_Mr. Henbane_.—Found a toxicological institution for trying all poisons and antidotes. I myself have killed a frog twelve times, and brought him to life eleven; but the twelfth time he died. I have a phial of the drug, which killed him, in my pocket, and shall not rest till I have discovered its antidote. _The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—I move that the last speaker be dispossessed of his phial, and that it be forthwith thrown into the Thames. _Mr. Henbane_.—How, sir? my invaluable, and, in the present state of human knowledge, infallible poison? _The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—Let the frogs have all the advantage of it. _Mr. Crotchet_.—Consider, Doctor, the fish might participate. Think of the salmon. _The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—Then let the owner’s right-hand neighbour swallow it. _Mr. Eavesdrop_.—Me, sir! What have I done, sir, that I am to be poisoned, sir? _The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—Sir, you have published a character of your facetious friend, the Reverend Doctor F., wherein you have sketched off me; me, sir, even to my nose and wig. What business have the public with my nose and wig? _Mr. Eavesdrop_.—Sir, it is all good-humoured; all in _bonhomie_: all friendly and complimentary. _The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—Sir, the bottle, _la Dive Bouteille_, is a recondite oracle, which makes an Eleusinian temple of the circle in which it moves. He who reveals its mysteries must die. Therefore, let the dose be administered. _Fiat experimentum in animâ vili_. _Mr. Eavesdrop_.—Sir, you are very facetious at my expense. _The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—Sir, you have been very unfacetious, very inficete at mine. You have dished me up, like a savoury omelette, to gratify the appetite of the reading rabble for gossip. The next time, sir, I will respond with the _argumentum baculinum_. Print that, sir: put it on record as a promise of the Reverend Doctor F., which shall be most faithfully kept, with an exemplary bamboo. _Mr. Eavesdrop_.—Your cloth protects you, sir. _The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—My bamboo shall protect me, sir. _Mr. Crotchet_.—Doctor, Doctor, you are growing too polemical. _The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—Sir, my blood boils. What business have the public with my nose and wig? _Mr. Crotchet_.—Doctor! Doctor! _Mr. Crotchet_, _jun._ Pray, gentlemen, return to the point. How shall we employ our fund? _Mr. Philpot_.—Surely in no way so beneficially as in exploring rivers. Send a fleet of steamboats down the Niger, and another up the Nile. So shall you civilise Africa, and establish stocking factories in Abyssinia and Bambo. _The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—With all submission, breeches and petticoats must precede stockings. Send out a crew of tailors. Try if the King of Bambo will invest in inexpressibles. _Mr. Crotchet_, _jun._—Gentlemen, it is not for partial, but for general benefit, that this fund is proposed: a grand and universally applicable scheme for the amelioration of the condition of man.