Nutts. Why, you see, when Time’s brushing up all the world for a new beginning, it’s nothin’ more than right to treat him with a little ceremony, when Time himself starts with a clean shave on the first of January.
Slowgoe. Well, for my part, I thought Time never shaved.
Nutts. Quite a vulgar error, sir. As the clock strikes twelve on the thirty-first of December, he takes up his scythe, which is Time’s razor—and what that’s stropped upon ’twould make a man’s fortin to find out, for what cuts like it, I should wish to know?—well, he takes up his scythe, and holding himself by the nose, begins the operation.
Slowgoe. What! in the dark? and without a glass?
Peabody. Not at all. His glass is the Frozen Ocean, and he shaves by the Northern Lights.
Nutts. (Aside to Peabody.) Thank’ee, Mr P. You’ve helped me well out of that, like a gentleman with a scholar. Consider that I owe you a shave. Why, at this moment, 1847—like a new-born babby—Time hasn’t a hair on his chin. No; I consider him a nice smart young chap, with a very clean face—a very straight back—a merry twinkle in his eye—a sprig of green holly in his mouth—and quite ready to draw, wherever he’s invited, for Twelfth-cake—and dance with all women afterwards.
Mrs Nutts. Yes, that’s your notion of Time; and a married man, too! All very well; but I don’t see that Time’s any reason to look so smart, and go dancing about with anybody but his own wife—and that, too, when his bills for last year ain’t paid.
Nutts. (Aside to Peabody.) Now isn’t that like ’em, Mr P.? The worst of a wife is she always goes for realities. It isn’t an opinion to put forth to the world, but my notion is that romance—like brandy—was only made for man. Sometimes when I’m up in the clouds, a-going here and a-flying there, and doing I don’t know what—well, at that moment, that good woman there—the wife of my busum—says somethin’, and down I drop in a lump, like a dead eagle with a bullet in his belly.
Mrs Nutts. Not very good manners, Mr Nutts, I think, to the rest of your customers—to keep a-muttering there to Mr Peabody. But I suppose that’s one of your new leaves.
Nutts. Was only asking him, my dear, if Time—like some of the linen-drapers—didn’t sometimes shave the ladies. And Mr Peabody said there could be no doubt on ’t, you did look this new year so fresh and blooming.