_Tickle._ What! you don’t think it a burden? _Slowgoe._ Not at all. The National Debt is like the hump on a camel--it makes the State carry what it has to carry with greater convenience. (_Looking at paper._) So they’re going to make Prince Albert Chancellor of Cambridge. Mr Peabody, though you are now in the police, I believe last week you said you had a vote? Who do you give it to? _Peabody._ _Nobody._ In the first place, I don’t see how the Earl of Powis, being, on his own confession, not so wise a man as the Duke of Northumberland, can have the face to ask for it. And secondly, Prince Albert’s intentions, should he be elected, are too military. _Nutts._ What do you mean?--going to turn the students into soldiers? _Peabody._ Not all at once; but it’s generally reported, that if he’s made Chancellor, he intends to abolish the trencher-cap at Cambridge University and bring in the Albert hat. I shouldn’t wish it talked about, because it might lose the poor girl her place; nevertheless, the housemaid at Fulham told me of the fact, that on Thursday last she saw her master, the Bishop of London, trying on the Albert hat before the looking-glass. _Tickle._ That’s nothing; he might only be doing that as an officer--and I suppose a bishop would rank as lieutenant-colonel--in the Army of Martyrs. Talking of the Duke of Northumberland, I see he’s been lying in state. _Slowgoe._ Very right. Even in death people should respect their proper rank, and not come down to the vulgar. I see here’s the account taken from the _Morning Herald_. Hark! (_Reads._) “The noblest and most conspicuous town mansion of the nobility of this country is that which now bears the aspect of desolation, and betokens the chill presence of death. _The busy throng without pursue their wonted avocations around the princely pile_ ‘regardless of the dead:’ within, all is darkness and pompous gloom.” Beautiful, isn’t it? _Peabody._ Very good, hearselike literature, written with a black plume. But why shouldn’t “the busy throng” go about their business? Would the gentleman have ’em stop and throng about the house? If so, and I’d been on duty, I am sure I should have said “Move on.” _Slowgoe._ Don’t be profane, Mr Peabody. The gentleman is now in the chamber. (_Reads._) “Eight enormous altar candles _vainly_ attempted to dispel the gloom that _thickened_ around the unconscious object of all this pomp, which was supported upon trestles, within an ebony railing, surmounted by eight _enormous plumes_ of black ostrich feathers. The pall, of rich Genoa velvet, thrown partially aside, disclosed the coffin, _an unparalleled piece of art_, covered with crimson velvet, and sumptuously mounted with massive gold ornaments, and a plate inscribed with the style and title of the Duke at great length.” And this, the writer goes on beautifully to say, is all that remained of the “illustrious object.”