Mrs Nutts. A pretty speech, I think, for a husband. I assure you, Mr Slowgoe, if we’ve a single flea in the house, that is, a flea to speak of, I’m—but what—you know Mr Nutts!—always likes to make his wife little before strangers.
Slowgoe. I was speaking of the Jesoots——
Mrs Nutts. I know ’em, Mr Slowgoe. I had the ague once; and didn’t folks want me to take their bark: but no, said I—I’ll die first.
Slowgoe. And I was going to say that this last blessed Thursday—fifth o’ November as was—Guy Fox Day, Dunpowder Day—why, it only proves the Jesoots are everywhere. When I was a boy, Guys was respected. Where are they now? I didn’t see ten in all Lunnun, Mrs Nutts; and I made it my business to walk about and count ’em. And what Guys, too! But it’s the fashion to sneer at and put down the wisdom of ancestors; and that’s why the fifth o’ November is come to what it is. The church bells ring, to be sure, but with nothing hearty in ’em; they ring as if the whole thing was a joke. Oh, when I was a boy, didn’t my father make squibs and crackers, what I call a moral duty on Bonfire Day! And didn’t the neighbours club their old coats, and waistcoats, and breeches, as if they was proud on ’em being made up into Guys: that was turning out handsome, splendid-looking Popes; things really worth the burning. And now, what are they? Well, I’ve lived to see something! When I looked upon the things they called Guys o’ Thursday, things no bigger than Tom Thumbs, with brown paper faces—I know it’s a little weak, still I’m not ashamed of it for all that—I could ha’ burst into crying. As I’m a Christian sinner, and a lover o’ the Constitution, there wasn’t one on ’em decent for the flames.
Tickle. Well, now, if you had a bit o’ proper constitutional respect in you, you should ha’ just put on your Sunday best, and gone to the flames for ’em.
Nightflit. (With paper.) A dreadful affair this in St Pancras’ parish! A poor, dear, innocent servant-girl shamefully treated by a vestryman.
Mrs Nutts. Just like ’em; go on. Shamefully treated! Oh, I wish they’d just let me take half an hour to myself to make a few laws for the men! I mean, that is, for ourselves. Laws never will be what they ought to be till women help to make ’em.
Nutts. Nonsense! keep to pie-crusts. A pretty light hand you’d have for a statute. What did the vestryman do to the gal?
Nightflit. Why, one vestryman, Mr Douglas, charges another vestryman, Mr Pike, with taking a servant-maid and chucking her——
Mrs Nutts. Into the canal, of course. Just like the men.