Chapter VII.
Limpy.(With newspaper.) It isn’t a bad notion of Mr O’Connell’s, nohow.
Tickle.I haven’t read it; but I can guess what it is. Seein’ the state Ireland’s in, he’s buttoned up his pockets and taken another vow.
Nutts.I know; a vow to turn every day into eight-and-forty hours, and work every minute of ’em for Ireland.
Tickle.No; it’s a newer vow than that, for that vow’s a week old. It’s a vow that his pockets, so long as the folk are starving—shall fast too. That they shan’t know the taste of rent—not so much as the copper taste of a farthing—till the peasantry have every day a bellyful. He’s buttoned up his pocket with that vow; and he’ll defy a troop of horse with drawn swords to open it again.
Limpy.Nothin’ o’ the sort. Quite another notion. Mr O’Connell’s too modest a man to sayanything about his own pockets: no, the hon. gentleman, as they say in the Commons, knows his place, and confines himself to the pockets of other people; and here in his letter to “dear Mr Ray” he says, “How delighted I should be to be able with any prospect of success, to propose that the gentry in each locality in Irelandshould appoint a delegationof their number to meet together in Dublin without delay, in order to organise the best plans for obtaining Government and local relief during the impending calamities of famine and pestilence, and to embody in practical form their suggestions to Parliament for laws suited to the emergency.” Now isn’t this the liberal thing? To give such advice as this, to bring all the cream of the gentry together?
Nutts.It might be called the Parliament of Famine. A tremendous gathering, to be sure! And if only all the landlords as live away, taking their change out of Ireland, would for once be brought together in Dublin, wouldn’t it be an awful meeting? To only consider what many of such members would for the time represent! There’s a good many of ’em the best of men, to be sure; but again, supposin’ it, as I say, to be a Parliament of Famine, wouldn’t there be the hon. member for Filth and Rags, the hon. member for the Houseless, the hon. member for the Fevered and Naked, thehon. member for Despair, the hon. member for Midnight Housebreaking, and the hon. member for Midday Murder?
Slowgoe.What mad stuff are you preaching, Mr Nutts?
Nutts.Nothin’ mad, Mr Slowgoe, but every word of it terrible meaning—dreadful sense. Do you mean to say that if you got such a meetin’ as Mr O’Connell speaks of, you wouldn’t have in the people coming together, the representatives, as it were, of all the miseries that make the wretchedness and the crimes I talk about? What do we call the English Parliament? Why, the wisdom of England. All the sense of the country skimmed and strained.
Tickle.But you never believe it.
Nutts.Never mind that. Now, in the delegation of Mr O’Connell, we should have all the sufferings, and horrors, and crimes of Ireland represented, as I may say—brought naked before the world. And then if these gentry could be got together, and specially the absent gentry, the graceless babes that suck Ireland’s breasts, and never look upon Ireland’s starving face—if all these could meet—“meet together in Dublin”—and be made by a miracle to do what Ireland wants, how we should find hon. members change their constituencies! The member for Filth and Rags would be ashamed of what he represented, and resolve tostand for Cleanliness and Clothing; and Houseless, and Nakedness, and Despair, and Burglary, and Murder, would all of ’em, as I may say, be disfranchised—wiped off the national schedule—and Comfort and Health, and Peace and Plenty, and Security, all of ’em for once send their Irish members to Parliament.
Tickle.Very odd this talk about Ireland, and quite makes out a dream I had last night. I thought the Queen drove up in a special train to London, and went down to Parliament with all her cream-coloured horses, and with two golden keys, and the crown on her head, insisted upon opening both the Houses herself. And then she took her seat upon the throne and read her speech, and I thought it wasn’t her Majesty I heard, but a silver trumpet; and I thought she talked about the distresses in such a way that everybody wept, and even Lord Brougham wiped his eyes with a roll of parchment; and her Majesty said that the time was come for everybody to make a sacrifice—yes, sacrifice was the word—for the folks in Ireland. And then I thought I heard another flourish of trumpets, and I saw the Queen-Dowager come in with a large bag of money marked £50,000. And with the surliest look in the world she went up to the Lord Chancellor, and gave him the bag, telling him that she, a lone woman, had £100,000 a year outof the taxes; she was only too happy to give up half for as long a time as Parliament should think fit, and the country should want it. And then there was such a cheer, and I thought I saw the Queen-Dowager go floating out of the House upon a purple cloud, and looking so happy that she looked thirty years younger for it——
Slowgoe.Only shows what your waking thoughts must be, to have an infamous dream like that. In the good old times they wouldn’t have let you dream in that manner—not a bit on it. Yea, if things only was as they was, you’d have Mister Attorney-General with a’x-officio’bout your ears for that dream.
Tickle.Well, hear me out. When the Queen-Dowager went, I thought all the bishops ran with money-bags to the table.
Slowgoe.(Rising.) I won’t hear another word. If you’ll dream anything that’s possible, I don’t mind listening to you; but no such balderdash as that.
Nutts.Talking about bishops, it seems that Manchester has a good chance now. There’ll be a mitre, after all, among the tall chimneys.
Tickle.Wonder if they’ll smoke the less for it.
Slowgoe.Hope the roof’s safe, Mr Tickle; but you do talk a little like an atheist. If Manchesteris really to have a bishop, I do hope they’ll send an early train to Liverpool for the Rev. Hugh M’Neile. Why, here’s a letter from theAlbion, a Liverpool paper—a letter written by a “Churchman” about his Reverence, who’s going to be removed, it seems; whereupon the writer says, “But how will the cause be served by his removal from St Jude’s to St Paul’s? What the one gains the other loses. And what is the reason of this removal? The only one I have ever yet heard advanced on the subject is,that he has preached himself threadbare(in his ideas, I mean) where he now is, and wants to start with it all new again for another congregation.”
Nutts.Very odd he should leave because his ideas are threadbare. Why can’t he turn ’em and go on again? Others have.
Nosebag.Well, this is a good ’un. It’s an account of the Leger running, taken from theMorning Postof Wednesday, about the horse “Sir Tatton Sykes” and his jockey Bill Scott. “The appearance of Sir Tatton Sykes infused fresh hopes into the minds of those who had not seen him since Epsom, while the quiet earnestness of ‘Bill’s’ manner assured them that the advice given him at Epsom had not been thrown away upon him, and that he was fully impressed with the importance of the charge committed to him.Singular to say,HISCONSTANT GUARDIANwas a clergyman of the Established Church. A jockey under such guidance could hardly fail behaving himself.”
Nutts.Should like to know the name of the clergyman. Odd, isn’t it, that the black coat should match over the blacklegs? The ’Stablished Church will get a lift, eh? if every jockey’s to have his chaplain. As there’s a talk of making more bishops, if Lord George comes in, shouldn’t wonder if we’ve a Bishop of Tattersall’s; jist to ordain young clergymen for all the race-courses. Don’t see too, if clergymen are to be constant guardians of jockeys, why they shouldn’t have a pulpit set up for ’em on the grand stand. Well, after this I shan’t be surprised to hear hymns sung at a dog-fight.
Slowgoe.I see nothing to sneer at, nothing whatever. If Mr Scott is fond of a glass, who better than a clergyman could be, as the words go, his constant guardian? But it’s like you levellers. If you can’t have good done after your own way, you’d rather it shouldn’t be done at all.
Nutts.Good done! Why, it’s right that a horse shouldn’t be hocussed, certainly; but for that reason should a clergyman of the Established Church sleep with the beast in the stable? It’s right that dice shouldn’t be loaded or cards marked; but would it be right that a clergyman should see fair play in every gaming-house?If parsons are to wait upon jockeys, what’s to prevent ’em—if their patrons require it—what’s to prevent ’em turning bottle-holders to prize-fighters?
Slowgoe.So I see Mr Newton’s writ to Lord Ripon to know what his Lordship means by setting on his attorney to sneer at him, and of course his Lordship won’t answer him; he knows the dignity of a nobleman better.
Nutts.To be sure; that’s what’s called the privilege of the peerage: to pelt a common man with mud, and then silently wonder at his impudence when he complains of the dirt.
Bleak.Here’s great news, glorious news! (Reading.) “It is said that the Duke of Marlborough intends shortly to take up his permanent residence at Blenheim Palace.”—Oxford Chronicle.
Nosebag.Well, that’s somethin’ to comfort us for the ’tato blight. When the newspapers is ringin’ with all sorts of horrors, it is a real bit of pleasure to come upon a piece of news like that. I wonder that the papers that tell us when dukes and lords change their houses, don’t also tell us when they change their coats.
Nutts.Very true. After this fashion: “We are delighted to inform our enlightened public that the Marquis of Londonderry appeared yesterday in a bran-new patent paletot. He will wear it forthe next fortnight, and then return to his usual blue for the season.”
Bleak.Here’s another bit. (Reads.) “Viscount”—well, never mind the name—“Viscount —— has gone on a visit to his noble relatives, where the Viscountess is expected to join his Lordship at the expiration of her duties as lady-in-waiting to the Queen.”
Nosebag.I never could make that out, how ladies, with husbands and families, could go and be ladies’-maids and chambermaids even to a queen.
Nutts.Easily accounted for, bless you! It’s all their humbleness. They go to know what service really is, that they may be all the kinder and gentler to their own ladies’-maids and chambermaids at home.
Slowgoe.So the Spanish match is going on.
Nutts.And real match it will be too, with brimstone at both ends.
Slowgoe.I see the Duke Montpensier leaves Paris on the 27th, his baggage-waggon’s gone before him.
Nutts.Wonder what artillery he’ll take, for there never was a marriage that will smell so much of gunpowder. Daresay they’ll marry him in a hollow square of soldiers, with charged bayonets; and, moreover, that he’ll have a suit of armour underhis marriage clothes, and cannon with lighted fusees at the church door.
Tickle.The Spanish Parliament, I see, has addressed the Queen, and wished her joy. And the Queen says (reads), “I receive with profound emotion the felicitations which you address to me on the occasion of my marriage with my august cousin, and that of my dear sister with the noble (esclareido) Duke de Montpensier. I have not only consultedmy own domestic happiness, but also the welfare and prosperity of the nation.”
Nutts.(After a long whistle.) I wonder what would come of state affairs, if it wasn’t for the lying that holds ’em together! Why, lies to some governments seem like mortar to houses of bricks; couldn’t, it seems, stand at all without ’em. Consulted her own domestic happiness! poor soul! Consulted her parrot, perhaps.
Tickle.That’s a nice old gentleman, Louis Philippe, isn’t he? Well, my blood as a Briton does bile a little to think that he has, so to speak, gammoned our gracious Sovereign, after all his embracing and kissing her atYow,2and at Windsor Castle, and I don’t know where; and all the time, when he know’d that he meant to jockey us, and marry his son to that precious Infant. I do repeat it, my blood biles——
Nutts.It was shabby, certainly, and like a king. Nevertheless, think as I will upon the matter, my blood’s as mild as mutton broth. To be sure, I do think the little gal had better have married a Spaniard, ’specially as there’s a prince or two in the family. And if there hadn’t been a prince, at all events she ought to have married a countryman.
Slowgoe.What! marry a princess to a husband with no royal blood! Do you know the consequence? What would you think if the eagle was to marry the dove?
Nutts.Why, I certainly shouldn’t think much of the eggs.