This Mr Honeythunder is such a card of a character. Such a pompous, self-important blowhard.... all in the name of philanthropy.
Some context: Neville and Helena (brother and sister) were orphans in the charge of the philanthropy group that Mr. Honeythunder is associated with.
Neville and Helena are of age now and were given to the Minor Canon (Mr. Chrisparkle) for Neville and the Nun's House for Helena.
Neville may or may not have done something to the nephew (Edwin Drood - now missing and presumed dead) of another man (John Jasper) who is the choirmaster (lives in the Gatehouse) attached to the Church's premises.
Mr. Chrisparkle (Minor Canon) goes to meet with Mr. Honeythunder at the "Haven for Philanthropy" regarding the the incident and a hilarious exchange occurs between them:
Mr. Crisparkle was so completely lost in musing on these similarities and dissimilarities, at the same time watching the crowd which came and went by, always, as it seemed, on errands of antagonistically snatching something from somebody, and never giving anything to anybody, that his name was called before he heard it. On his at length responding, he was shown by a miserably shabby and underpaid stipendiary Philanthropist (who could hardly have done worse if he had taken service with a declared enemy of the human race) to Mr. Honeythunder’s room.
“Sir,” said Mr. Honeythunder, in his tremendous voice, like a schoolmaster issuing orders to a boy of whom he had a bad opinion, “sit down.”
Mr. Crisparkle seated himself.
Mr. Honeythunder having signed the remaining few score of a few thousand circulars, calling upon a corresponding number of families without means to come forward, stump up instantly, and be Philanthropists, or go to the Devil, another shabby stipendiary Philanthropist (highly disinterested, if in earnest) gathered these into a basket and walked off with them.
“Now, Mr. Crisparkle,” said Mr. Honeythunder, turning his chair half round towards him when they were alone, and squaring his arms with his hands on his knees, and his brows knitted, as if he added, I am going to make short work of you: “Now, Mr. Crisparkle, we entertain different views, you and I, sir, of the sanctity of human life.”
“Do we?” returned the Minor Canon.
“We do, sir.”
“Might I ask you,” said the Minor Canon: “what are your views on that subject?”
“That human life is a thing to be held sacred, sir.”
“Might I ask you,” pursued the Minor Canon as before: “what you suppose to be my views on that subject?”
“By George, sir!” returned the Philanthropist, squaring his arms still more, as he frowned on Mr. Crisparkle: “they are best known to yourself.”
“Readily admitted. But you began by saying that we took different views, you know. Therefore (or you could not say so) you must have set up some views as mine. Pray, what views have you set up as mine?”
“Here is a man—and a young man,” said Mr. Honeythunder, as if that made the matter infinitely worse, and he could have easily borne the loss of an old one, “swept off the face of the earth by a deed of violence. What do you call that?”
“Murder,” said the Minor Canon.
“What do you call the doer of that deed, sir?
“A murderer,” said the Minor Canon.
“I am glad to hear you admit so much, sir,” retorted Mr. Honeythunder, in his most offensive manner; “and I candidly tell you that I didn’t expect it.” Here he lowered heavily at Mr. Crisparkle again.
“Be so good as to explain what you mean by those very unjustifiable expressions.”
“I don’t sit here, sir,” returned the Philanthropist, raising his voice to a roar, “to be browbeaten.”
“As the only other person present, no one can possibly know that better than I do,” returned the Minor Canon very quietly. “But I interrupt your explanation.”
“Murder!” proceeded Mr. Honeythunder, in a kind of boisterous reverie, with his platform folding of his arms, and his platform nod of abhorrent reflection after each short sentiment of a word. “Bloodshed! Abel! Cain! I hold no terms with Cain. I repudiate with a shudder the red hand when it is offered me.”
Instead of instantly leaping into his chair and cheering himself hoarse, as the Brotherhood in public meeting assembled would infallibly have done on this cue, Mr. Crisparkle merely reversed the quiet crossing of his legs, and said mildly: “Don’t let me interrupt your explanation—when you begin it.”
“The Commandments say, no murder. NO murder, sir!” proceeded Mr. Honeythunder, platformally pausing as if he took Mr. Crisparkle to task for having distinctly asserted that they said: You may do a little murder, and then leave off.
