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 Knuckles have been replaced by gloves.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.