Brighton College Magazine, A Devonshire Wrestling Match (1878)

NOTES BY THE WAY : A DEVONSHIRE WRESTLING MATCH.

HEARING from a fellow traveller in the train that there was to be some wrestling on the morrow at Moor Town, South Devon, and having some faint recollections of a grand description of the same in one of the London papers, probably the Daily Telegraph, we determined not to let slip so glorious an opportunity of seeing a sight almost peculiar to Devonshire and Cornwall; our expectation was, moreover, whetted by hearing there were to be some of the best men from either county present, and the champion of England himself, of whom our informant had the proud honour of being a guest. We set out early across a flank of Dart-moor, and would not suffer any of the allurements of the road— brawling streams and giant “Tors”—to divert us from the grand prospect we had in view. Picture to yourself a circle of green sward surrounded by rows of seats rising tier upon tier one above another, a special box erected for the umpires and judge, and an excited throng of spectators from all parts of Devon and Cornwall, gathered to support the prestige of their respective counties— gentry, stout yeomen, and sturdy yokels; the train crowded, the road thronged with wayfarers, and the scene all bustle and excite-ment. In the centre of the ring a couple of men, and several more waiting their turn at the side; fine stalwart men, with brawny arms and standing muscles, clothed in tight jerseys and short drawers— perfect specimens of splendid athletes. As they advance to take their place a loud burr of excitement and vociferous cries from their special friends and countymen, followed by a breathless silence as they grasp with manly grip one another’s hand and engage in the deadly struggle. I say picture to yourself all this, and you will be as disappointed as ourselves at the reality. We were, I think, the only passengers who got out at the station; found our way with difficulty down a small lane to the gate of a field, where we paid a shilling and found a row of benches to mark out a rude ring, with an untenanted grand stand of three tiers, made of rough pine logs; a small booth for the sale of refreshments; and half a hundred yokels sitting round, smoking long pipes and drinking small beer, and sour cider and weak gin and water. We were the gentry, the stout yeomen were unrepresented. In the centre were apparently two navvies in corduroys, with straps round their waists, heavy hobnailed boots, and dirty, loose canvas jackets. After grasping each other’s hands, the first object seemed to be to get hold of as much of the opponent’s jacket as was possible; then leaning against one another, shoulder to shoulder, they began to gyrate, gently kicking one another’s toes from time to time for a slight variety. Presently, a moment’s struggle, and both would fall together, but neither on the back—the only legitimate throw, as we understood. Whether after we left the sport became livelier (we believe kicking to any extent up to the knee is allowable), or the spectators more numerous or more select, or the excitement higher, or whether this was merely a hole-in-a-corner affair got up by some knowing publican to get rid of a surplus stock of old cider, we cannot say: we left by the next train-sadder and wiser men.

VIATOR.