John L. Sullivan's Seattle Takeover
When the world’s heavyweight champion brought his traveling theatrical troupe to town, the city went into a frenzy of gawking, impersonations, and mass hysteria.
The story, cleaned up
A cleaned-up reading of the newspaper page: spelling and layout repaired, one story lifted off a crowded page. It follows the original closely but it is not a transcription. The original page is below; read it if a detail matters.
Not since the visit of President Harrison last June has the presence of one man in Seattle caused as much stir as that of John L. Sullivan, actor and pugilist. All day long Commercial Street, in the vicinity of the Northern hotel, where the champion and his party were registered, showed signs of most unusual activity. Standing along on both sidewalks for nearly a block were generally from 100 to 200 men and boys, gazing open-mouthed at the hotel doors and windows in hope of catching a fleeting glimpse of the great man within.
The opera-house was crowded from floor to ceiling with people who went nominally to see the play, 'Honest Hearts and Willing Hands,' but actually to see the champion pugilist of the world in the guise of an actor. From the beginning, Sullivan was the center of attraction, and his first appearance on the stage was greeted with cheers from all parts of the house. The great mass of muscle showed to advantage behind the footlights, and when he makes a feint at hurrying the villains with his hat, a roar of delighted laughter rose to the roof.
But he shows as a bright, particular star in the scene in which he was most at home—the fight with Jack Ashton as Tug O'Brien. The gloves were pillows, the rounds were far too short to satisfy the lovers of the manly art, and the blows rained as thick about both men's heads as they ever do in an actual fight. There is no doubt they wanted more when they cheered the final blow on the side of the head that knocked Ashton sprawling. During the performance, an individual tried to impersonate the boxer in the lobby, which resulted in a comedic scene where the crowd realized they were being humbugged, but not until the joker and his friends had enjoyed themselves thoroughly.
“Ah, yer honor, I thought I'd like to shake yer hand. I'd rather take yer hand than that of President Harrison.”
Celebrity culture in 1892 was as performative and chaotic as today's social media frenzies, showing that Seattle's obsession with high-profile visitors isn't a new phenomenon. Even then, the line between a genuine star and a 'humbug' impersonator was thin, and the public's desire to participate in the spectacle was insatiable.
From readers
No comments yet. If you know something about this story — a correction, a family memory, a source — it belongs here.