Why not? They go to see the tight-rope walking and the trapeze jump at the Crystal Palace and the Aquarium; and the only possible attraction in these is the probability that in each case the performers will be killed one day; apart from this chance there is no interest whatever in the spectacle. If the authorities were induced to permit them, gladiatorial shows would become so popular with the women of Belgravia and Mayfair that no one would care for anything less exciting, and the Oxford and Cambridge sports would be deserted with contempt as offering no attraction. The desire for excitement is the most conspicuous feature, and the most dangerous disease of the age; anything which provides it is welcome; people are bored despite their incessant search of distraction, and anything which will exorcise the spectre of boredom is eagerly received; and after all it would be absurd if persons who go to see steeplechases pretended to be too squeamish to cry the 'Habet'! Let the managers of Olympia obtain permission for gladiatorial games (death being guaranteed), and I will promise them that "all London" in the most fashionable sense of those words will crowd from April to August to see the sport. If the ladies could be allowed to descend into the arena, to touch the dying bodies, as Nero used to like to do, to see the faint life still lingering shrink and writhe, this success would be still greater; and Nero was but a primitive creature, he had but a heated iron wand, whereas my ladies could be provided by their favourite scientist with the much more excruciating torment of electricity. Imagine what exquisite little jewelled instruments of torture, made to fasten on to a bracelet, or hide within a ring, would fill the shops in Bond Street and Piccadilly. 'We are going electrolysing!' would be heard from all the pretty lips of the leaders of society; and they would cease to care for their bicycles, and auto-cars, and even for the discussion of actresses' new gowns. 'How many dead 'uns did you knock off last night?' their most intimate friend would ask, as he would lean over the rails in Rotten Row, sucking the crook of his cane. Does this appear exaggerated and libellous?[11] Well, let us look at the example given by a London leader of fashion and politics as she goes down at election time to shed sweetness and light around her in Poplar or Shoreditch. [Footnote 11: To know how possible this is, look at the women of fashion at the Cape in this springtime of 1900, with their admirable toilettes, their lovely false hair, their bird-adorned hats, their picnics and their dinners and their cheery titter: 'Let us go and see the wounded!' _vide_ the testimony of Mr Treves, the eminent surgeon.]