_=Nutts.= In his circle._
_Slowgoe._ (_With newspaper._) Pretty quiet, I see, about this Cracow
business.
_Nutts._ Why, yes; when kings choose to break into towns, it’s what we
may ’nominate burglary made easy. Heads may do anything, if they happen
to be anointed, as you call it; for then they’ve been made so slippery,
Justice can’t catch hold of ’em.
_Slowgoe._ Mr Nutts, you’re incurable. Justice is very well for people
like us; but when it comes to emperors and kings--why, then, you see
the scales of Justice----
_Nutts._ I know; not big enough for royal transactions. Justice may
keep a chandler’s shop in the Old Bailey, to serve out penn’orths to
poor people----
_Nosebag._ And sometimes cruel hard penn’orths, too.
_Nutts._ But she hasn’t weights heavy enough for wholesale work.
She can’t weigh cities and towns, and thousands of men, women, and
children, for royal customers. There’s no place sufficiently large in
this world for her to set up her scales in.
_Peabody._ Why, no; perhaps not in this world. But heaven’s big enough,
Mr Nutts; and there’s a destiny, they tell us, that weighs mountains.
_Slowgoe._ Now none of your irreligion, Mr Peabody. If the King of
Prussia and the Emperor of Austria and of Russia----
_Tickle._ Well, I’d a droll dream about them a night or two ago. I’d
been reading a police case and fell asleep, and I dreamt that I saw
the three of ’em, with their crowns upon their heads, put into a
police-van. And then I thought I saw a policeman in a coat of blue
fire--no reflections on you, Mr Peabody--jump upon the steps, and heard
him bang to the door, and cry out with a jolly loud voice, “_All right,
=Newgate=!_”
_Slowgoe._ Well, I’m not a cruel person; but if order’s to be at all
respected, I’d hang any man for dreaming a dream like that.
_Tickle._ And then I thought the three crowned heads--and how often has
Fortin crowned where she ought to have bonneted!--the three crowned
heads was put upon a cast-iron treadmill; and as they went up and up,
it grew warmer and warmer, till at last it was red-hot.
_Slowgoe._ If this conversation is continued I must leave the shop.
_Tickle._ And then, after a little while, I thought I saw the crowned
heads put upon a bench pickin’ oakum--no; it was a lot of little snakes
in knots which the crowned heads couldn’t separate; and which the more
they was picked the more they stung--and didn’t the crowned heads all
blow and blow, as if they’d well burnt their precious fingers!
_Mrs Nutts._ Don’t talk in that way, Mr Tickle; it isn’t like a
Christian; ’specially with such company as kings. For after all, poor
things! they mayn’t know better.
_Nutts._ And after all--I do confess it--since I’ve seen Prince
Albert’s pigs at the cattle-show, I do feel a greater respect for all
sorts of royalty.
_Tickle._ Well, I must say it, and I don’t mean any joke, but in the
respect that’s got from prize pigs there must be a good deal of gammon.
_Slowgoe._ Here’s the account (_reads_): “Pigs of any breed, above
twenty-six and under fifty-two weeks old.--H.R.H. Prince Albert, of
Windsor Castle, a pair of three forty-one-weeks-old Bedfordshire pigs,
bred by H.R.H. and fed on corn, meal, milk, and potatoes.--Second
prize, £5.”
_Mrs Nutts._ And you can’t think it, Mr Slowgoe, such loves! I could
have nursed ’em!
_Nutts._ I own it; loyalty seemed to steal all over me as I looked at
’em. I confess the weakness, but had my country been on one side, and
them pigs on the other, I should have been a traitor in the cause of
pork.
_Mrs Nutts._ As I said to Mrs Biggleswade over the way--for she went
with us; the poor soul! like me, it isn’t often she gets out from that
brute her--but never mind--as I said to Mrs Biggleswade, “My dear, this
is the Prince’s pork, and they don’t look like common vulgar pigs, do
they?” And they didn’t; they looked as white as if they’d been washed
with the best scented Windsor soap, and dried upon damask. “My dear,”
whispered Mrs Biggleswade to me, and I could see something was passing
in her mind--“My dear, them’s the Prince’s pigs! Well, I feel so
affected, I could kiss ’em.”
_Tickle._ Not bad things, I daresay, to put your lips to, when roasted.
_Mrs Nutts._ Ha! There was something in ’em. They wasn’t at all
common pigs, I tell you. Fed on corn, and milk, and potatoes! Under
the Prince’s own eye, too! only think, wasn’t that something to
consider, as the sweet things lay grunting--for they was too fat to
stand--grunting afore you?
_Slowgoe._ Mrs Nutts, I must honour your principles. To a loyal mind,
it must be impossible to look upon those pigs, and not feel there was
a perfume, as it were, of royalty about ’em.
_Nutts._ I can’t say about that: when I looked at ’em, I seemed to
smell nothin’ but sage and onions.
_Mrs Nutts._ Don’t talk in that way, Nutts. It appears to me wicked
to think of eating ’em: all the while I looked at ’em, they seemed to
take me nearer to his Royal Highness. And so it seemed with a good many
other ladies; I’m sure there wasn’t one of us that would have begrudged
her golden ear-rings to put in their precious noses.
_Tickle._ Women are such devoted creturs--specially when there’s
princes in the way. To throw ear-rings to pigs! Well, what next?
_Mrs Nutts._ Ha! but they wasn’t at all like common pigs, I tell
you--so genteel; not at all like other pork. In a minute you could see
they were pigs of high breedin’; for they lay upon their sides, with
their noses a-restin’ on the troughs, doing nothin’. They wouldn’t try
to take the trouble to look at us; they was so fat they couldn’t open
their eyes theirselves, when a young man--to oblige us--with his finger
and thumb opened ’em for ’em. And Mrs Biggleswade and me both agreed,
that for pig’s eyes, they were the sweetest blue we ever see.
_Tickle._ Ha! This comes o’ being fattened on royal milk, and filled
with royal potatoes. Jest like you women. If a great man was to bring
up a prize donkey, you’d swear it was the finest zebra; and, for what I
know, wear thistles in your caps and bonnets in honour of the animal.
If the Prince’s pigs were to be bled into black puddings, what a
scramble there would be to buy the delicacy!
_Mrs Nutts._ There now, Mr Tickle, I don’t want to hear your heathen
discourse. If I was to look upon such puddin’s--coming from the
Prince’s sty--as the blood royal, what’s that to you? And if Mr Nutts
was like any other man--which he isn’t--he’d hardly hear his wife
talked to in this manner. And then, Mr Slowgoe--not but what the
pigs carry away the bell with me--then you should have only seen the
Prince’s heifer!
_Slowgoe._ Here it is, I see (_reads_): “EXTRA STOCK.--Cattle.--H. R.
H. Prince Albert, of Windsor Castle, a two-years-and-eleven-months-old
Highland Scot and Durham heifer, bred by Mr Milnes, Downham, Norfolk,
and fed on cake, meal, hay, _Swedes_, and mangold-wurzel! travelled to
the show on foot nine miles, and by railway twenty-two miles.--Silver
medal.” Now, does the medal, I wonder, go to the Prince or to Mr Milnes?
_Mrs Nutts._ To Mr Milnes, indeed! Like his impudence! To Prince
Albert, of course; and I should hope on state days and drawing-rooms,
and so forth, he’ll wear it.
_Tickle._ No objection to that at all. As there’s the Order of the
Golden Fleece, and the Order of the Elephant, and suchlike--given
to statesmen and soldiers, very often for swindling and killing one
another--eh, Mr Peabody? you’re a scholar, and know all about it--I
don’t see why at these cattle-shows there shouldn’t be the Order of
the Ox--the Order of the Steer--the Order of the Ram--the Order of the
Wether Sheep--the Order of the China Pig--and the Order of the Pig of
Any Breed.
_Peabody._ Why not? With Knights Companions of Oilcake, Mangold-Wurzel,
Buckwheat, and Barleymeal? I don’t see why a very pretty sort of
heraldry might not be got up of prize cattle; much wiser and more
serviceable, after all, to mankind, than the prize Unicorns and prize
Griffins won upon battle-fields. Then, as for the shedding of blood, I
don’t think that’s the best sort that grows us laurels; but that _that_
runs to black puddings.
_Nutts._ Well, of the two, I know which does the least mischief, and
gives the wholesomest bellyful. And as there’s a good many of the
aristocracy--by-the-by, you can’t think what a while I was mustering
that word, but I’ve got hold of him at last--as the aristocracy go in
every year for a show of fat, I shouldn’t wonder to see the day come
when medals for killing men, and, as Mr Tickle says, for swindling ’em
in cabinets, haven’t all the shine taken out of ’em by the medals of
cattle-shows.
_Peabody._ Very true, Mr Nutts. Put a case now. There is M. Bresson: I
believe he has had bestowed upon him the Order of the Golden Fleece.
_Nosebag._ What was the beginnin’ of that Order?
_Peabody._ To reward the flaying of a whole people! Well, Mons. Bresson
has the Fleece because he kidnapped that little girl--the Infanta--as a
daughter-in-law for Louis Philippe. Poor little Merino Lamb! the Fleece
had a meaning in it, as payment for such work. Nevertheless, when the
Frenchman walks with it about his neck--as though he carried a star out
of heaven under his chin--do you think, all matters considered, the
Order is as honest a looking thing--as honourable to him who carries
it, and as serviceable to the world, as the gold medal given to--here
it is (_reads_)--to “Mr J. Painter of Burley, near Oakham, Rutland” for
“a pen of three twenty-one-months-old new Leicester wethers”? Tell me
that, Mr Slowgoe.
_Tickle._ I should think not: that’s something like Fleece, that is;
and the wethers were fed upon good honest corn, and meal, and pulse,
I’ll be bound--while for the poor little Spanish girl, I wonder what
sort of promise the Frenchman crammed her with, that made her a Prize
Bride, and so rewarded him with the Prize Order.
_Nosebag._ But after all--though I’ve stuck the bills, as I may say,
taken money of the cattle--after all, it does seem to me a flying in
the face of plenty, to fatten ’em, not for the food of Christians, but
for soap and candles. I’m sartin on it--for I walked round and looked
at all on ’em--there was half-a-dozen oxen there that was so fat they
seemed quite disconcerned o’ themselves. And the poor creturs seemed
to look at some o’ their owners as much as to say, “We wonder you
ain’t ashamed o’ yourselves to spile our figures in this fashion; to
pad us--and all in the wrong places--with tallowy fat; and to take all
the shape and make out of us innocent unsuspecting oxen, as if we was
nothin’ more than churchwardens or city aldermen.”
_Mrs Nutts._ Nonsense! I’m sure the poor creturs had no such stuff in
their heads. And for the royal pigs--if they’d been emperors, they
couldn’t have sprawled about more at their ease, and seemed more full
and happy. They knew what was what, and never had their noses out of
the troughs.
_Nutts._ I should like to know who’ll buy ’em. Nobody can call me a
worshipper of rank and fortin, and that sort of thing, but I should
like to know who’ll buy them pigs, and when they’ll cook ’em.
_Limpy._ What can it matter to you, Nutts, who’ll cook the Prince’s
pigs?
_Nutts._ ’Twould be a satisfaction, that’s all. Them pigs have taken
such a hold on me, I’d go ten mile to walk up and down by the kitchen
window to smell ’em roastin’.
_Peabody._ Well, the pigs--for they’ve been spoilt, as things very
often are, brought up in their walk of life--the pigs are sensible
creatures, for all that; and if you’d have heard them really talk as I
did on Tuesday night----
_All._ Talk!
_Peabody._ Talk. I’ll tell you how it was. I was on duty at the show,
walking about among the cattle all night--at least nearly all night;
for I sat down on a bench at about twelve--for a minute after I heard
the church clock strike. At that very moment, who should I see rise up
out of a heap of straw but a short thick-set man, with a large head
bossed like a huge potato. I knew him at once by his looks and his
garment--it was Æsop.
_Nosebag._ I don’t believe a syllable about it; but who is Æsop?
_Nutts._ Well, Mr Nosebag! I never did hear such ignorance; if I don’t
feel ashamed of myself that ever I shaved you. Did you never see a
spellin’-book? Wasn’t he the intimate friend of the birds, and the
beasts, and the fishes, and hasn’t he told us all they talked about?
Didn’t he write the story of the Lion and the Mouse?
_Mrs Nutts._ And Cock Robin? But go on, Mr Peabody--never mind Nosebag.
Some people are so wicked they won’t believe nothin’! Go on. Wasn’t you
afeard?
_Peabody._ Just at first. But there was such a look of true
good-nature--and true wisdom, Mrs Nutts, is always good-natured--in
Æsop’s face; such a look, I may say, of pleasant benignity, that in a
moment I ceased to be afraid of the thing as a ghost, and stood bolt
upright, and took my hat off--though it’s not required by the rules of
the “force”--as to a teacher and a friend.
_Slowgoe._ Well, I shall begin to have some hopes of you, after all.
I didn’t think you’d show such a respect for ghosts. I’m glad you’re
not quite lost to the wisdom of our ancestors. I have lived to hear
the ghosts of Cock Lane doubted; but--I confess it--it’s positively
comforting to hear you talk as you do of Æsop. A great man! I should
like to know what wisdom we’ve had since he lived? Why, nothing new:
it’s been the old thing served up, like a cold joint hashed with
ketchup, and kayenne, and all that.
_Mrs Nutts._ And very good eatin’, too, Mr Slowgoe; but go on, Mr
Peabody. What did Æsop say when he saw you?
_Peabody._ Nothing to me at all; he merely smiled and nodded, and
kept all his discourse for the cattle. Well, it was very odd, but in
a minute every four-footed thing seemed to know the presence of their
great interpreter, Æsop.
_Nosebag._ How could they see him? Was the gas burning?
_Tickle._ Not at all. But don’t you know it’s a rule with ghosts always
to appear with their own lights?
_Peabody._ All’s one for that. I tell you they all knew him: and the
heaviest oxen there, though wellnigh broken-backed with fat, rose upon
its four legs; and its loose velvety skin seemed to quiver and wrinkle
with pleasure; and its eyes glowed with a mild and almost human light;
and it bent its head in token of veneration and acknowledgment of the
immortal Æsop. And the sheep--those packs of breathing wool--they
softly baaed, and shook their tails; and----
_Mrs Nutts._ And the pigs?--the Prince’s pigs?
_Peabody._ They couldn’t fail to support the dignity of their breeding,
and made more noise to welcome even the ghost of genius than all the
rest; indeed it was delightful, wonderful, to see how the great master
was acknowledged.
_Mrs Nutts._ And didn’t he say a syllable to you?
_Peabody._ Not a word: there was better company for him. But he walked
from class to class, and from pen to pen; and as he looked upon the
misshapen mountains of vitality, he shook his head, and, with a mild
melancholy upon his face, heaved a frequent sigh.
_Nutts._ Not to be wondered at; he was always such a friend to pigs.
_Peabody._ At last the ghost paused close beside a four-year-old
Hereford steer. It had won the first prize and a silver medal. “How are
you?” said Æsop, laying his hand upon the beast. “Choking; wellnigh
gone,” answered the steer. “Did you ever see such a beast as I am in
all your days? And this is what the stupidity and vaingloriousness of
man have brought me to!” “Foolish wretch!” cried Æsop, “how was it you
gorged so much? Couldn’t you restrain your appetite?” “Impossible!”
said the steer. “I had taken no temperance pledge against oil-cake: I
hadn’t vowed to keep to grass, with now and then a mouthful of turnips;
no. And so when they put the cake, and the mangold-wurzel, and the
Swedes, and the meal, and the cabbages before me, I did no more than
what men do with port and sherry, and brandy and gin, upon the table:
I took all I could swallow, though I felt I was making a greater beast
of myself every minute.” “Poor wretch!” said Æsop again; “however, I’m
glad you feel the degradation. Still, there’s one comfort for you--yes,
one consolation; like a glutton and wine-drinker with gout in his
stomach, you’ll die a prize beast.” “As for dying,” said the steer, in
a small asthmatic voice--“As for dying--but I beg your pardon, great
Æsop!--would you allow me to lie down in your presence? for I feel my
legs are cracking under my fat.” Æsop, with his old benevolence, nodded
assent; and the poor beast, after much wheezing and groaning laid
itself down again, and resumed its talk. “As for dying, life’s a burden
to me; and I’m sure of it, I shall smile at the butcher. You can’t
think I’ve any comfort in the gluttony that’s been forced upon me. As
for this stalling and over-feeding, what is it all to a sweet rational
mouthful of summer grass, with now and then a cabbage or two, a gentle
walk about the pastures, and at the heat of noon a foot-bath in the
pond, away from the flies under the shade of a willow? That’s wholesome
life; and makes good, honest beef--beef that’s a credit to the
plum-pudding and horse-radish. And now I’ve a whole tallow-chandler’s
stock upon my ribs and back, and the taste of unprofitable fat in my
mouth. Look at me,” and the animal languidly flourished its tail--“Look
at me, you who know what steers and oxen ought to be, and say if nature
isn’t outraged and violated in my person. I’m at the best a filthy
unnatural curiosity--a monster fattened by the conceit of man--and not
a decent beast fit for a decent table. I’m a mountain, and not a comely
animal.”
_Tickle._ Well, upon my life! a very sensible beast indeed.
_Peabody._ Don’t interrupt me. “Well,” says Æsop, shaking his
head, “I’m not given to compliments; and I must say it, you are a
fat, filthy, nasty-looking beast indeed. And then, again, how much
respectable beef might have been bred and properly fattened with the
food that has been thrown away--for it’s no better--upon you!”
_Tickle._ And I should like to know what the brute had to answer to
that.
_Peabody_. Why, though its heart was in walls of fat, the reproach
of Æsop went right through to it. It rolled, and kicked, and lowed,
and at last, somehow, the tears running out of its eyes, it cried,
“Don’t, don’t; there’s my remorse. I knew that there were whole herds
of beasts somewhere that would have been bettered by the superfluity
that was crammed down my throat; but the fact is, I had lived so long
and intimately with man, that I had fallen into his greatest vice, and
over-gorged myself with what would have comforted others.” And then
again the prize beast lowed, and its compunction seemed terrible; and
in this way Æsop went from prize beast to prize beast--to steers, to
oxen and heifers, and sheep.
_Nutts._ And pigs?
_Peabody._ And pigs.
_Mrs Nutts._ And tell me, what did the Prince’s pigs say? Surely they
didn’t bewail their fat to Æsop.
_Peabody._ All in the same manner as the steer; and one of the pigs in
special said this, “They’ve over-fattened me, made my life a burden,
and now they’ll kill me. Still I have this revenge; for be assured,
whoever eats a morsel of me--if it’s hours afterwards--I’ll do nothing
but rise upon him.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]