Chapter VII: Dan Donnelly, Champion of Ireland (2)

“Mr. W. Dowling, on the one part, and Mr. L. Byrne, on the other
part. Mr. Dowling deposits £20 sterling, on behalf of John Carter,
and Mr. L. Byrne deposits, on the part of Daniel Donnelly, £20
sterling, into the hands of Mr. John Dooly; the parties to meet at
No. 20, Fownes Street, Dublin, on the 5th of October next, at two
o’clock on the said day precisely, to make the above sum £50 each.
The combatants to meet within thirty miles of Dublin, on the 25th of
November next, and then fight, at twelve o’clock in the day, the
place to be hereafter tossed for and named, for the sum of £200
sterling a-side. The whole of the stakes to be made good on the 23rd
of November, two days previous to fighting, when the place will be
appointed, or the £50 deposit money to be forfeited. To be a fair
stand-up fight, half-minute time, in a twenty-four feet ring. Also,
if the parties, or money for the said parties, according to this
article, do not meet on the 5th of October next, the present £20
stake must also be forfeited.

“JOHN CARTER.
“G. D——.
“W. DOWLING.
“L. BYRNE.

“Present, THOMAS BOYLAN, ROBERT GREGSON.”

To the mortification of the fancy, this match went off upon a frivolous dispute as to the appointment of a stakeholder. Donnelly, in a discussion with Cooper’s backers, said fairly, addressing himself to Cooper, “When I defeated you, George, upon the Curragh, you got more money than I did; but when I fought Oliver in England, upon proving the conqueror, the whole of the money, 100 guineas, was presented to me. If this plan is adopted in Ireland I have no objection to fight Carter.” This proposition, however, from motives it is now impossible to discover, was refused by Carter’s friends.

Donnelly’s public-house in Pill Lane was generally crowded. Carter also took a house in Barrack Street, in opposition to the Irish champion; and Bob Gregson opened a punch-house in Moor Street, Dublin. Milling topics were, therefore, the order of the day in the “sweet city.”

Dan seemed now at the apex of popularity, with a prospect, backed by common prudence, of attaining permanent prosperity. His house was overflowing nightly with company, the blunt pouring rapidly into his treasury, and his milling fame on the highest eminence; but, in the midst of this laughing scene, the ugliest customer Dan had ever met with introduced himself. Without any preliminary articles, or agreeing as to time; nay, without even shaking fists, the Universal Leveller gave the stout Sir Daniel such a body blow that all the wind was knocked out of him in a twinkling; the “scratch” disappeared from his darkened optics, and he went “to sleep” to wake only to the last call of “time!” In plain prose, this renowned knight of fistic frays took sudden leave of his friends, family, and the P.R., on the 18th of February, 1820, in consequence of taking a copious draught of cold water, while in a state of perspiration after an active game at “fives.” He was in the thirty-second year of his age, and not a few of his best friends declare that whiskey-punch, by over-heating his blood, hastened the catastrophe. We shall here introduce a few random anecdotes from “Boxiana.”

Soon after Dan’s arrival in London, he met Cooper and Hall one evening at the Castle Tavern, when, after inquiring after their health, he facetiously asked them if they should like a little of Mr. Donnelly in England, as they had stated fair play was not allowed to them in Ireland. Silence got rid of the inquiry.

A General, well known in the sporting circles, in order to try the milling capabilities of Donnelly (his countryman), soon after his arrival in England, invited the Irish champion to his house, where he set-to with a gentleman amateur, distinguished for his superior knowledge of the art of self-defence. After some active manœuvring, Donnelly put in such a tremendous facer, that for several minutes the gentleman was in a state of stupor, whereon General B—— became a firm backer of Sir Dan.

Pierce Egan finds fun in his hero’s worst failing. He tells us gleefully that the severity of training did not accord with Donnelly’s disposition. It was insufferable restraint to him. In fact, he did not like going into training at all, and some difficulty occurred, nay, he was almost coaxed to leave the metropolis. During his stay at Riddlesdown, while training to fight Oliver, he was at table with some gentlemen, when green peas were among the vegetables at dinner. One of the company, distinguished for his knowledge of training, observed Donnelly helping himself to the peas, and immediately stated to him that peas were improper for a person training. Donnelly laughed heartily, exclaiming, “And sure is it a pae that will hurt me? no, nor a drop of the cratur neither,” tossing off a glass of brandy. He also enjoyed himself during the afternoon in the same manner as the rest of the company, till the time arrived for his going to work, _i.e._, walking the distance of six miles. Donnelly on starting, said, “Now you shall soon see how I’ll take the paes and liquor out of me!” and ascended with great rapidity the high, steep hill in front of Wheeler’s door without apparent fatigue. He returned to the company in a short time in a violent state of perspiration, having performed the distance. Solitude, however, was far from Dan’s delight: company was his passion. While his friends remained with him at Riddlesdown it was all right; but when they departed, it is said, he took a small drop of “stuff” with him to bed, to prevent his lying awake. At other times he stole out in the dark to poach for petticoats, and the preserves of Croydon, it seems, supplied even more than his wants. This circumstance will, in a great degree, account for his distressed and blown state during the battle with Oliver.

It is a well-known fact that, immediately after his battle with Oliver, it was not only discovered, but he acknowledged, that he had unfortunately contracted a disease in the promiscuousness of his amours. It is usual for pugilists during their training to have a companion to look after them. It was not so with Donnelly; but if he had had such a person, it would have been of little, if any, use, as Dan was beyond control. It was, however, truly astonishing to view Donnelly’s fine appearance on entering the ring to meet Cooper. When the Irish champion fought Cooper on the Curragh of Kildare, it appears he had been trained up to the highest pitch of excellence by Captain Kelly, and was strong as a giant and active as a rope dancer. To the Captain, Donnelly yielded implicit obedience; but he would not be dictated to by his equals—indeed, he was totally unmanageable.

Donnelly was extremely fond of a joke; and upon a porter coming to him, soon after his arrival in England, late one evening, at the Castle Tavern, Holborn, informing Dan that his wife would be glad to see him at the White Horse in Fetter Lane, as soon as possible, Donnelly asked, with great eagerness, “What sort of a woman she was?” The porter, surprised at the singularity of such a question, enquired, “What, sir, don’t you know your own Wife?” The champion, smiling, replied, “Is she a big woman? Well, never mind; tell her I’ll come and look, just to see if I know her.”[25]

It should seem that Donnelly had a great aversion to be looked upon as a prize-fighter. In the course of two or three evenings after his battle with Oliver, Dignam’s long room was crowded with his countrymen, anxious to congratulate him on his recent victory. Donnelly, who was dining with some swells above stairs, was informed of the circumstance, and solicited to go down and to walk through the room. To which Donnelly replied, “Sure, now, do they take me for a baste, to be made a show of? I’m no fighting man, and I won’t make a staring stock of myself to plase anybody.” This was spoken angrily, and it required the utmost persuasions of his friend Dignam to induce him to comply with so reasonable a request. Dan at length conceded, and upon entering the room he was received with the loudest cheers.

In short, poor Dan was a creature of the moment. He was most excellent company, creating mirth and laughter all around him. His sayings were droll in the extreme, and his behaviour was always decorous. Forethought was no ingredient in his composition; “to-morrow,” with him, might or might not be provided for: that never created any uneasiness in his mind, and was left entirely to chance, or, as Dan would express it, “Divil may care!” Such was the character of Donnelly. He was an Irishman every inch of him—generous, good-natured, and highly grateful. As a pugilist, it is true, he did not raise himself in the estimation of the English amateurs by his battle with Oliver; nor did the Irish fancy in London think so much of his capabilities as they had anticipated; indeed, those gentlemen who came from Ireland to witness the battle expressed themselves surprised at the deficiency of boxing talent displayed by their favourite. This, however, will astonish no one who has perused the few preceding paragraphs of his heedless conduct and neglect of training. He was declared to be unlike the same man who defeated Cooper. The fact is, that our Hibernian friends either undervalue or thoughtlessly neglect those precautions, without which strength, pluck, and skill must succumb to more ordinary physical qualifications, if backed by temperance. In fact, the fight was won by Donnelly by his wrestling superiority, rather than his hitting.

We now quit the living Sir Dan to note the public and literary honours bestowed upon his decease. Foremost amongst these comes _Blackwood’s Magazine_, for May, 1820, wherein twenty closely printed pages are devoted to a most amusing collection of “solemn dirges,” letters of condolence, lamentations, plaintive ballads, odes and songs, an eloquent funeral oration, etc., and scraps of Hebrew, Greek, and Latin poems in honour of the heroic deceased. The scholar will be delighted, and the general reader amused, by the genuine humour and erudite pleasantry therein displayed. Our space forbids us more than a selection of a few of these serio-comic effusions of Christopher North and his coadjutors.

“Recollections of Sir Daniel Donnelly, Knt., P.C.I.[26]

“When green Erin laments for her hero, removed
From the isle where he flourished, the isle that he loved,
Where he entered so often the twenty-foot lists,
And, twinkling like meteors, he flourished his fists,
And gave to his foes more set-downs and toss-overs,
Than ever was done by the great philosophers,
In folio, in twelves, or in quarto.

“Majestic O’Donnelly! proud as thou art,
Like a cedar on top of Mount Hermon,
We lament that death shamelessly made thee depart,
With the gripes, like a blacksmith or chairman.
Oh! hadst thou been felled by Tom Cribb in the ring,
Or by Carter been milled to a jelly,
Oh! sure that had been a more dignified thing,
Than to “kick” for a pain in thy belly.

“A curse on the belly that robbed us of thee,
And the bowels unfit for their office;
A curse on the potheen you swallowed so free,
For a stomach complaint, all the doctors agree,
Far worse than a headache or cough is.
Death, who like a cruel and insolent bully, drubs
All those he thinks fit to attack,
Cried, ‘Dan, my tight lad, try a touch of my mulligrubs,’
Which laid him flat on his back.

“Great spirits of Broughton, Jem Belcher, and Fig,
Of Corcoran, Pearce, and Dutch Sam;
Whether ‘up stairs’ or ‘down,’ you kick up a rig,
And at intervals pause, your blue ruin to swig,
Or with grub your bread-basket to cram;
Or whether, for quiet, you’re placed all alone,
In some charming retired little heaven of your own,
Where the turf is elastic—in short, just the thing
That Bill Gibbons would choose when he’s forming a ring;
That, whenever you wander, you still may turn to,
And thrash, and be thrashed, till you’re black and blue;
Where your favourite enjoyments for ever are near,
And you eat and you drink, and you fight all the year;
Ah! receive, then, to join in your milling delight,
The shade of Sir Daniel Donnelly, Knight,
With whom a turn-up is no frolic;
His is no white or cold liver,
For he beat O-liver,
Challenged Carter, and—died of the colic!”

“Sorrow is Dry.

“A PLAINTIVE BALLAD.

“When to Peggy Bauldie’s daughter first I told Sir Daniel’s death, Like a glass of soda-water, it took away her breath; It took away your breath, my dear, and it sorely dimm’d your sight, And aye ye let the salt, salt tear down fall for Erin’s knight; For he was a knight of glory bright, the spur ne’er deck’d a bolder, Great George’s blade itself was laid upon Sir Daniel’s shoulder. Sing hey ho, the Sheddon, etc.

“I took a turn along the street, to breathe the Trongate air, Carnegie’s lass I chanced to meet, with a bag of lemons fair; Says I, ‘Gude Meg, ohone! ohone! you’ve heard of Dan’s disaster— If I’m alive, I’ll come at five, and feed upon your master;— A glass or two no harm will do to either saint or sinner. And a bowl with friends will make amends for a so-so sort of dinner.’

“I found Carnegie in his nook, upon the old settee, And dark and dismal was his look, as black as black might be, Then suddenly the blood did fly, and leave his face so pale, That scarce I knew, in altered hue, the bard of Largo’s vale; But Meg was winding up the Jack, so off flew all my pains, For, large as cocks, two fat earocks I knew were hung in chains.

“Nevertheless, he did express his joy to see me there— Meg laid the cloth, and, nothing loth, I soon pull’d in my chair; The mutton broth and bouilli both came up in season due. The grace is said, when Provan’s head at the door appears in view; The bard at work, like any Turk, first nods an invitation, For who so free as all the three from priggish botheration?

“Ere long the Towdies deck the board with a cod’s head and shoulders, And the oyster sauce it surely was great joy to all beholders. To George our king a jolly can of royal port is poured— Our gracious king who knighted Dan with his own shining sword; The next we sip with trembling lip—’tis of the claret clear— To the hero dead that cup we shed, and mix it with a tear.

“’Tis now your servant’s turn to mix the nectar of the bowl; Still on the ring our thoughts we fix, while round the goblets roll, Great Jackson, Belcher, Scroggins, Gas, we celebrate in turns, Each Christian, Jew, and Pagan, with the fancy’s flame that burns; Carnegie’s finger on the board a mimic circle draws, And, Egan-like, h’ expounds the rounds and pugilistic laws.

“’Tis thus that worth heroic is suitably lamented— Great Daniel’s shade, I know it, dry grief had much resented. What signify your tear and sigh? A bumper is the thing Will gladden most the generous ghost of a champion of the king. The tear and sigh, from voice and eye, must quickly pass away, But the bumper good may be renewed until our dying day.”

“A Dirge over Sir Daniel Donnelly.

“TUNE—‘_Molly Astore_.’

“As down Exchequer Street[27] I strayed, a little time ago,
I chanced to meet an honest blade, his face brimful of woe;
I asked him why he seem’d so sad, or why he sigh’d so sore?
‘O Gramachree, och, Tom,’ says he, ‘Sir Daniel is no more!’

“With that he took me straight away, and pensively we went
To where poor Daniel’s body lay, in wooden waistcoat pent;
And many a yard before we reached the threshold of his door,
We heard the keeners, as they screeched, ‘Sir Daniel is no more!’

“We entered soft, for feelings sad were stirring in our breast,
To take our farewell of the lad who now was gone to rest;
We took a drop of Dan’s potheen,[28] and joined the piteous roar;
Oh, where shall be his fellow seen, since Daniel is no more?

“His was the fist, whose weighty dint did Oliver defeat,
His was the fist that gave the hint it need not oft repeat.
His was the fist that overthrew his rivals o’er and o’er;
But now we cry, in phillalu, ‘Sir Daniel is no more!’

“Cribb, Cooper, Carter, need not fear great Donnelly’s renown,
For at his wake we’re seated here, while he is lying down;
For Death, that primest swell of all, has laid him on the floor,
And left us here, alas! to bawl, ‘Sir Daniel is no more!’

“EPITAPH.

“Here lies Sir Daniel Donnelly, a pugilist of fame,
In Ireland bred and born was he, and he was genuine game;
Then if an Irishman you be, when you have read this o’er,
Go home and drink the memory of him who is no more.”

“Childe Daniel—A Lament.

“In Fancy-land there is a burst of woe,
The spirit’s tribute to the fallen; see
On each scarr’d front the cloud of sorrow glow,
Bloating its sprightly shine. But what is he
For whom grief s mighty butt is broach’d so free?
Were his brows shadow’d by the awful crown,
The bishop’s mitre, or high plumery
Of the mail’d warrior? Won he his renown
On pulpit, throne, or field, whom Death hath now struck down?

“He won it in the field, where arms are none,
Save those the mother gives to us. He was
A climbing star, which had not fully shone;
Yet promised, in his glory, to surpass
Our champion star ascendant: but, alas!
The sceptred shade that values early might,
And pow’r, and pith, and bottom, as the grass,
Gave with his fleshless fist a buffet slight—

· · · · ·

“’Tis done. Green-mantled Erin
May weep; her hopes of milling sway past by,
And Cribb, sublime, no lowlier rival fearing,
Before, sole Ammon of the fistic sky,
Concerted, quaffing his blue ruin high,
Till comes the swell that come to all men must,
By whose ‘foul blow’ Sir Daniel low doth lie,
Summons the champion to resign his trust,
And mingles his with kings’, slaves’, chieftains’, beggars’ dust!”

The Funeral.

On Sunday, February 27, 1820, the remains of this celebrated character were borne, with all due pomp and solemnity, from his family residence in Greek Street to the last asylum at Bully’s Acre, where his ancestors lie quietly inurned. An immense concourse, some in carriages and some on horseback, moving in slow and measured pace, formed part of the procession. There was a strong muster of the fancy. The gloves were carried on a cushion in front of the hearse, from which the horses had been unyoked by the crowd, and multitudes contended for the honour of assisting in drawing it. The procession took its route through the leading streets of the city, and the numbers, as it passed, increased until the body of the champion was lodged in its last resting-place. It is for posterity to do justice to the prowess of Sir Daniel Donnelly. Not the least remarkable feature in his eventful history is, that he was the last person who received the honour of knighthood during the regency: there might have been, and probably were, worse men among those who received that honour before him. Although last, he did not deserve to be held as least, among the knights of our day.

“What dire misfortune has our land o’erspread?
Our Irish Champion’s numbered with the dead;
And he who never did to mortal bend,
By Death’s cut short, and Ireland’s lost her friend.
Ah! cruel Death, why were you so unkind,
To take Sir Dan, and leave such trash behind
As Gregson, Cooper, Carter—such a clan
To leave behind, and take so great a man?
Oh! Erin’s daughters, come and shed your tears
On your bold Champion’s grave, whose shortened years
Have made Erin’s sons this day a day of sorrow—
Who have we now that will defend our Curragh?”

To the Blackwood collection we again resort for the proposed inscription for an obelisk to Sir Daniel’s memory:—

“The Epitaph.

“Underneath this pillar high
Lies Sir Daniel Donnelly:
He was a stout and handy man,
And people called him ‘Buffing Dan;’
Knighthood he took from George’s sword,
And well he wore it, by my word!
He died at last, from forty-seven
Tumblers of punch he drank one even;
O’erthrown by punch unharmed by fist,
He died unbeaten pugilist!
Such a buffer as Donnelly,
Ireland never again will see.

“OBIIT XIII^o KAL. MARTII, MDCCCXX. ÆTAT SUÆ XXXII.”