_Mr. Mac Quedy_.—Nay, sir; I think you may see that with your own eyes. _The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—Sir, I have seen it, much to my discomfiture. It has marched into my rickyard, and set my stacks on fire, with chemical materials, most scientifically compounded. It has marched up to the door of my vicarage, a hundred and fifty strong; ordered me to surrender half my tithes; consumed all the provisions I had provided for my audit feast, and drunk up my old October. It has marched in through my back-parlour shutters, and out again with my silver spoons, in the dead of the night. The policeman who has been down to examine says my house has been broken open on the most scientific principles. All this comes of education. _Mr. Mac Quedy_.—I rather think it comes of poverty. _The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—No, sir. Robbery, perhaps, comes of poverty, but scientific principles of robbery come of education. I suppose the learned friend has written a sixpenny treatise on mechanics, and the rascals who robbed me have been reading it. _Mr. Crotchet_.—Your house would have been very safe, Doctor, if they had had no better science than the learned friend’s to work with. _The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—Well, sir, that may be. Excellent potted char. The Lord deliver me from the learned friend. _Mr. Crotchet_.—Well, Doctor, for your comfort, here is a declaration of the learned friend’s that he will never take office. _The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—Then, sir, he will be in office next week. Peace be with him. Sugar and cream. _Mr. Crotchet_.—But, Doctor, are you for Chainmail Hall on Christmas Day? _The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—That am I, for there will be an excellent dinner, though, peradventure, grotesquely served. _Mr. Crotchet_.—I have not seen my neighbour since he left us on the canal. _The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—He has married a wife, and brought her home. _Lady Clarinda_.—Indeed! If she suits him, she must be an oddity: it will be amusing to see them together. _Lord Bossnowl_.—Very amusing. He! He! Mr. Firedamp. Is there any water about Chainmail Hall? _The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—An old moat. _Mr. Firedamp_.—I shall die of malaria. _Mr. Trillo_.—Shall we have any music? _The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—An old harper. _Mr. Trillo_.—Those fellows are always horridly out of tune. What will he play? _The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—Old songs and marches. _Mr. Skionar_.—Among so many old things, I hope we shall find Old Philosophy. _The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—An old woman. _Mr. Philpot_.—Perhaps an old map of the river in the twelfth century. _The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—No doubt. _Mr. Mac Quedy_.—How many more old things? _The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—Old hospitality; old wine; old ale; all the images of old England; an old butler. _Mr. Toogood_.—Shall we all be welcome? _The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—Heartily; you will be slapped on the shoulder, and called Old Boy. _Lord Bossnowl_.—I think we should all go in our old clothes. He! He!