CHAPTER II: THE MARCH OF MIND



Quoth Ralpho: nothing but the abuse
Of human learning you produce.--BUTLER

"God bless my soul, sir!" exclaimed the Reverend Doctor Folliott,
bursting, one fine May morning, into the breakfast-room at Crotchet
Castle, "I am out of all patience with this march of mind. Here
has my house been nearly burned down by my cook taking it into her
head to study hydrostatics in a sixpenny tract, published by the
Steam Intellect Society, and written by a learned friend who is for
doing all the world's business as well as his own, and is equally
well qualified to handle every branch of human knowledge. I have a
great abomination of this learned friend; as author, lawyer, and
politician, he is triformis, like Hecate; and in every one of his
three forms he is bifrons, like Janus; the true Mr. Facing-both-
ways of Vanity Fair. My cook must read his rubbish in bed; and, as
might naturally be expected, she dropped suddenly fast asleep,
overturned the candle, and set the curtains in a blaze. Luckily,
the footman went into the room at the moment, in time to tear down
the curtains and throw them into the chimney, and a pitcher of
water on her nightcap extinguished her wick; she is a greasy
subject, and would have burned like a short mould."

The reverend gentleman exhaled his grievance without looking to the
right or to the left; at length, turning on his pivot, he perceived
that the room was full of company, consisting of young Crotchet,