Honeythunder.
In his college days of athletic exercises, Mr. Crisparkle had known
professors of the Noble Art of fisticuffs, and had attended two or
three of their gloved gatherings. He had now an opportunity of
observing that as to the phrenological formation of the backs of
their heads, the Professing Philanthropists were uncommonly like
the Pugilists. In the development of all those organs which
constitute, or attend, a propensity to 'pitch into' your fellow-
creatures, the Philanthropists were remarkably favoured. There
were several Professors passing in and out, with exactly the
aggressive air upon them of being ready for a turn-up with any
Novice who might happen to be on hand, that Mr. Crisparkle well
remembered in the circles of the Fancy. Preparations were in
progress for a moral little Mill somewhere on the rural circuit,
and other Professors were backing this or that Heavy-Weight as good
for such or such speech-making hits, so very much after the manner
of the sporting publicans, that the intended Resolutions might have
been Rounds. In an official manager of these displays much
celebrated for his platform tactics, Mr. Crisparkle recognised (in
a suit of black) the counterpart of a deceased benefactor of his
species, an eminent public character, once known to fame as Frosty-
faced Fogo, who in days of yore superintended the formation of the
magic circle with the ropes and stakes. There were only three
conditions of resemblance wanting between these Professors and
those.
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