Chapter II · (continued 2)

38–40.—​King, finding Mace his master at out-fighting, resumed his plan of going to work just as he was getting second wind. The rounds again were of the old pattern; King got the larger and heavier share of the hitting, and both were down, Mace choosing his own time to end the round. In the 40th round, King complained of Mace using him unfairly, but the referee saw nothing calling for his notice.

41, 42, 43 and last.—​King was visibly distressed in the first two of these three final rounds. In the last of these bouts the combatants closed in the middle of the ring, when Mace, who had delivered a heavy thwack on King’s neck, struggled with him for the fall. In going down, King, who was undermost, struck the front of his head with great force on the ground. Tom’s seconds had him in his corner in an instant, as the position was critical. The die was however, cast. “Time!” was called in vain. Mace, who was eagerly watching his opponent’s corner, advanced to the scratch. The referee entered the ring, watch in hand. The eight seconds were counted; but King was still deaf to the call of “Time!” and Mace was hailed the winner, after one hour and eight minutes of rapid fighting on both sides. Scarcely had the fiat gone forth when a posse of police made their appearance, who, to do them justice, seemed glad that the affair was over before their arrival.

Remarks.—​The principal point to be noted is the admirable manner in which both the loser and winner fought out this gallant contest. The superiority of Mace as a scientific pugilist alone enabled him to contend with and finally defeat his brave, powerful, and in size and physique formidable antagonist; while to Tom King, the loser, the credit must be awarded of doing all that man could do towards victory, and yielding only to absolute physical incapability to continue the contest. Although, however, the majority were satisfied that the best man won, there was one who entertained the opposite opinion, and that was Tom King himself, as we shall presently see.

In April, 1862, some curiosity was awakened in fistic circles by the return of John Heenan to England, preceded by an annonce in the American newspapers that he had “gone over to fetch the old belt, and to fight Mace, the so-called Champion.” Hereupon Messrs. Moss Phillips and John Gideon waited upon Heenan, on Mace’s behalf, offering to find £500 or £1,000, if needful, to make a match. Heenan repudiated the newspaper buncombe, saying that he had come over with the sole object of fulfilling an engagement with Messrs. Howe and Cushing’s Circus Troupe, and that he had “cut pugilism,” at least for the present. Jem, who was now a London “pub.,” and host of the “King John,” in Holywell 469 Lane, was also on tour with Ginnett’s Circus, while in Bell’s Life he declared his readiness to “meet any man for £1,000, barring neither country, colour, nor weight.” In reply to this, Bob Brettle, still sore from defeat, and, as he declared, “the ungrateful conduct of Mace,” undertook to back “an Unknown” for £200 and the belt against the Champion, and this Mace accepted. Hereupon King came out with a statement that Mace had requested him not to challenge him “at present,” for reasons which he gave, but now, as he had accepted a challenge, he (King) claimed first turn. It may be proper here to remark that King had joined Mace, at his request, in a sparring tour early in 1862, which lends strength to King’s statement. Mace’s backer having offered Brettle’s “Unknown” £25 to indemnify him for his forfeit and expenses, articles were signed at Nat Langham’s, on June 18th, for a fight for £200 a side and the belt, to come off within six months, the precise day not to be divulged until the night before the battle, which was to take place in November or December. How Tom King reversed the former verdict in 21 rounds, occupying 38 minutes, on the 26th November, 1862, may be read in the Memoir of King in the ensuing Chapter.

King having publicly declared his retirement from the Ring, Mace resumed the style of “Champion,” with whatever honours might still attach to that tarnished title.

In December, 1862, Joe Goss, of Wolverhampton, an unbeaten pugilist, weighing 10st. 10lbs., boldly offered himself to the notice of Mace for “any sum from £200 to £500 a side;” and although the Wolverhampton man waived any claim to the belt as the result of the battle, it was said by his friends that they did not see why, if Mace alone barred the way, their man should not claim the trophy. The match, though made in December, 1862, had a most unbusiness-like aspect in some of its details. The time of meeting being named as “nine months after date”—​a most suspicious period of gestation for such an affair—​September 1st, 1863, was the day. Nor was the amount of stakes less calculated to tax belief, £1,000 being set down in the book; Mace to post £600 to Goss’s £400, of which the Norwich’s man’s backers were to table £330 to Goss’s £220 at the final deposit.

Match-making, at this time, appears to have got “considerably mixed.” In May and June, Bill Ryall, of Birmingham, a twelve-stone man, “seeing that Goss, though articled to fight Mace, did not pretend to the Championship,” offered himself for “the belt and £200 a side, to the notice of 470 the Norwich hero,” after he had disposed of Goss. Mace assented, and articles were signed, but before the decision of the affair now under notice. Ryall’s friends appear to have repented of their rash engagement, and forfeited the £25 or £30 down, as the penalty of their indiscretion. The Brettle party’s choice of Ryall as the man to lower the pretensions of Mace will seem the more surprising when we state that Goss had beaten Ryall on September 24th, 1860, and had fought him to a stand-still in a drawn battle for £100, February 11th, 1862. We will now return from this brief digression to the first encounter of Mace and Gross.[35]

On the making good of the last deposit of £330 to £220, and the announcement that it was duly “banked” in the hands of the Editor of Bell’s Life, the almost dormant interest of many of the incredulous was 471 awakened, and crowds of anxious West End inquirers thronged to the “Mitre” (Nat had shifted from the “Cambrian”), the “Three Tuns,” the “Horseshoe,” the “Rising Sun,” the “Queen’s Head,” and the “Blue Boar’s Head;” while the East Enders were as eager in their endeavours to obtain the “straight tip” by looking in at Harry Orme’s, Joe Rowe’s, Jemmy Welsh’s, Jem Cross’s, Jem Ward’s, Billy Richardson’s, and the Champion’s own crib in Holywell Lane, Whitechapel.

Mr. Tupper having won the toss for Goss, the men went to scale at his house, the “Greyhound,” Waterloo Road, when both were found within the stipulated 10 stone 10 lbs., and, as we can safely affirm, from ocular demonstration, in the perfection of condition.

In the face of a vigilant and hostile magistracy and police, the managers necessarily adopted unusual precautions to confine the knowledge of the time and place to none but “safe men.” Accordingly, not only was the day kept secret, but it was not until the overnight that even the line of rail and amount of fare were disclosed to intending “excursionists.” When the “office” was given to those who were prepared to invest £2 2s. in cardboard, the rendezvous was stated to be the Paddington terminus of the Great Western, and the time two o’clock a.m., on the morning of St. Partridge, September 1st, 1863; and thither, at that unreasonable and unseasonable hour, did the “sheep destined for the shearing” eagerly repair.

Unhappily for the fortunes, nay, the very existence of the P.R., it had become the practice of the floating fraternity of thieves, mobsmen, and “roughs”—​the latter too often combining the two former in the same ruffianly individual—​to stream to the railway station whenever they got scent of a Ring “excursion,” instinctively knowing that there plunder might be perpetrated. As where the carcase is, there will the birds of prey be gathered, so on this 1st of September in the darkness and gloom of a cloudy morning, a riot was got up outside the entrances to the noble building, and many persons hustled, robbed, and occasionally personally ill-treated, by a disorderly crowd which, we can of our own avouch declare, did not comprise in its whole body one single known pugilist. Yet more than one of our “best possible public instructors” informed the public that “a mob of prize-fighters and other ruffians robbed and maltreated the intending travellers with lawless impunity.” Passing the baseless imputation that “prize-fighters and other ruffians” were personally engaged in this nocturnal mêlée, we must declare that of all the scenes of riot and 472 disorder we have witnessed, that at Paddington was the most disgraceful, and marked the lowest stage in the downward journey of the Ring, unless we accept the wrangles and rows of the partisans of the men at some minor fights as exemplifying the Miltonic paradox—

At the hour of four the train steamed out of the station, and it was currently stated that Wootton Bassett, in Wiltshire, about five miles below the great engine-works at Swindon, was our destination. On arriving at Didcot Junction it was perceived that the Oxfordshire constabulary were awake, like Johnny Cope, “Sae airly in the mornin’;” but their only exercise of their function on this occasion seemed to be to wave us a courteous farewell as we steamed off, with the addition of a few “’Varsity men” (in masquerade) who had become possessed of “the secret,” and joined our party. At Swindon we “watered” our iron horse, and about five miles farther the brakes were on, and all soon alighted. After some little refreshment of the inward man from the stores of a well-plenished hamper, the “meynie” getting what they could at a neighbouring public, we tramped a mile of a dirty lane, until it opened on a spot where the Commissary (Fred Oliver) and assistants had laid out an excellent ring. And now began the customary squabble between the “clever ones” on each side about the choice of a referee. The Editor of the chief sporting journal, for nearly forty years the consistent and able advocate and supporter of the Ring, had finally refused the now dangerous position, and had recently, in consequence of disorderly defiance of the representative of the paper, forbidden his reporter to officiate, unless in circumstances he might consider exceptional. Thus much valuable time was cut to waste. Finally, the reporter of a new sporting paper consented to act, was enthroned on the judge’s straw truss, and the men quickly made themselves ready. As they stood up Joe looked “as hard as nails,” while Mace’s elegant position, as he stood awaiting the anticipated onslaught of his opponent, was pronounced by more than one judge to be “beautiful.” To the surprise of all, however, after some not very graceful squaring of elbows and half-steps left and right, never venturing beyond the scratch, Joe retreated, and shaking his head with a grim smile invited his adversary to approach. Jem did not seem to perceive the advisability of this, so he smiled and nodded in return. Presently, after a shift or two right and left, Mace advanced, resolved to open the ball. Joe retreated, covering his 473 points well, when from the outer ring rose a warning cry, and ere its cause could be asked, half a dozen “prime North Wiltshires”—​not cheeses, but policemen—​rolled into the ring. Mace darted under the ropes and skedaddled into a thicket, his retreat covered by his seconds, bearing his outward habiliments; while Joe had nearly rushed into the arms of one of the “rurals,” but luckily gave him the go-by, and “made tracks” in another direction. Meantime the “bobbies,” with the utmost good-humour, surveyed the flight, and, without interfering with the Commissary, left him to reload his light cart with the impedimenta of the ring, then, slowly following the discomfited company, saw them safely down the road on their return to the train, which soon returned at the appointed signal from a “siding” where it had been temporarily located. Once on board, though the day was yet young, the victims were politely informed that no more could be done that day, and that the “Company’s” obligation to the “train charterers” would be discharged by the delivery of the “excursionists” at their starting-point at Paddington. “But,” added the referee, in an immediate conference, “I shall order, as I am empowered by the Rules, the men to meet again this day, at Fenchurch Street Station, and go down to Purfleet. When there, we must be guided by circumstances; but we will have the fight off to-day if possible.” That this was “gall and wormwood” to sundry persons who looked to another “special” rather than a “result” might easily be seen. They did not, however, dare to do more than prophesy disaster and obstruction, and propose “a meeting at the stakeholder’s,” or anywhere else, to procure postponement, which was properly and peremptorily negatived.

Arrived at Paddington, the neighbouring cab-stands were quickly cleared of their yawning waiters, whose glee at this unexpected and profitable “call” was certainly heightened when they “twigged,” as one of the cabbies told us, that they were “a-helping some of the right sort out of a fix.” At Fenchurch Street conveyance to Purfleet was quickly arranged for, and at 3h. 30m. the men, materiel, and company were duly delivered at the riverside. Here it was resolved, and prudently, that a transit to Plumstead Marshes should be made, as suspicious movements of an “Essex calf” were observed. Long Reach cost many no less a sum than ten shillings for the ferry; but this did not stop those who could command the best and least crowded boats, and at five o’clock, in a well-formed and certainly select ring,

474

THE FIGHT

Began with Round 2; for we suppose we most pay the compliment to the four and a half minutes of “fiddling” at Wootton Bassett, as counting for Round 1. As before it was expected that the “terrific Joe” would force the fighting, and show that game and hard hitting must tell against mere skill, with a slight and apparently ineradicable suspicion among the provincials from the North Midlands that Mace had a “soft place” which Joe was the very man to find out. Nevertheless, the Londoners offered 6 and even 7 to 4 on Mace. Again Joe retreated, and as Jem followed got away again and again, though in anything but a graceful style. His intention to fight a crafty battle was apparent, and did not seem to please his country friends. At last the men came to a stand, Joe having his back to the ropes. Jem let go his left sharply, but was prettily parried. Mace drew back, when Joe, plunging at him, got home his left straight on the body, getting, as might be expected, a rattling smack on the mouth in return. Goss licked his lips, and dodged about; Mace got closer, and, swift as thought, planted a cutting left-hander on the left eyebrow. It was a caution, and the crimson instantly following, “first blood” was awarded to Mace. Joe in jumping away from Mace’s advance slipped and fell.

3.—​Long and tedious sparring and manœuvring prefaced this round. Goss, to the dissatisfaction of many, being determined to avoid close quarters, and Mace equally resolved not to give a chance away at long shots. When they got closer, Mace sent in his left, and then his right slap in the middle of Joe’s head, when a couple of slashing counter-hits followed, Mace again delivering with precision on the head, and Goss on Mace’s forehead and chest. More sparring, Joe looking quite vicious, and twice missing his shifty adversary, until the latter accepted a rally, and some extraordinary counter-hitting took place to the advantage of Mace, he reaching Joe’s head, while the latter got home on the chest or shoulder. Joe was driven back, and as Mace pressed on to him slipped down.

4.—​The men seemed warming to their work, and lost no time in the useless dodging which marked the previous rounds. Mace led off and jobbed his man severely through his guard, following his first smack with another, and then getting away. Goss, though quick in his returns, was hurried, and twice missed his right by Maces’s quickness in shifting. Mace worked round into the centre of the ring, when Joe bored in, in what his friends called his “own old style.” In the exchanges Joe dealt Mace a tremendous hit on the right eye, which instantly left its mark. Mace broke ground and retreated with his hands up in good form. (Vociferous shouting from the Gossites, “The Young’un wins! The Young’un wins!” and the excitement was immense at the Wolverhampton corner.) Mace steadied himself, and, after a short pause, Goss tried to get on to him again, when, after some two-handed fighting not remarkable for effectiveness, Mace caught his adversary such a well-distanced left-hander on the head that Joe went clean down against his will. (First knock-down for Mace, being the second event scored.)

5.—​On appearing at the scratch the swollen state of Mace’s right eye told how heavily he had been hit in the preceding round. Goss, urged by his seconds, dashed in left and right, but was beautifully stopped. Joe tried to play round his man, but Mace stepped in, gave him a heavy hit in the mouth, then, after a few quick exchanges, closed and threw him.

6.—​Both men were now much marked, showing how heavy the hitting had been. Goss moved all over the ring as before, leading off, but ineffectively, being either out of distance or easily stopped. Eventually they got close, and exchanged heavy left-handed hits. More chasséeing about the ring by Goss, till Jem got close, and brought on more counters, Jem planting swift and hard in the face with both hands. Goss returned left and right on the head, and went down on his knees at the ropes. Jem was about to deliver a stinger, but checked himself, laughed, and walked away.

7.—​Goss led off, but out of distance, as was often the case when he attempted out-fighting. A long series of movements with no great merit in them followed, till Mace got in with his left, and then fine counter-hits came, Goss certainly hitting straighter than he had done in some preceding rallies. A little more manœuvring, and then Joe went at his man, and brought on some stunning exchanges—​very heavy left-handed counters, Mace on the right cheek, Goss on the forehead. Goss, in getting away, fell.

8.—​Joe appeared at last to be tired of the scientific and waiting business, and went pluckily at Mace. He was certainly first in the hitting, planting heavily left and right on the head. Jem returned a couple of smashers on the front of the head, and in some severe exchanges his length and straightness of delivery gave him the pull. The men closed, and after a good wrestle, in which Goss displayed great muscular power, he got the best of the fall, Mace being under him. (Great applause for Goss, who was evidently fighting up hill.)

9.—​Once more Joe tried to lead off, but he was out of distance, and Mace could evidently make the fighting as he chose. At last they closed near the ropes, when they 475 got a mutual hold, and some severe fibbing took place, both men getting it hot until they fell together.

10.—​Goss, instigated by his seconds, tried a rush. He was neatly stopped, and seemed perplexed as to his next move. Jem drew back and Joe followed, got home his right on the body slightly, and was away. Mace stepped on to him, dealt him a left-hander on the head, and Joe slipped down.

11.—​Mace now tried to make the fighting. He stepped in upon Goss, who retired and shifted round in the clear corner of the ring; at last Jem pinned him a stinger in the mouth, and then as he jumped sideways caught him a second crack with the same hand on the head; Goss rushed in, delivering both hands, and Mace slipped down amidst some hisses from Goss’s partisans.

12.—​Some tedious sparring. Mace, who now evidently meant fighting, tried to induce Goss to lead off, but he would not. At length, Joe being, as Mace thought, pushed in a corner, in he went, and a spirited rally ensued. Mace got home on Joe’s damaged left eyebrow, but Goss gave him a couple of rib-benders, and, closing, proved his strength by bringing down the Champion a sounder on the turf, and falling on him. (Deafening cheers—​“Joe’s waking him up!”)

13.—​It was fully expected that Goss would now go to work in the “finishing” style that had earned his fame; but no! He again resorted to that clumsy yokel craftiness which could never beat a man of Mace’s skill and resource. He dodged about until Mace, seeing he had got him, dealt him a sounding spank on the head with the left, and then as he shifted about gave him a straight punch in the mouth with the same hand. Joe, stung with these visitations, went in too late, for though he got in a round hit on the side of Mace’s head, the latter clinched him and threw him.

14.—​Goss, in performing his usual dancing steps around the ring, caught his heel against a stake and stumbled; Mace dashed at him, when Joe got down somehow. (A claim of “foul” was preferred by Mace’s seconds, but overruled)

15.—​Goss was urged to “rattle in,” but he declined the experiment, and moved round his man, then, lunging out heavily with both hands got the left well home on the side of the head. Mace got quickly close, hit Joe severely in the mouth, and Goss fell in hurriedly getting back.

16.—​Mace measured his man carefully as they stood sparring in the centre of the ring, and then swiftly sent in a stinging left-hander. Joe shifted again, and Mace, pressing him too closely, received a couple of good hits on the head. Goss away as before; Mace worked close to him, dealt him a crack on the head, and as he stepped in again Goss slipped down. (Disapprobation.)

17.—​Goss all over the ring, but Mace pressed after him more sharply than hitherto. He fixed him at last, and delivered both hands like lightning on the head. A slashing rally, the best in the fight; Mace planting with amazing quickness and force, left and right, going home with severity. Joe stuck to his work, and lashed out desperately in return; but though he certainly hit his man heavily, Mace must have felt he had the superiority for good and all in this rally. The men closed, exhausted by severe exertion, and after a short struggle fell together.

18.—​Goss came up bleeding freely from the left brow, nose, and mouth. His punishment was certainly severe; Mace was also marked. After some sparring Joe lashed out viciously with both hands, Mace slipped back, and Joe, overreaching himself, fell. No mischief done, but the Gossites looked blue.

19th and last.—​Both slow to time. Mace, cool as a cucumber, seemed to be taking stock of his adversary, as if beginning a fight. Goss worked about, stepping first to one side, then the other, as if nervously anxious to begin “business.” Mace worked him slowly backwards, till close on the ropes, then, as Joe was about to break away, he delivered a tremendous right-handed lunge, straight from the shoulder; the blow landed on the left side of Goss’s left jaw, and at once hit him clean out of time. Poor Goss fell forward insensible, and all efforts of his seconds to rouse him proving vain, Mace was proclaimed the victor. Time, 1 hour, 55 minutes, 30 seconds.

Remarks.—​Notwithstanding the heavy hitting which came at intervals, we must pronounce this a bad fight; indeed, it could hardly be otherwise. Goss was entirely over-matched in science, length, and weight, and evidently felt it early in the fight. His dodging and clumsy wiles to steal a march on so perfect a practitioner as Mace were often almost ludicrous. His game, indeed his only chance, was to have forced his man to desperate rallies, and have trusted to his own hardihood, courage and endurance—​though this, we do not believe, could have altered the final result. Mace, on the other hand, was, considering his manifold advantages, over-cautious. He not only would not risk a chance, but he continually gave a chance away by being too guarded. At the same time, we must admit that Mace’s mode of winning the battle on the line he had marked out exhibited consummate skill.

As a “side-light” may often elucidate a “dark corner,” we may remark, that within a few weeks of this £1,000 victory we learned in a disputation, 476 that a neighbouring publican, and backer of Mace, declared that Jem’s was a “bogus” proprietorship, and that the Norwich “Champion” was heavily indebted to him.

At this period a wave of cant was passing over the country. The Morning Star, a London daily long since defunct, in which John Bright, the pugnacious Quaker, was largely interested, was furious in its denunciations of the authorities for what it called “their connivance in the brutalities of prize-fighters.” Contemporary with the scripturally named Morning Star, was a yet more straightlaced and puritan print, rejoicing in the title of the Dial, whose mission, as we learned from its prospectus, was to “purify the daily Press” by excluding from its columns not only racing reports and “so-called sporting news,” but even cases from the police-courts, divorce-courts, actions for slander or crim. con., and we know not what else of the doings of this naughty world. The Dial, after threatening to supersede the Times (and all other dailies), spent nearly all its capital in a very weakly issue, and finally threw the balance of some thousands of pounds into the coffers of the Morning Star, which therefore contracted a marriage, and added the words “and Dial” to its title. We need not observe that marriage in the newspaper world invariably means the death of the weaker vessel; and so the Morning Star and Dial, positively treated its readers, after a few flourishes of condemnation, with a full, true, and particular account of “this horrid prize-fight.” Surely hypocrisy and the eagerness of saints to “turn a penny” could not further go? On the other hand, the Saturday Review, a journal of manly independence, and a sworn enemy of cant, published in its impression of the succeeding week a life-like sketch from the pen of a scholar and a gentleman, of his adventures in going to and coming from the fight, with his impressions of what he saw thereat. Those who can refer to the number will thank us for the reminder: here we can only find room for the closing reflections.

“Looking dispassionately at this fight, and without admitting or denying the truthfulness of the descriptions of other fights that we have read, our conclusion is, that the epithets ‘brutal,’ ‘barbarous,’ ‘disgusting,’ and so forth, are quite uncalled for. There are people who don’t like fights, and there are people who view them as displays of skill and fortitude. Yet much that is objectionable in the acts of the supporters of the Ring and the practitioners of the art would disappear if respectable society, so called, dared to look less unkindly upon it and them. At any rate, we see no sufficient reason why magistrates and police should display such excessive 477 zeal in hunting down a fight in such an out-of-the-way place as Plumstead Marshes, and are glad they did not finally succeed on Tuesday, September 1st, in disappointing the hundreds of people who had travelled 200 miles to see the battle between Mace and Goss.”

So far as the history of the Prize Ring is concerned we would here gladly close our record, leaving only the second combat of Tom King and John Heenan for its finale; but a page or two of the suicidal doings of its professors and destroying patrons must be added to complete its story.

In the first month of 1864 a challenge, as in 1860, came across the Atlantic. This time the cartel was in the name of one Joe Coburn, an Irish American, and was responded to by Mace, whose backers proposed a stake of £500 a side; and on May 27th, the challenger, accompanied by Cusick, known aforetime as the companion and trainer of John Heenan, and a Mr. Edwin James,[36] who described himself as Editor of the New York Clipper, arrived in London to settle the preliminaries.

The articles as finally drawn were to the effect that Mace’s party were to post £600, to £400 on the part of Coburn, and that at the last deposit £100 was to be handed to the latter as expenses; that a referee should be agreed on the day previous to the fight, which should take place in Ireland, over 20 and under 100 miles from Dublin; the money to be made good in ten fortnightly deposits.

On the occasions of these diplomatic protocollings, which were conducted with a Yankee ‘cuteness and cavilling that were suspiciously suggestive of knavery rather than straightforward honesty of purpose, we saw a good deal of Mr. Joe Coburn, and the more we saw of him the more assured were we that the astute “managers” of the affair must have had some other design in view than a fair fight for a thousand with such a man as Jem Mace. Joe Coburn, who stood about 5 ft. 8½ in., was a well-built fellow, something under 11 stone, and tolerably good-looking; his countenance was the reverse of pugilistic in formation or outline, his nose being decidedly of the Roman arch, and the bony contour of his face and nob rather of the “hatchet” than either the “snake” or the “bullet-headed” type. He told us that he was a native of Middletown, County Armagh; that he was in his 26th year, having been born July 20th, 1838; and that his parents took him to America at an early age. At first his 478 “business matters” were entrusted to the care of the experienced Nat Langham, but “Ould Nat” was soon thrust aside by the loquacious Hiberno-American “agents,” “secretaries,” “friends and advisers” of Mr. Coburn, who, of himself, appeared quiescent, modest, and taciturn. And here a word on the wretched hands into which, in these latest days, the interests of the Ring and pugilists had fallen. In times of old, but yet within his memory, the writer has witnessed or been cognizant of conferences at Tom Spring’s “Castle,” at Jem Burn’s, at Limmer’s Hotel, at Tattersall’s, and especially in the editorial sanctum, the front parlour of No. 5, Norfolk Street, Strand, whereat Honourables, M.P.’s, and gallant Guardsmen—​such patrons of pugilism as the Marquises of Drumlanrig and Waterford, Lord Ongley, Lord Longford, Sir Edward Kent, Sir St. Vincent Cotton, Harvey Combe—​with squires, country gentlemen, and sportsmen, have taken part in discussing the interests of fair and honest pugilism and pugilists, and aiding them by purse and patronage. He may add that in those times Lord Althorp (afterwards Earl Spencer),[37] the present courtly diplomatist and Foreign Minister, Earl Granville (Lord Leveson-Gower), the greatest of the Sir Robert Peels, the Honourable Robert Grimston (brother to the Earl of Verulam), Lord Wenlock, Lord Palmerston, and the now venerable philanthropist, the Earl of Shaftesbury (then Lord Ashley),[38] with other “brave peers of England, pillars of the State,” did not disdain to sanction and approve, by example, speech, and pen, the practice and principles of boxing, and the peculiarly English and manly Art of Self-defence.

All these had already disappeared, or withdrawn in disgust, and left no successors. Their places were usurped by a clamorous crew of sharp practitioners, loud-mouthed disputants, and tricky match-makers—​the sweepings of society in the Old and New Worlds. Those on this side of 479 the water were backed by the ill-gotten gains of the keepers of low gambling hells and night-houses, those on the other side by the proprietors of bar-rooms, drinking-saloons, and the large crowd of loungers, loafers, and rowdies who hang on the skirts of the Sporting World of the Great Republic and are its disgrace and bane. The cardinal principle of these worthies, like that of the “welshers” of our own race-courses, being “heads I win, tails you lose,” it was certainly a trial for an Englishman’s patience and gravity to hear and read it urged, as a reason for choosing Ireland as a battle-ground, that our Hiberno-American cousins (or cozens) were afraid their man “would not get fair play” in England. But we must proceed.

No sooner had the conditions been duly published to the world in the sporting papers than the “high contracting parties” set off upon their provincial tours, with the summer all before them. With Coburn’s progress his “secretary” kept the newspaper press au courant; we were told, from week to week, how he put on the mittens with Joe Goss, Bill Ryall, Jack Rooke, Reardon, and others, at Birmingham, Manchester, Liverpool, Glasgow, and Dublin, and of course “bested” them. Those who knew how these things were arranged, took them with the needful “grain of salt,” and we coupled them with the significant fact that three of the pugilists named each separately expressed to us his envy at Mace’s good luck, and his regret that he was not in his place to “try conclusions” with the newly imported “champion.” Mace, too, was not behind in travelling the “circuits,” having for his “agent in advance” and “secretary,” Harry Montague, well known, even up to 1881, as secretary to “Myers’s Great American Hippodrome and Circus.”

We skip over the months until we come to September 24th, at which time, strange to say, not a single detail seemed to have been arranged by either party, and when, at the last deposit at Harry Brunton’s, Barbican, the £1,000 was declared to be made good, and the £100 cheque of the stakeholder thereafter handed over to Coburn and Co., we must confess we were much exercised in mind to know what would be the next move in the kriegspiel. We were soon enlightened. Coburn’s representatives having won the toss, communicated that the rendezvous would be Mr. Woodroffe’s, “Cambridge Arms,” Island Bridge, near Dublin, on Monday, October 4th. Accordingly, to “mak’ siccar,” we booked ourselves, on the previous Saturday, by the “Wild Irishman” for Holyhead, and thence by the swift mail-packet, the “Scotia,” landed early on Sunday morning at Kingstown, suffering some delay from a tremendous south-wester in the Channel. 480 Here we found our Irish friends all alive, and as full of questions and eager inquiries for news as if they had been ancient instead of modern Greeks. More Hibernico, too, we soon found that they could tell us more than we knew about the matter; for by way of a secret we were informed in the street, before we had landed six hours, that “Joe” (Coburn) “shure was in Limerick, and that the foight ’ud come off nigh hand there, at Goold’s Crass,” which, if thus publicly known, made us sure that it would not. We stood on the pier watching the arrivals. By the Liverpool packet came a large accession to the English division; among them Jerry Noon, Bos Tyler, Welsh, Hicks, with Fred Oliver, the Commissary, and his henchman, Puggy White, and not a few familiar faces from London, Birmingham, Manchester, and the North.

In Dublin we found not a few “London particulars” of the Press: the editor of Bell’s Life (Frank Dowling), with young Holt as his aide-de-camp, the editor of the Era, ditto of two new penny Sportsmen, with half a dozen penmen of the London dailies and weeklies, all seeking pabulum for their “special correspondence” from the Irish capital. At “the Imperial” we met an American party, which included John Heenan, his “secretary (!)” Mr. Hamilton, Cusick, and the literary and artistic representatives of a New York “illustrated” journal. Here, too, we met our friend Shirley Brooks (the editor of Punch, in posse), looking fair, fresh, and pleasant, and more resembling a smart Meltonian fresh from “the shires” and following the brush across a grass country than a London Press-man just escaped from the consumption of the midnight gas. To him, as one of the “uninitiated,” we imparted our confidence, that he had better enjoy himself in the pleasant circles of Dublin society, than set out on any such “pig-shearing” expedition as the contemplated journey must in all probability prove.

Monday morning came, and we strolled down Dame Street. We were quickly hailed by a car-driver, “Would we like jist a dhrive to Monkstown? Shure an’ Mishter Mace is up there, at the Salt Hill hot-el, he is; an’ there’s lots o’ gintry as he’s a shtrippin’ an’ showin’ hisself to—​shure I seen him mysilf through an open windy, yesterday marnin’; an’ by the same token he a-runnin’ a quarter race like a shtag, an’ batin’ his man, a rig’lar paydesthrian too. Will I dhrive yer hanner?” Yes; but not to Monkstown. At this moment we were accosted by an old, very old acquaintance, none other than the erewhile host of the “Blue Boar’s Head,” Long Acre, a renowned English “paydesthrian,” Drinkwater, better known in sporting 481 circles by his alias of “Temperance.”[39] This worthy relic of a better period and better men, had been for some years located in the Irish capital, in a confidential employment in an extensive commercial institution, and, as he was among the curious, we mounted the jolting jaunting-car, and away we went for Island Bridge.

The scene here was curious, and quite novel to an English eye. Groups of people, consisting of men with a large sprinkling of slatternly women and barefoot children, were thickly scattered on the roads and river-banks, while vehicles of every description, and some of no possible description, rattled through the crowds amid cheers, shouts, and now and then objurgations and cries from the assemblage. Hard by, to complete the oddity of the picture, stood a squad of active, good-looking, and apparently good-humoured constabulary, each carrying his handy rifle-carbine and sword-bayonet, and all seemingly on the best of terms with Paddy and Shelah, and the “gossoons” who formed the holiday gathering. Making our way into the house we there found, that though the much-talked-of Goold’s Cross was the appointed champ clos, that not only was there, up to this time, no train or other mode of conveyance thither even suggested, but that the “assembled chiefs” were only about to discuss the nomination of a referee, as provided by the articles. Had this matter been left to Harry Brunton on behalf of Mace, and “Ould Nat” as the representative of Coburn, no doubt that matter would have been quickly and amicably settled. That this did not suit the “managers” was quickly apparent. We found a meeting much resembling, on a smaller scale, a Yankee “caucus,” or an assembly of French communards at Belleville, gesticulating, shouting, swearing, and all talking at once, while in the midst our deaf friend, Harry Brunton, Old Nat, Mr. Edwin James, and half a dozen Hibernian amateur counsellors in vain tried to obtain a hearing. Finally, as nothing could be done here, an adjournment took place to a more private apartment. Here the squabble was renewed. For referee, after various names had been assented to by Brunton and rejected by the Coburn party, the latter declared, that they would fight under the refereeship of no man but a certain Mr. Bowler, of Limerick, a person utterly unknown to any one present, and of whom no one could certify that he had the slightest acquaintance with the rules of the Ring, or the duties of the office thus 482 proposed to be thrust upon him. At this time, too, it was truly reported that a body of 100 constabulary were posted near Thurles, and that a man had been just arrested at Goold’s Cross on suspicion that he was Coburn, who, however, was stated to be safe at a place called Ballangella, twelve miles from Limerick. Brunton now put his foot down in refusing the mysterious Mr. Bowler, and as Messrs. James and Co. were equally obdurate, the dispute as to whether either party meant fighting went on until the clock struck three, when the match, according to the articles, was actually off. Hereupon Harry Brunton declared his intention of not trusting his man to the forbearance of the Irish police, and, unless a fair referee were agreed on, he would wash his hands of the whole affair and return to England. Harry then left the house, and embarked on board the Holyhead packet, Mace also leaving at nine o’clock. And now came the concluding scenes of this Irish comedy. The Coburn clique loudly proclaimed their intention of claiming the £900 in the hands of the stakeholder. They would go down to Goold’s Cross—​and they did so—​and then and there summon the “runaway” to meet their man. Resolved to see out the farce, we took tickets. On the platform were a hundred greencoats armed with carbines; and a ruddy-faced young rustic, whose name proved to be Ryan, as unlike Mace as could be, having been pointed out by some practical joker as Mace, was forthwith arrested as the redoubted English champion, but soon set at liberty. The ring, consisting of four posts and a rope, having been pitched at a place called Pierstown, Kilmana, and the police being assured that there being but one man there could be no fight, stood laughing by, while proclamation for the appearance of the English champion was made and the stakes duly claimed, and so the curtain fell.

The scene shifts to England, where the stakeholder, after innumerable criminations and recriminations, declared “a draw” of the battle-money by each party as the only possible verdict. Of course the Mace party, and Harry Brunton especially, were seriously out of pocket by the fiasco, in travelling, training, and other expenses, beyond the £100 disbursed to Coburn and Co. The editor of Bell’s Life thus sums up the case:—

“Looking at the matter calmly and dispassionately, we are led to think that Mace has been treated harshly. Of Coburn we have formed this opinion, that he never had the slightest intention of fighting; that he had not even trained; that he was a mere instrument in the hands of others, and believed the match would be turned to account by some trick of 483 Yankee juggling, without the peril of exposing his cutwater countenance to the active props of Mace’s handy digits. Taking the affair as a whole, it has been one of the greatest and most fatal blows to pugilism within our memory, and will tend more to estrange and disgust true patrons of the Ring than any event of our time. We have not heard any more appropriate name bestowed upon any great disappointment than that invented by the sporting editor of the Morning Advertiser, when he described the no-result as ‘the collapse of a gigantic wind-bag.’”

While on the subject of the Press, we cannot refrain from a pleasant episode in relief of so much chicanery and knavery.

No one can deny the native humour of our Irish fellow-countrymen, and their keen sense of the ridiculous, hence some Irish wag turned this affair of Mace and Coburn to laughable account. A certain portion of the “unco’ guid” Puritan and eminently pious Catholic press of Dublin was loud in its outcries of horror, and its denunciations of the unhallowed incursion of “fighting men” into the peace-loving “island of saints.” It called loudly for the strong arm of the law to preserve intact the holy soil, miraculously cleared by St. Patrick, from a renewed invasion of foreign “vermin.” Some sly wag (the hoax was worthy of Theodore Hook himself) accordingly indited the following “pastoral” from the Cardinal Archbishop of Dublin, which, being forwarded to the leading Irish papers, found ready insertion and approving editorial comment:—

“Dublin, Feast of the Angel Guardians, 1864.

“Very Reverend Brethren,—​My attention has been called by some respectable gentlemen to a report now widely circulated, that this city, or its vicinity, is to be made the theatre of a signal combat between two foreign pugilists, who are about to expose their lives to imminent danger for a certain sum of money. This report must be the subject of great regret to every one who is imbued with the spirit of Christian charity, and who recognises in his fellow-man the image of his Creator. It is not necessary for me to call on you to use all your influence to preserve this Christian country from an exhibition so disgraceful, and so well calculated to degrade human nature. I shall merely request of you to publish, as soon as possible, from your altars, that such combats, in which human life is exposed to danger, are prohibited under the severest penalties by the Holy Catholic Church. Passing over the decrees of the Council of Trent, it will be sufficient to state that the learned Pontiff Benedict XIV. excommunicates the principal actors in such fights, their seconds, and all who encourage them, and all who designedly become spectators of such unworthy scenes. If you denounce these penalties from the altar I am confident that the faithful of this diocese, who are so devotedly attached to Holy Catholic Church, and so obedient to its laws, will listen with contempt to the invitation of those who would implicate them in the misdeeds of foreign gladiators, and will abstain from countenancing or encouraging anything condemned by our holy religion, and contrary to the dictates of the Gospel.

“PAUL CULLEN.”

The absurdity of the date of this “pastoral,” and the satirical retort on Lord Lyndhurst’s celebrated speech, in which he characterised the Irish as “aliens in blood, in language, and religion,” by describing Mace and Coburn as “foreign gladiators,” might have aroused suspicion. But no; 484 with the godly, when they attack the wicked, on fait flêche de tout bois; so the Puritan and Methodist prints actually praised the anti-combatant zeal of the Cardinal, and the “pastoral” was reproduced with approbation in a paper containing two savage assaults—​in one of which a man’s nose was bitten off—​and four other outrages of the “foinest pisanthry” with weapons, in two of which the victims were left senseless and apparently dead!

That the English newspapers took the hoax au sérieux is hardly to be wondered at, but the two following specimens, one ridiculing, the other approving, the ingeniously fabricated “pastoral,” are really worth preserving as curiosities of newspaper literature.

(From the Manchester Guardian, October 5, 1864.)

“THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE PUGILISTS.

“To the Editor of the ‘Examiner’ and ‘Times.’

“Sir,—​I perceive from your journal of to-day that Archbishop Paul Cullen has issued a pastoral to his clergy against the great fight that was to have come off in Ireland, in which country it is well known that fighting is the very last thing the inhabitants ever resort to for the settlement of differences. As the men are not going to fight, there will be little difficulty in obeying the injunction of Cardinal Paul. Had it been otherwise, I am afraid a few of ‘the faithful’ would have been congregated in the outer ring, and perhaps some few (who of course could not read or had not read the Pastoral) might have got up some little independent shindies of their own, even as young buds surrounding the inner red roses, or noses. But are we quite sure the Archbishop really alludes to the same thing as we do? He describes the projected fight as between ‘two foreign pugilists.’ Now I understand Mr. Coburn is not an American, but an Irishman. Mr. Mace is undoubtedly from Norwich; and although, in a certain sense, that Quaker, crape-weaving city may be described as in partibus infidelium, yet letters from Limerick to Norwich are not yet forwarded viâ Ostend. I fancy what the Archbishop means is this, that in the case of real native Irishmen—​take the Belfast Catholics and Protestants, for example—​fighting could not possibly occur, and that he wishes to show that only individuals ‘not to the manner born’ could import so dangerous a custom or practice into that peaceful land. A ‘foreigner’ from London or from Oldham might possibly come to fisticuffs in the county of Wicklow, but they would receive no countenance or encouragement from the peace-loving natives, who, refusing to hold their hats or coats, or to mop off any casual claret, would avert their eyes, and, like the soldier in the song, ‘wipe away a tear.’ I have no interest in the two persons called ‘foreigners’ by the Archbishop, but I think in so designating them his Eminence has administered a severer punishment than the occasion required. I should not like to retort upon the Archbishop or call my Irish fellow-citizens ‘foreigners’—​writing a paragraph for your journal, for instance, to the following effect—​‘Two foreigners, named Dennis Blake and Patrick O’Rafferty, were brought before Mr. Fowler for fighting in Deansgate. O’Rafferty, who spoke with a strong foreign accent, said “Blake tould me, plaze yer hannar, he’d jist bate the soul out o’ me in a brace of shakes, an’ Oi——” Mr. Fowler, “I’ve evidence enough. You are ’aliens in blood, in language, and in religion”—​I am quoting an eminent jurist—​and you must pay a fine of —​, or go to prison.’

“It must, however, be a great consolation and relief to the minds of Mr. Mace and Mr. Bos Tyler that the Archbishop ‘passes over the decrees of the Council of Trent,’ and merely throws the ‘learned Pope Benedict XIV.’ at their heretic heads. It seems to me that one of the Pope ‘Bonifaces’ would be more appropriate in a case of ‘pubs,’ and prize-fighters, for a ‘stinger over the left.’

Faithfully yours,

“J. F. T.

“Manchester, October 5, 1864.”

An extract from that immaculate journal The English Churchman, culminates the joke:—

485

“THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE BOXERS.

“‘No good thing is without its attendant evil,’ is a platitude as old, at least, as the time of Lucretius. Old, however, as it is, and platitude as it has become, it is a truth, notwithstanding. The intercourse and intercommunion of nations is an undoubted good. It has, however, we are reminded, its repulsive as well as its attractive aspect. An international Congress may be useful. International Exhibitions, apart from the boastful self-sufficiency which attends them, may be good. International Copyright is what all authors sigh for, and we can even enjoy the noise and bustle of an International Dog Show. We have, however, advanced beyond this, and have within the last week only barely escaped the disgrace of another International Prize Fight. Amidst the dearth of political news; the stagnation of home scandals; and the absence of our chief notabilities from London, if not from England, Mr. Edwin James—​the same person, we presume, who so recently ‘left his country for his country’s good,’ has sought to manufacture telling paragraphs for newspaper editors by getting up an International Prize Fight in the sister island.[40] Happily for the character of Ireland, its police, jealous of all fighting save amongst the native element, and with the lawful and national weapon—​the shillelagh—​have prevented a repetition of these scandalous scenes and gatherings; and the English Champion has had to return to London re infecta. With the squabbles of the would-be combatants and their friends—​with the recriminations of Yankee sharpers and English blackguards, we have nothing to do. We leave the patrons of the Ring to settle the important question of the stakes among themselves. Nor are we about to try the patience of our readers with either a defence or an attack upon the immunities of the Prize Ring. What we desire to chronicle is the worthy attitude assumed by the Roman Catholic Archbishop of Dublin, who addressed the following letter to the clergy within his jurisdiction. [The letter will be found elsewhere.] This letter we gladly publish as worthy of the position of the writer. If successful, as but for an accident it might have been, it would have afforded an encouragement to the author, as it will be a valuable precedent to himself and to the rest of his brethren, and will, we have no doubt, lead them to ‘announce’ the same ‘penalties’ of excommunication against the midnight assassin, watching to take the life of his landlord; so that the pugilist and the hired murderer alike will before long both be sought for in vain in the peaceful ‘Isle of the Saints.’ With the fact of the publication of such a document we are too gratified to attempt to cavil at its language. The emphasis laid on the circumstance that Mace and Coburn were two ‘foreign pugilists,’ and that they were two ‘foreign gladiators,’ seams at first sight a covert way of claiming the monopoly of fighting for the faithful and non-alien portion of the community, and is hardly consistent with the fact that one of the would-be combatants was born in the county of Armagh, which is usually considered a part of Ireland. We have, however, no doubt that these words, though not literally correct, were judiciously thrown in by the Archbishop, in order to enlist the patriotism and national feeling of those to whom this letter was addressed, and with the hope that those Irishmen who might be indifferent to the wishes and orders of ‘Paul Cullen,’ would readily follow the directions of the writer when they were fortified by the belief that the two invaders of the peace—​the two gladiators—​were, after all, only ‘foreigners,’ and hence undeserving of the honour of an Irish audience.”

At the “settlement” of accounts—​Messrs. James and Co., receiving a cheque of £400—​a funny little incident of modern practice oozed out. Harry Brunton, among other liabilities, had made himself responsible to a silk-mercer for Mace’s “colours,” and now asked to be reimbursed. In olden times, when a pugilist distributed his colours, it was with the honourable understanding, on the part of the recipient, that in the event of victory the man should receive a guinea (subsequently a “sov.”), and nothing if he lost. This was the understanding; not as a sale, but, as the newspapers say of correspondence, “as a guarantee of good faith.” In modern times, however, as Molière’s Quack Doctor assures Géronte, “Nous avons changé tout cela,” and the gallant and generous dispenser insists on the prepayment of a guinea—​we suppose “as a guarantee of good faith”—​on 486 the part of his patron. Indeed, we do not see how he could safely do otherwise, as the looms of Spitalfields and Coventry would hardly suffice to supply the demands of silk kerchiefs on “a promise to pay,” while the deposit of a sovereign each (not returnable), for a few dozen of handkerchiefs, invoice price 5s. 6d., most have a certain consolation in case of a draw or a lose.

Accounts being squared, Mace, as he said “to clear his character,” offered to fight Coburn anywhere in England for £100 or “on his own terms.” Bill Ryall, Joe Goss, Jack Rooke, also, were all “ready to meet Coburn.” The latter responded that he was ready to fight Mace, in “any part of Her Majesty’s dominions in America, for £1,000, but not in England with a mob at his back.” Brunton published a list of Mace’s backers, “to whom their money had been returned;” a similar document of the deposits made on behalf of Coburn might have proved a curiosity. Our sole apology for treating at such length these later doings is, that we look upon them as the concluding chapter in the downfall of the Ring, and as the elucidation of a question often put to us, “Do we consider its revival possible?” to which our reply has uniformly been, “Not only not possible, but not even desirable; ‘other times, other manners:’ its revival would be an anachronism.” Yet did the old bull-dog spirit die hard, and several good battles were contested in the years 1863–70. In November, 1864, a new big one, Joe Wormald, claimed the Championship, when he was answered by another big ’un, hight Andrew Marsden. Mace sent forth a challenge to meet the winner, who proved to be Wormald, who received the belt. The day of battle was named for November 1, 1865, for £200 and the Championship; but a severe accident disabling Wormald, Mace received the sum of £120 forfeit.

The year 1866, opened with another “train-swindle.” A second match “for £200 and the belt” had been got up with Joe Goss, and Tuesday, May 24th, appointed for its decision. About four hundred tickets having been disposed of by industrious touting, at two guineas first class, and £1 10s. 6d. second, the company started at half-past five on the appointed morning, on “an excursion there and back,” as the card-board expressed it. At 6h. 13m. we passed Farningham Road, and at 6h. 35m. slackened speed and disembarked at Longfield Court, near Meopham, Kent, where a ring was formed, and after the customary ceremonies, Jem Mace and Joe Goss—​after much waiting for the police, who came not—​stood up face to face, at a respectful distance, for the first and only round of the

487

NO FIGHT.

Round 1.—​Mace would not lead off, but nodded and beckoned to Joe, who, however, declined his invitation and nodded and grinned in return, squaring his elbows and stepping first to right and then to left, in an ungainly manner, but never trusting himself within what Mr. Gladstone calls “a measurable distance” of a knock; Mace, also, politely preserving an interspace in all his manœuvres. As minute after minute dragged on, and it was clear neither man meant to fight, the referee stepped into the ring, and warned the men, unless blows were struck he would declare “a draw.” The announcement was received with the utmost indifference by both the principal performers, who walked about during the discussion, chafing their arms and breasts with their hands, and exchanging recognitions with acquaintances and friends. Again the men faced each other, and again alternately advanced and retreated; fifty minutes, one hour elapsed, and not a blow was struck. Again and again did the referee remonstrate. He might as well have “whistled jigs to a milestone.” At the end of 74 minutes he leaped into the ring for the last time, and amidst the laughter and hisses of the spectators, declared it “a drawn battle;” whereupon the unscathed gladiators shook hands, grinned, and put on their clothes, Mace coolly informing us, that he had “sprained his ankle severely a few days before,” and that “he was not fit to fight;” though how that ensured Goss’s forbearance was left unexplained. So all returned to town—​the sheep and their shearers.

“Hope springs eternal in the human breast,”

and so, in the hope of witnessing a fight at last, Mace signed articles once again for £200, and to ensure that the men should get closer together this time, a ring of 16 feet was agreed upon. In this, on August 6th, 1866, Jem Mace displayed indisputable superiority by giving Master Joe an exemplary beating in 21 rounds, occupying one minute over the half-hour.

The bubble of 1866–7 was the appearance of a new “Irish giant,” standing 6 ft. 4½ in., first dubbed O’Baldwin, and afterwards Ned Baldwin—​a name familiar to Ring history. Having beaten one George Iles, O’Baldwin claimed the belt, and Mace (who had retired) backed “an Unknown” against him. This “Unknown” Mace afterwards declared to be Joe Goss; but Mace having got into trouble over a battle between Holden and Peter Moore, at Derby, and Joe injuring his shoulder in his Bristol fight with Allen, Mace was allowed (for a consideration) to name Joe Wormald in his stead, and to postpone the fight for a fortnight, and yet farther to Saturday, 23rd April, 1867, so as not to clash with the Two Thousand Guineas Stakes. Will it be believed that 300 persons travelled that morning by the South Eastern Railway to find that “the Giant” had somehow mistaken the terminus, and by a misdirection was sitting in a four-wheeler, doubled up like a pocket-knife, under a dry arch in Tooley Street, while the special steamed off without him, and so Joe Wormald received the £200 forfeit?

To console the confiding public, Mace now offered himself to the notice of O’Baldwin on the usual terms, to meet on October 15th, 1867. The 488 £400 was made good, and Jem was ordered from Newmarket, where he was training, to Woodford, Essex, when it was communicated that the officers were after him, and he crossed over into Surrey. Here, at Herne Hill, he was arrested by Sergeant Silverton, of the Metropolitan Police, together with Pooley Mace, his cousin, brought before Sir Thomas Henry, at Bow Street, and duly bound over to keep the peace in sureties of £300. At the examination, Inspector Hannan stated that the tickets were, to his knowledge, sold at two, three, and four guineas. So each man, as we were told next week, “drew his stake,” on the ground of “magisterial interference.” Again Mace had retired, and Joe Wormald being disabled by illness, O’Baldwin was left, like the Giant Blunderbore, “King of the Castle.” The reader has already, in this Memoir, had the opportunity of forming an opinion of the pugilistic pretensions of Sam Hurst, “the Stalybridge Infant.” Yet Sam Hurst was dragged from his obscurity, and it was thought a good thing might be made of the gobemouches by a Championship fight between the giants! This was, however, too utterly preposterous, and it broke down. In December, 1867, Joe Goss and Wormald were matched, which ended in a forfeit, and Wormald, O’Baldwin, and Co. were announced as departing for America!

Here, in 1868, as we learn from the Transatlantic journals, Joe Wormald and the prodigious O’Baldwin were matched “for 2,500 dollars and the Championship of the World.” They met at Lynnfield, Massachusetts, when, after a scramble of ten minutes in a single round, the “sheriff and his merrie men” interfered and stopped further proceedings. Thereafter, we are told, the “stakeholder having ordered Wormald to renew the fight,” and he not complying, that functionary handed the money to “the Irish champion,” a proceeding which, in the words of Lord Dundreary, “no fellah can understand.” After returning for awhile to England, Mace sailed for the Antipodes, and by the latest accounts was a prosperous publican in Melbourne.

Our tale is well-nigh told. In 1870, Jem Mace, being in America, met Tom Allen for 2,500 dollars a side. They fought near New Orleans, on May 10th, when Jem polished off the Birmingham bruiser in style in 10 rounds, 44 minutes.

As the design of “Pugilistica” is to supply a reliable and honest history of the British Prize Ring and the deeds of its worthies, we shall here drop the story of New World rowdyism. The Ring had finished its career—​had died in the country of its birth; its last expiring flicker had 489 sputtered out, and exit in fumo, exiled for its misdeeds to a land where its true merits and principles never had an existence. Having thus traced it to its ignominious end, we return, for a single chapter, to the doings of Tom King, whom we have already styled “Ultimus Romanorum.”

490