Peabody. Very good, hearselike literature, written with a black plume. But why shouldn’t “the busy throng” go about their business? Would the gentleman have ’em stop and throng about the house? If so, and I’d been on duty, I am sure I should have said “Move on.”
Slowgoe. Don’t be profane, Mr Peabody. The gentleman is now in the chamber. (Reads.) “Eight enormous altar candles vainly attempted to dispel the gloom that thickened around the unconscious object of all this pomp, which was supported upon trestles, within an ebony railing, surmounted by eight enormous plumes of black ostrich feathers. The pall, of rich Genoa velvet, thrown partially aside, disclosed the coffin, an unparalleled piece of art, covered with crimson velvet, and sumptuously mounted with massive gold ornaments, and a plate inscribed with the style and title of the Duke at great length.” And this, the writer goes on beautifully to say, is all that remained of the “illustrious object.”
Nutts. Well, he was a very decent man, I believe; but I never knew anything illustrious that he did. What made him illustrious—does anybody know?
Tickle. Why, the same thing that makes a weathercock illustrious—gold.
Nutts. And they call this “lying in state.” “Ostrich feathers—Genoa velvet—and an unparalleled coffin.” Well, when we think what coffins hold at the best, such a show is rightly named; it is “Lying in State,” and nothing better.
Slowgoe. Of course you’ll sneer, Mr Nutts; anything against the aristocracy. But I’m happy to say that the funeral was of corresponding splendour, and went off remarkably well. A great many of the ambassadors and nobility—though they didn’t go themselves—in the very handsomest manner sent their carriages.
Nutts. Well, that’s making woe easy, isn’t it, when—poor things!—it’s put upon the horses?
Tickle. (With newspaper.) I’m the veriest varmint, if the Church isn’t really in danger now.
Slowgoe. What do you mean? How so?
Tickle. Why, here’s Lord John Russell’s word for it; he’s going to make three more bishops. Manchester’s to be the smallest; I suppose not exactly a fine lawn bishop, but a cotton one.