The Prize-Ring served its turn and passed; and modern boxing, roughly, fills the gap. At present we do not see why modern boxing should not go on indefinitely. For all that people say human nature has changed, does change, will persist in changing, and—we dare hope—for the better. By modern standards the Prize-Ring was brutal, just as the execution of young lads for sheep-stealing was brutal. The same issue of the Times in June, 1833, which reported the acquittal at the Hertford Assizes of Deaf Burke for the manslaughter of Simon Byrne (See Chapter XIV, Part I.), informed its readers that a man found guilty of stealing spoons to the value of 27s. had been sentenced to transportation for life. Human nature has rebelled against the greater brutality as it did against the less. And war is the ultimate expression of brutality in man, and as we have seen only too lately, a brutality which carried to its logical conclusion (or very nearly) surpasses anything in that sort that mankind has been guilty of throughout the ages. A case, you say, against the truth or hope or possibility of change in human nature? Not quite; for human consciousness did, even before the German war, begin to realise what war would mean, and since then has made, is making, genuine efforts to withstand the tide of what pessimists regard as an inevitable tendency.

But apart from war in which we now know that “fair play” is ridiculously impossible, a little friendly hurting of each other in a roped ring and cold blood will do no harm to any two men. Not as a preparation for the hardships of warfare, not necessarily as a means of self-defence, but in view of a fine ideal of physical fitness, the strain and pain of violent athletics should be perpetuated. And this, apart from the fun of the thing (which after all matters most) is the excuse and reason for amateur boxing. So let boxing be regarded as a sport, and let us leave it at that.

Old prejudices live with extraordinary vigour: and boxing—the very fact of it—the peaceful and positively harmless encounter of two men with well-padded gloves stirs the deepest rancour still. We are not surprised at this rancour in people who are not English, French, or American: most of us have to take their point of view for granted, because we find it so difficult to capture. We think that bull-fights are barbarous, and a friend of mine who organised an amateur boxing competition in Monte Video and tried to hire the bull-ring for the purpose was prohibited by the Uruguayan authorities because boxing was—barbarous. You come up against a brick wall sometimes, and you can’t see through it, so it’s not the slightest good trying to explain the plants which grow on the other side.

But in England, and in America too, the prejudices of the “righteous overmuch,” in fact, the prejudices of the Puritan tradition against the Prize-Ring have lived on to regard modern boxing in a similar light. My personal prejudice against overmuch righteousness and the Puritan tradition make the gist of my researches into the history of the Prize-Ring and of professional boxing a very nasty pill to swallow, very painful to digest. I don’t know that I ever hoped to disprove calumnies, for I had always supposed that there was no reason, but a mere love of softness and Pleasant-Sunday-Afternoon respectability behind these objections to boxing. But, as a matter of fact, I have found, to my disgust, that there is much to be said for the “respectable” view—not, of course, on Puritan grounds, but both on humane grounds and in the cause of good sportsmanship. I believe that sport to-day (I don’t say “amateur sport” because I am unable to recognise as sport any pastime that is not, in its true sense, “amateur”) is better and finer and more chivalrous than it has ever been. It is, as a rule, fair—quixotically fair very often, and the more quixotic it is the better. Where a good sportsman could win a fight within the rules, but risks the chance of losing because, on a particular occasion, he is not satisfied that the letter of the rules is adequate, he is behaving quixotically, and as no one suffers but himself, his quixoticism doesn’t matter. A game is only a game.

We might almost define sportsmanship as quixotry, the giving of something for nothing. The word amateur in other relations has become derisive, and has lost its genuine meaning. But an amateur in sport is still recognised as one who loves an occupation for its own sake. He loves it so much that he will deny himself softer pleasures in order to be proficient, and is prepared to undergo serious hardship in its pursuit.

In an affair of life and death, sportsmanship is not involved. We try very hard indeed to make out that it is or that it ought to be, but a man who obeys the rules of—say—the Amateur Boxing Association when he is attacked in a dark lane by a ruffian with half a brick, will have no tribute to his wisdom in any obituary notice written by me.

Sport to-day is beautifully fair. Not so, invariably, are professional athletics.

The Prize-Ring, by its rules, the application of its rules, and the disregard of its rules was what ordinarily intelligent and humane people nowadays call brutal. The professional boxing contest is seldom that, though, as we have seen, individual cases of deliberate cruelty have been known. The object amongst the majority of professional pugilists nowadays is not the enjoyment of a good contest and the money for a contest fairly won, but the money alone for a contest won anyhow. The average pro. is quite happy so long as the referee leaves him alone. He will do anything the referee lets him. What, he asks, is that official for? He is there to see fair play, and to stop the boxer if he does wrong.

But apart from the actual boxing, much connected with its “promotion” and management is so nauseously vulgar, false, unfair, and dishonest, that remaining prejudices based on that foundation are not unintelligible.