Nutts. Why, look here: truth isn't like a pennypiece with two different sides to it; and a flum is not less a flum for coming after dinner. Either Lord George meant what he said, or he didn't. Now, if he meant it, he meant to make Sir Robert Peel answerable for what he calls "the vengeance of Providence;" he meant to lay at Sir Robert's door the misery and starvation-and it makes one's heart sick and one's blood cold to think of it-of thousands and thousands of suffering creaturs; he meant

Slowgoe. Nonsense! you 're such a violent man: he meant nothing of the sort. When a man bids for Minister, everything's fair: public men—

Tickle. Oh yes; men blacken one another as they like, they means nothing. They do it, I s'pose, just as last Tuesday we blackened Bill Simpson's face when he was asleep-for a joke, and nothing more.

Nutts. Ha! and his Lordship having dined, I s'pose you'll have it, there was a greater allowance for burnt cork? Don't tell me. They take up poor fortin-tellers-hocus-pocus fellows that cast nativities and suchlike, and tell servant-gals what every star means when it winks upon 'em. But when a lord-and a lord, too, that would be a prime minister-would trade upon Providence, and, thinking he knows all its doings, would lay the

misery of millions upon the head of one man, they never send for the constable, oh no; but fine gentlemen, full of piousness and port wine, stamp their feet and whobble out "Hear! hear!" Such religion's like olives to 'em, and gives quite a relish to their drink.

Slowgoe. I say again, you're a violent man, Mr Nutts. There is no doubt that the potato disease is brought about by something; and until that something is discovered, we-I mean us of true Conservative principles-may as well lay it upon the treason of Sir Robert Peel as upon anything else. When the true cause is found out, why, then, as gentlemen, we can shift it.

Nightflit. Here's a bit from the Dublin Record that says it's Popery as has brought about the blight. It's nothing but giving money to Maynooth that's ruined the 'taters.

Tickle. No doubt on it. In the same way that when sheep die of the rot, it's only because there's the Pope's eye in every leg of mutton. Now as

for Lord George—

Nutts. Don't talk about him. Poor fellow! Now I'm a little cool, although he's a lord and I'm only a penny barber, I do from the very bottom of my heart pity him! Anything pleasant in the paper?

Nosebag. Lord Wrothesley's going to make

second-class carriages pop'lar on King Hudson's lines, and won't pay his Majesty's first fares. A good move this. For if lords would only ride with the sheep and bullocks, there's lots of people who'd directly think sheep and bullocks the best of company. Howsomever, in this matter his Lordship's right. But King Hudson has made a long speech at the York and Newcastle meeting, and, like all kings, cracking his own generosity to the skies; and then he began abusing the Times, but somehow his heart failed him; and the Iron King talked as if his tongue was suddenly turned to butter, and every bit of metal was drawn out of him.

Tickle. (With paper.) Have you heard this? (Reads.) "Mr Wakby, M.P., has received several letters from ladies, many of them of rank and title, offering to co-operate in purchasing the discharge of Cork, Mathewson, and any other witnesses examined at the inquest." And this is taken from the Morning Post.

Nutts. Oh, it's all right; the women will see the true beauty of soldiering at last. Poor things! At present they think man never so pretty as when in uniform; never so complete a thing to love as when he smells of gunpowder. And beauty smiles on soldiering, and soldiering toasts beauty; and that's how for hundreds of years

they've diddled one another. But it says something when ladies club their pounds to take the finery off men's backs, and the swords from their hands, and turn them from parade heroes into peaceful nobodies. Once Mrs Nutts used to dote upon a drum; and now-though she hates the law, like a woman, ever since I was served with a writ— now she thinks a drum the wickedest of parch

ment.

Slowgoe. Glorious news! The Duke's going up at last. He'll be on Rutland Gate in a day or two, the-the "envy of surrounding nations, and the-the "-I forget the rest, but there he'll be.

Tickle. It must be a great relief to him to have it over. Let a man be as great as he may, and as iron as he may, he must feel in a bit of a pucker to have his bronze lightness so talked and writ about. They do say that for the last month the Duke's suffered nothing but nightmare: every night thinking in his sleep that Mr Cubitt was hoisting up, now one of his legs to the arch, now one of his arms, and now his head. It must be a great comfort to him when he's up altogether.

Nutts. The thing will look ugly enough, no doubt a disgrace to the metropolis, as the newspapers say, and all that; but for my part, and after a proper consideration of my power of holding out, even if the statue when up never comes

down again-I-I speak timidly, to be sure, as a penny barber ought-but I don't think I shall sink under it.

Nightflit. A pleasant marriage this for the French Duke as is going to have the Infant of Spain.

Nutts. Humph! it reminds me of the old story of the eagle and the child, only instead of the eagle it's that old Gallic cock Louis Philippe. How he'll pounce upon the little wench, and carry her off to his nest in Paris, there to make the most of her! Quite a case of child-stealing, only, you see, there's no police-van-no Newgate for kings.