CHAPTER VII.

IMPY. (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 say

anything 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 Ireland should appoint a delegation of 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, the

hon. 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 to

stand 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 out

of 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 QueenDowager 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 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 QueenDowager 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.

it.

Tickle. Wonder if they'll smoke the less for

Slowgoe. Hope the roof's safe, Mr Tickle; but you do talk a little like an atheist. If Manchester