I am satisfied that such a set of black-coated, stiff-jointed, soft-muscled, paste-complexioned youth as we can boast in our Atlantic cities never before sprang from loins of Anglo-Saxon lineage.  Of the females that are the mates of these males I do not here speak.  I preached my sermon from the lay-pulpit on this matter a good while ago.  Of course, if you heard it, you know my belief is that the total climatic influences here are getting up a number of new patterns of humanity, some of which are not an improvement on the old model.  Clipper-built, sharp in the bows, long in the spars, slender to look at, and fast to go, the ship, which is the great organ of our national life of relation, is but a reproduction of the typical form which the elements impress upon its builder.  All this we cannot help; but we can make the best of these influences, such as they are.  We have a few good boatmen,—­no good horsemen that I hear of,—­nothing remarkable, I believe, in cricketing,—­and as for any great athletic feat performed by a gentleman in these latitudes, society would drop a man who should run round the Common in five minutes.  Some of our amateur fencers, single-stick players, and boxers, we have no reason to be ashamed of.  Boxing is rough play, but not too rough for a hearty young fellow.  Anything is better than this white-blooded degeneration to which we all tend.

I dropped into a gentlemen’s sparring exhibition only last evening.  It did my heart good to see that there were a few young and youngish youths left who could take care of their own heads in case of emergency.  It is a fine sight, that of a gentleman resolving himself into the primitive constituents of his humanity.  Here is a delicate young man now, with an intellectual countenance, a slight figure, a sub-pallid complexion, a most unassuming deportment, a mild adolescent in fact, that any Hiram or Jonathan from between the ploughtails would of course expect to handle with perfect ease.  Oh, he is taking off his gold-bowed spectacles!  Ah, he is divesting himself of his cravat!  Why, he is stripping off his coat!  Well, here he is, sure enough, in a tight silk shirt, and with two things that look like batter puddings in the place of his fists.  Now see that other fellow with another pair of batter puddings,—­the big one with the broad shoulders; he will certainly knock the little man’s head off, if he strikes him.  Feinting, dodging, stopping, hitting, countering,—­little man’s head not off yet.  You might as well try to jump upon your own shadow as to hit the little man’s intellectual features.  He needn’t have taken off the gold-bowed spectacles at all.  Quick, cautious, shifty, nimble, cool, he catches all the fierce lunges or gets out of their reach, till his turn comes, and then, whack goes one of the batter puddings against the big one’s ribs, and bang goes the other into the big one’s face, and, staggering, shuffling, slipping, tripping, collapsing, sprawling, down goes the big one in a miscellaneous