The first American contender for the World Heavyweight Championship was a Negro.
An author miraculously finds a lost, valuable manuscript.
Paul Revere did not write alone.
Can you imagine that?
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this is Lindsay McHarry, and those statements are all true.
And in just a moment or two, my thespian friends and I are going to prove them to you.
So we'll be seeing you.
In a moment or two.
Let's go.
So I don't know anything about it, that didn't
Well, now we're all set and raring to go, so here's our first Can You Imagine That item
for this session.
You know, I think we should put aside a special department and call it the It Couldn't Happen
Pigeon Hole.
Here's an interesting and amazing story I dug up.
It seems that Hermann Sudermann, the noted German playwright and novelist, in his early
days as a writer had to work pretty hard to make both ends meet.
One day he sold a novel to a newspaper, but the editor insisted that Sudermann write the
whole thing at once, not just a chapter or two at a time.
So Hermann Sudermann went to his home and laboriously completed the entire book, page
after page, of closely handwritten manuscript.
Then he started to Berlin to deliver the story, but he had to stop at Insterburg, a town in
East Prussia, to change trains, and there...
This is where I change trains for Berlin, is it not?
Yeah, but your train will not be here for a little while.
Oh, all right.
Thank you.
Hermann.
What?
It's Benner, Fritz.
Where are you?
It has been a long time since we last seen each other, Nikvar.
Fritz, what are you doing here at Insterburg?
Visiting the town.
And you know what?
Here with me are Heinrich Müller, Schantz, and all the rest of the old friends.
That is fine, fine.
I have some time before I must catch the Berlin train.
It will be just like old times.
All of us together, Nikvar.
And, Gabbard Fritz, I must be sure to catch the Berlin train, because I have right here
in my pocket a manuscript that will mean bread and butter.
I have not had it so easy, and I have got to get this book to the editor.
Don't worry, Hermann.
You will put you on the Berlin train, all right.
Now come on.
The others are at the end.
Well the reunion was staged, and the next morning Hermann Südemann found himself on
the train, arrived in Berlin.
Perhaps the celebration of the night before had clouded Herr Südemann's brain somewhat.
At any rate, he stepped off the train.
I want the carriage to take me to...
Oh, oh, du lieber, oh, Hermann.
What is wrong?
My manuscript.
I had it here in my pocket.
Oh, no, no, now it's gone, gone.
Oh, that works.
And perhaps it is still on the train.
On the train.
It has to be.
If it is not, then I am lost.
Oh, I must get it.
Please, please help me.
I have to get it.
Please, please help me.
But the manuscript was nowhere to be found.
Südemann sat in his hotel room in Berlin trying to rewrite the book, but the words
wouldn't come.
Heartbroken, he made his way back to his hometown, and once more he had to stop at
Insterburg for the train change.
Desperate, with little money and his friends gone from the town, Südemann decided to get
himself something to eat, so he went into a delicatessen.
Guten Morgen.
You wish something?
Sure, I want a herring.
One herring?
Yeah, one little herring.
I'm not very hungry.
Sehr gut, ja.
Do you want it wrapped?
You may eat it here if you wish.
No, no, danke.
Please, wrap it up.
Ja, mein Herr.
Here it is, mein Herr.
Too fennig.
Himmel.
Oh, du lieber.
What's the matter?
What is it?
Are you ill?
No, no, no, no, no, but this paper.
You quickly, quickly bring me all the wrapping paper you have.
Quickly, I must have it.
I must, I must.
But there is writing.
Just a minute.
I must have it.
I must, I must.
But there is writing on it.
Ja, I know.
It is my writing, my writing, my manuscript, my book.
And it was Hermann Sudeimann's book, all but a few pages of it.
The novel thus recovered was Frau Sorge, the book that established Sudeimann's reputation
and fame.
Can you imagine that?
The French troops are on their way.
The British are coming.
Well, that must be Paul Revere, writing from the
Charlestown to Lexington to warn the colonists that the English soldiers are on the march.
But what's that other voice doing there?
Well, Paul didn't ride alone that night of April 18th, 1775.
No, indeed, his companion was one William Dawes, but it was Paul Revere's name which
has come down to us through the years as the man who made that historic ride.
By the way, that patriot's name was not originally Revere.
No, Paul was the third son of Apollos Revoir, who migrated to Boston from Germany and upon
reaching America changed the family name to Revere.
Can you imagine that?
But of course, Paul Revere wasn't only known among his fellow men as somewhat of a horseman.
As you probably know, he was also a maker of false teeth.
Here is an advertisement which has been discovered in the Boston Gazette of August 29th, 1768.
Whereas many persons are so unfortunate as to lose their foreteeth by accident and other
ways to their great detriment not only in looks, but in speaking both in public and
private.
This is to inform all such that they may have them replaced by false ones that look as well
as natural and answer the end of speaking to all intents by Paul Revere Goldsmith near
the head of Dr. Clark's fourth, Boston.
Can you imagine that?
Did you know that the first American ever to fight for the world's heavyweight boxing
championship was a Negro?
That's right.
His name was Tom Mullinoh.
He had been a slave on a plantation in the state of Virginia and when his master heard
that Tom had given a terrific whipping to a Negro bully on a neighboring plantation,
he promptly gave Tom his freedom and suggested that he follow the pugilistic profession.
Gratefully, Tom Mullinoh embraced the idea, also accepting his former master's offer of
transportation to England.
Then the recognized center of the boxing sport and the home of the world's heavyweight champion,
Tom Cribb.
When Mullinoh arrived in England in the year 1810, he negotiated eight fights, won them
all, received less than $350 for all of them and became a definite contender for the championship.
He finally met Cribb at Copsville Common on December 10th, 1810.
Before a crowd of 20,000, Mullinoh mauled Cribb all over the ring for 30 rounds.
Yes, I said 30 rounds.
They took their boxing seriously in those days.
Well, let's imagine that we're listening to a radio broadcast of the Mullinoh-Cribb
battle as the announcer of the ringside says...
Well, ladies and gentlemen, Tom Cribb is in pretty bad shape.
The seconds are working over him hard right now.
Yes, sir, he doesn't look much like a champion.
Well, on the other hand, the American is still going top roll.
Here's the bell announcing the start of the 31st round.
The lads come out of their corners.
Mullinoh is making a dash for Cribb.
Hits him with a hard right, smash and drops him.
The referee motions the American to a neutral corner.
He's counting.
One.
Two.
Back a minute, right a minute.
What happened then?
I hope you believe it, ladies and gentlemen.
The American, in trying to avoid bodily contact with Cribb, stumbled and pitched Ed Long right
into a ring post.
He's unconscious.
Yes, now, both men are lying prone on the canvas, completely out.
Can you imagine that?
Well, now, we'll see what's going to happen now.
Both men were revived for the 32nd round and both groggy, virtually out on their feet,
pushed and shoved each other unsteadily around the ring until toward the end of the round,
they bumped into each other, weaved a moment again, and then both fell to the floor as
the bell rang.
Somewhat revived once more, they were shoved by their seconds into the ring for the start
of the 33rd round.
And here we go for another round of this grueling fight, ladies and gentlemen.
Both Cribb and Marlino looked badly, very badly indeed.
Neither one looks as though he...
There!
Cribb has landed a neat one to the American's face.
He's down, ladies and gentlemen, he's down.
The American is down.
The referee motions Cribb to a neutral corner and begins to count.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
He's still lying there.
He doesn't move.
Eight.
Nine.
Ten.
And he's out.
Tom Cribb is still heavyweight champion of the world.
After the fight, it was discovered that when the American Negro dove into the ring post
in the 31st round, he had fractured his skull.
But that didn't change the decision and Tom Cribb retained his title.
Marlino's head injury affected his memory.
And although he fought a few times after that big battle, he didn't earn much, finally drifted
into oblivion and was found eight years later in an army barracks in Ireland dead.
But Tom Marlino, former Negro slave on a Virginia plantation, still retained his title as the
first American contender for the world's heavyweight championship.
Can you imagine that?
Did you ever hear of a songwriter who after writing one of the most singable and successful
popular tunes of his time refused to write another?
Well, here's one.
His name was Michael Nolan, a singer in the music halls of London several generations
past.
He penned a ditty, later singing it and popularizing it among English audiences.
Soon, American music publishers hearing of the immense popularity of this new foreign
hit brought it to the United States and it was introduced at the old London theater in
New York by Annie Hart, known professionally as the Bowery Girl.
Its lilting melody very, very soon stole its way into the hearts of all those who heard
it.
And within a short time, thousands of copies of the song were being sold, not by one publisher,
but by all the publishers who cared to take the trouble to set the song up in notes and
type.
You see, that happened in the days before the international copyright laws had been
passed and Michael Nolan, its author and composer, never received a cent of royalties from the
American sales of his song.
He felt so bitter about the situation that he resolved never again to write another song
and he never did.
Can you imagine that?
When you hear the title of the number, you'll realize why Nolan gave way to resentment.
You've sung it many times yourself, but we're pleased to present our orchestra and quartet
reviving all the potent memories inherent in the lovable old Waltz, Little Annie Rooney.
She's my sweetheart, I'm her boy.
A winning way, a pleasant smile, dressed so neat but quite in style.
I'm a married chap, your time too wild as Little Annie Rooney.
She's my sweetheart, I'm her boy.
I'm her joy, soon we'll marry, never too far.
Well I guess we've about run out of time on this session of Can You Imagine That?
But we're all hoping you'll be listening again when we appear next time on this same station.
Until that time, this is Lindsay McCarry saying goodbye now.
Cheers.