Chapter XVI.
Nutts.(Stropping razor.) Happy new year to ye, my friends.
Tickle.Hallo, Nutts! Why, what’s the matter with the shop? As fine and as shiny, and smelling as sweet as Covent Garden! Well, I’m sure! If you haven’t brought a bit of Bond Street to Seven Dials! What’s it all about?
Nutts.Nothing. Merely treating the new year like a gentleman. That’s all. I’ve turned over a new leaf.
Mrs Nutts.That’s the old story, Mr Tickle. For these ten years and more, Nutts has always turned over a new leaf. Mighty fine. But afore the year’s a week old, see if he doesn’t turn the new leaf back again. All his new leaves are very soon old dog’s-ears. Just like the men.
Nosebag.Shouldn’t ha’ known the shop agin. New rush-bottoms to the chairs, all the crackedwindows mended, and what—remarkable—nice sand upon the floor!
Nutts.Why, you see, when Time’s brushing up all the world for a new beginning, it’s nothin’ more than right to treat him with a little ceremony, when Time himself starts with a clean shave on the first of January.
Slowgoe.Well, for my part, I thought Time never shaved.
Nutts.Quite a vulgar error, sir. As the clock strikes twelve on the thirty-first of December, he takes up his scythe, which is Time’s razor—and what that’s stropped upon ’twould make a man’s fortin to find out, for what cuts like it, I should wish to know?—well, he takes up his scythe, and holding himself by the nose, begins the operation.
Slowgoe.What! in the dark? and without a glass?
Peabody.Not at all. His glass is the Frozen Ocean, and he shaves by the Northern Lights.
Nutts.(Aside to Peabody.) Thank’ee, Mr P. You’ve helped me well out ofthat, like a gentleman with a scholar. Consider that I owe you a shave. Why, at this moment, 1847—like a new-born babby—Time hasn’t a hair on his chin. No; I consider him a nice smart young chap, with a very clean face—a very straight back—a merry twinkle in his eye—a sprig of green holly in hismouth—and quite ready to draw, wherever he’s invited, for Twelfth-cake—and dance with all women afterwards.
Mrs Nutts.Yes, that’s your notion of Time; and a married man, too! All very well; but I don’t see that Time’s any reason to look so smart, and go dancing about with anybody but his own wife—and that, too, when his bills for last year ain’t paid.
Nutts.(Aside to Peabody.) Now isn’t that like ’em, Mr P.? The worst of a wife is she always goes for realities. It isn’t an opinion to put forth to the world, but my notion is that romance—like brandy—was only made for man. Sometimes when I’m up in the clouds, a-going here and a-flying there, and doing I don’t know what—well, at that moment, that good woman there—the wife of my busum—says somethin’, and down I drop in a lump, like a dead eagle with a bullet in his belly.
Mrs Nutts.Not very good manners, Mr Nutts, I think, to the rest of your customers—to keep a-muttering there to Mr Peabody. But I supposethat’sone of your new leaves.
Nutts.Was only asking him, my dear, if Time—like some of the linen-drapers—didn’t sometimes shave the ladies. And Mr Peabody said there could be no doubt on ’t, you did look this new year so fresh and blooming.
Mrs Nutts.Mr Peabody, though disgised as a policeman, as I may say,isa gentleman.
Nosebag.Always was, from a child. Heyday! Why, Nutts, how smart the cats look, too!—both on ’em, Whig and Tory. Spick-and-span new collars!
Nutts.Yes; poor brutes! Couldn’t do less, you see. Parliament meets on the nineteenth, and out o’ special compliment to what’s called its wisdom—and considerin’ it’s the new year—I’ve given ’em collars. Whig looks rather serous, doesn’t he?
Tickle.Well, I must say there is a sort of thoughtful look about his whiskers. Hedoesget very like Lord John, somehow.
Nutts.Poor fellow! There is rayther a few mice to catch for him, isn’t there?
Slowgoe.Well, Tory’s the cretur for my money. Really a beautiful animal, and a credit to any house.
Nutts.Why, she has been, to say the hard and serous truth, a very devil in her time. But she’s old, very old, and wheezy now. Teeth’s nearly gone, and claws worn to the stumps. Here, Tory, Tory! Look at her, poor old cretur! All she can do now is to purr; she hasn’t strength enough in her for a good squall of the good old times. Talking of the likeness of Whig and Lord John—do now just observe that Tory; all in a lump ofcosy fur, with her eyes half-shut, and her head a leetle on one side, is she not the very spit of the late lamented Lord Eldon?
Slowgoe.(Rising.) So early in the year I should not like to quarrel. No; I should not like to be forced out of the shop. But I cannot, as an Englishman who sticks to his institutions, hear that animal compared to a reverend Lord Chancellor. What! liken catskin to the spotless ermine?
Tickle.Ecod! Considering what ermine’s sometimes done, there hasn’t been much difference between ’em.
Limpy.What, Nutts! Got more cats? A big ’un and, yes, five kittens!
Nutts.Yes; that’s Charter and the Five Pints. My wife—jest like the Whigs—wanted to drown all the five afore they could see. They’re not very strong; a little back’ard, it must be owned, jest yet; but shouldn’t wonder if some on ’em don’t catch mice some day. Here—as Parliament’s going to begin, I bought another, what I call, a party, yesterday. Here—here! (Whistles.)
Nosebag.Why, it’s a dog, a turnspit; and, I declare, quite a puppy.
Nutts.Yes; that’s Young England.
Slowgoe.A most intelligent, beautiful little animal. That’s the only dog I care for, for that’s a dog that reminds me of what England was in hergood old times of hospitality: in those happy days when there were no smoke-jacks, or any such new-fangled inventions to roast good honest English beef with; nothing but a national animal like that to sit upon his faithful hind legs, and turn and turn the noble surloin. Ha! there’s no such beef now.
Tickle.But I say, Nutts, you don’t make Young England there turn your spit, do you?
Nutts.Lor’ bless you! no. Still, somehow, the thing’s bred in the cretur; for whenever missus hangs down a jint to roast, doesn’t Young England get as close as he can to it? and then sitting up and begging like, doesn’t he look with one eye upon the meat as it browns, and the other on the sops in the pan?
Slowgoe.A very clever dog, no doubt.
Nutts.Why, yes; he can understand sops in the pan as well as any on ’em.
Limpy.And how does he and the cats agree?
Nutts.Why, middlin’. Whig spits and sets up her back at him, and won’t be friends nohow. Poor old Tory dozes away, and rayther likes him; whilst Charter seems to treat him with silent contempt; and the little Five Pints play with his tail as if it was no more than my wife’s thread-paper.
Slowgoe.Just like the lower orders. No respect for real rank.
Nutts.I haven’t thought much of any of the creturs lately; but I assure you, when Parliament ’sembles I shall keep my eye as sharp as a needle’s pint upon ’em. In the meanwhile, gentlemen, considerin’ this is the new year, if you will take so short a notice, I shall be proud to see you, your wives and sweethearts, to a dance in the shop to-morrow night, which, somehow or the other, we’ll manage to enlarge for the occasion.
Slowgoe.I’ve no objection, for one. But mind, none of your fangled brass stuff, yourcornets-a-piston, and all that. Let’s have a good English fiddle and a constitutional clarionet. And none of your quodrilling, and polkys; but a straightforward country-dance, and a legitimate four-handed reel. And mind, none of your fellars from the orchestra of the opera: if there’s a foreigner here with moustachers, I take my hat.
Nutts.No objection, I hope, to a Scotch bagpipe and an Irish harp?
Slowgoe.Why, no.
Nutts.Very well, you shall have ’em; and more than that, a hornpipe danced to ’em in character, by a young gentleman who lives at Mrs Biggleswade’s over the way, and goes on in one of the pantomimes as the “British Lion.”
Mrs Nutts.He’s promised me to come in his skin, and I’m sure it will be beautiful.
And for awhile turning from the fierceness of politics, raging all the year round in Nutts’ shaving-shop, itwasbeautiful to see how Nutts and the customers, with wives and sweethearts, danced on New-Year’s night. Mr Nutts led off Mrs Biggleswade from over the way; the hornpipe of the “British Lion” was danced to admiration;—and, in the full flush of the festivity, it is said that Mr Peabody, the scholarly policeman, furtively saluted Mrs Nutts, when that unsuspecting woman stood immediately beneath the mistletoe. This, however, could hardly be, since the very next morning Mrs Nutts herself declared to Mrs Biggleswade over the way, “that that Mr Peabody was too good for the police; he was such a gentleman.”