Chapter IX (2)

3.—Scroggins, from the effects of lushing, came
quite noisy to the scratch, and laughing at
Fisher, told him if he could hit no harder than
he had done, he must lose it, and he (Scroggins)
would soon convince him of that fact. Fisher,
not dismayed by this threat, not only fought
with his opponent manfully, but threw him
completely on his face. (“Go it, Fisher!”)

4.—This was a good round, and Fisher pelted
away so sharply, that Scroggy seemed rather
sobered by the contact. Ceremony was out of the
question, hit for hit was reciprocally given,
till Fisher slipped and went down. (Two to one
on Scroggy was vociferated by his partisans.)

5.—Fisher came to the scratch in the most lively
style, and set-to with as much coolness as if he
had been fighting a mere commoner. They soon
closed, Fisher undermost.

6.—Nothing but milling was the order of this
round; both down.

7.—Scroggins rushed at his opponent with the
impetuosity of a bull-dog, and made his one-two
tell upon Fisher’s mug: the latter stood to him
like bricks, and contended gamely till he found
himself undermost in the throw. (This change on
the part of Scroggy brought offers forward of
four to one in his favour.)

8.—Fisher went to work manfully, and Scroggins
slipped down from a hit, but, instantly
recovering himself, instead of finishing the
round, he rushed at Fisher, when some sharp
blows were exchanged till both went down.

9.—Fisher with the utmost ease sent Scroggy
down. (“Bravo, Fisher—stick to him, my lad!”)

10.—One of Scroggins’s peepers seemed a little
damaged, but his canvas appeared so impenetrable
that the claret scorned to make its appearance.
Both again down; but Scroggins, while on the
knee of his second, gave two or three loud hems,
as if to improve his wind.

11.—This was a truly punishing round. Fisher hit
Scroggins slightly down—he was up again in a
twinkling, and most furiously went in to mill
his opponent; he was, however, ultimately sent
down.

12.—Fisher put in a good facer; but, in closing,
both down.

13.—As yet, nothing was the matter with Fisher,
and considering Scroggins was three parts groggy
upon commencing the fight, he convinced those
around him what a fine constitution he
possessed. Fisher was also viewed with
admiration—and making allowance for his
“greenness” in contending with a pugilist at the
top of the tree, he proved himself an ugly
customer for this modern Dutch Sam. in this
round Fisher had the best decidedly.

14.—Scroggins went down in closing, but the
advantage was on his side. When on his second’s
knee, he sneeringly observed to Fisher, that “he
could not hit hard enough; he had better give it
in, as a few more of _his_ hits must finish
him.”

15 to 17.—Nothing material on either side.

18.—In this round Scroggy was floored. Great
applause to Fisher.

19 to 23.—Though Scroggins was the favourite,
yet many present considered the event at this
stage of the fight doubtful. (Upon several
offers being made, Scroggy observed, “Aye, bet
away, gentlemen, I can win it like fun. I lay
two to one on myself.”)

24 to 29.—Fisher appeared still fresh, and
notwithstanding the desperate rushing forward
of Scroggins to take the fight out of him, he
never flinched from his man, but fought with
Scroggins like a game-cock. At the conclusion
of this round, which was in favour of the cove
of Stangate, he exclaimed with the utmost
confidence, “Who can beat me, alive? I can
mill any of ’em!”

30 to 32.—Scroggins had the worst of these
rounds. He appeared rather distressed, and from
the effects of the grog reeled about. Fisher
exchanged many blows to his advantage.

33.—This round was complete hammering. Scroggins
wanted to put an end to the fight, and fought
his way in with all the determination of a lion.
His blows were terrific—and although he went
down from a sharp hit, he instantly jumped up
again and milled Fisher furiously till he got
him down. Carter now offered a guinea to
half-a-crown. “Bravo, Scroggy—he is an
astonishing fellow!” was the general cry.

34 to 36.—Well contested on both sides: but in
the latter round Fisher missed putting in a
blow, that might have materially turned the
fight in his favour. He had hit Scroggins away
from him twice, near the corner of the room,
that laid him open, and instead of following up
the chance, he retreated and got sent down.
Scroggins again loudly hemmed, upon his second’s
knee, for wind.

37.—Scroggins sent down Fisher in a twinkling.
This blow was on the face, and from its
tremendous severity, his countenance changed.
Scroggins shouted with glee, and offered to bet
anything.

38.—Fisher again went down from a slight hit.
Scroggins, with much contempt and confidence,
“What do you think of that? I’ll bet a hundred
to one, I’ll win it.”

39 to 42.—Fisher fought manfully, but a change
had taken place; he showed signs of weakness,
and went down in all these rounds. (£250 to
£100 on Scroggy, and his partisans roared with
delight.)

43.—Scroggins now began to finish in high style,
and dealt out some tremendous punishment.
(Guinea to a shilling was offered, but not
taken.)

44 and last.—Fisher came to the scratch much
distressed, and Scroggins again milled him down.
On time being called, Fisher could not rise from
his second’s knee, being very faint and rather
sick, upon which Scroggins was declared the
conqueror. The battle lasted forty-one minutes.

REMARKS.—Fisher must be pronounced a good man,
and had he fought more at the head he might
have been able to have given a better account
of the battle. His mug was a little battered,
but in other respects he did not exhibit severe
marks of punishment. He attributed his loss
to the very heavy falls he experienced more
than to the blows he encountered, and walked
from the scene of action without any help.
Scroggins fought under disadvantage; but the
confidence he possessed was truly astonishing.
He urged that he could beat all the light
weights, and entertained an idea that six men
in the whole kingdom did not exist who could
conquer him. He was much inebriated, and the
danger he was likely to experience by losing a
chance in his ensuing fight with Turner, seemed
not in the least to operate on his mind. Though
the above conquest was not an easy fight, he
was as anxious to bet upon himself as the most
interested looker-on, offering terms almost on
every round. He was more beaten about the face
than his antagonist.

It was now decidedly two to one, and in many instances the odds were still higher throughout the sporting, that Scroggins would add another laurel to his wreath, in his second combat with Turner, on the 10th of June, 1817, at Sawbridgeworth, Hertfordshire, but the smiles of fortune abandoned our hero, and, for the first time in his life, he found himself in defeat. (See p. 377.)

The only consolation Scroggins experienced, after his mind had overcome the shock was attributing his loss to an accidental blow he received upon the throat in the third round, and which swelled so rapidly as almost to deprive him of the power of breathing; nothing could satisfy his wounded feelings but another opportunity to retrieve his lost laurels. Turner, without hesitation, agreed to accommodate him, and Scroggins was so confident of victory, that he put down the principal part of the money himself, to make the stakes £150 a-side, the combat to take place on Tuesday, October 7, 1817. But the charm was broken—the invincibility of Scroggins, in the sporting world, was at an end—no longer a winning man his defects were too prominent to be overlooked. A material falling off was observed at his benefit and he was altogether so much reduced that the odds on the third contest were seven to four against him.

During the time allowed for training, Scroggins, as on a former instance, unmindful of the necessity of paying attention to his health, in an inebriated moment had an accidental turn up with Bob Gregson at Belcher’s. In this skirmish he went down, and sprained one of his legs so severely that he did not recover from its effects for upwards of a month; but, to make amends for this indiscretion, so much did he fancy this match, that he sold his house, quitted the character of a publican, and became a private individual, “in order,” as he observed, “to be more able to keep to his training.”

His third battle with Turner was fought at Shepperton October 7, 1818 (which, as well as the former, will be found under the Memoir of TURNER, p. 382). Notwithstanding his professed contempt for regular training, Scroggins appeared in the ring in better condition than his opponent. It was evident to every one present that Scroggy strained every point to win; and it is but common justice to remark, that his character as a boxer rose higher, in every point of view, on that day than in any of his previous battles.

Poor Scroggy’s course was now a downward one. He had survived his fame; and, never heeding the cautions of prudence, he paid the penalty, which men in every profession, pugilism by no means excepted, must pay for disregarding her dictates.

He was successively defeated by Jack Martin, the opponent of Randall, (see p. 398), at Moulsey, on the 18th of December, 1818, after a game fight of sixty-five rounds, in two hours and two minutes; by Josh. Hudson, at the same place, August 24, 1819, in eleven rounds, occupying eighteen minutes; and twice by David Hudson, the first time in May, the second in July, 1820.

Scroggy, however, was still game, and ready for anything. Determined as he himself said, “to lick somebody afore the year was out, pervising he could get backers,” Jack looked in on the 30th of November, 1820, at a “spread” given at Randall’s in Chancery Lane, by sundry patrons of the fistic art. Spring, Purcell, Randall, Turner, Martin, Phil. Sampson, Harry Holt, and others, were among the guests, and the patter turned on battles past and matches to come. A swell observed, that “if he could be got into condition, he should like to see a mill between Holt and the Old Tar, on account of the contrast of their styles.” Holt expressed his approbation of the proposal, and six weeks was mooted as the period. Jack, always rough and ready, replied, “Why, as to that there matter, ’tain’t no match between me and Holt; I can lick him like a babby. I never was so ill with a cold in all my born days; but as to time, why I’ll fight him any time you like, even now, bad as I am.” Holt returned Scroggins thanks for his candour; but, in return, thought Scroggins would have no chance; “however,” concluded Cicero, “far be it from me to aggravate the gentlemanly sort of man’s impatience: I too think, if it can be managed, there’s no time like time present.” “I’m ready,” retorted Scroggins; “but the winner shall have the whole of the purse.” “And I am agreeable,” replied Holt. Ten guineas were quickly posted, and the usual preparations were made for the contest. Turner and Martin seconded Scroggins; Purcell and Sampson were for Holt. Spring was time-keeper. Five to four on Scroggins on one side of the room, and five to four on Holt among the other party.

THE FIGHT.

Round 1.—The attitude of Holt was elegant, and
he appeared also difficult to be got at.
Scroggins was not long in commencing his
favourite rush, and he bored in upon his
opponent till he absolutely ran down Holt in the
corner, and fell upon him.

2.—This round was all fighting; and the
wisty-castors flew about till both went down,
but Holt undermost.

3.—The fine science of Holt here told; and he
planted two nobbers with his left hand without
any return. Scroggins, however, went in upon the
old tack when, after some exchanges, Holt got
him down.

4.—After some exchanges of blows upon their
nobs, the combatants closed, and Holt weaved his
opponent in the Randall style. Scroggins got the
throw, and Holt was undermost.

5.—The left hand of Holt told severely, and
Scroggins went away with the force of the hits.
Both down.

6.—Scroggins rushed in on Holt, but in making
a hit he missed his opponent, and fell. He
immediately got up, and said, “Gentlemen, I
beg your pardon; I could not help it.”

7 and 8.—Nothing else but fighting—giving and
taking without flinching, till both went down.
“Bravo!” from the Pinks, “it’s an excellent
fight. Both are good men; and Jack’s as good as
his master.” Scroggins seemed rather touched in
the wind, and he gave a loud hem.

9.—Holt, in this round, was everything. He gave
Scroggy three facers without any return, and
also hit him down. “Scroggy, he’ll spoil your
beautiful mug, if you don’t take care.”

10 and 11.—Two slashing rounds. In the last,
Scroggy went down from a slip. Ten minutes had
elapsed.

12.—Holt, after making a slight blow, slipped
down. Six to four on Holt.

13 to 15.—The blows of Holt were not effective
enough to take the fight out of Scroggins. It
was hard milling in all these rounds. Scroggins
said to his seconds, “Don’t water me so much;
it’s all right; I can’t lose it.”

16.—Holt’s left eye was rather damaged, and the
claret had made its appearance on his mug. This
was a tremendous round, and Scroggins threw
Holt; but he behaved handsomely to his fallen
opponent,—instead of falling upon him, as he
might have done, he walked away. “Bravo; you are
a good little fellow.”

17.—Scroggins’s nob was a little changed, and he
again received two facers. Scroggins also went
down.

18.—After an exchange of blows, Scroggins
laughingly observed to Holt, “If you don’t hit
harder, my boy, you can never win it.” Both
down.—Twenty minutes.

19.—Sharp fighting; but Scroggins went down.
Here Randall took some brandy to Holt, and gave
him advice. “How many seconds are there to be?”
said an amateur. “If there are forty it will
make no odds,” observed Scroggins.

20.—In this round, Scroggins received a severe
hit on his throat; two facers were also added to
it; but he would not be denied, and scrambled
his way in, till they both went down.

21.—Scroggins now began to wink, and he was as
much distressed as an old, worn out, broken
winded post prad; he, however, got Holt down.

22 and 23.—“Go along, Harry, it’s all your own;
he’ll not come above two more rounds.” The left
hand of Holt did some execution, and Scroggins
had now the worst of it.

24.—This was a tremendous round. Scroggins went
to work like a blacksmith hammering at a forge,
and bored Holt into a corner. Hit for hit was
exchanged, till they both went down; but Holt
was undermost, and the back part of his head
came in contact with the window-seat. “It’s all
up;” and Martin offered fifteen to ten.

25.—Holt was quite an altered man, and he seemed
stupefied from the effects of the fall. The
whole of the falls throughout the fight were
heavy indeed. When time was called, Holt came to
the scratch with great difficulty. Scroggins
down and undermost.

26.—The science of Holt was much admired; and,
although terribly distressed, he put in two
facers before he went down. “He’s nothing else
but a game man,” from all the swells.

27.—Holt got better, and Scroggins, in going
down, was undermost.

28.—It was not yet safe to Scroggins. Both down.

29.—This round was severely contested; but
the heavy fall Holt received shook him all
to pieces. Ten to five on Scroggins.

30.—Holt was game to the last; he exerted
himself, and got Scroggins down.

31.—Scroggins was very much exhausted, but the
fight was not out of him, and he came up first
to the scratch. Both down. Ten to three.

32.—It was evident Holt could not win, and he
was sent down in an instant. Ten to one.

33 and last.—Holt was sent down, and his second
could scarcely get him on his knee. When time
was called, the Birmingham Youth said he should
not fight any more. Scroggins immediately came
up to Holt, and said, “Harry, give us your hand;
you are a good fellow, and here’s a guinea for
you!” Great applause from the swells, and “Jack,
you shall lose nothing by your generosity and
feeling.”

REMARKS.—For two men out of condition, nay, both
unwell, particularly Scroggins, it was a much
better fight than has frequently been seen when
boxers have been in regular training. Scroggins
had still some tremendous points about him, and
the old tar’s rumbling, hardy mode of boring
in, told severely at close quarters. It was a
gallant battle on both sides; but the blows
of Holt were not hard enough to stop the rush
of Scroggins. The accident Holt received in
the twenty-fourth round perhaps lost him the
fight; he also complained of a sprained thumb
before he commenced the battle. In a ring some
of the amateurs thought Holt might have stood a
better chance. The smiles of victory, which had
not been familiar to Scroggins in his last six
battles, seemed to give him new life. It was an
out-and-out concern altogether; and the patrons
of the science, manliness, and true game had a
treat.

This flush of success was followed by another gleam of sunshine. Scroggins found backers, and was pitted against Joe Parish, the Waterman, who having beaten Davis, Harry Holt, and Lashbrook, was thought a promising plant, in spite of his having fallen beneath the all-conquering arm of the Nonpareil, Jack Randall. Banstead Downs, in Surrey, on Saturday, March 3, 1831, were the spot and time, and fifty guineas the sum; it was the second fight on the above day. The rain was pouring down in torrents when Scroggins appeared and threw his hat into the ring, attended by Randall and Paddington Jones as his seconds. Parish showed soon afterwards, followed by Spring and Harmer. Both men appeared in excellent condition. For one hour and a quarter, the rival pugilists exerted themselves in the highest style of courage to obtain the victory. The changes were frequent indeed; two to one on Scroggins—three to one on Parish—three to one again on Scroggins—then other changes. In the fifty-second round, from the distressed state of Parish, Randall threw up his hat, as it did not appear that Parish would be again able to appear at the scratch. He, however, recovered, and fought till the sixty-ninth round; but in the last three rounds, it was a hundred pounds to a farthing in favour of Scroggins. The latter behaved extremely well, was remarkably steady, and reminded the spectator of his best days. He was, however, terribly punished. The greatest anxiety prevailed among the old fanciers, who were more than friendly in their good wishes towards their old favourite. In the second round, Scroggins fell with his shoulder against one of the stakes (which circumstance was not known to the spectators, and operated as a great drawback to his exertions). Had not this accident happened, Scroggins thought he could have won it in much less time. Parish was punished but little about the head; yet he remained in a state of stupor a short time after the fight was over; and Spring carried him in his arms out of the ring. Parish displayed a great deal of game, and suffered very severely from heavy falls. If Parish had gone in to fight first, he might have given a better account of the battle. Spring this day convinced the amateurs he was entitled to their praise, not only as a most attentive second, but as a most active one; and it would not be doing common justice to the anxiety and exertions he displayed to make “ould Jack” win, to pass them over without notice.

On the Thursday after the above fight, at Josh. Hudson’s benefit, Parish addressed the Court, observing, “that although he had been defeated by Scroggins, he was not satisfied, and was ready to have another trial.” Scroggins, in reply, said, “from the advice of his friends, he had not intended to have fought any more; but as how he was too much of a gentleman not to accommodate Mr. Parish, who was also a gentlemanly sort of a man; so he would give him another trial.” A guinea a-side was deposited; but on the arrival of the night to make the stakes good, Parish did not make his appearance, and the guinea, of course, was forfeited.

This sunshine, however, was evanescent, and the course of Scroggins’s history tends henceforth downwards. In April, 1822, as related in the life of TOM BELCHER, p. 165 _ante_, the hardy hero came in contact with the scientific Tom; on this occasion if Tom was stale Scroggy assuredly was but a shadow of his former self, and he was moreover in that state of lush which had now become almost habitual to him. Still, however, “ould Jack,” as he was already called, haunted the ring at every mill of note, unable to quit the arena of his many triumphs. The milling “spirit strong within him,” was shown on the 12th of June, 1822, at Moulsey Hurst. On that occasion the fights between Ward and Acton, and Burke and Marshall, having gone off unsatisfactorily to the patrons of boxing there and then present, a brace of countrymen offered themselves for a purse, and had actually “peeled,” when Scroggy roared out, “Gentlemen, as you’ve had but little fun to-day, suppose I fight the Gipsy, that will produce sport?” Cooper instantly replied that he was ready; and the extemporaneous mill quickly commenced. Scroggins was seconded by Harry Harmer and Bill Eales; Abbot and Turner picked up the Gipsy. In this battle the rash and hardy little Tar showed the folly of entering the ring out of condition. He was full of oranges, ginger beer, and heavy wet, taken as antidotes to the heat of the day, and as unfit to fight as a stall-fed ox; nevertheless he came up to be set down for twenty-five minutes, during which seventeen rounds were fought; Scroggins was at length persuaded to leave off. He afterwards observed, “he could not win, but he wasn’t half-licked.” This was our hero’s last appearance in the P. R.

Poor Scroggins now became a mere hanger-on of pothouses: a droll, diverting vagabond, occasionally picking up a few shillings as a second, or receiving precarious assistance from those who had known him in more prosperous days. Among these Cribb was long his friend, and “wittles” (for which Jack had an inordinate penchant, until brilliant Juniper utterly destroyed his digestion) were often set before him from the larder of the generous host of the Union Arms. Occasionally too, Jack would get in office as a waiter at one or other of the Sporting Houses; but his invincible love of liquor soon lost him these temporary asylums. The editor of _Bell’s Life in London_ (V. G. Dowling, Esq.), by frequent generous appeals, and taking Jack’s name as the comic pseudonyme for innumerable admirable burlesque poems on public affairs, political and pugilistic, kept the once formidable pugilist, now the poor pothouse buffoon, from actual starvation.

May the example of John Palmer have its proper weight with every man whose physical capabilities lead him to adopt pugilism as a profession; and enforce the truth, that no constitution, however good, no strength, however superior to that of ordinary men, no amount of courage no degree of determination, can supply the want of caution, of attention to training, of prudence, of moderation; in short, of steadiness of conduct and becoming behaviour in and out of the ring. This is the deduction which every attentive reader of this history cannot fail to draw from a perusal of the lives of our most eminent boxers—that in the ring, as in every other pursuit, honesty of purpose, self-denial, and sobriety are indispensable—at least while engaged in struggles to attain distinction.

Scroggins departed this life on the 1st of November, 1836, in extreme poverty, having not quite completed his 49th year.

In _Bell’s Life in London_ of November 6, appeared a “monody” of great length, and on the 13th the subjoined—

“EPITAPH ON OLD JACK SCROGGINS, P.P.

BY SIR FROSTY-FACED FOGO, BART., P.L.F.[163]

“Beneath this turf, and number’d with the dead,
Poor old Jack Scroggins rests his weary head.
His form grotesque departed, never more
To set the Castle parlour in a roar.
His spirit now unconscious of distress—
His active limbs all stiff and motionless—
Proof against pain, or poverty’s attack.
Here lies a Nonpareil—alas, poor Jack!
’Twas in the proud and palmy days of fight,
That first his wond’rous prowess came to light;
And long the annals of the ring shall tell,
Floor’d by his fives, how many a prime one fell;
How many a gallant miller, tried and tough,
As victor hail’d him, crying, ‘Hold, enough!’
How from his lips this language oft hath dropp’d,
‘I bears no malice to the man I’ve whopp’d!’
But his last fight is fought—the Champion grim,
To whom we all must yield, hath vanquish’d him
His allies sure—pale sickness, max, and age—
Have fairly driven old Scroggins off the stage;
Stretch’d the tough veteran on his lowly bier,
With none to comfort, and with nought to cheer.
Fogo’s salt tears, since thou art gone, old blade,
Shall oft bedew the spot where thou art laid;
And to thy memory in thy place of rest,
He oft will take a drop of Seager’s best.
A long farewell, from care and sorrow free,
Neglect and kindness are alike to thee;
Yet a poor brother bard, to friendship true,
Weeps o’er thy grave, and sighs a last adieu.”