to take lessons in politics from so misty a professor; and

when he came to tell us that the heroes of Westminster were
naught, we began to think that he had written enough. His

attack upon despatch boxes was not thought to have much in
it; but as it is short, the doctor shall again be allowed to speak

his sentiments.
'Could utmostingenuity in the management of red tape

avail anything to men lying gasping--we may say, all but
dead; could despatch boxes with never-so-much velvet lining

and Chubb's patent be of comfort to a people in extremes, I
also, with so many others, would, with parched tongue, call

on the name of Lord John Russell; or, my brother, at your
advice, on Lord Aberdeen; or, my cousin, on Lord Derby, at

yours; being, with my parched tongue, indifferent to such
matters. 'Tis all one. Oh, Derby! Oh, Gladstone! Oh,

Palmerston! Oh, Lord John! Each comes running with
serene face and despatch box. Vain physicians! though there

were hosts of such, no despatch box will cure this disorder!
What! are there other doctors' new names, disciples who have

not burdened their souls with tape? Well, let us call again.
Oh, Disraeli, great oppositionist, man of the bitter brow! or,

Oh, Molesworth, great reformer, thou who promisest Utopia.
They come; each with that serene face, and each--alas, me!

alas, my country!--each with a despatch box!
'Oh, the serenity of Downing Street!

'My brothers, when hope was over on the battle-field, when
no dimmest chance of victory remained, the ancient Roman

could hide his face within his toga, and die gracefully. Can
you and I do so now? If so, 'twere best for us; if not, oh my

brothers, we must die disgracefully, for hope of life and victory
I see none left to us in this world below. I for one cannot trust

much to serene face and despatch box!'
There might be truth in this, there might be depth of reasoning;

but Englishmen did not see enough in the argument to
induce them to withdraw their confidence from the present

arrangements of the government, and Dr Anticant's monthly
pamphlet on the decay of the world did not receive so much

attention as his earlier works. He did not confine himself to
politics in these publications, but roamed at large over all

matters of public interest, and found everything bad. According
to him nobody was true, and not only nobody, but nothing;

a man could not take off his hat to a lady without telling
a lie--the lady would lie again in smiling. The ruffles of the

gentleman's shirt would be fraught with deceit, and the lady's
flounces full of falsehood. Was ever anything more severe than

that attack of his on chip bonnets, or the anathemas with which
he endeavoured to dust the powder out of the bishops' wigs?

The pamphlet which Tom Towers now pushed across the
table was entitled Modern Charity, and was written with the

view of proving how much in the way of charity was done by
our predecessors--how little by the present age; and it ended

by a comparison between ancient and modern times, very
little to the credit of the latter.

'Look at this,' said Towers, getting up and turning over the
pages of the pamphlet, and pointing to a passage near the end.

'Your friend the warden, who is so little selfish, won't like that,
I fear.' Bold read as follows--

'Heavens, what a sight! Let us with eyes wide open see the
godly man of four centuries since, the man of the dark ages;

let us see how he does his godlike work, and, again, how the
godly man of these latter days does his.

'Shall we say that the former is one walking painfully
through the world, regarding, as a prudent man, his worldly

work, prospering in it as a diligent man will prosper, but
always with an eye to that better treasure to which thieves do

not creep in? Is there not much nobility in that old man, as,
leaning on his oaken staff, he walks down the High Street of his

native town, and receives from all courteoussalutation and
acknowledgment of his worth? A noble old man, my august

inhabitants of Belgrave Square and such like vicinity--a very
noble old man, though employed no better than in the wholesale

carding of wool.
'This carding of wool, however, did in those days bring with

it much profit, so that our ancient friend, when dying, was
declared, in whatever slang then prevailed, to cut up exceeding

well. For sons and daughters there was ample sustenance with
assistance of due industry; for friends and relatives some relief

for grief at this great loss; for aged dependents comfort in
declining years. This was much for one old man to get done

in that dark fifteenth century. But this was not all: coming
generations of poor wool-carders should bless the name of this

rich one; and a hospital should be founded and endowed with
his wealth for the feeding of such of the trade as could not, by

diligent carding, any longer duly feed themselves.
''Twas thus that an old man in the fifteenth century did his

godlike work to the best of his power, and not ignobly, as
appears to me.

'We will now take our godly man of latter days. He shall
no longer be a wool-carder, for such are not now men of mark.

We will suppose him to be one of the best of the good, one who
has lacked no opportunities. Our old friend was, after all, but

illiterate; our modern friend shall be a man educated in all
seemly knowledge; he shall, in short, be that blessed being--

a clergyman of the Church of England!
'And now, in what perfectest manner does he in this

lower world get his godlike work done and put out of hand?
Heavens! in the strangest of manners. Oh, my brother! in

a manner not at all to be believed, but by the most minute
testimony of eyesight. He does it by the magnitude of his

appetite--by the power of his gorge; his only occupation is
to swallow the bread prepared with so much anxious care for

these impoverished carders of wool--that, and to sing
indifferently through his nose once in the week some psalm more

or less long--the shorter the better, we should be inclined to say.
'Oh, my civilised friends!--great Britons that never will be

slaves, men advanced to infinite state of freedom and knowledge
of good and evil--tell me, will you, what becoming

monument you will erect to an highly-educated clergyman of
the Church of England?'

Bold certainly thought that his friend would not like that:
he could not conceive anything that he would like less than

this. To what a world of toil and trouble had he, Bold, given
rise by his indiscreet attack upon the hospital!

'You see,' said Towers, 'that this affair has been much
talked of, and the public are with you. I am sorry you should

give the matter up. Have you seen the first number of The
Almshouse?'

No; Bold had not seen The Almshouse. He had seen advertisements
of Mr Popular Sentiment's new novel of that name, but had

in no way connected it with Barchester Hospital, and had never
thought a moment on the subject.

'It's a direct attack on the whole system,' said Towers.
'It'll go a long way to put down Rochester, and Barchester,

and Dulwich, and St Cross, and all such hotbeds of peculation.
It's very clear that Sentiment has been down to Barchester,

and got up the whole story there; indeed, I thought he must
have had it all from you, it's very well done, as you'll see: his