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
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 train ended this last of the greatest prize-fights.
We two took it easily, and as the mob were scuttling away
from the police, we saw Sayers with his backers, who were
helping him to dress. His arm seemed to hurt him a little,
but otherwise, for all the damage he had received, he might
have been playing at football or lawn tennis.
We were quietly getting into a first-class carriage, when I
was seized by the shoulder and roughly spun out of the way.
Turning to resent the rudeness, I found myself face to face
with Heenan. One of his seconds had pushed me on one side to
let the gladiator get in. So completely blind was he, that
the friend had to place his foot upon the step. And yet
neither man had won the fight.
We still think - profess to think - the barbarism of the
'Iliad' the highest flight of epic poetry; if Homer had sung
this great battle, how glorious we should have thought it!
Beyond a doubt, man 'yet partially retains the
characteristics that adapted him to an antecedent state.'
CHAPTER XLIII
THROUGH the Cayley family, I became very intimate with their
near relatives the Worsleys of Hovingham, near York.
Hovingham has now become known to the musical world through
its festivals, annually held at the Hall under the patronage
of its late owner, Sir William Worsley. It was in his
father's time that this fine place, with its delightful
family, was for many years a home to me. Here I met the
Alisons, and at the kind invitation of Sir Archibald, paid
the great historian a visit at Possil, his seat in Scotland.
As men who had achieved scientific or literary distinction
inspired me with far greater awe than those of the highest
rank - of whom from my childhood I had seen abundance -
Alison's celebrity, his courteous manner, his oracular
speech, his voluminous works, and his voluminous dimensions,
filled me with too much diffidence and respect to admit of
any freedom of approach. One listened to him, as he held
forth of an evening when surrounded by his family, with
reverential silence. He had a strong Scotch accent; and, if
a wee bit prosy at times, it was sententious and polished
prose that he talked; he talked invariably like a book. His
family were devoted to him; and I felt that no one who knew
him could help liking him.
When Thackeray was giving readings from 'The Four Georges,' I
dined with Lady Grey and Landseer, and we three went to hear
him. I had heard Dickens read 'The Trial of Bardell against
Pickwick,' and it was curious to compare the style of the two
great novelists. With Thackeray, there was an entire absence
of either tone or colour. Of course the historical nature of
his subject precluded the dramatic suggestion to be looked
for in the Pickwick trial, thus rendering comparison
inapposite. Nevertheless one was bound to contrast them.
Thackeray's features were impassive, and his voice knew no
inflection. But his elocution in other respects was perfect,
admirably distinct and impressive from its complete
obliteration of the reader.
The selection was from the reign of George the Third; and no
part of it was more attentively listened to than his passing
allusion to himself. 'I came,' he says, 'from India as a
child, and our ship touched at an island on the way home,
where my black servant took me a long walk over rocks and
hills until we reached a garden, where we saw a man walking.
"That is he," said the black man, "that is Bonaparte! He
eats three sheep every day, and all the little children he
can lay hands on!"' One went to hear Thackeray, to see
Thackeray; and the child and the black man and the ogre were
there on the stage before one. But so well did the lecturer
perform his part, that ten minutes later one had forgotten
him, and saw only George Selwyn and his friend Horace
Walpole, and Horace's friend, Miss Berry - whom by the way I
too knew and remember. One saw the 'poor society ghastly in
its pleasures, its loves, its revelries,' and the redeeming
vision of 'her father's darling, the Princess Amelia,
pathetic for her beauty, her sweetness, her early death, and
for the extreme passionate tenderness with which her father
loved her.' The story told, as Thackeray told it, was as
delightful to listen to as to read.
Not so with Dickens. He disappointed me. He made no attempt
to represent the different characters by varied utterance;
but whenever something unusually comic was said, or about to
be said, he had a habit of turning his eyes up to the
ceiling; so that, knowing what was coming, one nervously
anticipated the upcast look, and for the moment lost the
illusion. In both entertainments, the reader was naturally
the central point of interest. But in the case of Dickens,
when curiosity was satisfied, he alone possessed one;
Pickwick and Mrs. Bardell were put out of court.
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