LITERATURE.

Otago Daily Times, Issue 18293, 9 July 1921, Page 2

LITERATURE.

POETS AND PUGILISTS SELF-EXPRESSION AND SELFDEFENCE. By Constant Reader. At first sight the close relation between poets and pugilists may be difficult to discover. A very slight consideration, however, is sufficient to reveal it. The poet is the master of the art of self-expression ; the pugilist, the master of the art of selfdefence. The one is the complement of the other. Exactly ICO years ago, there was published in London a little book called “Ttio Fancy,” described as “A Selection from the Poetical Remains of the late Peter Corcoran, of Cray’s Inn, Student at Law, with a brief Memoir of his Life.” Under tiro anonymity of ‘‘Peter Corcoran” was concealed the personality of John Hamilton Reynolds, the friend and intimate of Keats, and one of the little circle which included Charles Armitage Brown. “The Fancy” purports to toll the fortunes and sample the poetry of an ill-starred youth called Peter Corcoran, who has been lured away from lair prospects in love and literature by a passion for the prize-ring. A reprint of ‘‘lhe Fancy” was published some ten years since, after being out of print for a long period, with a prefactory Memoir and Notes by Mr John Masefield and thirteen illustrations by Mr Jack B. Yeats. At once the relation between poets and pugilists begins to appear, Reynolds himself was a poet with a passion for the prize-ring, and Mr John Masefield, who wrote Reynolds’s memoir, is a poet who, in ‘‘The Everlasting Mercy,” has painted a never-to-be-forgotten picture of a prize-fight. In the cabled account of Iho Dcmpsoy-Carpentier fight for the world’s championship, there was the sentence, “Carpontier’s face was badly torn and his thumb was broken.” Mr Masefield’s lines at once came into my mind; — Try to imagine if you can The kind of manhood in the man, And if you’d like to feel his pain You sprain your thumb and hit tho sprain. And hit it hard, with all your power On something hard for half an hour, While some one thumps you black and blue, And then you’ll know what Billy knew. In ‘‘The Everlasting Mercy” Mr Masefield, like Mr G. Bernard Shaw in “Cashel Byron’s Profession,” draws a clear distinction between the boxers themselves and the crowd of sightseers drawn together partly by an innate love of cruelty and bloodshed and partly because of the commercialisation of tho prize-ring. ‘‘Put a stop to boxing for money,” says Mr Shaw, “and pugilism will give society no further trouble.” He avows that his purpose in writing “Cashel Byron’s Profession” was to present the prize-fighter and his pursuits without any romantic glamour, ‘‘for, indeed. the true artistic material of tho story is tho comedy of the contrast between the realities of tho ring and the common romantic glorification or sentimental abhorrence of it.” Mr Shaw, indeed, complains that ‘‘our non-combatant citizens arc so fond of setting other people to fight.” Mr Masefield expresses a siniilar complaint, only very much more vividly in the wellknown lines: The stakes were drove, the ropes were hitched. Into tho ring my hat I pitched. And looking round I felt a spite At all who'd come to sec me fight; Tho five .and forty human faces Inflamed by drink and going to races. Faces of men who’d never been Merry or true or live or clean; Who’d never felt the boxer’s trim Of brain divinely knit to limb, Nor felt the whole live body go One tingling health from top to toe; Nor took a punch nor given a swing, But just soaked dcn.dy round the ring Until their brains and bloods were foul Enough to make their throttles howl, While wo whom Jesus died to teach Fought round on round, three minutes each. Multiply the “five and forty human faces ’ many times until they total the 91,000 spectators who witnessed the DempseyCarpontier fight; add the 1000 police and tho 1000 firemen needed to preserve order and manage the crowd; include the 700 newspaper reporters; and the spirit animating the vast throng at Jersey City may readily be imagined. As showing to what an extent American commercialism has robbed pugilism of whatever element of poetry it once possessed, it is only necessary to contrast tho newspaper account of tho Dempsey-Carpenticr fight with Mr Masefield’* attempt to recreate the fight of 100 years ago:

Going to a fight in those days was an. event in life, like going to married or to receive a knighthood. To go to a fight, and to got the right place, and to see the battle, demanded a good deal of skill and a. wide acquaintance among the rakish. The principals and their seconds generally planned to moot on some smooth field close to the border-lines of two or three counties. They would choose a nice grassv meadow, and pass the word among the'knowing; but if the fight were an important one, they generally selected an alternative site just within the adjacent county, and passed the word for that also. Sometimes “the Fancy” went astray upon the road, one part going to one site and another to the second. Even when the parties had come together and the fight had begun, there was always the chance of police interruption, in which case the company had to move along across the border lino. On the morning of a fight the roads out of London were thronged with gigs, all following the gig of some sportsman, who was likely to know where the battle was to bo. The road to Epsom on "Derby Day offers but an indifferent-parallel. The road to a battlefield presented a far more stirring pageant than anything to be seen in those days. The sports drove down in gigs, behind their own bits of blood, and it was a point of honour among them to ride over anything they overtook. Some of them tooled dow-n “four-in-hand” with “fifteen on top, six inside, a two-foot horn, an ice-house, two cases of chnmpagno, and sixteen boxes of cigars.” The rule was “all coloured neckcloths hut white; all coloured hats but black”; and the pace was the limft of the team, and God take caro of the turnpike. They came down to the field in glory, singing and shouting, and playing sweet tones on the horn. The very knowing ones had an art, which they had brought to perfection, but which has since declined. It may be defined as long-distance spitting; and f Tt is astonishing,” says one who knew, “to what a degree of precision these marksmen have attained.” The whips had another art, that of lifting the hats of passers with an adroit flick of the lash. Those who had no such arts fell hack upon their natural resources, and amused themselves with chaff. The noise, and the songs, and the music of the horns, and the thunder of the galloping horses, were not less stirring than the gallantry of the equipments. Each man wore the colours of his fancy ; and each white overcoat was hung with a flag or streamer at the neck, where the blue and while neckcloth came rolling from its scarf-pin. The dand'es came flaunting in their crimsons and now and then a famous fighter tooled past behind postilions in scarlet. Tom Cribh often travelled to a fight in a four-horsed open carriage, each horse gay with blue ribbons,. and the English colours flying from the box. ' The people turned out to see him as though he were a king, and the bolls rang in the belfries as he passed, and the girls flung flowers at him. And then the battlefield—-so perfectly described by Ilazlrtt and by poor Peter Corcoran. Wo have only to turn to their descriptions to re-create the whole scene. There are the gigs, and roaches and curricles drawn up in the field and crowded with sports. Jews, and flash coves. There is the invioMi green turf, with its white-roped square, and the colours of the men upon the stakes. There are the booths with their flags flying, and the tnaeers running their patter, and the swells in their capes and white hats 1 There are the members of “the Fancy” chewing straws, a?d gathering into little knots. And there, with music to welcome them, come the two principr.!„ swat.hed in rug? and sucking oranges. Then comes the heart-stirring moment when the Gipsies heat back the moh from the ring-ropes with their whips. The principals toss their hats into the ring and jump over the ropes, and spin a silver crown for (lie choice of corners. Then the two men peel, aided by tlieT . seconds, amid a little chaff and heavy betting. Ah! it was life to see the two athletes advancing to the scratch, while the ring became bushed, and the ear heard tlm time-keeper’s watch tick. And to see (lie muscles playing under the white, tense skin, and the sparring for a lead, and the eves of the fighters bright and eager. “And then,” as ■Reynolds says, “the fight." It was li f e indeed, blit it was something mo-e. It was. as Hazlitt tells us, “ the high and heroic state of

In any contest between the fights of today and the fights of a hundred years ago, mention should be made of the improved machinery for the dissemination of the news of the victory and tho detailed description of the contest. To-day hardly has the knockout blow been delivered ere it is wirelessed all over the world and a lengthy description is speedily put upon the cables. Tho fight between “ great, heavy, clumsy, longarmed Bill Noate ’’ and Thomas ILckmnn “ tho Gas-man,” took place on December 11, 1821; mid Ilnzlitt’s famous account of the fight—one of the gems of English literature —was contributed to tho Now Monthly Magazine for February, 1822. The fight over, Hazlitt. remarks" The carrierpigeons now mounted into tho air, and one of them flew with tho news of husband’s victory to the bosom of Mrs Noato. Alas for Mrs Hickman.” A modern parallel is found in the statement: “Madame Carpenticr burst into tears on learning that her husband's nose had been broken and his eyes injured. She said, ‘ Oh, poor, Georges! I hope ho was not much hurt.’ Mr Masefield gives a glimpse of Reynolds at a “claret feast” odven by .Keats and his friend Charles Armitage Brown, and the recent identification of Brown’s grave at Now Plymouth, links the recollection with New Zealand. Reynolds eventually forsook poetry and pugilism for the law, and Mr Masefield says. “Tho law had him ‘in thrall’ but only ‘nor’ nor westerly ’ for ho bad still sufficient poetry in him to get ‘a little tipsy—but pleasantly so ’ with tho half dozen merry men about the table.” To this Mr Masefield—who. when he wrote it, was not married —sympathetically adds. — A year later, when Keats was in his last illness, and the old merry circle was broken up, he felt the chains of law drawing more closely about him. The delights of going a-roving by the light of the moon wore almost over for him. The routine of tho office and the attractions of a. beautiful young lady began to lure him from his old jolly haunts towards the primness of married life. ’lhey looked for him in vain at the “Fives Courts. Jack Randall filled him no more cherry brandy. He shared no more gigs, and a stock of black silk had replaced tho blue Belcher round his neck. Ho was seeing his last of the sad and mad and sweet and merry days. He was preparing the sacrifice (himself the victim) with gladness, perhaps, but yet with an after-tas f e of melancholy. He was going to bo married. In the preface to Cashel Byron’s Profession” Mr Bernard Shaw discourses on “The Morals of Pugilistic Fiction,” and relates the novel to tho prize ring almost as closely as does Reynolds poetry and pugilism. “Even in the' best nineteenth century novels,” says Mr Shaw, “tho heroes knock the villains down.” Particularising, he continues : Bulwor Lytton’s Kenelm Chillingly was a “ scientific ” pugilist, though his technique will hardly be recognised by experts. Thackeray, who, when defeated .n a parliamentary election, publicly compared himself to Gregson beaten by Gully, loved a fight almost as much as he loved a fool. Even tho great Dickens himself never quite got away from this sort of schoolboyishneas; for though Jo Gargery knocking down Orlick is much and more plausible than Oliver Twist punching the head of Noah Claypole, still the principle is the same; virtue still insists on victory, domination, and triumphant assault and battery. ... There is on abominable vein of retaliatary violence all through tho literature of the nineteenth century. Whether it is Macaulay describing tho flogging of Titus Oates, or Dickens inventing the scene in which old Martin Ohuzzlewit bludgeons Pecksniff, the curious chiidishne-ss of the English character, its naughty relish for primitive brutalities, and tolerance of physical indignities, its unreasoning destructiveness when incommoded, crop up in all directions. ... And so every popular English novel becomes a gospel of .pugilism. Although Mr Shaw does not explicitly mention tho circumstance, one of tho best ilustrations of his dictum is to bo found in George Borrow s description of the fight with the Flaming Tinman in Dingley Dell, when Luvengro was seconded by Isobel Boiners. To return, however, to poetry and pugilism, there is to be found among the “poetical remains” of “Peter Corcorcan” a “Sonnet” on “The Nonpareil,” whom Mr A. V. Lucas includes with “The Champions” in his anthology “Good Company : A Rally of Men”; —

Sonnet on the Nonpareil. “None hut himself can bo his parallel.”

With marble-coloured shoulders—and keen eyes, Protected by a forehead broad and white— And hair cut close lest it impede the sight, And clenched hands, firm, and of punishing size— Steadily held, or motion’d wary-wise, To hit or stop—and kerchief too drawn tight O’er the unyielding loins, to keep from flight The inconstant wind, that all too often flies — The Nonpareil stands! Fame, whose bright eyes run o’er With joy to see a Chicken of her own, Dips her rich pen in claret, and writes down Under the letter E, first on the score, “Randall, —John, —Irish Parents ;—ago not known, — Good with both hands, and only ten stone four!”

In a footnote Reynolds explains that “of all the gj-eat men of this age, in poetry, philosophy, or pugilism, there is no one of such transcendant talent as Randall; —no one who combines the finest natural powers with the most elegant and finished acquired ones. The late Professor Stewart .(who has loft the learned ring) is acknowledged to bo clever in philosophy, but he is a left-handed metaphysical fighter at best, and cannot be relied upon at closing with his subject. Lord Byron is a powerful poet, with a mind weighing fourteen stone; but ho is too sombro a hitter and is Apt to lose his temper —Randall has no defect, or at least ho has not betrayed the appearance of one. His figure is remarkable, when peeled, for its statue-like beauty, and nothing can equal the alacrity with which he uses either hand, or the coolness with which he “receives." His goodness on his legs, Boxiana (a Lord Eldon in the skill and caution of his judgments) assures us, is unequalled. Ho doubles up an opponent, as a friend lately declared, as easily as though he were picking a flower or pinching a girl’s ebook-. He is about to fight Jos. Hudson, who challenged him lately at the Roval Tennis Court. Randall declared, that ‘though he had declined fighting, he would accommodate Joshua’; a kind and benevolent reply, which does equal honour to his head and heart. The editor of this little volume, like Goldfinch in ’The Road to Ruin,’ would not stay away for a thousand pounds. He has already looked about for a tall horse and a taxed cart, and he has some hones of compassing a drab coat and a white hat, for he has no wish to appear singular at such SW'SI ” “The Fancy” concludes with some linos entitled “What G L^fe , ” These clenriv and irrefutably e=ta'' ,: ?h the relation between Poetry and Pugilism.

And do you ask me “What is Life?” And do you ask me “What is pleasure?” My muse and I are not at strife, So listen, lady, to my measure; Oh, it is Life to see a proud And dauntless man step, full of hopes, Up to the P.C. stakes and ropes, Throw in his hat, and with a spring Get gallantly within the ring; Eye the wide crowd, and) walk awhile

Taking nil choerings with a smile: To see him strip—his well-trained form, White, glowing, muscular, and warm, All beautiful in conscious power, Relaxed and qqiet, till tho hour; His gleasy and transparent frame, In radiant plight to strive for fame I To look upon the clean shap’d limb In silk and flannel clothed trim; While round the waist the kerchief tied Makes tho flesh glow in richer pride. Tis more than* LIFE, —to watch him hold His hand forth, tremulous yet bold, Over his second’s, and to clasp His rival’s in a quiet grasp; To watch the noble attitude He takes, —the crowd in breathless mood, — And then to see, with adamant start, The muscles sot,—and the great heart Hurl a courageous splendid light Into the eye—and then the Fight.