Nosebag. Worked “a magnificent chemisette”! Well, for a king, that was a precious thimble-rig!
Slowgoe. You’re an ignorant man, Mr Nosebag; as dead to true respect as the walls you stick your bills agin. The thimble-rig, as you call it—mind I’m no Papist—was, he thought, for the good of his soul.
Nosebag. Very careful of his soul, no doubt. For all o’ that, I shouldn’t ha’ liked to ha’ played his gracious Majesty with a table at Epsom. He’d have always know’d where the pea was, depend on ’t.
Slowgoe. Nevertheless, the Spaniards are a fine people, a proud people, a very proud people.
Nutts. Well, I don’t see what they’ve got to be proud on.
Slowgoe. Their ancestors were very great men, and therefore they’re proud.
Nutts. Now, that reminds me of that lazy varmint Jack Blaze. He does nothin’ but smoke cigars, play at skittles, borrow money, and swindle everybody as will trust him. Ask him to work on his own account, and he talks o’ the pride of the Blazes: only hint to him that you should like to have the price o’ that pot o’ beer you lent him five years ago, and he’ll strike his chest, and still—there’s the pride of the Blazes! And why? The fact is, a hundred years ago, Jack had a relation as was a full private in the royal dragoons; and he got a deal of glory, and all that, and Jack can never forget it. Now family pride’s very well, when it’s kept up by the family working for it. And I daresay Blaze the dragoon was a very fine fellow in his time; but for what he did a hundred years ago, I can’t pay his relation, Jack Blaze, who won’t do nothing for himself now. Family pride, and national pride, to be worth anything, should be like a tree—taking root years ago, but having apples every year. Now Spanish pride appears to me a good deal like a Spanish chestnut—so long in the ground that it’s very near done bearing.
Slowgoe. You’re so full of prejudice, Mr Nutts, there’s no talking to you. What’s this? From the Bristol Times, I see. (Reads.) “The permissions to shoot over the Beaufort estates in Monmouthshire have been withdrawn by the Duke from those gentlemen who are known to support Lord G. Somerset, his brother-in-law.” Very right. The Duke of Beaufort knows what is due to his own dignity. If he allows to voters the right of shooting partridges, it’s only fair he should have the run of their votes.
Nutts. To be sure. It is but right. The voter, we’ll say, bags a pheasant, and the Duke bags a conscience. Nothin’ but proper.
Tickle. Here’s a dreadful case. (Reads.) “Twelve young women brought up for breaking windows in St George’s Workhouse.—It seemed they came to the workhouse, and were informed that they could not be admitted until the evening, on which they commenced throwing at the windows. The defendants said that they were starving about the streets, and they admitted they broke the windows that they might be sent to gaol, which was preferable to wandering about the streets destitute and strangers.”