Tickle. Not at all. For here’s a letter from Munich of the 22d ult. that says (reads): “The exasperation of the populace of our city against Mlle. Lola Montes has become so great that the authorities, in order to prevent disturbances, have required the young lady to quit the town.”
Mrs Nutts. “Young lady!” Such creturs! Well—if pisoning can ever be lawful—but go on.
Tickle. (Reads.) “This she did last night, going to the village of Sturemberg, situated at about five leagues from Munich. Her carriage was escorted by a strong detachment of dragoons from the garrison.”
Nutts. At the village of Sturemberg? Ha! like a letter at the post-office, I s’pose—“to be left till called for.”
Mrs Nutts. Well, Nutts, I wonder how you can joke at such a matter. As a husband and father of a family, it ought to make your blood run cold. It does me.
Peabody. Well, I’ve heard of Venus drawn by doves——
Mrs Nutts. I have it in a valentine; and then, like a foolish girl, believed in it.
Peabody. But I don’t fancy Venus with her bulldog. However, they say the King’s mad—don’t they?
Slowgoe. No doubt on it. For isn’t he the same King that’s writ poems and started a newspaper? If I was on a jury, that would be enough for me. I’d send him to a lunatic asylum for life.
Mrs Nutts. Very right, Mr Slowgoe; any man who can serve his Queen as he’s done, I’d put him in a straight jacket for the rest of his days, with only one arm out on Sundays.