_Clinch. sen._ Pray, sir, are the roads deep between this and Paris? _Sir H._ Why that question, sir? _Clinch. sen._ Because I design to go to the jubilee, sir. I understand that you are a traveller, sir; there is an air of travel in the tie of your cravat, sir: there is indeed, sir----I suppose, sir, you bought this lace in Flanders. _Sir H._ No, sir, this lace was made in Norway. _Clinch. sen._ Norway, sir? _Sir H._ Yes, sir, of the shavings of deal boards. _Clinch. sen._ That's very strange now, 'faith--Lace made of the shavings of deal boards! 'Egad, sir, you travellers see very strange things abroad, very incredible things abroad, indeed. Well, I'll have a cravat of the very same lace before I come home. _Sir H._ But, sir, what preparations have you made for your journey? _Clinch. sen._ A case of pocket-pistols for the bravos, and a swimming-girdle. _Sir H._ Why these, sir? _Clinch. sen._ Oh, lord, sir, I'll tell you----Suppose us in Rome now; away goes I to some ball--for I'll be a mighty beau. Then, as I said, I go to some ball, or some bear-baiting--'tis all one, you know--then comes a fine Italian _bona roba_, and plucks me by the sleeve: Signior Angle, Signior Angle--She's a very fine lady, observe that--Signior Angle, says she--Signiora, says I, and trips after her to the corner of a street, suppose it Russel Street, here, or any other street: then, you know, I must invite her to the tavern; I can do no less----There up comes her bravo; the Italian grows saucy, and I give him an English dowse on the face: I can box, sir, box tightly; I was a 'prentice, sir----But then, sir, he whips out his stiletto, and I whips out my bull-dog--slaps him through, trips down stairs, turns the corner of Russel Street again, and whips me into the ambassador's train, and there I'm safe as a beau behind the scenes. _Sir H._ Is your pistol charged, sir? _Clinch. sen._ Only a brace of bullets, that's all, sir. _Sir H._ 'Tis a very fine pistol, truly; pray let me see it. _Clinch. sen._ With all my heart, sir. _Sir H._ Harkye, Mr. Jubilee, can you digest a brace of bullets? _Clinch. sen._ Oh, by no means in the world, sir. _Sir H._ I'll try the strength of your stomach, however. Sir, you're a dead man. [_Presenting the Pistol to his Breast._ _Clinch. sen._ Consider, dear sir, I am going to the Jubilee: when I come home again, I am a dead man at your service. _Sir H._ Oh, very well, sir; but take heed you are not so choleric for the future. _Clinch. sen._ Choleric, sir! Oons, I design to shoot seven Italians in a week, sir. _Sir H._ Sir, you won't have provocation. _Clinch. sen._ Provocation, sir! Zouns, sir, I'll kill any man for treading upon my corns: and there will be a devilish throng of people there: they say that all the princes of Italy will be there. _Sir H._ And all the fops and fiddlers in Europe----But the use of your swimming girdle, pray sir?