_Nutts._ (_Stropping razor._) Can’t think what’s come to my razor.
Won’t cut nohow.
_Slowgoe._ I’ve often told you, Mr Nutts, nothing is as it was. The
world’s gettin’ old; and the iron, which we may look upon as the bones
of the world, is going first. But what was to be expected from so many
railroads? The earth’s exhausted, sir, by the persumption of man. I’ve
been readin’ all about it, and I should say, as a man of business, the
world isn’t worth fifty years’ purchase.
_Nutts._ Like my wife--looks very well for age, for all that.
_Mrs Nutts._ (_From parlour._) Better let your wife alone, Mr Nutts,
and provide for your family.
_Nutts._ But if, Mr Slowgoe, we aren’t to get any more iron, what
are we to do for swords and armour in the next Spanish war? You know
as the happy couple’s married--the Prince and the Infant lady, I
mean--who can say how soon the fighting may begin?
_Slowgoe._ (_Very solemnly._) Nobody!
_Nutts._ Artful work, isn’t it, when a little petticoat like that stirs
up a war, sets armies in motion and ships a-sailing, and fortifies
batteries, and cuts down, and blows up, and brings, as I may say,
Beelzebub himself upon the world, like an old showman, to play the
pipes and beat the drum whilst the fun’s a-doing? I wonder, in the
course o’ time, how many thousand will be cut and blown to bits, and
all along of the Infanta’s marriage. Well, they may talk as they like,
but the real gun-cotton’s in petticoats.
_Slowgoe._ (_With paper._) I perceive that the Queen of Spain has
ennobled the French Ambassador’s baby. Not weaned yet, and made a
grandee of Spain!
_Tickle._ And not the worst of the lot for that, I daresay.
_Mrs Nutts._ Make a darling baby a grandee, Mr Slowgoe. Dear child!
what good will that do it? better have given it a silver mug.
_Tickle._ Only just hear, Mrs Nutts, and----
_Nutts._ I think, Mrs Nutts, you’d better look to your pudding, and
never listen about babies.
_Mrs Nutts._ Not listen about babies! Well, I’m sure--dear
creturs!--we’re troubled enough with ’em. Never mind Nutts, Mr
Tickle--he never deserved the babies he’s got.
_Nutts._ No! but how rewards do rain upon some men! Well, make haste;
read all about the baby, Tickle, or--well, it is odd--but you never can
even start a baby without bringing a woman about with you.
_Tickle._ Very proper, too. You see, Mrs Nutts, the ’Bassador’s baby
is made Duke of Santa Isabel. He hasn’t done sucking his thumb yet;
but he’s a duke, for all that. Made a duke because his father got the
Infanta made a wife--a wife at fourteen, Mrs Nutts!
_Mrs Nutts._ At fourteen! Well, where do they expect to go to? And the
baby’s a grandee?
_Tickle._ Of the first water; and as such--I’ve read it all afore and
will tell it you short--as such, he can’t have a single day out from
Spain without the Queen’s leave! And then, agin, he can’t marry--can’t
give his heart away, as you did, Mrs Nutts----
_Mrs Nutts._ There! no rubbish!--go on with the child.
_Tickle._ Baby can’t give away his heart and get married, if the Queen
doesn’t like the young ’oman.
_Mrs Nutts._ Little sufferer!
_Tickle._ But now comes the honour and glory. Baby may keep his hat on
in the presence of the Sov’ran of Spain!
_Peabody._ And his head, too? Because ’tisn’t always so certain.
_Tickle._ And further; baby has the right, in honour of the Sov’ran, at
any of the royal bullfights, to rush in among the bulls, taking any of
’em by the horns he likes----
_Mrs Nutts._ Poor little innocent!
_Tickle._ Or taking his chance o’ luck as it comes. In fact, doing as
the boys do with the pie-man--risking a toss for it. And that’s what it
is to be a grandee of Spain, Mrs Nutts!
_Mrs Nutts._ Well, I thank my stars none o’ my precious babes are that.
They are not called upon to wear their hats and show their ill-manners
afore their lawful Queen; they are not called upon to----
_Nutts._ No; and they’re not called upon to eat up the apples and
sugar, but they’re doing it. (_Mrs Nutts rushes to back parlour:
squalling heard._) Best children in the world: I know ’em; they won’t
cry above half an hour. Tell me where did they ring the married couples?
_Nosebag._ At the Church of A-toucher.
_Peabody._ Atocha, my good sir. The Virgin of Atocha is the saint of
all the Queens of Spain.
_Nutts._ Ecod, she must have had her hands full in her time! Queen
Christina, I don’t know how it is--I never saw the lady, don’t think I
ever shall--but, somehow, I never read or hear about her that I don’t
think of that beautiful female panther that Mr Tyler’s got in the
’Logical Gardens.
_Slowgoe._ There you are agin. Flinging at kings and queens! If you
_will_ go on being an infidel, I _must_ leave the shop. How can a
she-panther be like a Queen of Spain?
_Nutts._ Not a bit, if you come to reason on it; and yet I can’t get
it out o’ my head. Whenever I hear of Christina, I do think of that
beautiful, soft, velvet-looking beast, so very handsome and so very
treacherous. Then there’s Mr Louis Philippe, he’s like----
_Slowgoe._ There now! I won’t stop! I know what you’re arter. In a
minute you’ll be putting all the Continental crowned heads into cages
and ticketing ’em.
_Nutts._ Nothin’ o’ the sort. Though, when you speak of cages, there
is certainly some o’ the Continentals, as you call ’em, safest seen on
this side o’ the bars.
_Peabody._ Talking of the Virgin, here is something about her from the
_Constitutionnel_ (_reads_): “It is said that the Virgin of Atocha, on
the day of the marriage, was covered _with a magnificent chemisette_,
a present of Ferdinand VII. on his return in 1814, and a petticoat,
_admirably embroidered_, by Don Antonio, the uncle of Ferdinand.”
_Nutts._ “Admirably embroidered!” Now isn’t it a pity, Mr Slowgoe,
when you see fortin’ taking people out of their proper spear, making
’em kings, when they should ha’ been men-milliners? Carrying swords
and sceptres, and golden--what you call them round things, eh, Mr
Peabody?--you’ve been a schoolmaster.
_Peabody._ The ball--the ball of sovereignty. When a king holds that
ball in his hand, at his coronation, the ball is typical of the whole
earth; the world is in his hand.
_Nutts._ And I’m blessed if some on ’em don’t play worst tricks with it
than an ape plays with a cocoa-nut! But I was going to say, isn’t it a
thing to cry over, to think that fellows like Ferdinand----
_Slowgoe._ I _must_ leave the shop. I do not agree with all the
principles of that revere--I mean of that monarch; nevertheless, he
once wore a crown upon his head, and I must respect him.
_Nutts._ Well, then, I suppose if all the monkeys in the world was
to go mad, and crown an ourangoutang for their king--I suppose you’d
respect him?
_Slowgoe._ I can’t answer for myself; but I think I should.
_Nosebag._ Worked “a magnificent chemisette”! Well, for a king, that
was a precious thimble-rig!
_Slowgoe._ You’re an ignorant man, Mr Nosebag; as dead to true respect
as the walls you stick your bills agin. The thimble-rig, as you call
it--mind I’m no Papist--was, he thought, for the good of his soul.
_Nosebag._ Very careful of his soul, no doubt. For all o’ that, I
shouldn’t ha’ liked to ha’ played his gracious Majesty with a table at
Epsom. He’d have always know’d where the pea was, depend on ’t.
_Slowgoe._ Nevertheless, the Spaniards are a fine people, a proud
people, a very proud people.
_Nutts._ Well, I don’t see what they’ve got to be proud on.
_Slowgoe._ Their ancestors were very great men, and therefore they’re
proud.
_Nutts._ Now, that reminds me of that lazy varmint Jack Blaze. He does
nothin’ but smoke cigars, play at skittles, borrow money, and swindle
everybody as will trust him. Ask him to work on his own account, and
he talks o’ the pride of the Blazes: only hint to him that you should
like to have the price o’ that pot o’ beer you lent him five years ago,
and he’ll strike his chest, and still--there’s the pride of the Blazes!
And why? The fact is, a hundred years ago, Jack had a relation as was
a full private in the royal dragoons; and he got a deal of glory, and
all that, and Jack can never forget it. Now family pride’s very well,
when it’s kept up by the family working for it. And I daresay Blaze
the dragoon was a very fine fellow in his time; but for what he did a
hundred years ago, I can’t pay his relation, Jack Blaze, who won’t do
nothing for himself now. Family pride, and national pride, to be worth
anything, should be like a tree--taking root years ago, but having
apples every year. Now Spanish pride appears to me a good deal like
a Spanish chestnut--so long in the ground that it’s very near done
bearing.
_Slowgoe._ You’re so full of prejudice, Mr Nutts, there’s no talking
to you. What’s this? From the _Bristol Times_, I see. (_Reads._) “The
permissions to shoot _over the Beaufort estates_ in Monmouthshire _have
been withdrawn by the Duke_ from those gentlemen who are known to
support Lord G. Somerset, his brother-in-law.” Very right. The Duke of
Beaufort knows what is due to his own dignity. If he allows to voters
the right of shooting partridges, it’s only fair he should have the run
of their votes.
_Nutts._ To be sure. It is but right. The voter, we’ll say, bags a
pheasant, and the Duke bags a conscience. Nothin’ but proper.
_Tickle._ Here’s a dreadful case. (_Reads._) “Twelve young women
brought up for breaking windows in St George’s Workhouse.--It seemed
they came to the workhouse, and were informed that they could not be
admitted until the evening, on which they commenced throwing at the
windows. The defendants said that they were starving about the streets,
and they admitted they broke the windows that they might be sent to
gaol, which was preferable to wandering about the streets destitute and
strangers.”
_Nutts._ A bad case. And surely something must be wrong, when starving
folks are made, in this way, to turn stones into bread.
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