“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”--
“A truce, a truce,” cried Mr. Seymour, interrupting the vicar, “to all such hackneyed objections; and let us deal plainly with your planer of deals: you assert that the carpenter cannot speak grammatically, and yet he gains his livelihood by mending stiles; you complain of his presumption in argument, would it not be a desertion of his post to decline railing? and then, again, with respect to his antiquarian pretensions, compare them with your own; you rescue saws from the dust, he obtains dust from his saws.”
“What madness has seized my unfortunate friend?
Infelix! quæ tanta animum dementia cepit?