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Him As 'Poor Old Paddy

Donovan.'

 

With Alfred Wigan,  The Eldest Son,  I Was On Very Friendly

Terms.  Nothing Could Be More Unlike His Father.  His Manner 

Chapter 41 Pg 224

In His Own House Was Exactly What It Was On The Stage. 

Albany Fonblanque,  Whose Experiences Began Nearly Forty Years

Before Mine,  And Who Was Not Given To Waste His Praise,  Told

Me He Considered Alfred Wigan The Best 'Gentleman' He Had

Ever Seen On The Stage.  I Think This Impression Was Due In A

Great Measure To Wigan's Entire Absence Of Affectation,  And

To His Persistent Appeal To The 'Judicious' But Never To The

'Groundlings.'  Mrs. Alfred Wigan Was Also A Consummate

Artiste.

Chapter 42 Pg 225

 

Through George Bird I Made The Acquaintance Of The Leading

Surgeons And Physicians Of The North London Hospital,  Where I

Frequently Attended The Operations Of Erichsen,  John

Marshall,  And Sir Henry Thompson,  Following Them Afterwards

In Their Clinical Rounds.  Amongst The Physicians,  Professor

Sydney Ringer Remains One Of My Oldest Friends.  Both Surgery

And Therapeutics Interested Me Deeply.  With Regard To The

First,  Curiosity Was Supplemented By The Incidental Desire To

Overcome The Natural Repugnance We All Feel To The Mere Sight

Of Blood.

 

Chemistry I Studied In The Laboratory Of A Professional

Friend Of Dr. Bird's.  After A While My Teacher Would Leave

Me To Carry Out Small Commissions Of A Simple Character Which

Had Been Put Into His Hands,  Such As The Analysis Of Water, 

Bread,  Or Other Food-Stuffs.  He Himself Often Had

Engagements Elsewhere,  And Would Leave Me In Possession Of

The Laboratory,  With A Small Urchin Whom He Had Taught To Be

Useful.  This Boy Was Of The Meekest And Mildest Disposition. 

Whether His Master Had Frightened Him Or Not I Do Not Know. 

He Always Spoke In A Whisper,  And With Downcast Eyes.  He

Handled Everything As If It Was About To Annihilate Him,  Or

He It,  And Looked As If He Wouldn't Bite - Even A Tartlet.

 

One Day When I Had Finished My Task,  And We Were Alone,  I

Bethought Me Of Making Some Laughing Gas,  And Trying The

Effect Of It On The Gentle Youth.  I Offered Him A Shilling

For The Experiment,  Which,  However,  Proved More Expensive

Than I Had Bargained For.  I Filled A Bladder With The Gas, 

And Putting A Bit Of Broken Pipe-Stem In Its Neck For A

Mouthpiece,  Gave It To The Boy To Suck - And Suck He Did.  In

A Few Seconds His Eyes Dilated,  His Face Became Lividly 

Chapter 42 Pg 226

White,  And I Had Some Trouble To Tear The Intoxicating

Bladder From His Clutches.  The Moment I Had Done So,  The

True Nature Of The Gutter-Snipe Exhibited Itself.  He Began

By Cutting Flip-Flaps And Turning Windmills All Round The

Room; Then,  Before I Could Stop Him,  Swept An Armful Of

Valuable Apparatus From The Tables,  Till The Whole Floor Was

Strewn With Wreck And Poisonous Solutions.  The Dismay Of The

Chemist When He Returned May Be More Easily Imagined Than

Described.

 

Some Years Ago,  There Was A Well-Known Band Of Amateur

Musicians Called The 'Wandering Minstrels.'  This Band

Originated In My Rooms In Dean's Yard.  Its Nucleus Was

Composed Of The Following Members:  Seymour Egerton, 

Afterwards Lord Wilton,  Sir Archibald Macdonald My Brother-

In-Law,  Fred Clay,  Bertie Mitford (The Present Lord Redesdale

- Perhaps The Finest Amateur Cornet And Trumpet Player Of The

Day),  And Lord Gerald Fitzgerald.  Our Concerts Were Given In

The Hanover Square Rooms,  And We Played For Charities All

Over The Country.

 

To Turn From The Musical Art To The Art - Or Science Is It

Called? - Of Self-Defence,  Once So Patronised By The Highest

Fashion,  There Was At This Time A Famous Pugilistic Battle -

The Last Of The Old Kind - Fought Between The English

Champion,  Tom Sayers,  And The American Champion,  Heenan. 

Bertie Mitford And I Agreed To Go And See It.

 

The Wandering Minstrels Had Given A Concert In The Hanover

Square Rooms.  The Fight Was To Take Place On The Following

Morning.  When The Concert Was Over,  Mitford And I Went To

Some Public-House Where The 'Ring' Had Assembled,  And Where

Tickets Were To Be Bought,  And Instructions Received.  Fights

When Gloves Were Not Used,  And Which,  Especially In This

Case,  Might End Fatally,  Were Of Course Illegal; And Every

Precaution Had Been Taken By The Police To Prevent It.  A

Special Train Was To Leave London Bridge Station About 6 A.M. 

We Sat Up All Night In My Room,  And Had To Wait An Hour In

The Train Before The Men With Their Backers Arrived.  As Soon

As It Was Daylight,  We Saw Mounted Police Galloping On The

Roads Adjacent To The Line.  No One Knew Where The Train

Would Pull Up.  Ten Minutes After It Did So,  A Ring Was

Formed In A Meadow Close At Hand.  The Men Stripped,  And

Tossed For Places.  Heenan Won The Toss,  And With It A

Considerable Advantage.  He Was Nearly A Head Taller Than

Sayers,  And The Ground Not Being Quite Level,  He Chose The

Higher Side Of The Ring.  But This Was By No Means His Only

'Pull.'  Just As The Men Took Their Places The Sun Began To

Rise.  It Was In Heenan's Back,  And Right In The Other's

Face.

 

Heenan Began The Attack At Once With Scornful Confidence; And

In A Few Minutes Sayers Received A Blow On The Forehead Above

His Guard Which Sent Him Slithering Under The Ropes; His Head 

Chapter 42 Pg 227

And Neck,  In Fact,  Were Outside The Ring.  He Lay Perfectly

Still,  And In My Ignorance,  I Thought He Was Done For.  Not A

Bit Of It.  He Was Merely Reposing Quietly Till His Seconds

Put Him On His Legs.  He Came Up Smiling,  But Not A Jot The

Worse.  But In The Course Of Another Round Or Two,  Down He

Went Again.  The Fight Was Going All One Way.  The Englishman

Seemed To Be Completely At The Mercy Of The Giant.  I Was So

Disgusted That I Said To My Companion:  'Come Along,  Bertie, 

The Game's Up.  Sayers Is Good For Nothing.'

 

But Now The Luck Changed.  The Bull-Dog Tenacity And Splendid

Condition Of Sayers Were Proof Against These Violent Shocks. 

The Sun Was Out Of His Eyes,  And There Was Not A Mark Of A

Blow Either On His Face Or His Body.  His Temper,  His

Presence Of Mind,  His Defence,  And The Rapidity Of His

Movements,  Were Perfect.  The Opening He Had Watched For Came

At Last.  He Sprang Off His Legs,  And With His Whole Weight

At Close Quarters,  Struck Heenan's Cheek Just Under The Eye. 

It Was Like The Kick Of A Cart-Horse.  The Shouts Might Have

Been Heard Half-A-Mile Off.  Up Till Now,  The Betting Called

After Each Round Had Come To 'Ten To One On Heenan'; It Fell

At Once To Evens.

 

Heenan Was Completely Staggered.  He Stood For A Minute As If

He Did Not Know Where He Was Or What Had Happened.  And Then, 

An Unprecedented Thing Occurred.  While He Thus Stood,  Sayers

Put Both Hands Behind His Back,  And Coolly Walked Up To His

Foe To Inspect The Damage He Had Inflicted.  I Had Hold Of

The Ropes In Heenan's Corner,  Consequently Could Not See His

Face Without Leaning Over Them.  When I Did So,  And Before

Time Was Called,  One Eye Was Completely Closed.  What Kind Of

Generosity Prevented Sayers From Closing The Other During The

Pause,  Is Difficult To Conjecture.  But His Forbearance Did

Not Make Much Difference.  Heenan Became More Fierce,  Sayers

More Daring.  The Same Tactics Were Repeated; And Now,  No

Longer To The Astonishment Of The Crowd,  The Same Success

Rewarded Them.  Another Sledge-Hammer Blow From The

Englishman Closed The Remaining Eye.  The Difference In The

Condition Of The Two Men Must Have Been Enormous,  For In Five

Minutes Heenan Was Completely Sightless.

 

Sayers,  However,  Had Not Escaped Scot-Free.  In Countering

The Last Attack,  Heenan Had Broken One Of The Bones Of

Sayers' Right Arm.  Still The Fight Went On.  It Was Now A

Brutal Scene.  The Blind Man Could Not Defend Himself From

The Other's Terrible Punishment.  His Whole Face Was So

Swollen And Distorted,  That Not A Feature Was Recognisable. 

But He Evidently Had His Design.  Each Time Sayers Struck Him

And Ducked,  Heenan Made A Swoop With His Long Arms,  And At

Last He Caught His Enemy.  With Gigantic Force He Got Sayers'

Head Down,  And Heedless Of His Captive's Pounding,  Backed

Step By Step To The Ring.  When There,  He Forced Sayers' Neck

On To The Rope,  And,  With All His Weight,  Leant Upon The

Englishman's Shoulders.  In A Few Moments The Face Of The 

Chapter 42 Pg 228

Strangled Man Was Black,  His Tongue Was Forced Out Of His

Mouth,  And His Eyes From Their Sockets.  His Arms Fell

Powerless,  And In A Second Or Two More He Would Have Been A

Corpse.  With A Wild Yell The Crowd Rushed To The Rescue. 

Warning Cries Of 'The Police!  The Police!' Mingled With The

Shouts.  The Ropes Were Cut,  And A General Scamper For The

Waiting