It certainly would appear, if we may argue from the
prize-ring, that the human machine becomes more delicate and is more
sensitive to jar or shock. In the early days a fatal end to a fight
was exceedingly rare. Gradually such tragedies became rather more
common, until now even with the gloves they have shocked us by their
frequency, and we feel that the rude play of our forefathers is
indeed too rough for a more highly organized generation. Still, it
may help us to clear our minds of cant if we remember that within
two or three years the hunting-field and the steeple-chase claim
more victims than the prize-ring has done in two centuries.
Many of these men had served their country well with that strength
and courage which brought them fame. Cribb was, if I mistake not, in
the Royal Navy. So was the terrible dwarf Scroggins, all chest and
shoulders, whose springing hits for many a year carried all before
them until the canny Welshman, Ned Turner, stopped his career, only
to be stopped in turn by the brilliant Irishman, Jack Randall. Shaw,
who stood high among the heavy-weights, was cut to pieces by the
French Cuirassiers in the first charge at Waterloo. The brutal Berks
died greatly in the breach of Badajos. The lives of these men stood
for something, and that was just the one supreme thing which the
times called for--an unflinching endurance which could bear up
against a world in arms. Look at Jem Belcher--beautiful, heroic
Jem, a manlier Byron--but there, this is not an essay on the old
prize-ring, and one man's lore is another man's bore.
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