_Nightflit._ It’s all very well; but if once Louis Philippe caught hold o’ them babbies, he’d never let ’em go till he’d married every one on ’em to his grandsons and granddaughters. But there won’t be no war. _Slowgoe._ (_With paper._) I think not; nevertheless, I see our ’Bassador, Lord Normandy---- _Nosebag._ A noble gen’l’man that! _Slowgoe._ Humph! For a Whig. I see the _Réforme_--how I hate that word!--a French paper, says, “Considerable bets were made yesterday at the Jockey Club that Lord Normandy would have a fit of gout, by order of his Government, at the period of the feasts which are to be given at Versailles on the arrival of the Duchess of Montpensier. Those bets exceed 2000 louis.” Ha! what we call perlitical gout. _Nutts._ Well, considering the lots o’ children in the palace, I wouldn’t have gout, if I was his Lordship: no, to make it quite safe, I’d have nothing less than measles. _Tickle._ (_With paper._) His Lordship may remain in health; for another paper, I see, says this: “We announced that a grand theatrical representation was to take place at Versailles on the occasion of the marriage of the Duke de Montpensier; but the King, deeply touched with disasters which have fallen on several of the departments, has countermanded all kinds of rejoicing.” Poor little Duchess! Her honeymoon hasn’t begun so pleasant, has it? To be sure, she’s seen a few bulls killed, and, as the accounts say, “the usual number” of horses gored and slaughtered. _Nutts._ More than that. I was reading that one of the men that fought the bulls has since died of his wounds. _Peabody._ Well, I’m not superstitious myself; but the Greeks and the Romans wouldn’t have foretold much of a marriage so soon followed by death and a deluge. I must say, I _do_ prophesy a war. _Nutts._ Why, there’s no doubt on it. One of our Ministers has wrote a confidential letter to another advising him to send to Manchester, to order I don’t know how many tons of gun-cotton; for powder, you know, is exploded. _Slowgoe_. How do you know this, if the letter was confidential? _Nutts._ I know it from his Lordship’s footman, who found the letter in his master’s letter-basket; that footman has a good eye for a penn’orth, and--but let this be between us--that private letter will appear to-morrow in the _Morning Post_! I tell you, tons of gun-cotton. _Mrs Nutts._ What is all this about gun-cotton? Cotton going off and blowing up! Well, as I was saying to Mrs Biggleswade over the way, it’s enough to frighten a woman from ever taking a needle-and-thread in her hand. I don’t know how it is; but now, somehow, I do dread to go near my cotton-box. _Slowgoe._ That’s not a new complaint with Mrs Slowgoe, by any means. _Tickle._ A very fine invention this gun-cotton, no doubt; but it gives a dreadful power to husbands: no woman’s safe. _Mrs Nutts._ Bless my soul, Mr Tickle! Not that I’ve any fear of Nutts, but do tell me what you mean. How do they make the gun-cotton go off?