Nightflit. But the horse and the rider would only be the size of life. How could folks judge then?
Tickle. Why, very well. Let all the House of Commons go into the Park with telescopes magnifying four-horse power, and spying through them; why, in course they would see the ’fect, and no mistake.
Slowgoe. I see Lord John Russell’s withdrawn the Irish Arms Bill.
Nutts. I said he would. That’s the first Whig blunderbuss as is missed fire.
Tickle. Or rayther, the blunderbuss was so high charged, Lord John didn’t like to pull the trigger. ’Fraid it would kick a little too strong, and crack the Cabinet like chaney.
Nutts. Talking about model dukes and dummy horses, isn’t it a pity there isn’t a sort o’ model Parliament afore which the Whigs might try their bills? They find so many split when they come to prove ’em afore the real house. One night Lord John holds fast to his Arms Bill, like a child to a new drum; and the next he gives it up as if it was of no use, somebody having knocked a hole in it.
Tickle. Tell you it’s the old Whig cowardice. They’re so often afraid o’ their own blunderbuss. Howsumever, this is a fault of the right sort, only hope they’ll do no worse.
Nightflit. Any news about Young Ireland? What’s he done with the “sword” that he took from ’Ciliation Hall?
Tickle. Why, they do say he’s swallowed it, like the Injun juggler; only—not like him—they do say he’ll never be allowed to bring it up agin. Old Daniel offers to take O’Brien back to his busum if he’ll promise never more to smell of gunpowder.
Nosebag. I’ve heard that O’Connell’s going to write up in ’Ciliation Hall somethin’ like what they print in the playbills.