Tickle. And acause she’s a queen she’s to be turned into a horrid slave for life, and the link of the chain that holds her is to be a wedding-ring. Now, when some foreign prince’s grandmother’s aunt’s husband’s sister’s son or daughter dies, all the Courts go into mourning for three or four days or hours, I forget which, to show to this world and the next their respect for the calamity. Now it’s my opinion, if there was any real truth in Court mourning, that all the royal folks in Christendom ought to put on sackcloth, with a good sprinkling of the best Wallsend ashes, when Queen Isabella marries her cousin. Charming matrimony, when one of the parties, and that one the poor woman too, as the Times says, recoils from the other “with loathing.”
Mrs Nutts. Don’t talk of it, Mr Tickle, it’s more than my head can bear.
Slowgoe. All very fine and very sentimental; but what’s to become of state affairs, if kings and queens think of their hearts? Hearts warn’t made for ’em. Royal folks have always married in one way, and therefore always must. It’s quite right there should have been all this dodging about Isabella’s husband.
Nutts. Well, I haven’t said anything about the matter as yet; but after all, what a deal we men, as rational criturs of the universe—lords of the earth—angels in our worldly apprenticeship, as we think ourselves, have to brag about, when it’s made a matter of consequence to millions of rational souls who a little gal of sixteen marries—whether one man or another!
Slowgoe. None of your atheism, Mr Nutts; or, as I’ve told you a hundred times, you shan’t shave me. Politics is a mysterious thing.
Nutts. You’re right. So is picking pockets. Now honesty, as the old spelling-books say, is adapted to the meanest understanding.
Nightflit. Very rum letters, these, from the Earl of Ripon and his parson! All, I see, taken from the Standard.
Nutts. What—about the Earl, the donkey, and the curate? I must say the Earl doesn’t shine quite like a new fourpenny in the business.
Slowgoe. Nonsense! give me the paper. What does his Lordship—mind I’m not a Whig, so no admirer of his’n—what does his Lordship say to Mr Crowther, who’s made the curate of Nocton, that Lord Bentinck made all the row about? The Earl, looking upon the curate as a livery servant—only the livery’s a surplice, and not drab with mustard facings—desires him and his wife not to have no dealings with a Mr and Mrs Newton, simply because the Earl doesn’t like ’em. The Earl says: “Lord Ripon is confident that if they were aware of the course pursued by Mrs Newton towards the Dean of Windsor, Mr Granville and Mr Kempe (the two previous curates of Dunston), as well as to Lord Ripon himself, they would not receive any apparent civilities from Mrs Newton, or have any communication with her. Lord Ripon has written to Mr Howse to desire that Mr Crowther may have the use of the pony, and Mrs Crowther of the donkey OR covered cart, whenever he applies to him for them.” Think of that. Isn’t it condescension? What I call Christian kindness? To lend a pony to a parson, and an ass with a covered cart to the parson’s wife. What would revolutionists have?
Nutts. Very right. The donkey is a touching bit. The loan of it shows in what respect the Earl held the clergyman. There’s something what I call magnanimous in that jackass.