—P. Egan, Boxiana (1823) Jackson’s13 Bond Street UNLATCHING THE ENTRANCE, Nathaniel stepped in and closed the door. The acrid smell of leather and perspiration wafted toward him as grunts, thuds, commands and shouts filled the air. Scanning the vast, high-ceilinged room which was relatively crowded with well-dressed men at different marked stations, Nathaniel rounded toward a wall of hooks. Boxing gloves neatly hung by their strings, most of them appearing unscuffed and so new the leather still had a shine to it. Posters of prizefights from all over England, city and countryside alike, were tacked and framed on all of the blue-grey walls serving as decor. The space and cleanliness was beyond impressive. He was used to dingy, cramped rooms with spit, blood, cigar ash, mounds of sweat-slathered clothes and piss from overturned chamber pots all over the training floors. But here…the entire expanse of the wooden floors had been swept so meticulously he could see the scrapes in the floor.
