Slowgoe. What mad stuff are you preaching, Mr Nutts?
Nutts. Nothin’ mad, Mr Slowgoe, but every word of it terrible meaning—dreadful sense. Do you mean to say that if you got such a meetin’ as Mr O’Connell speaks of, you wouldn’t have in the people coming together, the representatives, as it were, of all the miseries that make the wretchedness and the crimes I talk about? What do we call the English Parliament? Why, the wisdom of England. All the sense of the country skimmed and strained.
Tickle. But you never believe it.
Nutts. Never mind that. Now, in the delegation of Mr O’Connell, we should have all the sufferings, and horrors, and crimes of Ireland represented, as I may say—brought naked before the world. And then if these gentry could be got together, and specially the absent gentry, the graceless babes that suck Ireland’s breasts, and never look upon Ireland’s starving face—if all these could meet—“meet together in Dublin”—and be made by a miracle to do what Ireland wants, how we should find hon. members change their constituencies! The member for Filth and Rags would be ashamed of what he represented, and resolve to stand for Cleanliness and Clothing; and Houseless, and Nakedness, and Despair, and Burglary, and Murder, would all of ’em, as I may say, be disfranchised—wiped off the national schedule—and Comfort and Health, and Peace and Plenty, and Security, all of ’em for once send their Irish members to Parliament.
Tickle. Very odd this talk about Ireland, and quite makes out a dream I had last night. I thought the Queen drove up in a special train to London, and went down to Parliament with all her cream-coloured horses, and with two golden keys, and the crown on her head, insisted upon opening both the Houses herself. And then she took her seat upon the throne and read her speech, and I thought it wasn’t her Majesty I heard, but a silver trumpet; and I thought she talked about the distresses in such a way that everybody wept, and even Lord Brougham wiped his eyes with a roll of parchment; and her Majesty said that the time was come for everybody to make a sacrifice—yes, sacrifice was the word—for the folks in Ireland. And then I thought I heard another flourish of trumpets, and I saw the Queen-Dowager come in with a large bag of money marked £50,000. And with the surliest look in the world she went up to the Lord Chancellor, and gave him the bag, telling him that she, a lone woman, had £100,000 a year out of the taxes; she was only too happy to give up half for as long a time as Parliament should think fit, and the country should want it. And then there was such a cheer, and I thought I saw the Queen-Dowager go floating out of the House upon a purple cloud, and looking so happy that she looked thirty years younger for it——
Slowgoe. Only shows what your waking thoughts must be, to have an infamous dream like that. In the good old times they wouldn’t have let you dream in that manner—not a bit on it. Yea, if things only was as they was, you’d have Mister Attorney-General with a ’x-officio ’bout your ears for that dream.
Tickle. Well, hear me out. When the Queen-Dowager went, I thought all the bishops ran with money-bags to the table.
Slowgoe. (Rising.) I won’t hear another word. If you’ll dream anything that’s possible, I don’t mind listening to you; but no such balderdash as that.
Nutts. Talking about bishops, it seems that Manchester has a good chance now. There’ll be a mitre, after all, among the tall chimneys.
Tickle. Wonder if they’ll smoke the less for it.