“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?