“Venerable One,” he said, for he had become aware of a reluctance on the part of the Lord of the Hour-Glass, “have no fear.  We are now, as you know, in the metropolis of Pollux.  This is the country of the [Greek:  pux agathos], the home of the noble boxer; and this,” he added, pointing to the glittering palace, “is the headquarters, I am informed, of the boxer’s art.  Let us enter, so that I may show you how the game should really be played.  I like not the crowd without.  Within we shall see something very different.”

So saying, he linked his arm in that of the Paternal One, and together they ascended the stairs.  At the top stood an official dressed in a dark uniform, his breast adorned with medals.

“I beg your pardon, Gentlemen,” said the minion to the pair, “are you Members?”

Mr. Punch vouchsafed no answer.  He looked at the man, who quailed under the eagle glance, and, muttering a hasty apology, drew back.  A door flew open; the Champion of Champions and his friend passed through it.  They found themselves in a spacious hall.  In the centre a square had been roped off.  All round were arranged seats and benches.  In the square were four men, two of them stripped to the waist sitting in chairs in opposite corners, while the two others were busily engaged in fanning them with towels.  The seats and benches were all occupied by a very motley throng.

“Aha,” said Mr. Punch, as he made his way to the throne reserved for him, “this is good.  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.”

* * * * *