Slowgoe. Three more? I wish it was thirty.
Tickle. All the worse for the Church, then, I say again. Don’t tell me. Poor old soul! When we think of the money her sons, the bishops, do get through—when we think of their palaces and their coaches—and their bankers’ books—and their coal-mines and their sulphur-mines, for what I know—when we think of all this, and remember the precepts—I think they’re so called—of Lady Church herself, I think her sons can’t be called the most dutiful of children. On the contrary, I do believe they’re getting the old lady every day into greater discredit; and where it will end, who shall say? Thus, it’s my opinion—the more bishops, the more danger.
Nutts. I wonder if Mr Barry’s had orders in the House of Lords to make seats for ’em.
Tickle. Oh, they’re not to go to Parliament, says Lord John, “except as vacancies in the bench of bishops occur.”
Slowgoe. I don’t quite understand that. And I must confess it—whenever I see a Whig meddling with the Church, I feel as if I was looking at a cat in a china-closet; nobody can say what precious article mayn’t be smashed.
Nutts. Perhaps his Lordship means that the bishops, like the soldiers, should take the House of Lords in turn; mounting guard in the Church one after t’other.
Chapter XIX.
NOSEBAG comes in; at intervals, other customers.