The Rev. Dr. Folliott.—Sir, my blood boils. What business have the public with my nose and wig?
Mr. Crotchet.—Doctor! Doctor!
Mr. Crotchet, jun. Pray, gentlemen, return to the point. How shall we employ our fund?
Mr. Philpot.—Surely in no way so beneficially as in exploring rivers. Send a fleet of steamboats down the Niger, and another up the Nile. So shall you civilise Africa, and establish stocking factories in Abyssinia and Bambo.
The Rev. Dr. Folliott.—With all submission, breeches and petticoats must precede stockings. Send out a crew of tailors. Try if the King of Bambo will invest in inexpressibles.
Mr. Crotchet, jun.—Gentlemen, it is not for partial, but for general benefit, that this fund is proposed: a grand and universally applicable scheme for the amelioration of the condition of man.
Several Voices.—That is my scheme. I have not heard a scheme but my own that has a grain of common sense.
Mr. Trillo.—Gentlemen, you inspire me. Your last exclamation runs itself into a chorus, and sets itself to music. Allow me to lead, and to hope for your voices in harmony.
After careful meditation,
And profound deliberation,
On the various pretty projects which have just been shown,
Not a scheme in agitation,
For the world’s amelioration,
Has a grain of common sense in it, except my own.
Several Voices.—We are not disposed to join in any such chorus.