_Tickle._ (_With newspaper._) Well, it’s a shocking thing, isn’t it,
when we read of babbies, left by things as call themselves their
mothers, on highways and door-steps, and in all sort of places,
exposed, I b’lieve they call it, to the elements and the severity of
the season. It’s a little bad o’ such parents, isn’t it, Mr Nutts?
_Mr Nutts._ Bad! that isn’t the word, Mr Tickle; and the worst of it
is, we can’t make a word bad enough for it.
_Tickle._ To put a sweet little child--a innocent little gal, for
instance--in a box, or a basket, or what not, and leave her in the wide
world, for the wolves that walk about it. As I say, it is a little bad;
and it’s very proper, when the mother as does it is found out, that
she’s sent to prison, and made to pick oakum; and try to learn feelings
from the gaol clergyman. It’s a shockin’ matter this, to think of a
little gal so left--a poor little soul, as innocent as the daisies.
_Mrs Nutts._ Is it so very shockin’? Then read it.
_Tickle._ What I mean is taken out of the _Times_, and is all about the
Queen of Spain’s marriage with her cousin. Here it is:--
“Don Francisco de Assis was summoned at Madrid, and for the reasons
as stated to you at the time, refused to come. He was again summoned,
though there was no decision taken, as the feeling of dislike to his
person was as strong as before, and rendered his chances, even then,
of a very trifling nature. That dislike was strongly and deeply felt
by the young Queen herself, and participated in by her mother; it was
_with tears in her eyes, and her bosom heaving with sobs, that she was
forced to plight her troth to him_. She had to be told that--I use the
expression employed--‘if she did not instantly consent to marry her
cousin, Don Francisco de Assis, she should marry no one.’ When I again
assure you that the feeling of dislike, amounting to repugnance, was
shared in by the Queen-mother, it is not difficult to guess from what
quarter this force proceeded to compel a child, not yet sixteen years
old, to consent to marry a man from whom she recoiled with loathing.”
A nice beginning, that, of the marriage state.
_Nutts._ There, Mrs Nutts, aren’t you happy that you was born in Seven
Dials, and have a husband who you love, as shaves for a penny? Don’t
you bless yourself that you aren’t the Queen of Spain?
_Mrs Nutts._ It’s all shockin’ enough; but it isn’t what Mr Tickle
begun talking about. His story was about a little gal as was left in a
basket in the wide world, with nothin’ but chance to look after her.
_Tickle._ I know that; but isn’t that little gal, with her bit o’
wretched flannin, in her miserable bit o’ basket, with the midnight
wind singing about her, at last picked up by letter Q, No. 45,
policeman, and carried to the workhouse--isn’t that little gal, with
the taste of its mother’s milk not yet out of its mouth, a happier
soul than the poor little wretch, born in a Spanish palace, wrapt in
velvet, and fed with a golden spoon? Now, take the two babbies. Here’s
Betsy of Bermondsey, we’ll say, and Isabella o’ Spain. Betsy was taken
up in a wicker basket, at the door of a very respectable tanner, a
man as had served as churchwarden a dozen times, and not being owned
by nobody, was packed off to the workhouse. She’s called Betsy, after
one of the misses as does her the first compliment she ever had in
life, by consentin’ to do her that honour. Well, Betsy grows up a
strong, flourishing workhouse thing, a bit of parish duckweed, and
does credit to her keeper. She is thumped and bumped, but between
whiles somehow learns to write and read and keep accounts, as far as
two and two make half-a-dozen. Well, at ten years old she’s sent out
as parish ’prentice, to look after the five children of Mrs Chip, the
bonnet-builder, as has too much to do in her own bus’ness to attend to
her own family. And she’s the maid-of-all-work, without the wages, up
early and abed late; for as Mr Chip is a first-rate bagatelle-player,
he doesn’t sometimes come home till two, and Mrs Chip will have
the kittle bilin’ at six. Howsumever, Betsy gets on in life, as a
football gets on by all sorts o’ kicks and knocks, and at last she’s
out of her ’prenticeship, and sets up housemaid on her own account.
She’s a independent young ’oman, with eight pounds a year besides
tea and sugar, and nobody knows how many caps, and how many yards o’
cherry-coloured riband in her deal box.
_Mrs Nutts._ What nonsense you talk, Mr Tickle! No woman has so many
yards of riband of one colour. It only shows what a little you know of
the human ’art.
_Nutts._ My dear Mrs Nutts, talking about the human heart, is the pie
made?
_Mrs Nutts._ Mr Nutts, just attend to your beards, and leave the pies
to me.
_Nutts._ (_Aside to =Slowgoe=, who points_.) A woman of very strong
mind. Go on, Mr Tickle. You left the gal with the caps and the riband.
_Tickle._ Well, Betsy Bermondsey has all sorts of sweethearts; and
the _Morning Post_ never troubles what head it has about the matter.
Whether she marries the butcher, the baker, the milkman, or the
policeman (as has a partic’lar weakness o’ the stomach for roast duck
and inions), not one of the young Englanders in the _Post_, or any
other paper, cares the vally of its own leaders.
_Mrs Nutts._ What’s leaders made of, Mr Tickle?
_Tickle._ Made o’ different things. Sometimes o’ steel-filings,
sometimes o’ soap-and-water. But, as I say, Betsy Bermondsey has
sweethearts; and the different parishes about her don’t send their
churchwardens, some to speak for the butcher; some for the baker; some
for the milkman; some for the police; and some for a cobbler that she’d
never seen in all her days; and what’s worse, some from the cats’-meat
man that she never looked at without shivering. No, Betsy gives away
her heart, and is all the lighter and rosier for the gift. And she
marries the baker, and in as quick a time as possible she’s in a little
shop, with three precious babbies, selling penny rolls, and almost
making ’em twopennies by the good nature she throws about ’em.
_Nutts._ What do you say to that, Mrs Nutts?
_Mrs Nutts._ Well, I should say Betsy were a happy woman. Every poor
soul hasn’t her luck.
_Tickle._ You may say that. For only think of Isabella, Queen of Spain.
Poor little merino lamb! With half-a-dozen ’bassadors prowling about
her, and licking their lips, like tigers about a sheep-pen, to snatch
her up--and at last it’s done. At last she’s laid hold of, and her very
heart’s torn out of her, that she may be made a wife of a ----.
_Nosebag._ It makes a man’s blood bile to think of it.
_Tickle._ And acause she’s a queen she’s to be turned into a horrid
slave for life, and the link of the chain that holds her is to be a
wedding-ring. Now, when some foreign prince’s grandmother’s aunt’s
husband’s sister’s son or daughter dies, all the Courts go into
mourning for three or four days or hours, I forget which, to show to
this world and the next their respect for the calamity. Now it’s my
opinion, if there was any real truth in Court mourning, that all the
royal folks in Christendom ought to put on sackcloth, with a good
sprinkling of the best Wallsend ashes, when Queen Isabella marries her
cousin. Charming matrimony, when one of the parties, and that one the
poor woman too, as the _Times_ says, recoils from the other “with
loathing.”
_Mrs Nutts._ Don’t talk of it, Mr Tickle, it’s more than my head can
bear.
_Slowgoe._ All very fine and very sentimental; but what’s to become of
state affairs, if kings and queens think of their hearts? Hearts warn’t
made for ’em. Royal folks have always married in one way, and therefore
always must. It’s quite right there should have been all this dodging
about Isabella’s husband.
_Nutts._ Well, I haven’t said anything about the matter as yet;
but after all, what a deal we men, as rational criturs of the
universe--lords of the earth--angels in our worldly apprenticeship,
as we think ourselves, have to brag about, when it’s made a matter of
consequence to millions of rational souls _who_ a little gal of sixteen
marries--whether one man or another!
_Slowgoe._ None of your atheism, Mr Nutts; or, as I’ve told you a
hundred times, you shan’t shave me. Politics is a mysterious thing.
_Nutts._ You’re right. So is picking pockets. Now honesty, as the old
spelling-books say, is adapted to the meanest understanding.
_Nightflit._ Very rum letters, these, from the Earl of Ripon and his
parson! All, I see, taken from the _Standard_.
_Nutts._ What--about the Earl, the donkey, and the curate? I must say
the Earl doesn’t shine quite like a new fourpenny in the business.
_Slowgoe._ Nonsense! give me the paper. What does his Lordship--mind
I’m not a Whig, so no admirer of his’n--what does his Lordship say
to Mr Crowther, who’s made the curate of Nocton, that Lord Bentinck
made all the row about? The Earl, looking upon the curate as a livery
servant--only the livery’s a surplice, and not drab with mustard
facings--desires him and his wife not to have no dealings with a Mr
and Mrs Newton, simply because the Earl doesn’t like ’em. The Earl
says: “Lord Ripon is confident that if they were aware of the course
pursued by Mrs Newton towards the Dean of Windsor, Mr Granville and
Mr Kempe (the two previous curates of Dunston), as well as to Lord
Ripon himself, they would not receive any apparent civilities from Mrs
Newton, or have any communication with her. Lord Ripon has written to
Mr Howse to desire that Mr Crowther _may have the use of the pony_, and
Mrs Crowther _of the donkey =OR= covered cart_, whenever he applies
to him for them.” Think of that. Isn’t it condescension? What I call
Christian kindness? To lend a pony to a parson, and an ass with a
covered cart to the parson’s wife. What would revolutionists have?
_Nutts._ Very right. The donkey is a touching bit. The loan of it
shows in what respect the Earl held the clergyman. There’s something
what I call magnanimous in that jackass.
_Slowgoe._ Again listen to this: “If Mr Crowther has need of anything
being done for him in any way, it is to _Mr Howse_ alone to whom Lord
Ripon would wish him to apply. Lord Ripon is confident Mr Crowther will
meet with every attention from Mr Howse.”
_Nutts._ And who is Mr Howse? A near and dear relation to Earl Ripon?
_Slowgoe._ No: Mr Howse is Earl Ripon’s cook; and therefore, as knowing
best his Lordship’s heart through his stomach, could best talk to Mr
Crowther. And now think of the ingratitude of this parson. He won’t
give the cold shoulder to Mr and Mrs Newton in return for the pony and
donkey, but says: “The duties of this situation dictate to me great
impartiality, and that I should think no evil, but as much as in me
lieth, live peaceably with all men. In the humble hope of accomplishing
this course, it must be my care to avoid even the appearance of
partisanship in any unhappy differences of the parishioners.” Don’t you
call _that_ flying in the face of a nobleman?
_Nutts._ Yes; and capital flying too.
_Slowgoe._ Like your revolutionist ways. But his Lordship knows what
belongs to the true dignity of a nobleman. He won’t let Mr Crowther
wind up his watch by Nocton Hall. That’s sweet revenge. For the parson
writes: “I was in the habit of regulating my watch by the clock in
the tower of Nocton Hall, and every Saturday evening went up to the
Hall for that purpose, having learnt that it was by that time the
inhabitants of the two villages regulated theirs. On Saturday evening
the policeman on the grounds came up to me and said ‘he was very sorry
to be compelled to act so to a gentleman, but he had been directed to
warn me off the grounds, and of course he must obey his orders.’” Now
isn’t that spirit on the part of his Lordship? Won’t let the clergyman
set his watch by Nocton clock. Won’t the parson be sorry for that?
_Nutts._ I can’t say; but all I know is this, if his Lordship’s clock
goes at all like his manners to his curates, it’s the last timepiece I
should like to wind myself up by, anyhow.
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