_Nutts._ Why, look here: truth isn’t like a penny-piece with two different sides to it; and a flum is not less a flum for coming after dinner. Either Lord George meant what he said, or he didn’t. Now, if he meant it, he meant to make Sir Robert Peel answerable for what he calls “the vengeance of Providence;” he meant to lay at Sir Robert’s door the misery and starvation--and it makes one’s heart sick and one’s blood cold to think of it--of thousands and thousands of suffering creaturs; he meant---- _Slowgoe._ Nonsense! you’re such a violent man: he meant nothing of the sort. When a man bids for Minister, everything’s fair: public men---- _Tickle._ Oh yes; men blacken one another as they like, they means nothing. They do it, I s’pose, just as last Tuesday we blackened Bill Simpson’s face when he was asleep--for a joke, and nothing more. _Nutts._ Ha! and his Lordship having dined, I s’pose you’ll have it, there was a greater allowance for burnt cork? Don’t tell me. They take up poor fortin-tellers--hocus-pocus fellows that cast nativities and suchlike, and tell servant-gals what every star means when it winks upon ’em. But when a lord--and a lord, too, that would be a prime minister--would trade upon Providence, and, thinking he knows all its doings, would lay the misery of millions upon the head of one man, they never send for the constable, oh no; but fine gentlemen, full of piousness and port wine, stamp their feet and whobble out “Hear! hear!” Such religion’s like olives to ’em, and gives quite a relish to their drink. _Slowgoe._ I say again, you’re a violent man, Mr Nutts. There is no doubt that the potato disease is brought about by something; and until that something is discovered, we--I mean us of true Conservative principles--may as well lay it upon the treason of Sir Robert Peel as upon anything else. When the true cause is found out, why, then, as gentlemen, we can shift it. _Nightflit._ Here’s a bit from the _Dublin Record_ that says it’s Popery as has brought about the blight. It’s nothing but giving money to Maynooth that’s ruined the ’taters. _Tickle._ No doubt on it. In the same way that when sheep die of the rot, it’s only because there’s the Pope’s eye in every leg of mutton. Now as for Lord George---- _Nutts._ Don’t talk about him. Poor fellow! Now I’m a little cool, although he’s a lord and I’m only a penny barber, I do from the very bottom of my heart pity him! Anything pleasant in the paper?