A good Englishman--honour for ever to his name!--jumped into the
water, swam a quarter of a mile, and, by heaven's grace, escaped the
wicked sea-tigers and saved the unhappy distraught woman. That man's
name is Cavell: and I think of "nobility" in connection with him, and
not in connection with the manikins who rush over Epsom Downs.
I like to give a thought to the nobility of those men who guard and rule
a mighty empire; but I think very little of the creatures who merely
consume food and remain at home in rascally security. What a farce to
talk of encouraging "athletics"! The poor manikin who gets up on a racer
is not an athlete in any rational sense of the term. He is a wiry
emaciated being whose little muscles are strung like whipcord; but it is
strange to dignify him as an athlete. If he once rises above nine stone
in weight, his life becomes a sort of martyrdom; but, abstemious and
self-contained as he is, we can hardly give him the name which means so
much to all healthy Englishmen. For some time each day the wondrous
specimen of manhood must stew in a Turkish bath or between blankets; he
tramps for miles daily if his feet keep sound; he starts at five in the
morning and perhaps rides a trial or two; then he takes his weak tea and
toast, then exercise or sweating; then comes his stinted meal; and then
he starves until night.
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