Peabody. Beg your pardon—Belle Sauvage.
Slowgoe. I know that; but who’d stop for pronunciation when the Church is in danger? When, I say, I see ’em all with their drawn quills at such meetings, they do seem to me no better than ’sassins with daggers ready to stick at nothing but Protestant ’Scendancy.
Mrs Nutts. My stars! and——
Nutts. Mrs Nutts, stars will do.
Mrs Nutts. Well, I can’t speak without being taken up! I was only going to ask what was to be done against such creturs—going with drawn daggers among peaceable people?
Nosebag. Why, nothing. (Feeling his chin and rising.) A very clean shave, indeed; got a chin like white satin. Why, nothing can be done—nothing.
Slowgoe. No; because we want a minister with wigour. But I’d stop it, I would. Yes; for I wouldn’t let a single reporter into any meeting ’somever that didn’t—as members of Parliament used to do when England was worth living in—that didn’t renounce the Pope and all his works; and Captain James Gordon, with two drawn swords at the door, should ’minister the oath.
Nosebag. Well, I don’t know. I’m not a Papish myself—never shall be—but——
Mrs Nutts. Just as I said to Mrs Biggleswade over the way—“My dear,” says I, “they might tear me to bits with wild Arabian horses, and they wouldn’t get my religion out of me.”
Slowgoe. Very proper, ma’am; I’m delighted to hear you. I will say this, you’re worthy of Smithfield in its best days.