To be sure he did rather indicate a disposition to take away my gun—­which I certainly should never have relinquished without a struggle—­and so I forked out the dibs, in order to keep the piece!  I’m quite positive, however, that the vagabond over-charged me, and I kicked, as was quite natural, you know, under such circumstances!

I really have an imperfect notion of disposing of my shooting-tackle—­but I’m such an unfortunate devil, that I really believe when I post ’em up for sale—­my gun will not go off!—­dem me!

SCENE XVIII.

“Have you read the leader in this paper, Mr. Brisket?”

“No!  I never touch a newspaper; they are all so werry wenal, and Ovoid of sentiment!”

Bob. 
O! here’s a harticle agin the fools,
Vich our poor British Nation so misrules: 
And don’t they show ’em up with all their tricks—­
By gosh!  I think they’d better cut their sticks;
They never can surwive such cuts as these is!

Brisket. 
It’s werry well; but me it never pleases;
I never reads the news, and sees no merit
In anythink as breathes a party sperrit.

Bob. 
Ain’t you a hinglishman? and yet not feel
A hint’rest, Brisket, in the common-weal?

Brisket. 
The common-weal be—­anything for me,—­
There ain’t no sentiment as I can see
In all the stuff these sons of—­Britain prate—­
They talk too much and do too little for the state.

Bob. 
O!  Brisket, I’m afeard as you’re a ‘Rad?’

Brisket. 
No, honour bright! for sin’ I was a lad
I’ve stuck thro’ thick and thin to Peel, or
Vellinton—­for Tories is genteeler;
But I’m no politician.  No!  I read
These ‘Tales of Love’ vich tells of hearts as bleed,
And moonlight meetins in the field and grove,
And cross-grain’d pa’s and wictims of true love;
Wirgins in white a-leaping out o’ winders—­
Vot some old codger cotches, and so hinders—­
From j’ining her true-love to tie the knot,
Who broken-hearted dies upon the spot!

Bob. 
That’s werry fine!—­but give me politics—­
There’s summat stirring even in the tricks
Of them vot’s in to keep the t’others out,—­
How I Should like to hear the fellers spout! 
For some on ’em have sich a lot o’ cheek,
If they war’n’t stopp’d they’d go it for a week.

Brisket. 
But they’re so wulgar, Bob, and call sich names
As quite the tag-rag of St. Giles’ shames
The press too is so wenal, that they think
All party herrors for the sake o’ chink.

Bob. 
But ain’t there no false lovers in them tales,
Vot hover wirgin hinnocence perwails?

Brisket. 
Vy, yes, but in the end the right one’s married,
And after much to do the point is carried
So give me love sincere and tender,
And all the rest’s not worth a bender.