“But, bless me, how amazingly you have grown! and how healthy you look!” Tom took advantage of this pause in the vicar’s address, which had hitherto flowed in so uninterrupted and rapid a stream as to preclude the possibility of any reply to his questions, to inform him that his father was on the lawn, and desirous of seeing him.
“Mr. Twaddleton,” exclaimed Mr. Seymour, “you are just in time to witness the commencement of a series of amusements, which I have proposed for Tom’s instruction during the holidays.”
“Amusement and instruction,” replied the vicar, “are not synonymous in my vocabulary; unless, indeed, they be applied to the glorious works of Virgil; but let me hear your scheme.”
“I have long thought,” said Mr. Seymour, “that all the first principles of natural philosophy might be easily taught, and beautifully illustrated, by the common toys which have been invented for the amusement of youth.”
“A fig for your philosophy,” was the unceremonious and chilling reply of the vicar. “What have boys,” continued he, “to do with philosophy? Let them learn their grammar, scan their hexameters, and construe Virgil; it is time enough to inflict upon them the torments of science after their names have been entered on the University boards.”
“I differ from you entirely, my worthy friend; the principles of natural philosophy cannot be too early inculcated, nor can they be too widely diffused. It is surely a great object to engage the prepossessions on the side of truth, and to direct the natural curiosity of youth to useful objects.”
“Hoity toity!” exclaimed the reverend gentleman, “such principles accord not with my creed; heresy, downright heresy; that a man of your excellent sense and intelligence can be so far deceived! But the world has run mad; and much do I grieve to find, that the seclusion of Overton Lodge has not secured its inmates from the infection. I came here, Mr. Seymour, to receive your sympathy, and to profit by your counsel, but, alas! alas! I have fallen into the camp of the enemy. ‘Medios delapsus in hostes,’ as Virgil has it.”
“You astonish me--what can have happened?” asked Mr. Seymour.
“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.”