I have done a little bit of fighting myself in my
time. My mill with the Tutbury Boy is still remembered. One hundred
and twenty rounds, at the end of which I dropped him senseless. But
that was with the knuckles. Here they fight with gloves. But of course
they fight now for the mere honour of the thing, I presume."
[Illustration: A PAIR OF SPECTACLES.]
But here the heroic Muse insists on taking up the strain:--
The Father spake--"O skilled in men and books,
Read me this crowd, inspect them, scan their looks;
See, from their shining heads electric rays,
Reflected, sparkle in their barbers' praise.
Lo, on each bulging front's expansive white
A single jewel flames with central light;
To vacant eyes the haughty eye-glass clings,
Stiff stand their collars, though their ties have wings.
What of their faces? Bloodshot eyes that blink,
And thick lips, framed for blasphemy and drink.
Here the grey hair, that should adorn the Sage,
Serves but to mark a weak, unhonoured age;
There on the boy pale cheeks proclaim the truth,
The faded emblems of a wasted youth.
All, all are loathsome in this motley crew,
The Peer, the Snob, the Gentile, and the Jew,
Young men and old, the greybeards and the boys,
These dull professors of debauch and noise."
* * * * *
He ceased.
Pages:
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47