The amount of money subscribed for Sayers by his personal admirers and the public was £3,000, which sum was invested in the names of trustees, Tom to receive the interest during his life, providing he never fought again; and, in the event of his fighting again or dying, the interest was to go to the children until of age, when it was to be divided between them. Tom left only two children—young Tom, then at boarding-school, and fourteen years old, and Sarah, in her seventeenth year. Independent of the interest in this sum, Sayers left a considerable amount of property in plate and other valuables. Some of his backers have treasured upsouvenirsof him. Mr. John Gideon, Tom’s earliest “guide, philosopher, and friend,” has the boots in which Sayers fought Heenan, with the Farnborough grass and earth attaching to the spikes, just as the great gladiator left them.Those who remember the personal appearance of the departed Champion will have his bronzed, square, and good-humoured, lion-like phiz in their mind’s eye; those who did not see him in the flesh must imagine a round, broad, but not particularly thick-set man, standing 5 feet 8½ inches in his stocking-feet, with finely turned hips, and small but powerful and flat loins, remarkably round ribs and girth, and square shoulders. His arms were of medium length, and so round as not to show prominently the biceps, oreven the outer muscles of the fore-arm, to the extent often seen in men of far inferior powers of hitting and general strength. Indeed, the bulk of Sayers was so compactly packed that you did not realise his true size and weight at a cursory glance, and it was this close and neat packing of his trunk—excuse the pun—that doubtless was an important ingredient in many a “long day” in which Tom’s lasting powers were the admiration of every spectator. Tom’s head was certainly of the “bullet” shape, and it was supported by a neck of the sort known as “bull,” conveying the idea of enduring strength and determination to back it. We have no phrenological examination of Tom’s “bumps” before us, but we doubt not those of combativeness and amativeness were fully developed. Tom’s fighting weight began at 10st.6lb.; in his later battles it was 10st.10lb.to 10st.12lb.The photographs which figure in the print-shop windows do not convey a fair idea of Tom’s good-tempered and often merry expression: he seems to have been taken when filled with the contemplation of the seriousness of the position of having one’s “counterfeit presentment” multiplied and sent forth to the world. From the hips downward Tom was not a “model man.” Though round in the calf, his thighs were decidedly deficient in muscular development; yet no man made better use of his pins in getting in and out again, as witness hisup-hill performances with the six-foot Slasher, and the ponderous and more active Benicia Boy. It was to Tom’s excellent judgment of time and distance that the severity of his hitting was due, and to his mighty heart—a bigger never found place in man’s bosom—that his triumphant finish of many a well-fought day is to be attributed. No man ever fought more faithfully to his friends or bravely with his foes in “the battle of life;” and therefore is the tribute of a record of his deeds due toTom Sayers.His remains were consigned to their parent earth, on Wednesday, November 15th, 1866, at the Highgate Cemetery, attended by an immense concourse of the sympathising and curious. A committee of friends, the admirers of true British courage, raised a monument over the spot where—“After life’s fitful fever he sleeps well.”Of this monument we present a faithful delineation.Sayers TombIt would be an unpardonable omission were we to conclude the biography of Tom Sayers without appending the remarkable poem, attributed to the pen of William Makepeace Thackeray, which appeared inPunch, April 28th, 1860. We need hardly say that it is a paraphrase rather than a parody of Lord Macaulay’s legend of “Horatius” in the “Lays of Ancient Rome.”THE COMBAT OF SAYERIUS AND HEENANUS.A LAY OF ANCIENT LONDON.(Supposed to be recounted to his Great-grandchildren, April 17th,A.D.1920, by an Ancient Gladiator.)Close round my chair, my children,And gather at my knee,The while your mother pourethThe Old Tom in my tea;What while your father quaffethHis meagre Bordeaux wine—’Twas not on such potationsWere reared these thews o’ mine.Such drinks came in the very year—Methinks I mind it well—That the great fight ofHeenanusWithSayeriusbefell.[30]These knuckles then were iron,This biceps like a cord,This fist shot from the shoulderA bullock would have floored.Crawleiushis Novice,They used to call me thenIn the Domus Savilliana[31]Among the sporting men.There, on benefit occasions,The gloves I oft put on,Walking round to show my muscleWhen the set-to was done;While ringing in the arenaThe showered denarii fell,That toldCrawleius’NoviceHad used his mauleys well.’Tis but some sixty years sinceThe times of which I speak,And yet the words I’m usingWill sound to you like Greek.What know ye, race of milksops,Untaught of theP.R.,What stopping, lunging, countering,Fibbing, or rallying are?What boots to use thelingo,When you have lost thething?How paint to you the gloriesOfBelcher,Cribb, orSpring—Toyou, whose sire turns up his eyesAt mention of the Ring?Yet, in despite of all the jawAnd gammon of this time,That brands the art of self-defence—Old England’s art—as crime,From off mine ancient memoriesThe rust of time I’ll shake.Your youthful bloods to quickenAnd your British pluck to wake;I know it only slumbers,Let cant do what it will,The British bull-dogwillbeThe British bull-dog still.Then gather to your grandsire’s knee,The while his tale is toldHowSayeriusandHeenanusMilled in those days of old.Y Fyghte.The Beaks and Blues were watchingAgog to atop the mill,As we gathered to the stationIn the April morning chill;By twos and threes, by fours and tens,To London Bridge we drew;For we had had “the office”That were good men and true;And saving such, the place of fightWas ne’er a man that knew.From East, from West, from North and South,The London Fancy poured,Down to the sporting cabman,Up to the sporting lord;From the “Horseshoe” in Tichbourne StreetSharpOwen Swiftwas there;Jem Burnhad left the “Rising Sun,”All in the Street of Air;Langhamhad out the “Cambrian,”With tough oldAlec Reid,And towering high above the crowdShoneBen Caunt’sfragrant weed;Not only fighting covies,But sporting swells besides—Dukes, Lords, M.P’s., and Guardsmen,With county Beaks for guides;And tongues that sway our Senators,And hands the pen that wield,Were cheering on the ChampionsUpon that morning’s field.And hark! the bell is ringing,The engine puffs amain,And through the dark towards BrightonOn shrieks the tearing train;But turning off where ReigateUnites the clustering lines,By poultry-haunted DorkingA devious course it twines,By Wootton, Shier, and Guildford,Across the winding Wey,Till by heath-girded FarnboroughOur doubling course we stay,Where Aldershot lay snoringAll in the morning gray,Nor dreamed “the Camp” what combatShould be fought here to-day.The stakes are pitched, the ropes are rove,The men have ta’en their stand;Heenanuswins the toss for place,And takes the eastward hand;CussicciusandMacdonaldus[32]Upon “theBoy” attend;SayeriusownsBruntoniusWithJim Welshiusfor friend.[33]And each upon the other nowA curious eye may throw,And from the seconds’ final rubIn buff at length they show,And from their corners to the scratchMove stalwartly and slow.Then each his hand stretched forth to graspHis foeman’s fives in friendly clasp;Each felt his balance trim and true—Each up to square his mauleys threw—Each tried his best to draw his man—The feint, the dodge, the opening plan,Till right and leftSayeriustried—Heenanus’grin proclaimed him “wide;”Then shook his nut—a “lead” essayed,Nor reachedSayerius’watchful head.At length each left is sudden flung,We heard the ponderous thud,And from each tongue the news was rung,Sayeriushath “first blood!”AdownHeenanus’Roman noseFreely the tell-tale claret flows,While sternSayerius’forehead showsThat in the interchange of blowsHeenanus’aim was good!Again each iron mauley swung,And loud the counter-hitting rung,Till breathless both, and wild with blows,Fiercely they grappled for a close;One moment in close hug they swing,Hither and thither round the ring,Then fromHeenanus’clinch of brass,Sayerius, smiling, slips to grass!I trow mine ancient breath would failTo follow through the fightEach gallant round’s still changing tale,Each feat of left and right.How through two well-fought hours and moreThrough bruise, and blow, and blood,Like sturdy bull-dogs, as they were,Those well-matched heroes stood.How nine times in that desperate millHeenanus, in his strength,Knocked stoutSayeriusoff his pins,And laid him all at length;But how in each succeeding roundSayeriussmiling came,With head as cool, and wind as sound,As his first moment on the ground,Still confident and game.How fromHeenanus’sledge-like fist,Striving a smasher to resist,Sayerius’stout right arm gave way,Yet the maimed hero still made play,And when “in-fighting” threatened ill,Was nimble in “out-fighting,” still—Still did his own maintain—In mourning putHeenanus’glims,Till blinded eyes and helpless limbs,The chances squared again.How blindHeenanus, in despiteOf bleeding face and waning sight,So gallantly kept up the fight,That not a man could sayWhich of the two ’twere wise to back,Or on which side some random crackMight not decide the day;And leave us—whoso won the prize—Victor and vanquished, in all eyes,An equal meed to pay.Two hours and more the fight had sped,Near unto ten it drew,But still opposed—one-armed to blind—They stood, those dauntless two.Ah, me! that I have lived to hearSuch men as ruffians scorned,Such deeds of valour “brutal” called,Canted, preached-down, and mourned!Ah! that these old eyes ne’er again,A gallant mill shall see!No more behold the ropes and stakes,With colours flying free!* * * * *But I forget the combat—How shall I tell the close?That left the Champion’s belt in doubtBetween those well-matched foes?Fain would I shroud the tale in night—The meddling Blues that thrust in sight—The ring-keepers o’erthrown;The broken ropes—th’ encumbered fight—Heenanus’sudden blinded flight—Sayeriuspausing, as he might,Just when ten minutes, used arightHad made the day his own!Alas! e’en in those brighter daysWe still had Beaks and Blues—Still canting rogues, their mud to fling,On self-defence, and on the Ring,And fistic art abuse!And ’twas such varmint had the powerThe Champions’ fight to stay,And leave unsettled to this hourThe honours of that day!But had those honours rested—Divided as was due,SayeriusandHeenanusHad cut the Belt in two.And now my fists are feeble,And my blood is thin and cold,But ’tis better than Old Tom to meTo recall those days of old.And may you, my great-grandchildren,That gather round my knee,Ne’er see worse men, nor iller timesThan I and mine might be,Though England then had prize-fighters—Even reprobates like me.[29]There were numerous pictorial representations of the battle both in England and America; some of them amusingly imaginative. The large, coloured engraving, published by Newbold, and its smaller American piracy, are faithful as to the men and the field of action. The object in view in these pictures—that of giving recognisable portraits of most of the pugilistic, and many of the sporting, and a few of the literary notabilities of the day, of course destroys all truthfulness or reality of grouping, as in so many works professing to represent great battles, festivals, or public commemorations. Our frontispiece, from a contemporary sketch, is less pretentious, and therefore more realistic and truthful.[30]An allusion to “Gladstone claret;” cheap, thin French wines being admitted first at low duty in 1860.—Ed.[31]Domus Savilliana—Saville House, on the north side of Leicester Square, where sparring exhibitions and bouts with the gloves were frequent in those days. See alsoPugilistica,vol. i., page 19, for a notice of Saville House.—Ed.[32]Cusick, Heenan’s trainer, and Jack Macdonald (still living, 1881).[33]Harry Brunton, now host of the “Nag’s Head,” at Wood Green. Jemmy Welsh, late of the “Griffin,” Boro’.—Ed.
The amount of money subscribed for Sayers by his personal admirers and the public was £3,000, which sum was invested in the names of trustees, Tom to receive the interest during his life, providing he never fought again; and, in the event of his fighting again or dying, the interest was to go to the children until of age, when it was to be divided between them. Tom left only two children—young Tom, then at boarding-school, and fourteen years old, and Sarah, in her seventeenth year. Independent of the interest in this sum, Sayers left a considerable amount of property in plate and other valuables. Some of his backers have treasured upsouvenirsof him. Mr. John Gideon, Tom’s earliest “guide, philosopher, and friend,” has the boots in which Sayers fought Heenan, with the Farnborough grass and earth attaching to the spikes, just as the great gladiator left them.
Those who remember the personal appearance of the departed Champion will have his bronzed, square, and good-humoured, lion-like phiz in their mind’s eye; those who did not see him in the flesh must imagine a round, broad, but not particularly thick-set man, standing 5 feet 8½ inches in his stocking-feet, with finely turned hips, and small but powerful and flat loins, remarkably round ribs and girth, and square shoulders. His arms were of medium length, and so round as not to show prominently the biceps, oreven the outer muscles of the fore-arm, to the extent often seen in men of far inferior powers of hitting and general strength. Indeed, the bulk of Sayers was so compactly packed that you did not realise his true size and weight at a cursory glance, and it was this close and neat packing of his trunk—excuse the pun—that doubtless was an important ingredient in many a “long day” in which Tom’s lasting powers were the admiration of every spectator. Tom’s head was certainly of the “bullet” shape, and it was supported by a neck of the sort known as “bull,” conveying the idea of enduring strength and determination to back it. We have no phrenological examination of Tom’s “bumps” before us, but we doubt not those of combativeness and amativeness were fully developed. Tom’s fighting weight began at 10st.6lb.; in his later battles it was 10st.10lb.to 10st.12lb.The photographs which figure in the print-shop windows do not convey a fair idea of Tom’s good-tempered and often merry expression: he seems to have been taken when filled with the contemplation of the seriousness of the position of having one’s “counterfeit presentment” multiplied and sent forth to the world. From the hips downward Tom was not a “model man.” Though round in the calf, his thighs were decidedly deficient in muscular development; yet no man made better use of his pins in getting in and out again, as witness hisup-hill performances with the six-foot Slasher, and the ponderous and more active Benicia Boy. It was to Tom’s excellent judgment of time and distance that the severity of his hitting was due, and to his mighty heart—a bigger never found place in man’s bosom—that his triumphant finish of many a well-fought day is to be attributed. No man ever fought more faithfully to his friends or bravely with his foes in “the battle of life;” and therefore is the tribute of a record of his deeds due toTom Sayers.
His remains were consigned to their parent earth, on Wednesday, November 15th, 1866, at the Highgate Cemetery, attended by an immense concourse of the sympathising and curious. A committee of friends, the admirers of true British courage, raised a monument over the spot where—
“After life’s fitful fever he sleeps well.”
Of this monument we present a faithful delineation.
Sayers Tomb
It would be an unpardonable omission were we to conclude the biography of Tom Sayers without appending the remarkable poem, attributed to the pen of William Makepeace Thackeray, which appeared inPunch, April 28th, 1860. We need hardly say that it is a paraphrase rather than a parody of Lord Macaulay’s legend of “Horatius” in the “Lays of Ancient Rome.”
THE COMBAT OF SAYERIUS AND HEENANUS.
A LAY OF ANCIENT LONDON.
(Supposed to be recounted to his Great-grandchildren, April 17th,A.D.1920, by an Ancient Gladiator.)
Close round my chair, my children,And gather at my knee,The while your mother pourethThe Old Tom in my tea;What while your father quaffethHis meagre Bordeaux wine—’Twas not on such potationsWere reared these thews o’ mine.Such drinks came in the very year—Methinks I mind it well—That the great fight ofHeenanusWithSayeriusbefell.[30]These knuckles then were iron,This biceps like a cord,This fist shot from the shoulderA bullock would have floored.Crawleiushis Novice,They used to call me thenIn the Domus Savilliana[31]Among the sporting men.There, on benefit occasions,The gloves I oft put on,Walking round to show my muscleWhen the set-to was done;While ringing in the arenaThe showered denarii fell,That toldCrawleius’NoviceHad used his mauleys well.’Tis but some sixty years sinceThe times of which I speak,And yet the words I’m usingWill sound to you like Greek.What know ye, race of milksops,Untaught of theP.R.,What stopping, lunging, countering,Fibbing, or rallying are?What boots to use thelingo,When you have lost thething?How paint to you the gloriesOfBelcher,Cribb, orSpring—Toyou, whose sire turns up his eyesAt mention of the Ring?Yet, in despite of all the jawAnd gammon of this time,That brands the art of self-defence—Old England’s art—as crime,From off mine ancient memoriesThe rust of time I’ll shake.Your youthful bloods to quickenAnd your British pluck to wake;I know it only slumbers,Let cant do what it will,The British bull-dogwillbeThe British bull-dog still.Then gather to your grandsire’s knee,The while his tale is toldHowSayeriusandHeenanusMilled in those days of old.Y Fyghte.The Beaks and Blues were watchingAgog to atop the mill,As we gathered to the stationIn the April morning chill;By twos and threes, by fours and tens,To London Bridge we drew;For we had had “the office”That were good men and true;And saving such, the place of fightWas ne’er a man that knew.From East, from West, from North and South,The London Fancy poured,Down to the sporting cabman,Up to the sporting lord;From the “Horseshoe” in Tichbourne StreetSharpOwen Swiftwas there;Jem Burnhad left the “Rising Sun,”All in the Street of Air;Langhamhad out the “Cambrian,”With tough oldAlec Reid,And towering high above the crowdShoneBen Caunt’sfragrant weed;Not only fighting covies,But sporting swells besides—Dukes, Lords, M.P’s., and Guardsmen,With county Beaks for guides;And tongues that sway our Senators,And hands the pen that wield,Were cheering on the ChampionsUpon that morning’s field.And hark! the bell is ringing,The engine puffs amain,And through the dark towards BrightonOn shrieks the tearing train;But turning off where ReigateUnites the clustering lines,By poultry-haunted DorkingA devious course it twines,By Wootton, Shier, and Guildford,Across the winding Wey,Till by heath-girded FarnboroughOur doubling course we stay,Where Aldershot lay snoringAll in the morning gray,Nor dreamed “the Camp” what combatShould be fought here to-day.The stakes are pitched, the ropes are rove,The men have ta’en their stand;Heenanuswins the toss for place,And takes the eastward hand;CussicciusandMacdonaldus[32]Upon “theBoy” attend;SayeriusownsBruntoniusWithJim Welshiusfor friend.[33]And each upon the other nowA curious eye may throw,And from the seconds’ final rubIn buff at length they show,And from their corners to the scratchMove stalwartly and slow.Then each his hand stretched forth to graspHis foeman’s fives in friendly clasp;Each felt his balance trim and true—Each up to square his mauleys threw—Each tried his best to draw his man—The feint, the dodge, the opening plan,Till right and leftSayeriustried—Heenanus’grin proclaimed him “wide;”Then shook his nut—a “lead” essayed,Nor reachedSayerius’watchful head.At length each left is sudden flung,We heard the ponderous thud,And from each tongue the news was rung,Sayeriushath “first blood!”AdownHeenanus’Roman noseFreely the tell-tale claret flows,While sternSayerius’forehead showsThat in the interchange of blowsHeenanus’aim was good!Again each iron mauley swung,And loud the counter-hitting rung,Till breathless both, and wild with blows,Fiercely they grappled for a close;One moment in close hug they swing,Hither and thither round the ring,Then fromHeenanus’clinch of brass,Sayerius, smiling, slips to grass!I trow mine ancient breath would failTo follow through the fightEach gallant round’s still changing tale,Each feat of left and right.How through two well-fought hours and moreThrough bruise, and blow, and blood,Like sturdy bull-dogs, as they were,Those well-matched heroes stood.How nine times in that desperate millHeenanus, in his strength,Knocked stoutSayeriusoff his pins,And laid him all at length;But how in each succeeding roundSayeriussmiling came,With head as cool, and wind as sound,As his first moment on the ground,Still confident and game.How fromHeenanus’sledge-like fist,Striving a smasher to resist,Sayerius’stout right arm gave way,Yet the maimed hero still made play,And when “in-fighting” threatened ill,Was nimble in “out-fighting,” still—Still did his own maintain—In mourning putHeenanus’glims,Till blinded eyes and helpless limbs,The chances squared again.How blindHeenanus, in despiteOf bleeding face and waning sight,So gallantly kept up the fight,That not a man could sayWhich of the two ’twere wise to back,Or on which side some random crackMight not decide the day;And leave us—whoso won the prize—Victor and vanquished, in all eyes,An equal meed to pay.Two hours and more the fight had sped,Near unto ten it drew,But still opposed—one-armed to blind—They stood, those dauntless two.Ah, me! that I have lived to hearSuch men as ruffians scorned,Such deeds of valour “brutal” called,Canted, preached-down, and mourned!Ah! that these old eyes ne’er again,A gallant mill shall see!No more behold the ropes and stakes,With colours flying free!* * * * *But I forget the combat—How shall I tell the close?That left the Champion’s belt in doubtBetween those well-matched foes?Fain would I shroud the tale in night—The meddling Blues that thrust in sight—The ring-keepers o’erthrown;The broken ropes—th’ encumbered fight—Heenanus’sudden blinded flight—Sayeriuspausing, as he might,Just when ten minutes, used arightHad made the day his own!Alas! e’en in those brighter daysWe still had Beaks and Blues—Still canting rogues, their mud to fling,On self-defence, and on the Ring,And fistic art abuse!And ’twas such varmint had the powerThe Champions’ fight to stay,And leave unsettled to this hourThe honours of that day!But had those honours rested—Divided as was due,SayeriusandHeenanusHad cut the Belt in two.And now my fists are feeble,And my blood is thin and cold,But ’tis better than Old Tom to meTo recall those days of old.And may you, my great-grandchildren,That gather round my knee,Ne’er see worse men, nor iller timesThan I and mine might be,Though England then had prize-fighters—Even reprobates like me.
Close round my chair, my children,And gather at my knee,The while your mother pourethThe Old Tom in my tea;What while your father quaffethHis meagre Bordeaux wine—’Twas not on such potationsWere reared these thews o’ mine.Such drinks came in the very year—Methinks I mind it well—That the great fight ofHeenanusWithSayeriusbefell.[30]These knuckles then were iron,This biceps like a cord,This fist shot from the shoulderA bullock would have floored.Crawleiushis Novice,They used to call me thenIn the Domus Savilliana[31]Among the sporting men.There, on benefit occasions,The gloves I oft put on,Walking round to show my muscleWhen the set-to was done;While ringing in the arenaThe showered denarii fell,That toldCrawleius’NoviceHad used his mauleys well.’Tis but some sixty years sinceThe times of which I speak,And yet the words I’m usingWill sound to you like Greek.What know ye, race of milksops,Untaught of theP.R.,What stopping, lunging, countering,Fibbing, or rallying are?What boots to use thelingo,When you have lost thething?How paint to you the gloriesOfBelcher,Cribb, orSpring—Toyou, whose sire turns up his eyesAt mention of the Ring?Yet, in despite of all the jawAnd gammon of this time,That brands the art of self-defence—Old England’s art—as crime,From off mine ancient memoriesThe rust of time I’ll shake.Your youthful bloods to quickenAnd your British pluck to wake;I know it only slumbers,Let cant do what it will,The British bull-dogwillbeThe British bull-dog still.Then gather to your grandsire’s knee,The while his tale is toldHowSayeriusandHeenanusMilled in those days of old.Y Fyghte.The Beaks and Blues were watchingAgog to atop the mill,As we gathered to the stationIn the April morning chill;By twos and threes, by fours and tens,To London Bridge we drew;For we had had “the office”That were good men and true;And saving such, the place of fightWas ne’er a man that knew.From East, from West, from North and South,The London Fancy poured,Down to the sporting cabman,Up to the sporting lord;From the “Horseshoe” in Tichbourne StreetSharpOwen Swiftwas there;Jem Burnhad left the “Rising Sun,”All in the Street of Air;Langhamhad out the “Cambrian,”With tough oldAlec Reid,And towering high above the crowdShoneBen Caunt’sfragrant weed;Not only fighting covies,But sporting swells besides—Dukes, Lords, M.P’s., and Guardsmen,With county Beaks for guides;And tongues that sway our Senators,And hands the pen that wield,Were cheering on the ChampionsUpon that morning’s field.And hark! the bell is ringing,The engine puffs amain,And through the dark towards BrightonOn shrieks the tearing train;But turning off where ReigateUnites the clustering lines,By poultry-haunted DorkingA devious course it twines,By Wootton, Shier, and Guildford,Across the winding Wey,Till by heath-girded FarnboroughOur doubling course we stay,Where Aldershot lay snoringAll in the morning gray,Nor dreamed “the Camp” what combatShould be fought here to-day.The stakes are pitched, the ropes are rove,The men have ta’en their stand;Heenanuswins the toss for place,And takes the eastward hand;CussicciusandMacdonaldus[32]Upon “theBoy” attend;SayeriusownsBruntoniusWithJim Welshiusfor friend.[33]And each upon the other nowA curious eye may throw,And from the seconds’ final rubIn buff at length they show,And from their corners to the scratchMove stalwartly and slow.Then each his hand stretched forth to graspHis foeman’s fives in friendly clasp;Each felt his balance trim and true—Each up to square his mauleys threw—Each tried his best to draw his man—The feint, the dodge, the opening plan,Till right and leftSayeriustried—Heenanus’grin proclaimed him “wide;”Then shook his nut—a “lead” essayed,Nor reachedSayerius’watchful head.At length each left is sudden flung,We heard the ponderous thud,And from each tongue the news was rung,Sayeriushath “first blood!”AdownHeenanus’Roman noseFreely the tell-tale claret flows,While sternSayerius’forehead showsThat in the interchange of blowsHeenanus’aim was good!Again each iron mauley swung,And loud the counter-hitting rung,Till breathless both, and wild with blows,Fiercely they grappled for a close;One moment in close hug they swing,Hither and thither round the ring,Then fromHeenanus’clinch of brass,Sayerius, smiling, slips to grass!I trow mine ancient breath would failTo follow through the fightEach gallant round’s still changing tale,Each feat of left and right.How through two well-fought hours and moreThrough bruise, and blow, and blood,Like sturdy bull-dogs, as they were,Those well-matched heroes stood.How nine times in that desperate millHeenanus, in his strength,Knocked stoutSayeriusoff his pins,And laid him all at length;But how in each succeeding roundSayeriussmiling came,With head as cool, and wind as sound,As his first moment on the ground,Still confident and game.How fromHeenanus’sledge-like fist,Striving a smasher to resist,Sayerius’stout right arm gave way,Yet the maimed hero still made play,And when “in-fighting” threatened ill,Was nimble in “out-fighting,” still—Still did his own maintain—In mourning putHeenanus’glims,Till blinded eyes and helpless limbs,The chances squared again.How blindHeenanus, in despiteOf bleeding face and waning sight,So gallantly kept up the fight,That not a man could sayWhich of the two ’twere wise to back,Or on which side some random crackMight not decide the day;And leave us—whoso won the prize—Victor and vanquished, in all eyes,An equal meed to pay.Two hours and more the fight had sped,Near unto ten it drew,But still opposed—one-armed to blind—They stood, those dauntless two.Ah, me! that I have lived to hearSuch men as ruffians scorned,Such deeds of valour “brutal” called,Canted, preached-down, and mourned!Ah! that these old eyes ne’er again,A gallant mill shall see!No more behold the ropes and stakes,With colours flying free!* * * * *But I forget the combat—How shall I tell the close?That left the Champion’s belt in doubtBetween those well-matched foes?Fain would I shroud the tale in night—The meddling Blues that thrust in sight—The ring-keepers o’erthrown;The broken ropes—th’ encumbered fight—Heenanus’sudden blinded flight—Sayeriuspausing, as he might,Just when ten minutes, used arightHad made the day his own!Alas! e’en in those brighter daysWe still had Beaks and Blues—Still canting rogues, their mud to fling,On self-defence, and on the Ring,And fistic art abuse!And ’twas such varmint had the powerThe Champions’ fight to stay,And leave unsettled to this hourThe honours of that day!But had those honours rested—Divided as was due,SayeriusandHeenanusHad cut the Belt in two.And now my fists are feeble,And my blood is thin and cold,But ’tis better than Old Tom to meTo recall those days of old.And may you, my great-grandchildren,That gather round my knee,Ne’er see worse men, nor iller timesThan I and mine might be,Though England then had prize-fighters—Even reprobates like me.
Close round my chair, my children,And gather at my knee,The while your mother pourethThe Old Tom in my tea;What while your father quaffethHis meagre Bordeaux wine—’Twas not on such potationsWere reared these thews o’ mine.Such drinks came in the very year—Methinks I mind it well—That the great fight ofHeenanusWithSayeriusbefell.[30]
Close round my chair, my children,
And gather at my knee,
The while your mother poureth
The Old Tom in my tea;
What while your father quaffeth
His meagre Bordeaux wine—
’Twas not on such potations
Were reared these thews o’ mine.
Such drinks came in the very year—
Methinks I mind it well—
That the great fight ofHeenanus
WithSayeriusbefell.[30]
These knuckles then were iron,This biceps like a cord,This fist shot from the shoulderA bullock would have floored.Crawleiushis Novice,They used to call me thenIn the Domus Savilliana[31]
These knuckles then were iron,
This biceps like a cord,
This fist shot from the shoulder
A bullock would have floored.
Crawleiushis Novice,
They used to call me then
In the Domus Savilliana[31]
Among the sporting men.There, on benefit occasions,The gloves I oft put on,Walking round to show my muscleWhen the set-to was done;While ringing in the arenaThe showered denarii fell,That toldCrawleius’NoviceHad used his mauleys well.
Among the sporting men.
There, on benefit occasions,
The gloves I oft put on,
Walking round to show my muscle
When the set-to was done;
While ringing in the arena
The showered denarii fell,
That toldCrawleius’Novice
Had used his mauleys well.
’Tis but some sixty years sinceThe times of which I speak,And yet the words I’m usingWill sound to you like Greek.What know ye, race of milksops,Untaught of theP.R.,What stopping, lunging, countering,Fibbing, or rallying are?What boots to use thelingo,When you have lost thething?How paint to you the gloriesOfBelcher,Cribb, orSpring—Toyou, whose sire turns up his eyesAt mention of the Ring?
’Tis but some sixty years since
The times of which I speak,
And yet the words I’m using
Will sound to you like Greek.
What know ye, race of milksops,
Untaught of theP.R.,
What stopping, lunging, countering,
Fibbing, or rallying are?
What boots to use thelingo,
When you have lost thething?
How paint to you the glories
OfBelcher,Cribb, orSpring—
Toyou, whose sire turns up his eyes
At mention of the Ring?
Yet, in despite of all the jawAnd gammon of this time,That brands the art of self-defence—Old England’s art—as crime,From off mine ancient memoriesThe rust of time I’ll shake.Your youthful bloods to quickenAnd your British pluck to wake;I know it only slumbers,Let cant do what it will,The British bull-dogwillbeThe British bull-dog still.Then gather to your grandsire’s knee,The while his tale is toldHowSayeriusandHeenanusMilled in those days of old.
Yet, in despite of all the jaw
And gammon of this time,
That brands the art of self-defence—
Old England’s art—as crime,
From off mine ancient memories
The rust of time I’ll shake.
Your youthful bloods to quicken
And your British pluck to wake;
I know it only slumbers,
Let cant do what it will,
The British bull-dogwillbe
The British bull-dog still.
Then gather to your grandsire’s knee,
The while his tale is told
HowSayeriusandHeenanus
Milled in those days of old.
Y Fyghte.
Y Fyghte.
The Beaks and Blues were watchingAgog to atop the mill,As we gathered to the stationIn the April morning chill;By twos and threes, by fours and tens,To London Bridge we drew;For we had had “the office”That were good men and true;And saving such, the place of fightWas ne’er a man that knew.From East, from West, from North and South,The London Fancy poured,Down to the sporting cabman,Up to the sporting lord;From the “Horseshoe” in Tichbourne StreetSharpOwen Swiftwas there;Jem Burnhad left the “Rising Sun,”All in the Street of Air;Langhamhad out the “Cambrian,”With tough oldAlec Reid,And towering high above the crowdShoneBen Caunt’sfragrant weed;Not only fighting covies,But sporting swells besides—Dukes, Lords, M.P’s., and Guardsmen,With county Beaks for guides;And tongues that sway our Senators,And hands the pen that wield,Were cheering on the ChampionsUpon that morning’s field.
The Beaks and Blues were watching
Agog to atop the mill,
As we gathered to the station
In the April morning chill;
By twos and threes, by fours and tens,
To London Bridge we drew;
For we had had “the office”
That were good men and true;
And saving such, the place of fight
Was ne’er a man that knew.
From East, from West, from North and South,
The London Fancy poured,
Down to the sporting cabman,
Up to the sporting lord;
From the “Horseshoe” in Tichbourne Street
SharpOwen Swiftwas there;
Jem Burnhad left the “Rising Sun,”
All in the Street of Air;
Langhamhad out the “Cambrian,”
With tough oldAlec Reid,
And towering high above the crowd
ShoneBen Caunt’sfragrant weed;
Not only fighting covies,
But sporting swells besides—
Dukes, Lords, M.P’s., and Guardsmen,
With county Beaks for guides;
And tongues that sway our Senators,
And hands the pen that wield,
Were cheering on the Champions
Upon that morning’s field.
And hark! the bell is ringing,The engine puffs amain,And through the dark towards BrightonOn shrieks the tearing train;But turning off where ReigateUnites the clustering lines,By poultry-haunted DorkingA devious course it twines,By Wootton, Shier, and Guildford,Across the winding Wey,Till by heath-girded FarnboroughOur doubling course we stay,Where Aldershot lay snoringAll in the morning gray,Nor dreamed “the Camp” what combatShould be fought here to-day.
And hark! the bell is ringing,
The engine puffs amain,
And through the dark towards Brighton
On shrieks the tearing train;
But turning off where Reigate
Unites the clustering lines,
By poultry-haunted Dorking
A devious course it twines,
By Wootton, Shier, and Guildford,
Across the winding Wey,
Till by heath-girded Farnborough
Our doubling course we stay,
Where Aldershot lay snoring
All in the morning gray,
Nor dreamed “the Camp” what combat
Should be fought here to-day.
The stakes are pitched, the ropes are rove,The men have ta’en their stand;Heenanuswins the toss for place,And takes the eastward hand;CussicciusandMacdonaldus[32]
The stakes are pitched, the ropes are rove,
The men have ta’en their stand;
Heenanuswins the toss for place,
And takes the eastward hand;
CussicciusandMacdonaldus[32]
Upon “theBoy” attend;SayeriusownsBruntoniusWithJim Welshiusfor friend.[33]
Upon “theBoy” attend;
SayeriusownsBruntonius
WithJim Welshiusfor friend.[33]
And each upon the other nowA curious eye may throw,And from the seconds’ final rubIn buff at length they show,And from their corners to the scratchMove stalwartly and slow.
And each upon the other now
A curious eye may throw,
And from the seconds’ final rub
In buff at length they show,
And from their corners to the scratch
Move stalwartly and slow.
Then each his hand stretched forth to graspHis foeman’s fives in friendly clasp;Each felt his balance trim and true—Each up to square his mauleys threw—Each tried his best to draw his man—The feint, the dodge, the opening plan,Till right and leftSayeriustried—Heenanus’grin proclaimed him “wide;”Then shook his nut—a “lead” essayed,Nor reachedSayerius’watchful head.
Then each his hand stretched forth to grasp
His foeman’s fives in friendly clasp;
Each felt his balance trim and true—
Each up to square his mauleys threw—
Each tried his best to draw his man—
The feint, the dodge, the opening plan,
Till right and leftSayeriustried—
Heenanus’grin proclaimed him “wide;”
Then shook his nut—a “lead” essayed,
Nor reachedSayerius’watchful head.
At length each left is sudden flung,We heard the ponderous thud,And from each tongue the news was rung,Sayeriushath “first blood!”AdownHeenanus’Roman noseFreely the tell-tale claret flows,While sternSayerius’forehead showsThat in the interchange of blowsHeenanus’aim was good!Again each iron mauley swung,And loud the counter-hitting rung,Till breathless both, and wild with blows,Fiercely they grappled for a close;One moment in close hug they swing,Hither and thither round the ring,Then fromHeenanus’clinch of brass,Sayerius, smiling, slips to grass!
At length each left is sudden flung,
We heard the ponderous thud,
And from each tongue the news was rung,
Sayeriushath “first blood!”
AdownHeenanus’Roman nose
Freely the tell-tale claret flows,
While sternSayerius’forehead shows
That in the interchange of blows
Heenanus’aim was good!
Again each iron mauley swung,
And loud the counter-hitting rung,
Till breathless both, and wild with blows,
Fiercely they grappled for a close;
One moment in close hug they swing,
Hither and thither round the ring,
Then fromHeenanus’clinch of brass,
Sayerius, smiling, slips to grass!
I trow mine ancient breath would failTo follow through the fightEach gallant round’s still changing tale,Each feat of left and right.How through two well-fought hours and moreThrough bruise, and blow, and blood,Like sturdy bull-dogs, as they were,Those well-matched heroes stood.How nine times in that desperate millHeenanus, in his strength,Knocked stoutSayeriusoff his pins,And laid him all at length;But how in each succeeding roundSayeriussmiling came,With head as cool, and wind as sound,As his first moment on the ground,Still confident and game.How fromHeenanus’sledge-like fist,Striving a smasher to resist,Sayerius’stout right arm gave way,Yet the maimed hero still made play,And when “in-fighting” threatened ill,Was nimble in “out-fighting,” still—Still did his own maintain—In mourning putHeenanus’glims,Till blinded eyes and helpless limbs,The chances squared again.How blindHeenanus, in despiteOf bleeding face and waning sight,So gallantly kept up the fight,That not a man could sayWhich of the two ’twere wise to back,Or on which side some random crackMight not decide the day;And leave us—whoso won the prize—Victor and vanquished, in all eyes,An equal meed to pay.
I trow mine ancient breath would fail
To follow through the fight
Each gallant round’s still changing tale,
Each feat of left and right.
How through two well-fought hours and more
Through bruise, and blow, and blood,
Like sturdy bull-dogs, as they were,
Those well-matched heroes stood.
How nine times in that desperate mill
Heenanus, in his strength,
Knocked stoutSayeriusoff his pins,
And laid him all at length;
But how in each succeeding round
Sayeriussmiling came,
With head as cool, and wind as sound,
As his first moment on the ground,
Still confident and game.
How fromHeenanus’sledge-like fist,
Striving a smasher to resist,
Sayerius’stout right arm gave way,
Yet the maimed hero still made play,
And when “in-fighting” threatened ill,
Was nimble in “out-fighting,” still—
Still did his own maintain—
In mourning putHeenanus’glims,
Till blinded eyes and helpless limbs,
The chances squared again.
How blindHeenanus, in despite
Of bleeding face and waning sight,
So gallantly kept up the fight,
That not a man could say
Which of the two ’twere wise to back,
Or on which side some random crack
Might not decide the day;
And leave us—whoso won the prize—
Victor and vanquished, in all eyes,
An equal meed to pay.
Two hours and more the fight had sped,Near unto ten it drew,But still opposed—one-armed to blind—They stood, those dauntless two.Ah, me! that I have lived to hearSuch men as ruffians scorned,Such deeds of valour “brutal” called,Canted, preached-down, and mourned!Ah! that these old eyes ne’er again,A gallant mill shall see!No more behold the ropes and stakes,With colours flying free!
Two hours and more the fight had sped,
Near unto ten it drew,
But still opposed—one-armed to blind—
They stood, those dauntless two.
Ah, me! that I have lived to hear
Such men as ruffians scorned,
Such deeds of valour “brutal” called,
Canted, preached-down, and mourned!
Ah! that these old eyes ne’er again,
A gallant mill shall see!
No more behold the ropes and stakes,
With colours flying free!
* * * * *
* * * * *
But I forget the combat—How shall I tell the close?That left the Champion’s belt in doubtBetween those well-matched foes?Fain would I shroud the tale in night—The meddling Blues that thrust in sight—The ring-keepers o’erthrown;The broken ropes—th’ encumbered fight—Heenanus’sudden blinded flight—Sayeriuspausing, as he might,Just when ten minutes, used arightHad made the day his own!
But I forget the combat—
How shall I tell the close?
That left the Champion’s belt in doubt
Between those well-matched foes?
Fain would I shroud the tale in night—
The meddling Blues that thrust in sight—
The ring-keepers o’erthrown;
The broken ropes—th’ encumbered fight—
Heenanus’sudden blinded flight—
Sayeriuspausing, as he might,
Just when ten minutes, used aright
Had made the day his own!
Alas! e’en in those brighter daysWe still had Beaks and Blues—Still canting rogues, their mud to fling,On self-defence, and on the Ring,And fistic art abuse!And ’twas such varmint had the powerThe Champions’ fight to stay,And leave unsettled to this hourThe honours of that day!But had those honours rested—Divided as was due,SayeriusandHeenanusHad cut the Belt in two.
Alas! e’en in those brighter days
We still had Beaks and Blues—
Still canting rogues, their mud to fling,
On self-defence, and on the Ring,
And fistic art abuse!
And ’twas such varmint had the power
The Champions’ fight to stay,
And leave unsettled to this hour
The honours of that day!
But had those honours rested—
Divided as was due,
SayeriusandHeenanus
Had cut the Belt in two.
And now my fists are feeble,And my blood is thin and cold,But ’tis better than Old Tom to meTo recall those days of old.And may you, my great-grandchildren,That gather round my knee,Ne’er see worse men, nor iller timesThan I and mine might be,Though England then had prize-fighters—Even reprobates like me.
And now my fists are feeble,
And my blood is thin and cold,
But ’tis better than Old Tom to me
To recall those days of old.
And may you, my great-grandchildren,
That gather round my knee,
Ne’er see worse men, nor iller times
Than I and mine might be,
Though England then had prize-fighters—
Even reprobates like me.
[29]There were numerous pictorial representations of the battle both in England and America; some of them amusingly imaginative. The large, coloured engraving, published by Newbold, and its smaller American piracy, are faithful as to the men and the field of action. The object in view in these pictures—that of giving recognisable portraits of most of the pugilistic, and many of the sporting, and a few of the literary notabilities of the day, of course destroys all truthfulness or reality of grouping, as in so many works professing to represent great battles, festivals, or public commemorations. Our frontispiece, from a contemporary sketch, is less pretentious, and therefore more realistic and truthful.
[30]An allusion to “Gladstone claret;” cheap, thin French wines being admitted first at low duty in 1860.—Ed.
[31]Domus Savilliana—Saville House, on the north side of Leicester Square, where sparring exhibitions and bouts with the gloves were frequent in those days. See alsoPugilistica,vol. i., page 19, for a notice of Saville House.—Ed.
[32]Cusick, Heenan’s trainer, and Jack Macdonald (still living, 1881).
[33]Harry Brunton, now host of the “Nag’s Head,” at Wood Green. Jemmy Welsh, late of the “Griffin,” Boro’.—Ed.