_Nutts._ Now, my dear, if you’ll let alone my politics, I’ll promise not to interfere with your turnip-tops; and I’m sure, if turnip-tops can speak, I heard ’em just now crying out for you to come and pick ’em in the kitchen. A cleverer woman at greens never lived; but for all that, my dear, you are not quite up in the House of Commons. (_Mrs Nutts looks an unspoken repartee, and whisks out._) Yes, gentlemen, as I said, I _have_ a vote. _Peabody._ Well, is it promised? _Nutts._ Why, I’m taken a little aback. I rayther like the address of Mr Cochrane; but, as I once heerd a feller say at the play--“His highness is discovered.” _Slowgoe._ Well, I’m not surprised--not at all. When a man promises liberty by the bushel--universal suffrage and all that--I know what to expect. I haven’t read the partic’lars; but it’s true, isn’t it, that he went about the country as a wandering minstrel? _Peabody._ Why, I understand that, blushing like a gentleman, he has owned as much. _Slowgoe._ As I say, I haven’t heard the partic’lars; but he went about, didn’t he, with a hurdy-gurdy and white mice? _Nutts._ Oh dear, no; went with guitar, and twangled the wires. But I don’t care so much about that--no, and I could have forgiven the mice, for mice out of Parliament aren’t so bad as rats in; but the unfortunate young youth--I mean Don Juan de Vega Cochrane--writ a book that, though it was all about soft-hearted ladies, wasn’t quite a book of beauty. Now, the worst of black used in all this blackening world is the black that’s put upon the name of a kind, unsuspecting woman. It’s a hard job for a man to get his hands clean after using it--it will stick worse than the real “Tyrian dye.” _Slowgoe._ And so this patriot--this hurdy-gurdy politician--this minstrel boy of Westminster--won’t stand, eh, for Parl’ment? _Nosebag._ P’r’aps he may sing, then. Shouldn’t wonder if he was to canvass the voters’ wives with his guitar, with pink ribbons about ’is neck, dust like Mr James Wallack, for the Brigand, with a new sort of song--“Gentle Electors;” or, “The Minstrel Boy to the Poll is gone.” If he was only to try that dodge, and the women had votes, I’m blest if, in my opinion, he wouldn’t chant plumpers out of all of ’em. I’m certain on it, a man with one of them twangling guitars is a more dangerous cretur about a house than with a double-loaded blunderbuss. _Nutts._ And so I’ve been reading Mr Charles Lushington’s speech, and my mind’s made up; if he sticks to what he says, I shall prime him with my vote for Parl’ment.