Chapter II: Jem Mace, of Norwich (champion) (3)

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 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,

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
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, 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 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 “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 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. 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 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 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 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; 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:――

“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 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

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 £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.