who came. They were used to geniuses, for were
they not continually in the habit of meeting each
other?

With the exception of Dr. Calix, the
botanist, no one of the illustrious personages who
had been invited put in an appearance. The
doctor himself did not prove much of an addition
to the company, by-the-by, for he simply got
away into a corner and stared speechlessly.

The greater part of the company wore now a
discontented, and perhaps almost vindictive air,
feeling evidently that they had been drawn
together under false pretences. Some, however
—and these were they who were in the habit
of looking on the bright side of everything—
sought to console themselves with Calix, in the
absence of other celebrities. "Calix is here,"
they would say; or, "Seen Calix? That's he
leaning against the folding-doors; massive skull
—isn't it?"

Meanwhile, the distinguished individual with
whom we are mainly concerned had thrice
said—standing in the middle of the room—"My
excellent friends," before he could succeed in
making himself heard. As soon, however, as it
was discovered that he was speaking, there was
an instant, and perhaps disconcerting silence,
and the words of C. J. sounded with almost awful
distinctness:

"We had a purpose in view this evening," he
said, "which must not wholly be lost sight of.
We are assembled with an object, and that object
is to master some difficulty, to clear up some
doubt, to throw light on some dark place, and
all this by means of that powerful agent—
Discussion. Now, who is there that can give me
something to discuss? Who is there that, racked
with doubt, will make public the subject of his
uncertainty, and abandon it to us for purposes
of dissection?"

Who was there? That was the question.
Apparently, there was nobody. Everybody looked
about him briskly, as possessing a mind in which
neither doubt nor misgiving had a place, or
glanced suspiciously at his neighbour, as much as
to say, "You used to be a sceptical, hesitating
sort of fellow, come, I should think this sort of
thing was rather in your line, I have no concern
in it at all." In fact, the effort of that brief address
of C. J.'s was almost supernatural. Doubt
and uncertainty might no longer have existed on
the earth. One would say that they had
disappeared as the toothache would if a dentist
(forceps in hand) should arise in a certain society
and say: "Is any gentleman or lady present
troubled perchance with an aching tooth?" It
was a wonderful and edifying sight to behold an
assembly of such magnitude, and to observe that
every man among them had his mind made up
upon every subject that could agitate society.

A dead silence then succeeded that address of
C. J.'s, which no one present seemed in the least
degree disposed to break, till at last a facetious
gentleman, as if with a view of starting some
subject on which it might reasonably be expected
that doubt would exist in the minds of those
present, said inquiringly:

"Church-rates?"

"Yes, my dear friend," replied C. J., catching
at a straw. "By all means. Do I understand
that your mind is in an unsettled state on
the subject of church-rates?"

"Oh dear no, not at all," put in the other,
rapidly. "It only occurred to me that it might
be a topic on which some other gentleman
present might perhaps like to hear an opinion."

"Very good idea, very good indeed," replied
the originator of the conference, grateful of any
assistance. "Is there any lady or gentleman,"
he added, looking round with a soothing smile,
"whose mind is at all unsettled on this interesting
subject?"

Again the same extraordinary unanimity of
opinion. A proud expression of settled,
unshakable conviction of all fear. A short
gentleman, sitting forward with his hands upon his
knees, and so looking round among the
company from face to face, at length expressed
himself as the foreman of a jury might:

"I think we seem to be all agreed? Is it
not so?"

A low murmur of assent ran through the assembly.

"Yes," said the foreman, "we are all agreed."

"But as to what?" urged Mr. Brogg, who,
perhaps, thought he saw a prospect of some
discussion on the point in question.

"As to the church-rates," replied the foreman.

"Yes," urged C. J.; "but how are you all
agreed? What view do you all take?"

"Why, the view, sir, of course," replied the
foreman, in something of a reproachful tone.
"The orthodox view."

"I don't know exactly," said Mr. Grampus,
striking in at this crisis, sitting in an irreverent
attitude, with his hands in his pockets and his
legs stuck straight out before him; "I don't
know what the orthodox view may be, but, as far
as I am concerned, I beg to say that I disapprove
of church-rates, and, I may add, all other rates
whatsoever, as at present collected. I say that
they are collected in an offensive and ungentlemanly
manner. I don't like, and I don't believe
any gentleman can like, the style in which these
rates and taxes are applied for. I am 'hereby
to take notice,' and 'hereby to declare.' Why
don't they speak civilly—why don't they say
'please?' Is there no such expression in the
language as 'You will have the kindness to
observe,' or 'Allow us to call your attention?'
I am not a rogue, why am I treated as if I were?
Why am I threatened with fines, and terrified
with a hand in a frill pointing to incomprehensible,
but always threatening, passages, printed
in red ink? I pay my taxes"—this must have
been a statement made in a moment of oblivion,
or adduced simply for the sake of argument,
Mr. Grampus being really in the black books of
every collector in his neighbourhood—"I pay
my taxes; when I receive the paper applying