intellectuality of the swimmer is relaxed, or partly suspended.
But the boxer, in action, has not a loose muscle or a sleepy brain cell. His mind is quicker and more watchful than a chess-player's. He has to gather his impulses and hurl them, straight and purposeful, with every moment and motion. It is not the big, evenly-disposed opposition of nature he has to overcome, like the swimmer or the runner, but the keen and precise cunning of an excited brain, that is watching him with eyes as bright as a hawk's.
There is no emulation or controversy so hot, so vital, so deliciously interesting, as the boxer's. The ecstacy of the single-stick is rude and brief; the wrestler's tug is comparatively slow and laborious; even the lunge of the foil is cold, slight, and vague, beside the life-touching kiss of the hot glove on neck, arm, or shoulder.
The nearer you come to nature, when you are not fighting nature, the deeper the enjoyment, whether of living, loving, exercising, playing, or fighting.
The elements of character which boxing, better than all other exercises, develops, are fairness of personal judgment and an acceptance of give-and-take.
The boxer must take as well as give. It is
