Pugilists and Princes

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 922, 15 March 1930, Page 18

Pugilists and Princes

At World-Famous Club

HE closing of the old Covent Garden'home of O NfiNO j the National Sporting Club is more than the reSk—moval of a home of

happy memories; . it marks the destruction of one of London’s historic buildings.

The ring at Covent Garden was the Mecca of all good boxers over the world, and more than one of the strangers was surprised to find, instead of a vast ornate palace, an interior rather like that of a country church, capable of seating not more than 1,500 spectators.

It Is true (writes Mr. J. B. Booth) that the old house liad suffered many changes in its long and honourable career. In 1911, with a friend, I visited the old familiar club for the last time, for the process of reconstruction was in full swing.

Behind the well-known facade, the old building lay in scattered, dissolute ruins. Ten feet below' the surface of the street, a bread area of broken bricks, shivered columns, and shattered pillars, wrecked cornices and little mounds of limestone dust, were all that remained of the onetime mansion of Sir Kenelm Digby; later the Star Assembly Rooms for men of rank —it was no unusual thing for nine dukes to dine there of a night—later still, Evans’s Hotel, Supper Rooms and Music Hall, beloved of Thackeray, Ballantine, Yates, and the w'its; then the New Club —and the New Club dances were attended by

half the . peerage, including Edward VII. when Prince of Wales. Then came the Falstaff Club, for gay bachelSrs of both sexes, and last of all, the N-.S.C. Gone for ever were the four walls that looks down upon Sir Kenelm inventing, in his age of duelling, crude, chemical cures for sword-wounds; walls that in 1696 accommodated the first Cabinet Council held in England; walls that witnessed entertainments immortalised by Thackeray, that heard Paddy Green and poor old Jonghmanns bellowing: "One more glass before we’re paaarteeng!”; walls that witnessed one of the greatest glove fights In pugilistic history when Slavin took his terrific hiding from the greatest of the blacks, Peter Jackson. Slavin died only the other day, and his last visit to the old house was during the war when on leave from France. He was caught gazing at the portrait of his conqueror, which used to hang in the Strangers’ Room. He looked at It long, and in silence. Then, turning away: “What a man! What a man!” he muttered. And now the old house itself is going. Jackson, the Gentleman Of all the blacks who fotight at the Club —or elsewhere, the old stagers will tell you—Jackson was the greatest fighter and greatest gentleman.

But memories of other darkies arise. A black with less modest ideas as to what constituted a good time was Jack Johnson, never famous for his modesty. It w-as in .the N.S.C. that he w-as presented to ex-King Manoel of Portugal. Later, on being asked his emotions by a zealous reporter, he replied, simply: “Sure, I tried to set Ijjm at his ease. I may be on’y a niggah, but I’ve nevah been hard on a guy jest ’cos he’s fallen.’

Johnson was a curious personality. As a fighter he was pre-eminent. As a comedian he was inimitable, as witness his turn at the Palladium, when for one round he boxed George Robey, a delicious piece of fooling. The black’s judgment of distance was never better shown than when missing Robey by a hair’s breadth, he himself fell, a helpless victim to every wild swfhg, and the lightness of his fails might have made a professional acrobat jealous. And as a trencherman he almost rivalled Camera. At a certain dinner in his honour, I remember, he ate six chickens, with “fixings,” washing them down with generous .libations of old ale. There seemed an awful monotony about so much fowl.

In Jack Johnson’s palmy days the fighting men were beginning to develop a commercial sense, m which they differed from champions of the type of Pedlar Palmer, the “Box o’ Tricks,” whose first fight at the N.S.C. brought him £175 in cash, with which he retired, late at night, to a common lodging-house in Long Row, and escaped next day with £27. And as to IJie subject of boxers’ remuneration I remember going to the Club one Monday night with poor Phil May, and just as we reached our seats “Punch” Somebody, of Mile End. handed a fearful smash in the jaw to “Kid” Something, of who promptly fell in a heap with closed eyes, as though registering a vow never to speak again above a whisper. “What contest is this?” May asked Bill Baxter, a club second. “Semi-final of the Heavy-weight Novices,” was the reply. “And -what does the winner of this round get?” “Oh —about thirty bob.” May turned his cigar over with his tongue reflectively. Then, “What darn’d queer ideas some chaps have of earning a living!” he observed. By the time Tommy Burns came along the purses had grown—and so had the fighting men’s opinion of their drawing powers. “Would you prefer a purse, or a percentage of profits, Mr. Burns?” lie was asked.

“Now, I’ll tell you,” said Tommy, guilelessly. “I think this fight is going to attract attention an’ draw big, an’ I’m willing to-gamble a little bit—just a teeny little bit. I don’t want a guaranteed purse; ,I’m willin’ to fight for a percentage.” The promoters secretly rubbed their hands. “And what would you consider a fair percentage, Mr. Burns?” “Eighty-five,” replied the modest pugilist, and a couple of promoters fell over backwards.

Those were the early days of the “movies.” and it is a curious little historical fact, as showing the change of outlook, that when in 1907 the King's sons went' to see Langford, the black, smash the life half out of

“Tiger” Smith, the films were vetoed by authority —because the young Princes could be too clearly -seen! Times have changed since 1907, and the Prince of Wales sits at the ringside with the evergreen Harry Preston as mentor and guide.