Der Praefekt

native town, and receives from all courteous
        salutation 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. Aber
        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 eine
        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
    zu diesem Thema.
     
    “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 first numbers always are.”
     
    Bold declared that Mr Sentiment had got nothing from him, and that he
    was deeply grieved to find that the case had become so notorious.
     
    “The fire has gone too far to be quenched,” said Towers; “the building
    must go now; and as the timbers are all rotten, why, I should be
    inclined to say, the sooner the better.  I expected to see you get
    some _éclat_ in the matter.”
     
    This was all wormwood to Bold.  He had done enough to make his friend
    the warden miserable for life, and had then backed out just when the
    success of his project was sufficient to make the question one of real
    Interesse. How weakly he had managed