_Mrs Nutts._ Very right, Mr Tickle; and if I was the Queen o’ England, I’d make a law that should force ’em. I thank my stars I shall never go to Rome; but if I should, I wouldn’t think myself safe with anything less than a bishop. _Slowgoe._ Nor I. Not that I’d think of turning my religion for---- _Nutts._ Tell you what, Slowgoe, some folk’s religion’s like some folk’s coats--too poor to be worth turning. _Mrs Nutts._ Never mind him, Mr Slowgoe. You know the sort o’ husband I’m blessed with. As for the Papists, I often say to Mrs Biggleswade over the way, “I wonder you can buy your cat’s-meat o’ that Biddy Maloney, when you know he’s a Papist and goes to a Catholic chapel. No wonder, my dear,” says I to Mrs Biggleswade, “that you can’t keep a linnet or canary from the claws o’ that cat. Think what she’s fed on, and who brings it her.” _Slowgoe._ As for the Jesoots, Mrs Nutts, they’re swarming in every house--swarming like fleas, and we don’t know it. _Nutts._ Not at all like our fleas, then! Ecod, you’d soon know _them_! _Mrs Nutts._ A pretty speech, I think, for a husband. I assure you, Mr Slowgoe, if we’ve a single flea in the house, that is, a flea to speak of, I’m--but what--you know Mr Nutts!--always likes to make his wife little before strangers. _Slowgoe._ I was speaking of the Jesoots---- _Mrs Nutts._ I know ’em, Mr Slowgoe. I had the ague once; and didn’t folks want me to take their bark: but no, said I--I’ll die first. _Slowgoe._ And I was going to say that this last blessed Thursday--fifth o’ November as was--Guy Fox Day, Dunpowder Day--why, it only proves the Jesoots are everywhere. When I was a boy, Guys was respected. Where are they now? I didn’t see ten in all Lunnun, Mrs Nutts; and I made it my business to walk about and count ’em. And what Guys, too! But it’s the fashion to sneer at and put down the wisdom of ancestors; and that’s why the fifth o’ November is come to what it is. The church bells ring, to be sure, but with nothing hearty in ’em; they ring as if the whole thing was a joke. Oh, when I was a boy, didn’t my father make squibs and crackers, what I call a moral duty on Bonfire Day! And didn’t the neighbours club their old coats, and waistcoats, and breeches, as if they was proud on ’em being made up into Guys: that was turning out handsome, splendid-looking Popes; things really worth the burning. And now, what are they? Well, I’ve lived to see something! When I looked upon the things they called Guys o’ Thursday, things no bigger than Tom Thumbs, with brown paper faces--I know it’s a little weak, still I’m not ashamed of it for all that--I could ha’ burst into crying. As I’m a Christian sinner, and a lover o’ the Constitution, there wasn’t one on ’em decent for the flames. _Tickle._ Well, now, if you had a bit o’ proper constitutional respect in you, you should ha’ just put on your Sunday best, and gone to the flames for ’em.