_Cannikin._ When we’d got the Dook well on the dray, off we went--the ’osses mindin’ it no more than if they’d drawn dooks, instead of beer, all their life. Off we went--and very grand it was. Yet, somehow, when I looked at the cocked-hat--for I’d never seen a cocked-hat in brass afore--I knew it was wrong, but I couldn’t help thinking o’ the Fifth of November. And then the brass cock’s feathers in the hat--didn’t they rattle a bit? _Nutts._ Rattle! What, was they loose? _Nosebag._ What they’d call in the playhouse, property feathers--made o’ hammered metal. For my part, I should ha’ thought they’d been cast solid. _Tickle._ Bless you! Mr Wyatt knows what he’s about. He made ’em to rattle in the wind a-purpose to frighten the birds, and preserve the Duke’s face, otherwise it was feared the swallows might build their nests under his Grace’s eyebrows. _Slowgoe._ Impossible! they wouldn’t dare to do it. _Tickle._ Why not? Must be plenty o’ room; for they do say fourteen gentlemen took a sociable glass in the Duke’s inside. _Slowgoe._ Pooh! What for? _Nosebag._ I s’pose to show, as I once heard _Othello_ say, that the Duke “had stomach for ’em all.” _Slowgoe._ Never was--never will be--so great a man. Proceed. The dray-horses--noble animals!--went on---- _Cannikin._ And when they turned Park Lane--and how they _did_ turn! as if they know’d the whole business quite as well as we Christians--and got into Pickydilly, and the statue--as I thought to myself--begun to smile, tho’ p’r’aps it was only the sun as broke out upon it--as the Dook seemed to know he was gettin’ near home--then didn’t the people shout agin, and didn’t the band blow their brass trumpets, and didn’t the Dook’s brass feathers rattle agin? Oh, didn’t they! _Slowgoe._ Quite affecting to hear of it. And I’m told the Duke’s balcony was full o’ nobility. _Tickle._ Bless you! full as the Red Book. There was the Queen-Dowager, and a good many o’ the rest o’ the Royal Family. _Nutts._ (_In a low voice, aside._) Worshipping the graven image. _Tickle._ But, bless your heart! you should ha’ seen Sir Frederick Trench and the Duke o’ Rutland upon Mr Wyatt’s stand. Didn’t they laugh at the statue--and rub their hands--and wink at one another--and put their tongues in their cheeks, as much as to say to the mountain o’ brass afore ’em, “Well, it’s all right; we’ve got you so far, and we’ll have you up: and when you’re well up, there you’ll stand; for we know a ’lightened people won’t trouble their heads a pin about the matter to pull you down agin.” And that’s the way they sarve the British Public! _Slowgoe._ Sarve it right. What does the public know--what does the press, as it’s called, know in comparison with a committee of noblemen? Talk about taste. Nobility comes into the world with it; it’s only the sham sort that comes to the other people. The voice of the press, indeed! what is it, at best, but bow-wow?