“There is Tom Plank, the carpenter,” said the vicar, “soliciting subscriptions for the establishment of a philosophical society. I understand that this mania--for by what other, or more charitable term can I express such conduct?--has seized this deluded man since his return from London, where he has been informed that all the ‘hewers of wood and drawers of water’ are about to associate themselves into societies for the promotion of science. Preposterous idea! as if a block of wood could not be split without a knowledge of the doctrine of percussion, nor a pail of water drawn from the well without an acquaintance with hydrostatics; but, as I am a Christian priest, I solemnly declare, that I grieve only for my flock, and raise my feeble voice for no other purpose than that of scaring the wolf from the fold: to be angry, as Pope says, would be to revenge the faults of others upon ourselves; but I am not angry, Mr. Seymour, I am vexed, sorely vexed.” “Take it not thus to heart, my dear vicar,” replied his consoling friend; “‘_Solve metus_,’ as your poet has it. Science, I admit, is both the Pallas and Pandora of mankind; its abuse may certainly prove mischievous, but its sober and well-timed application cannot fail to increase the happiness of every class of mankind, as well as to advance and improve every branch of the mechanical arts; so thoroughly am I satisfied upon this point, that I shall subscribe to the proposed society with infinite satisfaction.” “Mr. Seymour! Mr. Seymour! you know not what you do. Would you scatter the seeds of insubordination? manure the weeds of infidelity? fabricate a battering-ram to demolish our holy church? Such, indeed, must be the effect of your Utopian scheme, for truly may I exclaim with the immortal Maro-- In nostros fabricata est machina muros.”[3] “Come, come, my good friend, all this is declamation without argument.” “Without argument! Many are the sad instances which I could adduce in proof of the evil effects which have already accrued from this abominable system. I am not in the habit, Sir, of dealing in empty assertion; already has the aforesaid Tom Plank ventured to question the classical knowledge of his spiritual pastor, and, as I understand, has openly avowed himself, at the sixpenny club, as my rival in antiquarian pursuits.” “And why should he not?” said the mischievous Mr. Seymour; “I warrant you he already possesses many an _old saw_; ay, and of a very great age, too, if we may judge from the _loss of its teeth_.” During this remonstrance, Mr. Twaddleton had been occupied in whirling round his steel watch-chain with inconceivable rapidity, and, after a short pause, he burst out into the following exclamation:-- “Worthy Sir! if you persist in asserting, that a man whose occupation is to _plane deal_, is prepared to dive into the sacred mysteries of antiquity, I shall next expect to hear that”--