Come away from their broad, sane
simplicity and courage, and look upon the infamous hounds who are bred
in the congested regions--you are sickened and depressed.
I notice that the sporting gang talk only of betting, thieving,
whoremongering, or fighting. With regard to the latter pursuit, their
views are distinctly peculiar. A sudden, murderous rush in a crowded
bar, a quick, sly blow, and a run away--that is their notion of a manly
combat. In the days of the Tipton Slasher two Englishmen would fight
fairly like bulldogs for an hour at a stretch; no man thought of crowing
about a chance bit of bloodshed, or even a knock-down, for it was
understood that the combatants should fight on until one could not rise;
then they shook hands, and were friends. But the brutes whom I now see
are transformed Englishmen; they know that a fair upstanding contest
would not suit them, and their object is to land one cunning blow, then
to make as much noise as possible so as to attract attention. It is
cruelly funny to see a gaping blackguard, who has chanced to give
someone a black eye or a swollen nose, swaggering round like an absurd
bantam, and posing as a sort of athletic champion.
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