ravat and white waistcoat like Young England, and have got your
go-to-meetin' clothes on, if you ain't a sneezer, it's a pity, that's
all. No, I ain't a vain man, I despise it, as I do a nigger; but,
Squire, what a glorious field the subject to-night is for a man that
knows what's what, and was up to snuff, ain't it? Airth and seas! if I
was there, I could speak on either side; for like Waterloo it's a fair
field; it's good ground for both parties. Heavens what a speech I could
make! I'd electrify 'em and kill 'em dead like lightnin', and
then galvanise 'em and fetch' em to life agin, and then give them
exhiliratin' gass and set 'em a larfin', till they fairly wet themselves
agin with cryin'. Wouldn't it be fun, that's all? I could sting Peel
so if I liked, he'd think a galley nipper had bit him, and he'd spring
right off the floor on to the table at one jump, gout or no gout, ravin'
mad with pain and say, 'I'm bit thro' the boot by Gosh;' or if I was
to take his side, for I care so little about the British, all sides is
alike to me, I'd make them Irish members dance like ravin', distractin'
bed bugs. I'd make 'em howl, first wicked and then dismal, I know.

"But they can't do it, to save their souls alive; some has it in 'em and
can't get it out, physic 'em as you would, first with vanity, and then
with office; others have got a way out, but have nothin' to drive thro'
the gate; some is so timid, they can't go ahead; and others are in such
an infarnal hurry, they spend the whole time in false starts.

"No, there, is no good oratory to parliament now, and the English brag
so, I doubt if it ever was so good, as they say it was in old times. At
any rate, it's all got down to "Bunkum" now. It's makin' a speech for
newspapers and not for the House. It's to tell on voters and not on
members. Then, what a row they make, don't they? Hear, hear, hear;
divide, divide, divide; oh, oh, oh; haw, haw, haw. It tante much
different from stump oratory in America arter all, or speakin' off a
whiskey barrel, is it? It's a sort of divil me-kear-kind o' audience;
independent critters, that look at a feller full in the face, as sarcy
as the divil; as much as to say, 'Talk away, my old 'coon, you won't
alter me, I can tell you, it's all _Bunkum_.'

"Lord, I shall never forget poor old Davy Crocket's last speech; there
was no "bunkum" in that. He despised it; all good shots do, they aim
right straight for the mark and hit it. There's no shoo