SCIENCE AND CHARITY.
Chi sta nel mondo un par d’ore contento,
Nè gli vien tolta, ovver contaminata,
Quella sua pace in veruno momento,
Puo dir che Giove drittamente il guata.
FORTEGUERRI.
THE Reverend Doctor Folliott took his departure about ten o’clock, to
walk home to his vicarage. There was no moon, but the night was bright
and clear, and afforded him as much light as he needed. He paused a
moment by the Roman camp to listen to the nightingale; repeated to
himself a passage of Sophocles; proceeded through the park gate, and
entered the narrow lane that led to the village. He walked on in a very
pleasant mood of the state called reverie; in which fish and wine, Greek
and political economy, the Sleeping Venus he had left behind, and poor
dear Mrs. Folliott, to whose fond arms he was returning, passed, as in a
camera obscura, over the tablets of his imagination. Presently the image
of Mr. Eavesdrop, with a printed sketch of the Reverend Doctor F.,
presented itself before him, and he began mechanically to flourish his
bamboo. The movement was prompted by his good genius, for the uplifted
bamboo received the blow of a ponderous cudgel, which was intended for
his head. The reverend gentleman recoiled two or three paces, and saw
before him a couple of ruffians, who were preparing to renew the attack,
but whom, with two swings of his bamboo, he laid with cracked sconces on
the earth, where he proceeded to deal with them like corn beneath the
flail of the thresher. One of them drew a pistol, which went off in the
very act of being struck aside by the bamboo, and lodged a bullet in the
brain of the other. There was then only one enemy, who vainly struggled
to rise, every effort being attended with a new and more signal
prostration. The fellow roared for mercy. “Mercy, rascal!” cried the
divine; “what mercy were you going to show me, villain? What! I warrant
me, you thought it would be an easy matter, and no sin, to rob and murder
a parson on his way home from dinner. You said to yourself, doubtless,
“We’ll waylay the fat parson (you irreverent knave), as he waddles home
(you disparaging ruffian), half-seas-over, (you calumnious vagabond).”
And with every dyslogistic term, which he supposed had been applied to
himself, he inflicted a new bruise on his rolling and roaring antagonist.
“Ah, rogue!” he proceeded, “you can roar now, marauder; you were silent
enough when you devoted my brains to dispersion under your cudgel. But
seeing that I cannot bind you, and that I intend you not to escape, and
that it would be dangerous to let you rise, I will disable you in all
your members. I will contund you as Thestylis did strong smelling herbs,
in the quality whereof you do most gravely partake, as my nose beareth
testimony, ill weed that you are. I will beat you to a jelly, and I will
then roll you into the ditch, to lie till the constable comes for you,
thief.”
“Hold! hold! reverend sir,” exclaimed the penitent culprit, “I am
disabled already in every finger, and in every joint. I will roll myself
into the ditch, reverend sir.”
“Stir not, rascal,” returned the divine, “stir not so much as the
quietest leaf above you, or my bamboo rebounds on your body, like hail in
a thunder-storm. Confess, speedily, villain; are you a simple thief, or
would you have manufactured me into a subject for the benefit of science?
Ay, miscreant caitiff, you would have made me a subject for science,
would you? You are a school-master abroad, are you? You are marching
with a detachment of the march of mind, are you? You are a member of the
Steam Intellect Society, are you? You swear by the learned friend, do
you?”
“Oh, no! reverend sir,” answered the criminal, “I am innocent of all
these offences, whatever they are, reverend sir. The only friend I had
in the world is lying dead beside me, reverend sir.”
The reverend gentleman paused a moment, and leaned on his bamboo. The
culprit, bruised as he was, sprang on his legs, and went off in double
quick time. The Doctor gave him chase, and had nearly brought him within
arm’s length, when the fellow turned at right angles, and sprang clean
over a deep dry ditch. The divine, following with equal ardour, and less
dexterity, went down over head and ears into a thicket of nettles.
Emerging with much discomposure, he proceeded to the village, and roused
the constable; but the constable found, on reaching the scene of action,
that the dead man was gone, as well as his living accomplice.
“Oh, the monster!” exclaimed the Reverend Doctor Folliott, “he has made a
subject for science of the only friend he had in the world.” “Ay, my
dear,” he resumed, the next morning at breakfast, “if my old reading, and
my early gymnastics (for, as the great Hermann says, before I was
demulced by the Muses, I was _ferocis ingenii puer_, _et ad arma quam ad
literas paratior_), had not imbued me indelibly with some of the holy
rage of _Frère Jean des Entommeures_, I should be, at this moment, lying
on the table of some flinty-hearted anatomist, who would have sliced and
disjointed me as unscrupulously as I do these remnants of the capon and
chine, wherewith you consoled yourself yesterday for my absence at
dinner. Phew! I have a noble thirst upon me, which I will quench with
floods of tea.”
The reverend gentleman was interrupted by a messenger, who informed him
that the Charity Commissioners requested his presence at the inn, where
they were holding a sitting.
“The Charity Commissioners!” exclaimed the reverend gentleman, “who on
earth are they?”
The messenger could not inform him, and the reverend gentleman took his
hat and stick, and proceeded to the inn.
On entering the best parlour, he saw three well-dressed and bulky
gentlemen sitting at a table, and a fourth officiating as clerk, with an
open book before him, and a pen in his hand. The church-wardens, who had
been also summoned, were already in attendance.
The chief commissioner politely requested the Reverend Doctor Folliott to
be seated, and after the usual meteorological preliminaries had been
settled by a resolution, _nem. con._, that it was a fine day but very
hot, the chief commissioner stated, that in virtue of the commission of
Parliament, which they had the honour to hold, they were now to inquire
into the state of the public charities of this village.
_The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—The state of the public charities, sir, is
exceedingly simple. There are none. The charities here are all private,
and so private, that I for one know nothing of them.
_First Commissioner_.—We have been informed, sir, that there is an annual
rent charged on the land of Hautbois, for the endowment and repair of an
almshouse.
_The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—Hautbois! Hautbois!
_First Commissioner_.—The manorial farm of Hautbois, now occupied by
Farmer Seedling, is charged with the endowment and maintenance of an
almshouse.
_The Rev. Dr. Folliott_ (_to the Churchwarden_). How is this, Mr.
Bluenose?
_First Churchwarden_.—I really do not know, sir. What say you, Mr.
Appletwig?
_Mr. Appletwig_ (_parish clerk and schoolmaster_; _an old man_). I do
remember, gentlemen, to have been informed, that there did stand, at the
end of the village, a ruined cottage, which had once been an almshouse,
which was endowed and maintained, by an annual revenue of a mark and a
half, or one pound sterling, charged some centuries ago on the farm of
Hautbois; but the means, by the progress of time, having become
inadequate to the end, the almshouse tumbled to pieces.
_First Commissioner_.—But this is a right which cannot be abrogated by
desuetude, and the sum of one pound per annum is still chargeable for
charitable purposes on the manorial farm of Hautbois.
_The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—Very well, sir.
_Mr. Appletwig_.—But, sir, the one pound per annum is still received by
the parish, but was long ago, by an unanimous vote in open vestry, given
to the minister.
_The Three Commissioners_ (_unâ voce_). The minister!
_First Commissioner_.—This is an unjustifiable proceeding.
_Second Commissioner_.—A misappropriation of a public fund.
_Third Commissioner_.—A flagrant perversion of a charitable donation.
_The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—God bless my soul, gentlemen! I know nothing of
this matter. How is this, Mr. Bluenose? Do I receive this one pound per
annum?
_First Churchwarden_.—Really, sir, I know no more about it than you do.
_Mr. Appletwig_.—You certainly receive it, sir. It was voted to one of
your predecessors. Farmer Seedling lumps it in with his tithes.
_First Commissioner_.—Lumps it in, sir! Lump in a charitable donation!
_Second and Third Commissioner_.—Oh-oh-oh-h-h!
_First Commissioner_.—Reverend sir, and gentlemen, officers of this
parish, we are under the necessity of admonishing you that this is a most
improper proceeding: and you are hereby duly admonished accordingly.
Make a record, Mr. Milky.
_Mr. Milky_ (_writing_). The clergyman and church-wardens of the village
of Hm-ra-m-m- gravely admonished. Hm-m-m-m.
_The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—Is that all, gentlemen?
_The Commissioners_.—That is all, sir; and we wish you a good morning.
_The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—A very good morning to you, gentlemen.
“What in the name of all that is wonderful, Mr. Bluenose,” said the
Reverend Doctor Folliott, as he walked out of the inn, “what in the name
of all that is wonderful, can those fellows mean? They have come here in
a chaise and four, to make a fuss about a pound per annum, which, after
all, they leave as it was: I wonder who pays them for their trouble, and
how much.”
_Mr. Appletwig_.—The public pay for it, sir. It is a job of the learned
friend whom you admire so much. It makes away with public money in
salaries, and private money in lawsuits, and does no particle of good to
any living soul.
_The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—Ay, ay, Mr. Appletwig; that is just the sort of
public service to be looked for from the learned friend. Oh, the learned
friend! the learned friend! He is the evil genius of everything that
falls in his way.
The Reverend Doctor walked off to Crotchet Castle, to narrate his
misadventures, and exhale his budget of grievances on Mr. Mac Quedy, whom
he considered a ringleader of the march of mind.