From the spectator’s point of view much of the interest of boxing (and almost all of it in amateur boxing), is purely dramatic. You can thoroughly enjoy—at least I can, and there are others—a really good fight apart from any science that may be displayed. For enjoyment of skill alone is in another dimension. Of course, there must always be enough science to enable the boxers to fight cleanly and tidily and without the appearance of two angry windmills. But greatly as science improves the complete interest and enjoyment of a fight, that kind of interest remains separate. For the admiration of skill appeals to your head, the drama, largely to your heart. And the drama in boxing arises from the fact that the encounter is a personal one, that two men are trying to hurt each other, at least physically to overcome each other (which amounts to the same thing) and to prevent the other from hurting, from dominating. There is no other sport in which the sense of personal combat is so manifest.

And it is partly because of this dramatic interest that heavy-weights—big men—have, as a rule, throughout two hundred years, attracted greater attention than the little men, except, of course, when little men have fought with big ones. Roughly, it is like this: if you want to see scientific boxing you choose a fight between feather or bantam-weights, if you want to see a good slogging match (but tempered with science, always) you choose a fight between middle or heavy-weights, preferably the latter. Of course, bantam-weights often do slog—much oftener indeed than do heavy-weights box twenty rounds of unexceptionable excellence. But I suppose there is magnificence in sheer bigness, and we like to see the big men fight. And that is why, for the most part, I have chosen heavy-weight encounters to represent the various periods in the history of the Ring.

It is impossible, or at any rate quite impracticable, to mention every boxer; it is not even practicable to mention more than a few. I should like to have described the fights of many of the lesser men in point of size—far better boxers, most of them, than almost any heavy-weight that ever lived. Names topple out of recent memory at random—Billy Plimmer, Pedlar Palmer, Joe Bowker, Charles Ledoux, Johnny Summers, Taney Lee, Johnny Basham, hosts of them. But there is one name that simply cannot be avoided in any book about any sort of boxing, the name of one of the best feather-weights and one of the fairest fighters that ever lived—Jem Driscoll.

Driscoll, who was formerly Feather-weight Champion of England, having won the Lonsdale Belt outright by three successful contests, had all the natural gifts of the boxer. His weight was 9 stone, or, at all events, generally within easy reach of it; his height 5 feet 6 inches. He was beautifully proportioned, slim, muscular, with the appearance of an all-round athlete. His science was unrivalled, and he was a perfect exponent of what one may still call the English style of boxing; that is, the style based upon the upright position and the conspicuous use of the straight left lead. Driscoll is Irish by extraction and Welsh by birth, and he loved fighting for fighting’s sake from his earliest childhood. He went in for and won various boys’ competitions at Cardiff, and, later, travelled with a booth; his only instructor being experience.

His two contests at the National Sporting Club with Spike Robson, of Newcastle, for the English Feather-weight Belt, are worth a brief note in order to show Driscoll at the height of his power. Robson was three or four years older, but a very tough customer, with any amount of pluck. The first match, which took place on April 18th, 1910, had been keenly anticipated for a long time beforehand, if only because everything in which Driscoll had a hand was worth seeing. You always knew where you were with Driscoll. He always hit clean, and for choice, straight. There was never any clinching to avoid punishment, never any getting on the “blind side” of the referee.

The first three rounds were level. Robson was a good boxer, a keen fighter, but he was neither so quick with his hands or feet as Driscoll. However, it was he who landed the first considerable blow in the fourth round, striking heavily on his opponent’s eye. In the fifth round he did a very foolish thing. There was something about his gay, elegant, upright and good-looking antagonist which irritated him. Driscoll was so indifferent, so imperturbable. He would smash him, he would spoil his face for him. The instant the bell rang for time he would catch Driscoll before he was clear of his corner, before, in fact, he was ready. That was the way to smash him—to give him no time to take up his position in the middle of the ring, with his left foot and arm out, nicely balanced on his toes. He’d show him. And he charged furiously head down across the ring like a terrier after his best enemy. And Jem Driscoll merely waited, until Robson was almost on him and then coolly stepped aside. It was beautifully done—no haste, no exertion, only the exactly right judgment of time. And Spike Robson couldn’t recover himself—he was going much too fast for that—and was brought up by crashing into the stool which the seconds had not yet been able to remove from Driscoll’s corner.

The edge of the stool cut his scalp severely as, from the fact that Robson was prematurely bald, was immediately obvious. He was half dazed, and had only sense for the rest of that round to clinch and lean on his opponent. The referee had to caution him severely for doing so. He had somewhat recovered in the next round, and in the seventh he was boxing well, though he had suffered a considerable shock. And Driscoll was boxing better, and would have been, I would venture to say, in any case and without the accident to handicap his antagonist. In the eleventh round Robson showed an inclination again to take a rest by leaning on his man in a clinch, and the referee observed with noticeable firmness. “Robson, I shall not tell you again.” And when they were once more at long range Driscoll sent in six blows, one after another with lightning speed and almost without a return. Such blows as these may not have been each very hard, but their cumulative effect was fatiguing and depressing. Robson got a very warm time in the next two rounds; but he was thoroughly game, and kept on returning to the fight every time that Driscoll drove him away at the end of his long left. To the spectator who does not watch a fight of this kind, between two small men, with a very vigilant eye, the end often comes with surprising abruptness. In this case, Robson had been getting a much worse time than it seemed to any but the most careful observer. Driscoll had done as he liked with him latterly, and instead of his blows gradually losing power, in spite of the fact that he had a cold and was not in the best possible condition, they were all the harder because weariness in the other man had made them safer, the openings more patent. At the beginning of the fifteenth round, Driscoll sent in a sharp left hook, followed immediately with a right, and Robson tumbled forward to the floor. He rose very slowly, needing all his determination to do so, and as Driscoll sent him down again, the referee stopped the fight. Robson was much more hurt than, until the last minute, he seemed: and it was some minutes before he fully recovered his senses.

The second encounter between these men, on January 30th, 1911, was a much shorter affair. Driscoll on this occasion was in perfect condition, and he knew the worst of Robson. To begin with, he boxed with extraordinary speed, and though his blows were light, they were many. There was an admirable example of his powers in the second round, for he sent over a right hook with great power, which Robson dodged, and which, had it been struck by a clumsier boxer, would certainly have left him clean open to a counter; but when Robson’s counter came in, as it did with commendable speed, Driscoll’s right was back in its place to guard it. Beyond that failure, Driscoll made no effort to knock his man out until the fifth round. He contented himself with left, left, left, not very hard but very wearing. Then in the fifth round he became a fighter again: and before Robson knew he was there he fell before a right-hander on the point of the jaw. Through the sixth round Driscoll, who never took a situation for granted and ever remained careful until he had been proclaimed the winner, boxed hard, but gave no chances. Left, right—left, right: his blows nearly all landed, and Robson’s blows were growing feeble and wild. In the seventh round he was palpably done, and Driscoll hit him as he liked, finally sending him down for six seconds. In the next round the referee decided that Robson had been hit enough. Towards the end Driscoll had been holding back and trying not to hurt his opponent. And that was Driscoll “all over.”

In writing of Driscoll, it is fitting that an international contest of his should be described in which he was matched against the Feather-weight Champion of France, Jean PoÉsy. This fight took place towards the end of Driscoll’s career, on June 3rd, 1912, at the National Sporting Club.

In his quiet way, Driscoll was confident of beating PoÉsy. They had seen each other, though not in the ring, but the English fancied his own chances merely from the “cut of his jib.” They were equal in height and weight, but Driscoll had the advantage of long experience. True, he was over thirty, but before the fight he declared that he could hit as hard and stay as well as ever he could.

So they entered the ring—the young Frenchman and the veteran. As ever, Driscoll showed that he was the master of scientific fisticuffs: he was wonderfully quick, and he could still take hard knocks without showing a sign. PoÉsy was no novice: he could box well and was not so foolish as to underestimate his opponent, as many a young ’un would have done. He began on the defensive, so that Jem Driscoll had to carry the war into the enemy’s country, and once more he showed he could outfight as well as outgeneral a good youth. There was never a question as to who would win, and in the end Driscoll left the ring without a mark, without having received a single damaging blow. All the same, it was an interesting fight, because of PoÉsy’s pluck and the English champion’s really amazing skill, which showed no falling off from his old high standard. He kept PoÉsy at long range, never leaving an opening for a knock-out blow, which the Frenchman soon saw was his only chance; never clinching or hugging. It is a pity that more men did not profit by his example. PoÉsy tried to get at Driscoll’s body. He had beaten Digger Stanley like that. But Driscoll understood in-fighting too, though for choice he boxed at long range. In the tenth and eleventh rounds PoÉsy woke up and fought like a little fiend. Some one called out from the crowd, “When PoÉsy does take it into his head to get a move on, you’ll see something.” But all the spectators saw was a ferocious, game, and persevering attack coolly frustrated; and the more the Frenchman attacked, the more he left himself open, so that Driscoll was now hitting harder and oftener than before. PoÉsy was in beautiful condition, and began the twelfth round with unabated ardour. He dashed at Driscoll and landed a really hard straight left on his jaw. That made Driscoll think for a moment, and he decided that it would not be well to risk too many of that sort. Almost immediately afterwards PoÉsy coming in, left himself open, and Driscoll knocked him clean off his feet with a right on the chin. The Frenchman gallantly struggled up in five seconds, obviously dazed. Driscoll feinted and dodged about this way and that, so that it was impossible to tell whence the next blow would come, and presently sent over another right which knocked PoÉsy out of time ... eight, nine, ten! Then Driscoll bent down and picked him up and carried him to his corner.

Not at any weight nor at any time was the Championship of England held by a better boxer or a straighter man.

One other little man—the littlest of all—must be mentioned, because, in the whole history of boxing there has never been any one quite like him—Jimmy Wilde, called in his younger days “The Tylorstown Terror.” This minute Welshman was born in 1892, and stands just over 5 feet 3 inches, and his weight is, at the age of thirty, recorded as 7 stone 6 lb. The photograph of him reproduced as an illustration to this book, suggests many things, but certainly not a bruiser who has knocked out alone (not to mention the more laborious method of beating opponents) over a hundred men, and who has fought several hundred battles. To see him, in or out of the ring, to observe his pallor and square-shouldered fragility, makes his record seem like a rather foolish fairy-story. He used to give stones away in weight where you would think he could hardly spare ounces. It is all very well for men like Tom Sayers, or Carpentier, to give away a little: they were fine strong men. But you don’t expect a chaffinch to attack an albatross.

Wilde is beautifully made in little and his strength is sheerly amazing, his hitting power, not only in relation to his size, terrific. He is a highly skilled boxer, but the might of his blows is almost magical. It is only the body’s weight behind the striking hand which makes a blow really hard—and what is seven stone?

Of course, Jimmy Wilde is a fighter by instinct, he enjoys a good mill, he has an abundant virility. His style is a little reminiscent of Driscoll’s, from whom he learned something in his youth. His ways are mainly his own, and he adapts his methods with wonderful cleverness to the needs of his size. To guard blows of a heavier man would soon wear him out. So he guards very little. He avoids. When an opponent tries to hit him, he is out of reach, just an inch beyond the extended arm of his antagonist.

Titles in the ring mean very little, but in Wilde’s case “Flyweight Champion of the World” is not to be despised. His contest with Alf Mansfield in May, 1919, at the Holborn Stadium, is worth a word, as showing the sort of task that this midget has repeatedly undertaken for the last ten or twelve years. Mansfield weighed 8 stone 4 lb., and stood half a head taller—sturdy, strong, a good boxer. In the second round Wilde went for him like a little fiend, and knocked him down for nine seconds. On rising, Mansfield could only hug his man to avoid the punishment which Wilde seemed literally to pour upon him. Mr. Corri, the referee, stopped the holding, and Mansfield, somewhat recovered, stood up and boxed pluckily. But the midget’s pace was amazing. He hit and hit again, one hand following the other at such a rate that the eye could scarcely follow, while it was quite impossible to count his blows. Mansfield was bewildered but brave, a good boxer and fast by ordinary standards, but dead slow with Wilde. And yet his hitting as hitting was worth more if only he could plant the blows. In the third round he put in a right which astonished his man and hurt him: and Wilde was much more careful after that. But it was Wilde who wore him out by oft-repeated blows, so that in the eleventh round he was unsteady on his feet, in the twelfth fell from sheer weakness, whilst in the thirteenth, after two severe rights, each of which knocked him down, Mr. Corri very properly decided that he had been hurt enough.