“You know, my lord, those people never want to dress—shoes and stockings, a coat and waistcoat, a gown and a cap, a petticoat and a handkerchief, are all they want—fire, to be sure, in winter—then all the rest is merely for provision.”
“I’ll get a pen and ink,” said young Henry, one day, when he had the honour of being at their table, “and see what the rest amounts to.”
“No, no accounts,” cried my lord, “no summing up; but if you were to calculate, you must add to the receipts of the poor my gift at Christmas—last year, during the frost, no less than a hundred pounds.”
“How benevolent!” exclaimed the dean.
“How prudent!” exclaimed Henry.
“What do you mean by prudent?” asked Lord Bendham. “Explain your meaning.”
“No, my lord,” replied the dean, “do not ask for an explanation: this youth is wholly unacquainted with our customs, and, though a man in stature, is but a child in intellects. Henry, have I not often cautioned you—”
“Whatever his thoughts are upon the subject,” cried Lord Bendham, “I desire to know them.”
“Why, then, my lord,” answered Henry, “I thought it was prudent in you to give a little, lest the poor, driven to despair, should take all.”
“And if they had, they would have been hanged.”