taken in its original
owner and his pugilistic surroundings; and it is difficult to recall
the celebrity of both from those past years when Tom Sayers seemed to
share with the Duke of Wellington the proud title of Britain’s greatest
hero. But it is not really so astonishing when we remember that the
plucky little Hoxton bricklayer stood to the youth of his era as the
gamest representative of almost the only form of sport the larger
public knew or cared about. In days when golf, lawn-tennis, cricket,
football, and the rest not only multiply our sporting stars almost
indefinitely, but attract crowds numbered by scores of thousands to
applaud them, we do not seem to pitch upon the boxer as our especially
typical representative of national sporting skill. There may be other
reasons for that, too. English boxers seem to have only retained their
characteristic style long enough to hand it on to others; they then
proceeded to forget it. When Jem Mace left off boxing in England he
went to Australia, and in Sydney he taught Larry Foley, who in turn
educated Peter Jackson, Fitzsimmons, Hall, Creedon, and Young Griffo.
The first two handed on the lighted torch to the United States. The
result was soon obvious. When the Americans came over they beat us at
all weights from Peter Jackson downwards, and they beat us because
they had learnt from us what one of the best exponents of the art has
called “velocity and power of hitting combined with quickness and ease
of movement on the feet”; I should like to add to that, “the straight
left,” or as it is more classically known, “Long Melford.”
No doubt the best of the old fighters now and then produced a fine
and manly example of human fortitude and skill. “If I were absolute
king,” wrote Thackeray in a famous Roundabout Paper after the Sayers
and Heenan fight, “I would send Tom Sayers to the mill for a month
and make him Sir Thomas on coming out of Clerkenwell.” I am tempted
in this connection to reproduce what must be one of the few letters
Tom Sayers ever wrote. It was caused by a public discussion after his
famous fight, which is little short of amazing when we look back at
it. The newspapers were filled with frenzied denunciations, Parliament
angrily discussed the question, Palmerston quoted, with every sign of
satisfaction, a French journalist who saw in the contest “a type of the
national character for indomitable perseverance in determined effort,”
and then (cannot you see his smiling eyes above the semi-serious
mouth?) proceeded to draw a contrast between pugilism and ballooning,
very much to the disadvantage of the latter. A correspondent wrote to
the Press inquiring indignantly whether it were true that the Duke of
Beaufort, the Earl of Eglinton, and the Bishop of Oxford had attended
“this most disgraceful exhibition.” Tom Sayers, roused to unwonted
penmanship, retorted in the _Daily Telegraph_ as follows:--“In answer
to your correspondent, I beg to state that neither bishop nor peer was
present at the late encounter. It is from a pure sense of justice that
I write you this. I scarcely think it reasonable that such repeated
onslaughts should be made on me and my friend, Heenan. Trusting you
will insert this in your widely-circulated and well-regulated journal,
allow me to remain, yours faithfully, Thomas Sayers, Cambrian Stores,
Castle Street, Leicester Square, April 21, 1860.” The Stock Exchange
had given him a purse of a hundred guineas that afternoon, so you
need scarcely wonder at the urbanity of his language. In the House of
Commons, meanwhile, the Home Secretary had been calling forth cheerful
expressions of hilarity by reminding those members who had witnessed
the battle that they might be indicted for misdemeanour, though he was
pleased to add that fighting with fists was in his opinion better than
the use of the bowie-knife, the stiletto, or the shillelagh.
I can remember Mr. Lynch’s boxing for his University, and the severe
discomfort he occasioned his Cambridge adversary; and when I recall
the many excellent books (on different subjects) which he has
previously given us, I see in him an author who has not only the
knowledge but the skill to produce that requisite blend of literature
and experience which can alone commend the subject of his volume to
the English-speaking public. I wish I could claim as much myself. But
I suffered from the educational advantage of having a younger brother
who knocked me down (and often “out”) with the greatest kindliness and
persistence whenever we put on the gloves together; and being overmuch
puffed up with pride at finding I could stand so much of it, I rashly
took on a guardsman so considerably my superior that after three
rounds I was never allowed to box again, and had to quench my thirst
for personal combat in ensuing years with foil and duelling-sword. My
brother died suddenly of a fever when he was in training under Bat
Mullens for the Amateur Championship, and only twenty-one. He was six
feet three and thirteen stone stripped, and I never saw an amateur I
thought his better until Hopley came into the ring for Cambridge; and
no one ever knew how good Hopley was, for no one ever stood in the ring
with him for more than two minutes, and he retired, like St. Simon (I
mean, of course, the Duke of Portland’s thoroughbred) as undefeated as
he was unextended.
Another very good fight in Mr. Lynch’s book (and I have never read a
better analysis of the technical “knock-out” than the one he gives on
page 126) is that between Peter Jackson and Frank Slavin. I saw it, so
I can correct a slight verbal error (foreseen in his own footnote) in
Mr. Lynch’s pages. Mr. Angle (I have his letter before me) did not say
“Fight on” at that dreadful moment when the packed house could scarcely
breathe; when Slavin was tottering blindly to and fro, refusing to give
in; when Peter looked out at us appealingly, with the native chivalry
that shone through his black skin, and evidently hated to continue.
The referee’s quiet syllables, “_Box on_,” sounded like a minute-gun
at sea, and in a few moments it was all over. When Slavin was brought
round in his dressing-room, and told he had been knocked out, he
muttered, “They’ll never believe that in Melbourne.”
There must have been something about the old prize-ring which we have
lost to-day, or it would never have inspired such good literature or
attracted such brilliant men in its support. Byron’s screen in Mr.
John Murray’s drawing-room is far from the only testimony to that
dazzling poet’s love of fighting. Hazlitt was almost equally attracted.
Perhaps the most grisly passage even in the pages of De Quincy is
that episode in the first part of “Murder as One of the Fine Arts,”
where the fight between the amateur and the baker of Mannheim (with
its result) is vividly described. The best pages of Borrow, too, gain
their best inspiration from the same source. I often seem to recall
that pair of dark eyes flashing in a fair face shaded by hair that
was prematurely touched with grey; lips full and mobile, as quick
with Castilian phrases to a Spanish landlord as with Romany to Jasper
Petulengro, or with English to the fruit-woman on London Bridge; the
queer, fascinating, mystical, honest mixture of a man, with something
of the Wandering Jew, a good deal of Don Quixote, a touch of Melmoth,
a sound flavouring of Cribb and Belcher, who was George Borrow. Under
his magic guidance you step into the air which fanned the elf-locks of
the Flaming Tinman. He loved the heroes of the Ring like brothers. “He
strikes his foe on the forehead, and the report of the blow is like the
sound of a hammer against a rock.” The sentence stands unmatched in all
the annals of pugilism. The battle of his father with Big Ben Brain
in Hyde Park was an abiding memory to him; and, apart from the famous
encounter in the Dingle, the son did almost as well; and all his life
nothing moved him to such instant eloquence as boxing, except horses.
Mr. Lynch, with all his knowledge of the art, and all his sympathy
with the best qualities in the men whose combats he portrays, cannot
conceal from us that on the whole the old prize-ring was brutal and the
modern “pugilistic contest” between professionals has very little that
is attractive. Yet he is right both to put them on record and to tell
the truth about them without fear or favour. For at the very heart of
their foundations is an ineradicable and a noble instinct of the human
race. Even a Dempsey, earning several thousand pounds a minute, may be
dimly conscious that he is building better than he knows. Professionals
in any game who attain a height of skill which gives them a practically
unlimited market for what they have to sell, can scarcely be blamed
by stockbrokers who gamble on a falling market, or by profiteers who
battened on the war. Even the modern professional boxer cannot do
permanent harm to the true atmosphere of the great game in which he
shines briefly like a passing meteor. It is pages like these from Mr.
Lynch that should inspire the professional to give us his best and
leave aside the worst in what is, after all, only an epitome of life, a
show in which the blows are seen instead of hidden, in which rewards or
losses are known to all the world instead of silently concealed. There
is a spirit in Boxing which nothing can destroy, and while we cherish
it among amateurs, the professional will never be able to defile it.
Mr. E. B. Michell, an old pupil of my father’s, and the only boxer who
ever held three of the amateur championships at different weights, is
still with us; and I should still do my best to prevent any friend from
wantonly attacking him. Like all real fighters, he has always been the
kindliest of men, the most difficult to provoke to extremes. But any
one who has managed to extract from his diffidence those few occasions
when he had to use his fists, because no other course was possible,
will realise that boxing is not merely a splendid form of recreation,
but one of the finest systems of self-defence ever developed by
persistent effort.
Julian Grenfell’s famous poem, “Into Battle,” was written in the
Trenches the day after he had fought the champion of his division in
France; and there were few who read it who did not recall that previous
victory of his over Tye, the fireman, which will never be forgotten in
Johannesburg. Three times he was laid on his back. In the third round
he knocked the fireman out, “and he never moved for twenty seconds....
I was 11 st. 4 lb., and he was 11 st. 3 lb. I think it was the best
fight I shall ever have.” He found a better in the Ypres Salient,
and again he wrote:--“I cannot tell you how wonderful our men were,
going straight for the first time into a fierce fire. They surpassed
my utmost expectations. I have never been so fit or nearly so happy
in my life before.” For such men it is impossible to sorrow. These
brothers and their comrades were taken from us in the full noon of
their splendid sunlight; and on its fiercest throb of high endeavour
the brave heart of each one of them stopped beating. Their memories
stand, to me, for all that may be meant, achieved, or promised in such
courage, such endurance, aye, such instantaneous cataclysm as Mr. Bohun
Lynch’s chapters at their best recall. His tale has obviously a sordid
side, yet more evidently a brutal one. But the red thread of honourable
resolution runs through the warp and woof of it; and these are not days
when we may dare to minimise the value of the pluck that conquers pain.
THEODORE A. COOK.
_June, 1922._
NOTE
Certain passages in this book, notably in the Introduction, and in the
second part, dealing with recent contests, are substantially based, and
in some instances literally culled, from articles which I wrote for
_The Daily Chronicle_, _The Field_, _Land and Water_, _The Outlook_,
and _The London Mercury_, and to the editors of these journals I owe my
best thanks for much kindness and consideration.
CONTENTS
PAGE
PREFACE vii
INTRODUCTION xix
PART I.--KNUCKLES
CHAP.
I. JOHN BROUGHTON AND JACK SLACK 3
II. TOM JOHNSON AND ISAAC PERRINS 7
III. RICHARD HUMPHRIES, DANIEL MENDOZA, AND JOHN JACKSON 12
IV. JEM BELCHER 23
V. JEM BELCHER AND TOM CRIBB 30
VI. JOHN GULLEY 34
VII. JEM BELCHER’S LAST FIGHT 41
VIII. TOM CRIBB AND MOLINEUX 44
IX. JACK SCROGGINS AND NED TURNER 55
X. JACK RANDALL AND NED TURNER 60
XI. BILL NEATE AND TOM HICKMAN 64
XII. TOM SPRING AND BILL NEATE 68
XIII. TOM SPRING AND JACK LANGAN 72
XIV. DEAF BURKE AND SIMON BYRNE 80
XV. BENDIGO AND DEAF BURKE 85
XVI. YANKEE SULLIVAN AND HAMMER LANE 88
XVII. BENDIGO AND BEN CAUNT 93
XVIII. NAT LANGHAM AND TOM SAYERS 99
XIX. TOM SAYERS AND THE TIPTON SLASHER 102
XX. TOM SAYERS AND THE BENICIA BOY 107
PART II.--GLOVES
I. PETER JACKSON AND FRANK SLAVIN 121
II. JAMES J. CORBETT AND JOHN L. SULLIVAN 127
III. ROBERT FITZSIMMONS AND JAMES J. CORBETT 133
IV. JAMES J. JEFFERIES AND ROBERT FITZSIMMONS 139
V. TOMMY BURNS AND JACK JOHNSON 147
VI. TOMMY BURNS AND JOE BECKETT 154
VII. JACK JOHNSON AND JAMES J. JEFFERIES 158
VIII. GEORGES CARPENTIER AND BOMBARDIER WELLS 163
IX. JOE BECKETT AND BOMBARDIER WELLS 170
X. GEORGES CARPENTIER AND JEFF SMITH 176
XI. JACK DEMPSEY AND GEORGES CARPENTIER 183
XII. GEORGES CARPENTIER AND GEORGE COOK 189
XIII. LITTLE MEN 193
XIV. AN AFTERTHOUGHT 201
APPENDIX: RULES OF THE RING, ETC. 204
INDEX 210
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
TOM CRIBB AND TOM MOLINEUX (_from an Engraving_) _Frontispiece_
BROUGHTON’S RULES ” xxv
JACK BROUGHTON AND JACK SLACK ” 17
TOM JOHNSON AND ISAAC PERRINS ” 32
RICHARD HUMPHRIES AND DANIEL MENDOZA ” 49
JAMES BELCHER ” 64
JOHN GULLEY AND BOB GREGSON ” 81
JACK RANDALL ” 96
TOM SPRING ” 113
TOM SAYERS AND JOHN HEENAN ” 128
BOB FITZSIMMONS AND JAMES J. CORBETT (_a Caricature_) 145
JEM DRISCOLL (_from a Photograph_) 160
JIMMY WILDE ” 165
BOMBARDIER WELLS ” 172
JOE BECKETT ” 177
GEORGES CARPENTIER AND JACK DEMPSEY ” 192
INTRODUCTION
Sports and games may be classified as natural and artificial. Running,
jumping, and swimming, for example, are natural sports, though, to be
sure, much artifice is required to assure in them especial excellence.
In these simple instances it is merely directed to avoid waste of
energy. Boxing is one of the artificial sports, and has never been,
like wrestling, anything else. In the far distant past the primitive
man, with no weapon handy, no doubt clutched and hugged and clawed at
his immediate enemies, just as children, who are invariably primitive
until they are taught “better,” clutch and claw to-day. That natural
and instinctive grasping and hugging was the forefather of subtle and
tricky wrestling, whether Greek, Roman, or North-country English, but
as far as we can discover the earliest use of fisticuffs was for sport
alone. It may seem natural to hit a man you hate, but it is only second
nature, and any one but a trained boxer is apt to seize him by the
throat. The employment of fists as weapons of offence and of arms for
shields developed from the sport. As such, too, it is very effectual,
especially when combined with a knowledge of wrestling, but only when
the enemy is of similar mind. I am informed by a former Honorary
Secretary of the Oxford University Boxing Club, who from this point of
view ruthlessly criticised a former book of mine on the subject, and
who has spent many years in close contact with uncivilisation, that
boxing is of extremely little value against a man with a broken bottle
or a spanner--let alone an armed cannibal.
The praises of boxing as a practical means of self-defence have been,
perhaps, too loudly sung. A boy at school may earn for himself a
certain reputation, may establish a funk amongst his fellows owing to
his quickness and agility with or without the gloves; but in practice
he seldom has a chance of employing his skill against his enemies. On
the other hand, a small boy who comes in contact for the first time
with another’s skill (or even brutality) receiving a blow in the face,
invariably cries, “Beastly cad!” because a blow in the face hurts him.
You have to accept this convention of sportsmanlike warfare, like
others, before you can make it work. And the Love of Fair Play of
which we have heard so much in the past is quite artificial too. It
is not really inherent in human nature. Like other moralities it has
to be taught, and it is very seldom taught with success. Let us say,
not unreasonably, that you begin to take an interest in boxing as a
boy. You hear about various fights--at least you do nowadays, and
you want to imitate the fighters, just as in the same way but at a
different moment you want to be an engine-driver, or an airman, or the
Principal Boy in _Robinson Crusoe_, when your young attention is drawn
to such occupations. When I was a small boy (if, in order to illustrate
a point, a short excursion into autobiography may be forgiven
me), the last flicker of the Prize-Ring had, so to put it, just
expired, and glove-fighting was not then perhaps a pretty business.
A curiosity which, not being skilled in the science and practice of
psycho-analysis, I can only ascribe to spontaneous generation, and
the fact that Tom Sayers once invested my mother, then a little girl,
with his champion’s belt at a village fair--this curiosity impelled
me to desire, from a railway bookstall, the purchase on my behalf of
a shilling book called _The Art of Self-Defence_, by one Ned Donelly.
It was, I believe, the very first work of its peculiar and spurious
kind--that is, a handbook with or without merit (this one had several,
notably that of brevity), written by a sporting reporter and inscribed
by the pugilist. I had some difficulty in getting that gift, but when
I did I devoured the book from gray paper cover to cover. I knew it
almost all by heart once. I remember now that Ned Donelly said he
had fought under the auspices of Nat Langham, and I wondered what
auspices meant, and I wonder now if Ned Donelly knew. Later, in the
mid-nineties, _Rodney Stone_ appeared in the pages of “The Strand
Magazine,” and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, whilst admitting that rascality
was known in connection with the Prize-Ring, yet showed how the Great
Tradition of the British Love of Fair Play in the face of the most
reprehensible practices maintained itself. All literature which touched
the subject, all conversation with elder persons led me to believe that
this desire of Fair Play was inseparable from the British composition
(though seldom found outside these islands), and that if one had a
quarrel at school an adjournment was immediately made to some secret
trysting-place, where boys formed a ring, a timekeeper and referee were
appointed, and you and your opponent nobly contended until one--the one
who was in the wrong, of course--gave in.
It wasn’t until I wished to have a fair, stand-up fight with another
boy--with a succession of other boys--that I found a somewhat serious
flaw in the great Tradition, and that at one of the “recognised” public
schools. The other boy might or might not stand up straight in front,
but half a dozen other boys would invariably hang on behind--me. In
the end I managed to bring off two fair fights, one with another boy
of like mind who, cold-blooded and conversational, walked with me to
a secluded field; the other by means of a ruse. I had challenged this
adversary again and again. With derision, he refused to fight me. Once
I attacked him in public, but was very soon made to see sense, as well
as stars, for he hit me at his own convenience whilst his partisans
held my arms. The merits of the quarrel I entirely forget. You may be
sure that they were trivial. I will readily admit that both of us were
horrible little beasts (though I admit it the more readily of him) in
the certain knowledge that boys of our age, excepting those who happen
to read this, almost always are. So I waited my opportunity, and one
evening I caught my enemy alone reading a paper on a notice-board. I
came behind him with stealth, and I kicked him hard, and I then ran
away. And he did exactly what I had, rather confidently, expected
him to do. He thought me an arrant coward, and he followed fast. I
led him to a safe and secluded passage, well lit, at the top of some
stairs where there was just room for a close encounter. We should not
be interrupted by any one. I waited for him to get on a level with
me. I have seldom enjoyed anything so much as the next two minutes or
so. I hated that boy very much. The score against him was a long one.
Moralists (who are always dishonest in their methods of propaganda)
tell us that revenge turns to gall and bitterness.... Oh, does it? The
sheer physical delight in thrashing some one I hated, some one rather
bigger and heavier than myself, too, which made it all the better,
has lived on in sweet retrospect. There was no “hearty handshake” or
anything pretty of that sort. It was simple, downright bashing, and it
was delicious. And, not to please the moralist but to record a fact,
the air really was cleared. We did shake hands afterwards, and all
rancour was gone--at least from me: and for ever after we were quite,
though perhaps coldly, civil to each other, and my late adversary is
now a Lieutenant-Colonel, D.S.O., and I think (but am not sure) C.M.G.
The Love of Fair Play, then, where hate is involved, needs a great deal
of teaching. I am not trying, in the instance quoted above, to make a
case for myself as a lover of fair play in those days. The difference
between my enemy and me was chiefly a difference in vanity. He was
content to annoy me without risk of hurt or chance of glory. I was
ready to stake a bit in order that my victory should be complete for
my own smug self-satisfaction. He was the practical fellow: I was the
sentimentalist.
* * * * *
Boxing of a kind is the earliest artificial sport of which we have any
record, and the earliest record, and from the literary point of view,
the best of all time is, though we are not concerned with it here,
Greek.
As far as can be discovered there is no tale of any boxing between
the gradually debased sport of the ancients and the institution of
the British Prize-Ring early in the eighteenth century. And it was
not until a hundred years or more later that boxing began to take its
place as a topic in polite letters. Under that head it is difficult
to include _Boxiana_, or _Sketches of Antient and Modern Pugilism,
from the days of the renowned Broughton and Slack to the championship
of Crib_. This was written by Pierce Egan, the inventor of “Tom and
Jerry,” and dedicated to Captain Barclay, the famous trainer of
pugilists. The first volume was published in 1818. Egan, like many
later writers, was often upon the defensive, and was ever upon the
alert to find excuses for the noble art. He constantly drew attention
to the fact that, whilst Italians used stilettos and Frenchmen engaged
in duels _à la mort_, the Briton has the good sense to settle a dispute
with his fists. Egan frankly disliked refinement, but he does recognise
in boxing something better than refinement.
The same point of view is implicit in M. Mæterlinck’s discussion of
modern boxing.[1]
“... synthetic, irresistible, unimprovable blows. As soon as one
of them touches the adversary, the fight is ended, to the complete
satisfaction of the conqueror, who triumphs so incontestably, and
with no dangerous hurt to the conquered, who is simply reduced
to impotence and unconsciousness during the time needed for all
ill-will to evaporate.”
To return to Pierce Egan, _Blackwood’s Magazine_ for March, 1820, goes
in (if the prevalent metaphor of precisely a hundred years later may be
allowed) off the deep end in reviewing _Boxiana_:--
“It is sufficient justification of Pugilism to say--Mr. Egan
is its historian.... He has all the eloquence and feeling of a
_Percy_--all the classical grace and inventive ingenuity of a
_Warton_--all the enthusiasm and zeal of a _Headley_--all the
acuteness and vigour of a _Ritson_--all the learning and wit of an
_Ellis_--all the delicacy and discernment of a _Campbell_; and,
at the same time, his style is perfectly his own, and likely to
remain so, for it is as inimitable as it is excellent. The man
who has not read _Boxiana_ is ignorant of the power of the English
language.”
If ever responsible overstatement reached the border-line of sheer
dementia it is here. But for the sake of politeness, let us content
ourselves with saying, further, that the reviewer’s enthusiasm got the
better of his judgment. What matters to us now is that Pierce Egan made
a record of the old Prize Ring which is invaluable. So that we are not
concerned so much with his literary distinction as with his accuracy as
a chronicler, and, as other records of contemporary events are either
scarce, or, as in some cases, totally lacking, it is not easy to check
his accounts.
From internal evidence, we know at the first glance at _Boxiana_ that
we must be careful; for Egan shouts his praises of almost all pugilists
upon the same note. And all of them cannot have been as good as all
that! This author was a passionate admirer of the noble art and of the
men who followed it, and it is his joyous zeal (apart from the matters
of fact which he tells us) that make him worth reading. For the rest we
must regard him as we are, nowadays, prone to regard most historians,
and make such allowance as we see fit for inevitable exaggerations.
That, on one occasion at least, he was deliberately inaccurate, we
shall see later on.
There was a delightful simplicity about the old boxing matches. The men
fought to a finish; that is, until one or other of them failed to come
up to the scratch, chalked in the mid-ring, or until the seconds or
backers gave in for them, which last does not appear to have happened
very often. A round ended with a knock-down or a fall from wrestling,
and half a minute only was allowed for rest and recovery.
One of the illustrations in this book is taken from a print of the
original Rules governing Prize-Fights, “as agreed by several gentlemen
at Broughton’s Amphitheatre, Tottenham Court Road, August, 16th, 1743.”
These Rules were as follows:--
I.--That a square of a Yard be chalked in the middle of the Stage;
and on each fresh set-to after a fall, or being from the rails, each
Second is to bring his Man to the side of the Square, and place him
opposite to the other, and until they are fairly set-to at the Lines,
it shall not be lawful for one to strike at the other.
[Illustration: THE RING
RULES
TO BE OBSERVED IN ALL BATTLES ON THE STAGE
I. That a square of a Yard be chalked in the middle of the Stage;
and on every fresh set-to after a fall, or being parted from the
rails, each Second is to bring his Man to the side of the square,
and place him opposite to the other, and till they are fairly
set-to at the Lines, it shall not be lawful for one to strike at
the other.
II. That, in order to prevent any Disputes, the time a Man lies
after a fall, if the Second does not bring his Man to the side of
the square, within the space of half a minute, he shall be deemed a
beaten Man.
III. That in every main Battle, no person whatever shall be upon
the Stage, except the Principals and their Seconds; the same rule
to be observed in bye-battles, except that in the latter, Mr.
Broughton is allowed to be upon the Stage to keep decorum, and to
assist Gentlemen in getting to their places, provided always he
does not interfere in the Battle; and whoever pretends to infringe
these Rules to be turned immediately out of the house. Every body
is to quit the Stage as soon as the Champions are stripped, before
the set-to.
IV. That no Champion be deemed beaten, unless he fails coming up to
the line in the limited time, or that his own Second declares him
beaten. No Second is to be allowed to ask his man’s Adversary any
questions, or advise him to give out.
V. That in bye-battles, the winning man to have two-thirds of
the Money given, which shall be publicly divided upon the Stage,
notwithstanding any private agreements to the contrary.
VI. That to prevent Disputes, in every main Battle the Principals
shall, on coming on the Stage, choose from among the gentlemen
present two Umpires, who shall absolutely decide all Disputes that
may arise about the Battle; and if the two Umpires cannot agree,
the said Umpires to choose a third, who is to determine it.
VII. That no person is to hit his Adversary when he is down, or
seize him by the ham, the breeches, or any part below the waist: a
man on his knees to be reckoned down.
_As agreed by several Gentlemen at Broughton’s Amphitheatre, Tottenham
Court Road, August 16, 1743._
_Reproduced by permission of “The Field.”_]
II.--That, in order to prevent any Disputes, the time a Man lies after
a fall, if the Second does not bring his Man to the side of the square,
within the space of half a minute, he shall be deemed a beaten Man.
III.--That in every Main Battle, no person whatever shall be upon the
Stage, except the Principals and their Seconds; the same rule to be
observed in bye-battles, except that in the latter Mr. Broughton is
allowed to be upon the Stage to keep decorum, and to assist Gentlemen
in getting to their places, provided always he does not interfere in
the Battle; and whoever pretends to infringe these Rules to be turned
immediately out of the house. Everybody is to quit the Stage as soon as
the Champions are stripped, before the set-to.
IV.--That no Champion be deemed beaten, unless he fails coming up to
the line in the limited time, or that his own Second declares him
beaten. No Second is to be allowed to ask his Man’s adversary any
questions, or advise him to give out.
V.--That in Bye-battles, the winning man have two-thirds of the Money
given, which shall be publicly divided upon the Stage, notwithstanding
private agreements to the contrary.
VI.--That to prevent Disputes, in every Main Battle the Principals
shall, on coming to the Stage, choose from among the gentlemen present
two Umpires, who shall absolutely decide all Disputes that may arise
about the Battle; and if the two Umpires cannot agree, the said Umpires
to choose a third, who is to determine it.
VII.--That no person is to hit his Adversary when he is down, or seize
him by the ham, the breeches, or any part below the waist; a man on his
knees to be reckoned down.
It will be seen that all contingencies are by no means covered by
these regulations, but in those days far more was left to the
judgment and discretion of the Umpires and the Referee. Spectators,
even “interested” onlookers who had plunged on the event, were usually
willing to abide by their decisions; and, as a general thing, though
there was more elbow-room for rascality than in later times, the men
fought fairly. Anyhow, Egan says that they did.
Whether the death of bare-knuckle fighting is to be mourned is not
a question to be dealt with in the first chapter. As George Borrow
observed very many years ago, “These are not the days of pugilism,”
and without attempting any discussion of the rights and wrongs of the
general problem, we may yet read the annals of the Ring and draw our
own conclusions from particular instances. The “days of pugilism” are
unlikely to return.
It is not, indeed, until we come to George Borrow that we find the
praises of boxing sung as a sport, as an outlet for energy, as pure
good fun. It is true that, being Borrow, he tells us in _Romany Rye_ of
a character who regarded it “as a great defence against Popery.” But
Borrow, when he left Popery alone, had a splendid, “Elizabethan” and
full-blooded view of life, whether he was concerned with the pleasures
of milling or the “genial and gladdening power of good ale, the true
and proper drink of Englishmen.”
“Can you box?” asks the old magistrate in _Lavengro_. “I tell you
what, my boy: I honour you.... Boxing is, as you say, a noble
art--a truly English art; may I never see the day when Englishmen
shall feel ashamed of it, or blacklegs and blackguards bring it
into disgrace! I am a magistrate, and, of course, cannot patronise
the thing very openly, yet I sometimes see a prize-fight.”
“All I have to say,” Borrow continues later on in _Lavengro_, “is,
that the French still live on the other side of the water, and
are still casting their eyes hitherward--and that in the days of
pugilism it was no vain boast to say, that one Englishman was a
match for two of t’other race.”
What would he have said had he lived to see a French champion? The two
words, “boxing” and “Frenchman,” within half a mile of each other, so
to put it, made a stock joke in those days and for long after, even to
within recent memory.
Borrow had the true boxer’s joy in a fight for its own sake, the
violent exercise, the sense of personal contest which is more manifest
in fisticuffs than in any other sport.
“Dosta,” says Jasper Petulengro, “we’ll now go to the tents and put
on the gloves; and I’ll try to make you feel what a sweet thing it
is to be alive, brother!”
The following is his account of the crowd at a prize-fight, the
encounter itself being dismissed in a few lines:--
“I think I now see them upon the bowling-green, the men of renown,
amidst hundreds of people with no renown at all, who gaze upon
them with timid wonder. Fame, after all, is a glorious thing,
though it last only for a day. There’s Cribb, the Champion of
England, and perhaps the best man in England: there he is with his
huge, massive figure, and a face wonderfully like that of a lion.
There is Belcher, the younger ... the most scientific pugilist
who ever entered a ring.... Crosses him, what a contrast! Grim,
savage Skelton, who has a civil word for nobody and a hard blow
for anybody--hard! one blow, given with the proper play of his
athletic arm, will unsense a giant. Yonder individual, who strolls
about with his hands behind him, supporting his brown coat lappets,
undersized, and also looks anything but what he is, is the King
of the Lightweights, so-called--Randall! the terrible Randall,
who has Irish blood in his veins: not the better for that, nor
the worse; not far from him is his last antagonist, Ned Turner,
who, though beaten by him, still thinks himself as good a man, in
which he is, perhaps, right, for it was a near thing; and a better
‘shentleman,’ in which he is quite right, for he is a Welshman....
There was--what! shall I name the last? Ay, why not? I believe
that thou art the last of all that strong family still above the
sod, where may’st thou long continue--true species of English
stuff, Tom of Bedford--sharp as Winter, kind as Spring.
“Hail to thee, Tom of Bedford.... Hail to thee, six-foot Englishman
of the brown eye, worthy to have carried a six-foot bow at Flodden,
where England’s yeomen triumphed over Scotland’s king, his clans
and chivalry. Hail to thee, last of England’s bruisers, after
all the many victories which thou hast achieved--true English
victories, unbought by yellow gold....”
Borrow wrote of the Prize-Ring in its decline and of its best days from
a greater distance than did Egan, and his perspective is therefore
truer. Still we do learn a great deal from _Boxiana_ of the old giants;
whilst contemporary engravings, some of which will be found here, give
us, more or less faithfully, the attitudes of the fighters. Whether
the artists observed the same fidelity in regard to the muscular
development of the principals we must decide from our own experience.
It is often said that if men were to train themselves to this herculean
scale they would be so muscle-bound as to be almost immobile.
At the beginning of Volume III. of _Boxiana_, Egan tells us of the
extraordinary physique of the fighter.
“The frames, in general, of the boxers are materially different, in
point of appearance, from most other men; and they are also formed
to endure _punishment_ in a very severe degree.... The _eyes_ of
the pugilists are always small; but their _necks_ are very fine and
large; their _arms_ are also muscular and athletic, with strong,
well-turned shoulders. In general, the _chests_ of the _Boxers_ are
expanded; and some of their _backs_ and _loins_ not only exhibit
an unusual degree of strength, but a great portion of anatomical
beauty. The _hips_, _thighs_, and _legs_ of a few of the pugilists
are very much to be admired for their symmetry, and there is
likewise a peculiar ‘_sort of a something_’ about the head of a
boxer, which tends to give him character.”
And he adds a footnote: “The _old Fanciers_, or ‘good judges,’ prefer
those of a _snipe_ appearance.”--(An appearance which obviously could
not long have been maintained!)
* * * * *
Of scientific boxing, as we understand it, there was comparatively
little; though in the hey-day of the Prize-Ring (roughly speaking,
the first quarter of the nineteenth century) the foundations of the
exact science were well laid. However, the chief qualifications for a
good pugilist were strength and courage, even as they are to-day. But,
besides hitting, the fighters might close and wrestle, and many a hard
battle was lost by a good boxer whose strength was worn out by repeated
falls, falls made the more damaging when a hulking opponent threw
himself, as at one time he was allowed to do, on top of him.
The other principal differences between old and modern boxing were
these: it was one of a man’s first considerations to hit his antagonist
hard about the eyes, so that they swelled up and he could not see. Men
strong and otherwise unhurt were often beaten like that. Secondly,
bare knuckles, in hard repeated contact with hard heads, were apt to
be “knocked up” after a time. The use of gloves, though it probably
makes a knock-out easier and quicker, obviates these two difficulties.
However, even with the heavy “pudden” of an eight-ounce glove, the
danger to the striker, though much lessened, is not entirely avoided,
and I once put out two knuckles of my left, at the same time breaking
a bone at the back of my hand in contact with an opponent’s elbow with
which he guarded his ribs. This sort of accident is very rare.
The chief interest in the fights described by Pierce Egan and by others
lies in their records of magnificent courage, for--there is really no
way out of it--the old Prize-Ring was, by the prevalent standards of
to-day, a somewhat brutal institution. Horrible cruelty was seen and
enjoyed, not as a rule the cruelty of the two men engaged, fair or foul
as may have been their methods, but of their backers and seconds, who,
with their money on the issue, allowed a beaten man, sorely hurt, to go
on fighting on the off-chance of his winning by a lucky blow. Sometimes
their optimism was, within the limits of its intention, justified, and
an all but beaten man did win. Really, that sort of thing happens more
often in modern boxing, especially amateur boxing, to-day, than it did
in the Prize-Ring, and this is due, not to the callousness of referees,
but to their perspicacity. A thoroughly experienced referee understands
exactly how much a man can endure, particularly when he has seen the
individual in question box before. He knows that he is not nearly so
much hurt and “done” as he looks, or rather as the average spectator
thinks he looks; and he gives him his chance. And, suddenly, to the
wild surprise of every one, except, perhaps, the referee, he puts in
a “lucky” blow and knocks out an opponent who had hitherto been “all
over” him.
On the other hand, a backer sometimes did withdraw his man in the most
humane fashion when he had been badly punished, and very often to the
deep resentment of the boxer himself, who, left to his own devices,
would have fought on so long as his weakening legs would obey his iron
will.
One more word upon the subject of “brutality” may be forgiven me. Again
and again has it been said, but never too emphatically, how seldom
it is that the men themselves were to blame. It is the hangers-on,
the parasites, the vermin of sport, outside the ring, the field, the
racecourse, who never risked nor meant to risk a broken nose or a thick
ear, who are out for money and for money alone, by fair means for
choice (as being on the whole the better policy), but by foul means
readily enough rather than not at all--these are the men who bring
every institution upon which they batten into bad repute. Certainly the
broken ranks of this army were occasionally recruited from the less
successful or the more dissipated but quite genuine fighters, just as
the hired bully is not unknown amongst the boxers of to-day. But the
real villain, the man who gets the money out of rascality, does so, if
possible, with a whole skin.
* * * * *
The Prize-Ring served its turn. For nearly a hundred years--that is,
roughly, from 1740 to 1840--it was a genuine expression of English
life. Right or wrong as may have been the methods used, it was
spontaneous. After that, if we except individual encounters, it was
forced, laboured, and in vain. The spontaneity was gone. In his Preface
to _Cashel Byron’s Profession_, Mr. Shaw tells us that pugilism was
supposed to have died of its own blackguardism: whereas “it lived by
its blackguardism and died of its intolerable tediousness.”
That is very true, but it must be remembered that the tediousness
sprang very largely from the blackguardism--that is to say, towards the
end of the bare-knuckle era the men used to stand off from each other,
doing as little damage as possible and earning their money as easily
as might be. Moreover, men who fought a “cross” were, particularly in
the latter half of the nineteenth century, seldom good enough actors
to appear beaten with any degree of plausibility, when they could, in
fact, have continued fighting: and the result was that they stood about
the ring, sparring in a tentative fashion, wrestling now and again,
and wasting time, waiting for an opportunity to fall with some show of
reality.
Thackeray, however, who, according to Mr. Shaw, loved a prize-fight as
he loved a fool, appeared to think that the sport died of hypocritical
respectability. There is, of course, plenty to be said upon both sides;
and Thackeray’s opinions will be more closely discussed in the chapter
dealing with the fight between Sayers and Heenan.
Of one disease or another, or of several complications, the Prize-Ring
died, and from its dust arose the gradually improving sport of
glove-fighting, the boxing of to-day.
The aim of this book is to cover the ground of bare-knuckle fighting
and of modern professional boxing from the inception of the Ring to the
present day, by making notes upon a number of representative battles in
their chronological order.
PART I
KNUCKLES
CHAPTER I
JOHN BROUGHTON AND JACK SLACK
The first Boxing Champion of England of whom any record has been handed
down to us was Figg. _Fistiana or The Oracle of the Ring_ gives his
date as 1719. Strictly, however, his title to fame rests more securely
on his excellence with the cudgel and small-sword than on fisticuffs,
and the real father of the ring was John Broughton, who was Champion
from 1738 to 1750.
Broughton had a famous place of entertainment known as the
Amphitheatre, in Hanway Yard, Oxford Road, near the site of a like
establishment that had been kept by Figg. Here, with pit and gallery
and boxes arranged about a high stage, displays of boxing were given
from time to time, and here it was that sportsmen first learned to
enjoy desperate struggles between man and man.
As has already been shown, Broughton formulated the rules which for
many years to come were to govern fighting, and which, much as they
leave to the imagination as well as to the discretion of officials,
tell us with the utmost simplicity the conditions under which men
fought.
For eighteen years John Broughton was undisputed Champion of England.
That probably meant very little, for boxing had not yet become popular
and its science was in its extremest infancy. I would gladly make the
foolish and unprofitable bet that if Broughton, in his prime and with
his bare fists, could be transplanted to these latter days, he would
not stand for one minute before Joe Beckett with the gloves on. (That
is less of a handicap than it sounds to any boxer who has never used
his bare knuckles.)
Broughton’s fight with Slack can by no standard be called great, but
it has its peculiar importance in showing us how a certain degree
of skill hampered by over-confidence and lack of training may be at
the mercy of courage, strength, and enterprise. Broughton’s knowledge
of boxing, compared with the science of Jem Belcher and Tom Spring,
must have been negligible; but years of practice must have taught him
something. As far as we can gather, Slack knew less than a small boy
in his first term at school. He was a butcher by trade, and one day at
Hounslow Races he had “words” with the champion, who laid about him
with a horse-whip. Thereupon Slack challenged Broughton, and the fight
took place at the Amphitheatre on April 10th, 1750.
There was nothing elegant about Jack Slack. His attitude was ugly and
awkward, he was strong and healthy but quite untrained in our meaning
of the word. He only stood 5 feet 8½ inches but weighed close upon
14 stone--nearly as much as his antagonist, who was a taller man.
Broughton was eager for the fight or for the money to be derived from
it. He regarded Slack with the utmost contempt and made no sort of
preparation. So afraid was he that the butcher might not turn up at
the last minute that he gave him ten guineas to make sure of him! The
betting was 10-1 on Broughton when the men appeared in the ring. After
all, as boxing went in these days, he did know something about defence,
and he was master of two famous blows, one for the body and one under
the ear, which were said to terrify his opponents.
Slack stood upright, facing his man, with his right rigidly guarding
his stomach and his left in front of his mouth. But that was only at
the beginning. Directly he got into action Slack speedily forgot his
guard. The art of self-defence was unknown to him, his was the art of
bashing. He was a rushing slogger against whom a cool man’s remedy is
obvious. But he was also a glutton for punishment, and almost boundless
courage and staying power, or “bottom,” as they used to call it in
those days. Regardless of the plain danger of doing so, he charged
across the ring at Broughton, raising his hands like flails. Slack
was noted for downward chopping blows and for back-handers, neither
of which are or ever have been really successful. Broughton met this
wild charge in the orthodox manner with straight left and right,
propping off his man in such a way that the attacker’s own weight
was added to the power of the blows. For two minutes or so Slack was
badly knocked about. Then they closed for a fall and Broughton’s great
strength gave him the advantage. But he was getting on in years and was
untrained and in flesh. The effort of wrestling with a man of his own
ponderous weight made his breath come short, and when next they faced
each other across their extended fists the first dullness of fatigue
already weighed on the old champion. He was a slow man, and had been
used to win his fights by the slow and steady method of wearing down
his antagonists. Slack was harder and stronger than he had supposed,
but of course he would beat him--this ungainly slogger who didn’t know
enough to avoid the simplest blow. But Slack, the rusher, was a natural
fighter which, when all’s said, is a very good sort of fighter indeed.
He liked the game--the fun of it, the sport of it. In spite of his bulk
he was pretty hard. Standing square to his man with the right foot a
little forward, he had no fear of his great reputation, he was quite
untroubled by the stories of that terrible blow beneath the ear. He
went for Broughton with a will. He would give him no time to remember
his ring-craft. He would take cheerfully all that was coming on the
way, and sooner or later he would get past the champion’s guard.
And presently Slack jumped in and landed a tremendous blow between
Broughton’s eyes. And the champion’s face was soft from good living. He
had not been hit like that for many a year. Both his eyes swelled up at
once.
The spectators saw that Broughton was dazed. He seemed stupid and
slow--not himself at all. And--they could not understand this--he
hesitated and flinched before his man. The Duke of Cumberland, who was
his chief patron, could hardly believe his eyes. Broughton afraid?
Broughton, from whom all others flinched away, who stood so boldly and
straight before his man, who, though slow and heavy, was so sure and
never gave ground? Slack stood away for a moment and Broughton came
forward with his hands before him, feeling his way. Then the people
saw that his eyes were entirely swollen up and closed. The man was
blind.
The Duke was slower than the others.
“What are you about, Broughton?” he shouted to him. “You can’t fight.
You’re beat.”
To which Broughton replied, vaguely turning his head about as though
uncertain from which quarter his backer’s voice had come,--
“I can’t see my man, your Highness. I am blind--not beat. Only put me
in front of him and he’ll not win yet.”
But Slack dashed in again and Broughton could not ward off a blow.
Still strong, quite unbeaten in the literal sense of the word, he had
to give in. It was an accident in the game and yet it was a part of the
game. The whole fight was over in fourteen minutes.
In order to compare those days with these, it is interesting to know
that tickets for the Amphitheatre on this occasion cost a guinea and a
half, whilst the money taken at the door besides fetched £150. Slack,
as winner, was given the “produce of the house,” which in all amounted
to £600. When we have in mind the difference in the value of money then
and now, we must realise that even in the early days of the Prize-Ring
a successful boxer stood to win a considerable sum. The chief
difference in his earning capacity lay in the fact that bare-knuckle
fights were necessarily less frequent than the softer encounters of
to-day. Nor was the sport widely popular at that time, the patrons and
spectators being chiefly confined to publicans and other good sinners.