I do not say that a glove-fight is in itself a visually
disgusting exhibition. I saw no blood spilt, the other night, and no
bruises expressed, by either the `light-weights' or the `heavy-
weights.' I dare say, too, that the fighters enjoy their profession,
on the whole. But I contend that it is a very lamentable profession,
in that it depends on the calculated prostitution of good natural
energies. A declaration of love prefaced by a grimace, such as I saw
in my dream, seems to me not one whit more monstrous than a violent
onslaught prefaced by a hand-shake. If two men are angry with each
other, let them fight it out (provided I be not one of them) in the
good old English fashion, by all means. But prize-fighting is to be
deplored as an offence against the soul of man. And this offence is
committed, not by the fighters themselves, but by us soft and
sedentary gentlemen who set them on to fight. Looking back at ancient
Rome, no one blames the poor gladiators in the arena. Every one
reserves his pious horror for the citizens in the amphitheatre. Yet
how are we superior to them? Are we not even as they--suspended at
exactly their point between barbarism and civilisation. In course of
time, doubtless, `the ring'will die out. For either we shall become so
civilised that we shall not rejoice in the sight of painful violence,
or we shall relapse into barbarism and go into the mauling business on
our own account.
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