_Nosebag._ Lord Wrothesley’s going to make second-class carriages pop’lar on King Hudson’s lines, and won’t pay his Majesty’s first fares. A good move this. For if lords would only ride with the sheep and bullocks, there’s lots of people who’d directly think sheep and bullocks the best of company. Howsomever, in this matter his Lordship’s right. But King Hudson has made a long speech at the York and Newcastle meeting, and, like all kings, cracking his own generosity to the skies; and then he began abusing the _Times_, but somehow his heart failed him; and the Iron King talked as if his tongue was suddenly turned to butter, and every bit of metal was drawn out of him. _Tickle._ (_With paper._) Have you heard this? (_Reads._) “Mr Wakby, M.P., has received several letters from ladies, many of them of rank and title, offering to co-operate in purchasing the discharge of Cork, Mathewson, and any other witnesses examined at the inquest.” And this is taken from the _Morning Post_. _Nutts._ Oh, it’s all right; the women will see the true beauty of soldiering at last. Poor things! At present they think man never so pretty as when in uniform; never so complete a thing to love as when he smells of gunpowder. And beauty smiles on soldiering, and soldiering toasts beauty; and that’s how for hundreds of years they’ve diddled one another. But it says something when ladies club their pounds to take the finery off men’s backs, and the swords from their hands, and turn them from parade heroes into peaceful nobodies. Once Mrs Nutts used to dote upon a drum; and now--though she hates the law, like a woman, ever since I was served with a writ--now she thinks a drum the wickedest of parchment. _Slowgoe._ Glorious news! The Duke’s going up at last. He’ll be on Rutland Gate in a day or two, the--the “envy of surrounding nations, and the--the”--I forget the rest, but there he’ll be. _Tickle._ It must be a great relief to him to have it over. Let a man be as great as he may, and as iron as he may, he must feel in a bit of a pucker to have his bronze lightness so talked and writ about. They do say that for the last month the Duke’s suffered nothing but nightmare: every night thinking in his sleep that Mr Cubitt was hoisting up, now one of his legs to the arch, now one of his arms, and now his head. It must be a great comfort to him when he’s up altogether. _Nutts._ The thing will look ugly enough, no doubt--a disgrace to the metropolis, as the newspapers say, and all that; but for my part, and after a proper consideration of my power of holding out, even if the statue when up never comes down again--I--I speak timidly, to be sure, as a penny barber ought--but I don’t think I shall sink under it. _Nightflit._ A pleasant marriage this for the French Duke as is going to have the Infant of Spain.