The Humourous Story of Farmer Bumpkin's Lawsuit

by Richard Harris

GOD BLESS OUR DEAR PRINCESS.

There’s not a grief the heart can bear
But love can soothe its pain;
There’s not a sorrow or a care
It smiles upon in vain.
And She sends forth its brightest rays
Where darkest woes depress,
Where long wept Suffering silent prays—
God save our dear Princess!

chorus.

She soothes the breaking heart,
She comforts in distress;
She acts true woman’s noblest part.
God save our dear Princess

She bringeth hope to weary lives
So worn by hopeless toil;
E’en Sorrow’s drooping form revives
Beneath her loving smile.
Where helpless Age reluctant seeks
Its refuge from distress,
E’en there Her name the prayer bespeaks
God save our dear Princess!

It’s not in rank or princely show
True Manhood’s heart to win;
’Tis Love’s sweet sympathetic glow
That makes all hearts akin.
Though frequent storms the State must stir
While Freedom we possess,
Our hearts may all beat true to Her,
Our own beloved Princess.

The violet gives its sweet perfume
Unconscious of its worth;
So Love unfolds her sacred bloom
And hallows sinful earth;
May God her gentle life prolong
And all her pathway bless;
Be this the nation’s fervent song—
God save our dear Princess!

Although the language of a song may not always be intelligible to the unlettered hearer, the spirit and sentiment are; especially when it appeals to the emotions through the charms of music. The sergeant had a musical voice capable of deep pathos; and as the note of a bird or the cry of an animal in distress is always distinguishable from every other sound, so the pathos of poetry finds its way where its words are not always accurately understood. It was very observable, and much I thought to the sergeant’s great power as a singer, that the first chorus was sung with a tone which seemed to imply that the audience was feeling its way:

the second was given with more enthusiasm and vehemence: the third was thumped upon the table as though a drum were required to give full effect to the feelings of the company; while the fourth was shouted with such heartiness that mere singing seemed useless, and it developed into loud hurrahs, repeated again and again; and emphasized by the twirling of hats, the clapping of hands, and stamping of feet.

“What d’ye think o’ that?” says the Boardman.

“I’m on,” said Lazyman; “give me the shilling, sergeant, if you please?”

“So’m I,” said Saunter.

“Hooroar!” shouted the stentorian voice that had erstwhile charmed the audience with Brimstone’s sermon.

“Bravo!” said Harry.

“Look’ee here,” said Jack Outofwork, “we’ve had a werry pleasant evenin’ together, and I ain’t goin’ to part like this ’ere; no more walkin’ about looking arter jobs for me, I’m your man, sergeant.”

“Well,” said the sergeant, eyeing his company, “I didn’t expect this; a pluckier lot o’ chaps I never see; and I’m sure when the Queen sees you it’ll be the proudest moment of her life. Why, how tall do you stand, Mr. Lazyman?”

“Six foot one,” said he.

“Ha,” said the Sergeant, “I thought so. And you, Mr. Outofwork?”

“I don’t rightly know,” said Jack.

“Well,” said the sergeant, “just stand up by the side of me—ha, that will do,” he added, pretending to take an accurate survey, “I think I can squeeze you in—it will be a tight fit though.”

“I hope you can, Mr. Sergeant,” said he.

“Look ’ere,” laughed Joe; “We’ll kitch ’old of his legs and give him a stretch, won’t us, Sergeant?”

And so the bright shillings were given, and the pretty maid’s services were again called in; and she said “she never see sich a lot o’ plucky fellows in her born days;” and all were about to depart when, as the sergeant was shaking hands with Dick Devilmecare in the most pathetic and friendly manner, as though he were parting from a brother whom he had not met for years, Devilmecare’s eyes filled with tears, and he exclaimed,

“Danged if I’ll be left out of it, sergeant; give me the shillin’?”

At this moment the portly figure of Mr. Bumpkin again appeared in the doorway!

CHAPTER XXIII.

The famous Don O’Rapley and Mr. Bumpkin spend a social evening at the “Goose.”

When Mr. Bumpkin, on this memorable evening, went into Mrs. Oldtimes’ parlour to console himself after the fatigues and troubles of the day there were a cheerful fire and a comfortable meal prepared for him. Mr. O’Rapley had promised to spend the evening with him, so that they might talk over the business of the day and the prospects of the coming trial. It was a very singular coincidence, and one that tended to cement the friendship of these two gentlemen, that their tastes both inclined to gin-and-water. And this very house, as appeared from a notice on the outside, was the “noted house for Foolman’s celebrated gin.”

But as yet Mr. O’Rapley had not arrived; so after his meal Mr. Bumpkin looked into the other room to see how Joe was getting on, for he was extremely anxious to keep his “head witness” straight. “Joe was his mainstay.”

I have already related what took place, and the song that Bumpkin sang. The statement of the head witness that he was all right, and that he was up to Mr. Sergeant, to a great extent reassured Mr. Bumpkin: although he felt, keen man that he was, that that soldier was there for the purpose of “ketchin what

young men he could to make sogers on ’em; he had ’eerd o’ sich things afore:” such were his thoughts as Mr. O’Rapley entered the apartment.

“Dear me, Mr. Bumpkin,” said that official, “how very cold it is! how are you, Mrs. Oldtimes? I haven’t seen you for an age.”

The Don always made that observation when strangers were present.

“Hope you’re quite well, sir,” said the landlady, with much humility.

“What’ll thee please to take, sir?” asked Bumpkin.

“Well, now, I daresay you’ll think me remarkable strange, Mr. Bumpkin, but I’m going to say something which I very very seldom indulge in, but it’s good, I believe, for indigestion. I will take a little—just a very small quantity—of gin, with some hot water, and a large lump of sugar, to destroy the alcohol.”

“Ha!” said the knowing Bumpkin; “that’s wot we call gin-and-water in our part of the country. So’ll I, Mrs. Oldtimes, but not too much hot water for I. What’ll thee smoke, sir?”

“Thank you, one of those cheroots that my lord praised so much the last time we was ’ere.”

“If you please, sir,” said the landlady, with a very good-natured smile.

“Well,” said the O’Rapley, in his patronizing manner; “and how have we got on to-day? let us hear all about it. Come, your good health, Mr. Bumkin, and success to our lawsuit. I call it ours now, for I really feel as interested in it as you do yourself; by-the-bye, what’s it all about, Mr. Bumpkin?”

“Well, sir, you see,” replied the astute man, “I hardly knows; it beginnd about a pig, but what it’s

about now, be more un I can tell thee. I think it be salt and trespass.”

“You have not enquired?”

“No, I beant; I left un all in the hands o’ my lawyer, and I believe he’s a goodun, bean’t he?”

“Let me see; O dear, yes, a capital man—a very good man indeed, a close shaver.”

“Is ur? and that’s what I want. I wants thic feller shaved as close to his chin as may be.”

“Ah!” said O’Rapley, “and Prigg will shave him, and no mistake. Well, and how did we get on at the Mansion House? First of all, who was against you?—Mrs. Oldtimes, I think I’ll just take a very small quantity more, it has quite removed my indigestion—who was against you, sir?”

“Mr. Nimble; but, lor, he worn’t nowhere; I had un to rights,—jest gi’e me a leetle more, missus,—he couldn’t axe I a question I couldn’t answer; and I believe he said as good, for I zeed un talking to the Lord Mayor; it worn’t no use to question I.”

“You didn’t say anything about me?”

“No,” answered Bumpkin, in a loud whisper; “I din’t; but I did say afore I could stop the word from comin’ out o’ my mouth as I had a companion, but they didn’t ketch it, except that the gentleman under the lord mayor were gwine to ax about thee, and blowed if the counsellor didn’t stop un; so that be all right.”

“Capital!” exclaimed the great bowler, waving his arm as if in the act of delivery; then, in a whisper, “Did they ask about the woman?”

“Noa—they doan’t know nowt about thic—not a word; I was mighty plased at un, for although, as thee be aware, it be the biggest lie as ever wur heard, I

wouldn’t have my wife hear o’ sich to save my life. She be a good wife to I an’ allays have a bin; but there I thee could clear me in a minute, if need be, sir.”

“Yes, but you see,” said the artful Don, “if I was to appear, it would make a sensational case of it in a minute and fill all the papers.”

“Would ur now? Morn’t do that nuther; but, wot d’ye think, sir? As I wur leavin’ the Cooart, a gemman comes up and he says, says he, ‘I spoase, sir, you don’t want this thing put in the papers?’ How the dooce he knowed that, I can’t make out, onless that I wouldn’t say where I lived, for the sake o’ Nancy; no, nor thee couldn’t ha’ dragged un out o’ me wi’ horses.”

“Yes?” said the Don, interrogatively.

“‘Well,’ says I, ‘no, I don’t partickler want it in.’ I thought I’d say that, don’t thee zee (with a wink), ’cos he shouldn’t think I were eager like.”

“Exactly,”

“Well, this ’ere gemman says, says he, ‘It don’t matter to me, sir, whether it’s in or not, but if thee don’t want it in, I’ll keep it out, that’s all. It will pay I better p’raps to put un in.’

“‘And who med thee be, sir?’ I axed.

“‘Only the Times’, said the gemman, ‘that’s all.’ Then, turning to his friend, he said, ‘Come on, Jack, the gemman wants it in, so we’ll have it in, every word, and where he comes from too, and all about the gal; we know all about it, don’t us, Jack?’”

“Ha!” said the O’Rapley, blowing out a large cloud, and fixing his eye on the middle stump.

“Well,” continued Bumpkin, “thee could ha’ knocked I down wi’ a feather. How the doose they knowed where I comed from I can’t make out; but here wur I

as cloase to the man as writes the Times as I be to thee.”

The O’Rapley nodded his head knowingly several times.

“‘Well, and how much do thee charge to keep un out?’ seys I. ‘Don’t be too hard upon me, I be only a poor man.’

“‘We have only one charge,’ says the Times, ‘and that is half a guinea.’

“‘Spoase we say seven and six,’ sess I.

“‘That,’ seys the Times, ‘wouldn’t keep your name out, and I suppose you don’t want that in?’ ‘Very well,’ I sess, takin’ out my leather bag and handin’ him the money; ‘this’ll keep un out, wool ur?’

“‘Sartainly,’ says he; and then his friend Jack says, ‘My fee be five shillings, sir.’ ‘And who be thee?’ says I. ‘I’m the Telegrarf,’ seys he. ‘The devil thee be?’ I sess, ‘I’ve eerd tell on ee.’ ‘Largest calculation in the world,’ he says; ‘and, if thee like,’ he says, ‘I can take the Daily Noos and Stanard money, for I don’t see ’em here jist now; it’ll be five shillings apiece.’

“‘Well,’ I sess, ‘this be rum business, this; if I takes a quantity like this, can’t it be done a little cheaper?’

“‘No,’ he says; ‘we stands too high for anything o’ that sort. Thee can ’ave it or leave it.’

“‘Very well,’ I sess; ‘then, if there’s no option, there’s the money.’ And with that I handed un the fifteen shillings.

“‘Then,’ says the Times, ‘we’d better look sharp, Jack, or else we shan’t be in time to keep it out.’ And wi’ that they hurried off as fast as they could. I will say’t they didn’t let the grass grow under their feet.”

“And why,” enquired the Don, with an amused smile, “were you so anxious to keep it out of the Times? Mrs. Bumpkin doesn’t read the Times, does she?”

“Why, no; but then the Squoire tak it in, and when eve done wi un he lends un to the Doctor, Mr. Gossip; and when he gets hold o’ anything, away it goes to the Parish Clerk, Mr. Jeerum, and then thee med as well hire the town crier at once.”

“I see; but if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Bumpkin, I will give you a bit of information that may be of service.”

“Thankee, sir; will thee jist tak a little more to wet the tother eye like.”

“Well, really,” replied O’Rapley, “it is long past my hour of nocturnal repose.”

“What, sir? I doant ondustand.”

“I mean to say that I generally hook it off to bed before this.”

“Zackly; but we’ll ’ave another. Your leave, sir, thee was going to tell I zummat.”

“O yes,” said Mr. O’Rapley, with a wave of the hand in imitation of the Lord Chief Justice. “I was going to say that those two men were a couple of rogues.”

Mr. Bumpkin paused in the act of passing the tumbler to his lips, like one who feels he has been artfully taken in.

“You’ve been done, sir!” said Mr. O’Rapley emphatically, “that man who said he was the Times was no more the Times than you’re Punch.”

“Nor thic Telegrarf feller!”

“No. And you could prosecute them. And I’ll tell you what you could prosecute them for.” Mr. Bumpkin looked almost stupified.

“I’ll tell you what these villains have been guilty of; they’ve been guilty of obtaining money by false pretences, and conspiring to obtain money by false pretences.”

“Have um?” said Bumpkin.

“And you can prosecute them. You’ve only got to go and put the matter in the hands of the police, and then go to some first-rate solicitor who attends police courts; now I can recommend you one that will do you justice. I should like to see these rascals well punished.”

“And will this fust-rate attorney do un for nothin’?”

“Why, hardly; any more than you would sell him a pig for nothing.”

“Then I shan’t prosekit,” said Mr. Bumpkin; “the devil’s in’t, I be no sooner out o’ one thing than I be into another—why I beant out o’ thic watch job yet, for I got to ’pear at the Old Bailey on the twenty-fourth.”

“O, committed for trial, was he?” exclaimed the Don.

“Sure wur ur,” said Mr. Bumpkin triumphantly—“guilty!”

Now I perceived that the wily Mr. O’Rapley did not recommend Bumpkin to obtain the services of a solicitor to conduct his prosecution in this case; and I apprehend for this reason, that the said solicitor being conscientious, would unquestionably recommend and insist that Mr. Bumpkin’s evidence at the Old Bailey should be supported by that of the Don himself. So Mr. Bumpkin was left to the tender mercies of the Public Prosecutor or a criminal tout, or the most inexperienced of “soup” instructed counsel, as the case might be, but of which matters at present I have no knowledge as I have no dreams of the future.

Then Mr. Bumpkin said, “By thy leave, worthy Mr. O’Rapley, I will just see what my head witness be about: he be a sharp lad enow, but wants a dale o’ lookin arter.”

CHAPTER XXIV.

Don O’Rapley expresses his views of the policy of the legislature in not permitting dominoes to be played in public houses.

When Mr. Bumpkin returned to the cosy parlour, his face was red and his teeth were set. He was so much agitated indeed, that instead of addressing Mr. O’Rapley, he spoke to Mrs. Oldtimes, as though in her female tenderness he might find a more sincere and sympathetic adviser.

Mr. Bumpkin was never what you would call an eloquent or fluent speaker: his Somersetshire brogue was at times difficult of comprehension. He certainly was not fluent when he said to Mrs. Oldtimes: “Why thic—there—damn un Mrs. Oldtimes if he beant gwine and never zeed zich a thing in my bornd days—”

“Why what ever in the name of goodness gracious is the matter?” asked the landlady.

“Why thic there head witness o’ mine: a silly-brained—Gor forgive me that iver I should spake so o’ un, for he wor allays a good chap; and I do b’leeve he’ve got moore sense than do any thing o’ that kind.”

“What’s the matter? what’s the matter?” again enquired Mrs. Oldtimes.

“Why he be playin’ dominoes wi thic Sergeant.”

“O,” said the landlady, “I was afraid something had

happened. We’re not allowed to know anything about dominoes or card-playing in our house—the Law forbids our knowing it, Mr. Bumpkin; so, if you please, we will not talk about it—I wish to conduct my house as it always has been for the last five-and-twenty years, in peace and quietness and respectability, Mr. Bumpkin, which nobody can never say to the contrairy. It was only the last licensing day Mr. Twiddletwaddle, the chairman of the Bench, said as it were the best conducted house in Westminster.”

Now whether it was that the report of this domino playing was made in the presence of so high a dignitary of the law as Mr. O’Rapley, or from any other cause, I cannot say, but Mrs. Oldtimes was really indignant, and positively refused to accept any statement which involved the character of her establishment.

“I think,” she continued, addressing Mr. O’Rapley, “you have known this house for some time, sir.”

“I have,” said O’Rapley. “I have passed it every evening for the last ten years.”

“Ah now, to be sure—you hear that, Mr. Bumpkin. What do you think of that?”

“Never saw anything wrong, I will say that.”

“Never a game in my house, if I knows it; and what’s more, I won’t believe it until I sees it.”

“Ockelar demonstration, that’s the law,” said the Don.

Mr. Bumpkin’s excitement was absolutely merged in that of the landlady, whom he had so innocently provoked. He stared as the parties continued their wordy justification of this well-ruled household like one dreaming with his eyes open. No woman could have made more ado about her own character than Mrs. Oldtimes did respecting that of her house. But then,

the one could be estimated in money, while the other possessed but an abstract value.

“I believe,” she repeated, “that cards or dominoes has never been played in my house since here I’ve been, or since the law has been what it is.”

“I be wery sorry,” said the penitent Bumpkin; “I warn’t aweare I wur doing anythin’ wrong.”

“It’s unlawful, you see, to play,” said the Don; “and consequently they dursn’t play. Now, why is it unlawful? Because Public Houses is for drinking, not for amusement. Now, sir, Drink is the largest tax-payer we’ve got—therefore Drink’s an important Industry. Set people to work drinking and you get a good Rewenue, which keeps up the Army and Navy—the Navy swims in liquor, sir—but let these here Perducers of the Rewenue pause for the sake o’ playing dominoes, or what not, and what’s the consequence? You check this important industry—therefore don’t by any manner of means interrupt drinking. It’s an agreeable ockepation and a paying one.”

“Well done, sir,” said Oldtimes, from the corner of the fireplace, where he was doing his best with only one mouth and one constitution to keep up the Army and Navy. A patriotic man was Oldtimes.

“Drink,” continued O’Rapley, “is the most powerful horgsilery the Government has.”

“Ah!” said Mr. Bumpkin, not knowing what a horgsilery was; “now thee’ve gone a-head o’ me, sir. Thee’re a larned man, Mr. O’Rapley, and I beant much of a schollard; will thee please to tell I what a horgs—what wur it?”

“Horgsilery,” said Mr. O’Rapley.

“Horsgilly—ah! so twur. Well, by thy leave,

worthy sir, will thee be so kind as to tell I be it anything like a hogshead?”

“Well,” said Mr. O’Rapley, “its more like a corkscrew: the taxes of the country would be bottled up as tight as champagne and you couldn’t get ’em out without this corkscrew.”

“But I worn’t spakin’ about taxes when I spak of dominoes; what I wur alludin’ to wur thic Joe been drawed in to goo for a soger.”

“Lor, bless you,” said Mrs. Oldtimes, “many a man as good as Joe have listed before now and will again.”

“Mayhap,” said Bumpkin; “but he wurn’t my ’ead witness and didn’t work for I. Joe be my right hand man, although I keeps un down and tells un he beant fit for nothin’.”

“Ha,” said the Don, “he’s not likely to go for a soldier, I think, if it’s that good-looking young chap I saw with the kicking-straps on.”

“Kickin’-straps,” said Bumpkin; “haw! haw! haw! That be a good un. Well he told I he wur up to un and I think ur be: he’ll be a clever feller if ur gets our Joe. Why Nancy ud goo amost out o’ her mind. And now, sir, will thee ’ave any moore?”

Mr. O’Rapley, in the most decisive but polite manner, refused. He had quite gone out of his way as it was in the hope of serving Mr. Bumpkin. He was sure that the thief would be convicted, and as he rose to depart seized his friend’s hand in the most affectionate manner. Anything he could do for him he was sure he would do cheerfully, at any amount of self-sacrifice—he would get up in the night to serve him.

“Thankee,” said Bumpkin; but he had hardly spoken when he was startled by the most uproarious cheers from

the taproom. And then he began again about the folly of young men getting into the company of recruiting sergeants.

“Look here,” said the Don, confidentially, “take my advice—say nothing—a still tongue makes a wise head; to persuade a man not to enter the army is tantamount to advising him to desert. If you don’t mind, you may lay yourself open to a prosecution.”

“Zounds!” exclaimed Mr. Bumpkin, “it seem to me a man in Lunnon be every minit liable to a prosecution for zummat. I hope sayin’ that beant contempt o’ Coourt, sir.”

Mr. O’Rapley was silent—his head drooped towards Mr. Bumpkin in a semi-conscious manner, and he nodded three consecutive times: called for another “seroot,” lit it after many efforts, and again assuring Mr. Bumpkin that he would do all he could towards facilitating his triumph over Snooks, was about to depart, when his friend asked him, confidentially, whether he had not better be at the Old Bailey when the trial came on, in case of its being necessary to call him.

“Shurel not!” hiccupped the Don. Then he pointed his finger, and leering at Bumpkin, repeated, “Shurel not;—jus swell cll Ch. Jussiself”—which being interpreted meant, “Certainly not, you might just as well call the Chief Justice himself.”

“Pr’aps he’ll try un?” said Bumpkin.

“Noer won’t—noer won’t: Chansy Juge mos likel Massr Rolls.”

CHAPTER XXV.

In spite of all warnings, Joe takes his own part, not to be persuaded on one side or the other—affecting scene between Mr. Bumpkin and his old servant.

“Whatever can that there shoutin’ be for, Mrs. Oldtimes—they be terrible noisy.”

“O,” said the landlady, “somebody else has listed.”

“I hope it beant that silly Joe. I warned un two or three times agin thic feller.”

“There have been several to-night,” said the landlady, who had scarcely yet recovered from the insinuations against the character of her house.

“How does thee know thic, my dear lady?”

“O, because Miss Prettyface have been in and out sewin’ the colours on all the evening, that’s all. Sergeant Goodtale be the best recrootin’ sergeant ever come into a town—he’d list his own father!”

“Would ur, now?” said Bumpkin. “Beant thee afeard o’ thy husband bein’ took?”

Mrs. Oldtimes shrieked with laughter, and said she wished he would list Tom, for he wasn’t any good except to sit in the chimney corner and smoke and drink from morning to night.

“And keep up th’ Army,” growled the husband

“Ha, keep up the Army, indeed,” said Mrs. Oldtimes; “you do your share in that way, I grant.”

Now it was quite manifest that that last cheer from the taproom was the herald of the company’s departure. There was a great scuffling and stamping of feet as of a general clearing out, and many “good nights.” Then the big manly voice of the Sergeant said: “Nine o’clock, lads; nine o’clock; don’t oversleep yourselves; we shall have chops at eight. What d’ye say to that, Mrs. Oldtimes?”

“As you please, Sergeant; but there’s a nice piece of ham, if any would like that.”

“Ha!” said the Sergeant; “now, how many would like ham?”

“I’se for a chop,” said Joe, working his mouth as if he would get it in training.

“Right,” said the Sergeant, “we’ll see about breakfast in the morning. But you know, Mrs. Oldtimes, we like to start with a good foundation.”

And with three cheers for the Sergeant the recruits left the house: all except Joe, who occupied his old room.

After they were gone, and while Mr. Bumpkin was confidentially conversing with the landlord in the chimney corner, he was suddenly aroused by the indomitable Joe bursting into the room and performing a kind of dance or jig, the streamers, meanwhile, in his hat, flowing and flaunting in the most audaciously military manner.

“Halloa! halloa! zounds! What be th’ meaning o’ all this? Why, Joe! Joe! thee’s never done it, lad! O dear! dear!”

There were the colours as plain as possible in Joe’s

hat, and there was a wild unmeaning look in his eyes. It seemed already as if the old intimacy between him and his master were at an end. His memory was more a thing of the future than the past: he recollected the mutton chops that were to come. And I verily believe it was brightened by the dawn of new hopes and aspirations. There was an awakening sense of individuality. Hitherto he had been the property of another: he had now exercised the right of ownership over himself; and although that act had transferred him to another master, it had seemed to give him temporary freedom, and to have conferred upon him a new existence.

Man is, I suppose, what his mind is, and Joe’s mind was as completely changed as if he had been born into a different sphere. The moth comes out of the grub, the gay Hussar out of the dull ploughman.

“Why, Joe, Joe,” said his old master. “Thee’s never gone an’ listed, has thee, Joe?”

“Lookee ’ere, maister,” said the recruit, taking off his hat and spreading out the colours—“Thee sees these here, maister?”

“Thee beant such a fool, Joe, I knows thee beant—thee’s been well brought oop—and I knows thee beant gwine to leave I and goo for a soger!”

“I be listed, maister.”

“Never!” exclaimed Mr. Bumpkin. “I wunt b’lieve it, Joe.”

“Then thee must do tother thing, maister. I tellee I be listed; now, what’s thee think o’ that?”

“That thee be a fool,” said Mr. Bumpkin, angrily; “thee be a silly-brained—.”

“Stop a bit, maister, no moore o’ that. I beant thy

sarvant now. I be a Queen’s man—I be in the Queen’s sarvice.”

“A pooty Queen’s man thee be, surely. Why look at thic hair all down over thy face, and thee be as red as a poppy.”

Now I perceived that although neither master nor man was in such a state as could be described as “intoxicated,” yet both were in that semi-beatific condition which may be called sentimental.

“Lookee ’ere, maister,” continued Joe.

“And lookee here,” said Mr. Bumpkin, “didn’t I come out to thee two or three times, and call thee out and tell ’ee to tak’ heed to thic soger feller, for he wur up to no good? Did I Joe, or did I not?”

“Thee did, maister.”

“Well, an’ now look where thee be; he’ve regler took thee in, thee silly fool.”

“No, he beant; for he wouldn’t ’ave I at fust, and told I to goo and ax my mither. No ses I, I’ll goo to the divil afore I be gwine to ax mither. I beant a child, I ses.”

“But thee’s fond o’ thy poor old mither, Joe; I knows thee be, and sends her a shillin’ a week out o’ thy wages; don’t thee, Joe?”

This was an awkward thrust, and pricked the lad in his most sensitive part. His under-lip drooped, his mouth twitched, and his eyes glistened. He was silent.

“Where’ll thy poor old mither get a shilling a week from noo, Joe? That’s what I wants to know.”

Joe drew his sleeve over his face, but bore up bravely withal. He wasn’t going to cry, not he.

“Thee beest a silly feller to leave a good ooame and nine shillin’ a week to goo a sogerin; and when thee was

out o’ work, there were allays a place for thee, Joe, at the fireside: now, warnt there, Joe?”

“Lookee ’ere, maister, I be for betterin’ myself.”

“Betterin’ thyself? who put that into thy silly pate? thic sergeant, I bleeve.”

“So ur did; not by anything ur said, but to see un wi beef steaks and ingons for supper, while I doan’t ’ave a mouthful o’ mate once a week, and work like a oarse.”

“Poor silly feller—O dear, dear! whatever wool I tell Nancy and thy poor mither. What redgimen be thee in, Joe?”

“Hooroars!”

“Hooroars! hoo-devils!” and I perceived that Mr. Bumpkin’s eyes began to glisten as he more and more realized the fact that Joe was no more to him—“thee manest the oosors, thee silly feller; a pooty oosor thee’ll make!”

“I tellee what,” said Joe, whose pride was now touched, “Maister Sergeant said I wur the finest made chap he ever see.”

“That’s ow ur gulled thee, Joe.”

“Noa didn’t; I went o’ my own free will. No man should persuade I—trust Joe for thic: couldn’t persuade I to goo, nor yet not to goo.”

“That’s right,” chimed in Miss Prettyface, with her sweet little voice.

“And thee sewed the colours on; didn’t thee, Miss?”

“I did,” answered the young lady.

“Joe,” said Mr. Bumpkin, “I be mortal sorry for thee; what’ll I do wirout thy evidence? Lawyer Prigg say thee’s the most wallible witness for I.”

“Lookee ’ere, maister, ere we bin ’anging about for weeks and weeks and no forrerder so far as I can see.

When thy case’ll come on I don’t bleeve no man can tell; but whensomdever thee wants Joe, all thee’ve got to do is to write to the Queen, and she’ll gie I leave.”

“O thee silly, igerant ass!” said Mr. Bumpkin; “I can’t help saying it, Joe—the Queen doan’t gie leave, it be the kernel. I know zummut o’ sogerin, thee see; I were in th’ militia farty year agoo: but spoase thee be away—abraird? How be I to get at thee then?”

“Ha! if I be away in furren parts, and thy case be in the list, I doant zee—”

“Thee silly feller, thee’ll ha to goo fightin’ may be.”

“Well,” said Joe, “I loikes fightin’.”

“Thee loikes fightin’! what’s thee know about fightin’? never fit anything in thy life but thic boar-pig, when he got I down in the yard. O, Joe, I can’t bear the thought o thee goin’.”

“Noa, but Maister Sergeant says thee jist snicks off the ’eads of the enemy like snickin’ off the tops o’ beans.”

“Yes, but ow if thee gets thine snicked off?”

“Well, if mine be snicked off, it wunt be no use to I, and I doan’t care who has un when I ha’ done wi un: anybody’s welcome as thinks he can do better with un than I, or ’as moore right to un.”

“Joe, Joe, whatever’ll them there pigs do wirout thee, and thic there bull ’ll goo out of his mind—he wur mighty fond o’ thee, Joe—thee couldst do anything wi un: couldn’t ur, Joe?”

“Ha!” said the recruit; “that there bull ud foller I about anywhere, and so ur would Missis.”

“Then there be Polly!”

“Ha, that there Polly, she cocked her noase at I, maister, becos she thought I worn’t good enough; but

wait till she sees me in my cloase; she wunt cock her noase at I then, I’ll warrant.”

“Well, Joe, as thee maks thy bed so thee must lie on un, lad. I wish thee well, Joe.”

“Never wronged thee, did I, maister?”

“Never; no, never.” And at this point master and man shook hands affectionately.

“Gie my love to thic bull,” said Joe. “I shall come down as soon as evir I can: I wish they’d let me bring my oarse.”

“Joe, thee ha’ had too much to drink, I know thee has; and didn’t I warn thee, Joe? Thee can’t say I didn’t warn thee.”

“Thee did, maister, I’ll allays say it; thee warned I well—but lor that there stuff as the Sergeant had, it jist shoots through thee and livins thee oop for all the world as if thee got a young ooman in thee arms in a dancin’ booth at the fair.”

“Ha, Joe, it were drink done it.”

“Noa, noa, never!—good-night, maister, and God bless thee—thee been a good maister, and I been a good sarvant. I shall allays think o’ thee and Missis, too.”

Here I saw that Mr. Bumpkin, what with his feelings and what with his gin-and-water, was well nigh overcome with emotion. Nor was it to be wondered at; he was in London a stranger, waiting for a trial with a neighbour, with whom for years he had been on friendly terms; his hard savings were fast disappearing; his stock and furniture were mortgaged; some of it had been sold, and his principal witness and faithful servant was now gone for a soldier. In addition to all this, poor Mr. Bumpkin could not help recalling the happiness of his past life, his early struggles, his rigid self-denial, his

pleasure as the modest savings accumulated—not so much occasioned by the sordid desire of wealth, as the nobler wish to be independent. Then there was Mrs. Bumpkin, who naturally crossed his mind at this miserable moment in his existence—at home by herself—faithful, hardworking woman, who believed not only in her husband’s wisdom, but in his luck. She had never liked this going to law, and would much rather have given Snooks the pig than it should have come about; yet she could not help believing that her husband must be right come what may. What would she think of Joe’s leaving them in this way? All this passed through the shallow mind of the farmer as he prepared for bed. And there was no getting away from his thoughts, try as he would. As he lay on his bed there passed before his mind the old farm-house, with its elm tree; and the barnyard, newly littered down with the sweet smelling fodder; the orchard blossoms smiling in the morning sunshine; the pigs routing through the straw; the excited ducks and the swifter fowls rushing towards Mrs. Bumpkin as she came out to shake the tablecloth; the sleek and shining cows; the meadows dotted all over with yellow buttercups; the stately bull feeding in the distance by himself; the lazy stream that pursued its even course without a quarrel or a lawsuit; all these, and a thousand other remembrances of home, passed before the excited and somewhat distempered vision of the farmer on this unhappy night. Had he been a criminal waiting his trial he could not have been more wretched. At length he endeavoured to console himself by thinking of Snooks: tried to believe that victory over that ill-disposed person would repay the trouble and anxiety it cost him to achieve. But no, not even revenge was sweet under his

present circumstances. It is always an apple of ashes at the best; but, weighed now against the comforts and happiness of a peaceful life, it was worse than ashes—it was poison.

* * * * *

Here I awoke.

“Now,” said my wife, “is it not just as I told you? I knew that artful Sergeant would enlist poor stupid Joe?”

“O,” quoth I, “have I been talking again?”

“More than ever; and I am very sorry Joe has deserted his kind master. I am afraid now he will lose his case.”

“I am not concerned about that at present; my work is but to dream, not to prophesy events. I hope Mr. Bumpkin will win, but nothing is so uncertain as the Law.”

“And why should that be? Law should be as certain as the Multiplication Table.”

“Ah,” sighed I, “but—”

“A man who brings an action must be right or wrong,” interrupted my wife.

“Yes,” said I, “and sometimes he’s both; and one judge will take one view of his case—his conduct out of Court, and his demeanour in—while another judge will take another; why, I have known a man lose his case through having a wart upon his nose.”

“Gracious!” exclaimed my wife, “is it possible?”

“Yes,” quoth I; “and another through having a twitch in his eye. Then you may have a foolish jury, who take a prejudice against a man. For instance, if a lawyer brings an action, he can seldom get justice before a common jury; and so if he be sued. A blue ribbon

man on the jury will be almost sure to carry his extreme virtue to the border of injustice against a publican. Masters decide against workmen, and so on.”

“Well, Mr. Bumpkin is not a lawyer, or a publican, or a blue ribbon man, so I hope he’ll win.”

“I don’t hope anything about it,” I replied. “I shall note down what takes place; I don’t care who wins.”

“When will his case at the Old Bailey come on? I think that’s the term you use.”

“It will be tried next week.”

“He is sure to punish that wicked thief who stole his watch.”

“One would think so: much will depend upon the way Mr. Bumpkin gives his evidence; much on the way in which the thief is defended; a good deal on the ability of the Counsel for the Prosecution; and very much on the class of man they get in the jury box.”

“But the case is so clear.”

“Yes, to us who know all about it; but you have to make it clear to the jury.”

“There’s the watch found upon the man. Why, dear me, what can be clearer or plainer than that?”

“True; that’s Mr. Bumpkin’s evidence.”

“And Mr. Bumpkin saw him take it.”

“That’s Bumpkin again.”

“Then Mr. O’Rapley was with him.”

“Did you not hear that he is not to be called; the Don doesn’t want to be seen in the affair.”

“Well, I feel certain he will win. I shall not believe in trial by jury if they let that man off.”

“You don’t know what a trial at the Old Bailey or Quarter Sessions is. I don’t mean at the Old Bailey

before a real Common Law judge, but a Chancery judge. I once heard a counsel, who was prosecuting a man for passing bad money, interrupt a recorder in his summing up, and ask him to tell the jury there was evidence of seven bad florins having been found in the prisoner’s boot. As guilty knowledge was the gist of the offence, this seemed somewhat important. The learned young judge, turning to the jury, said, in a hesitating manner, ‘Well, really, gentlemen, I don’t know whether that will affect your judgment in any way; there is the evidence, and you may consider it if you please.’”

“One more thing I should like to ask.”

“By all means.”

“Why can’t they get Mr. Bumpkin’s case tried?”

“Because there is no system. In the County Court, where a judge tries three times as many cases in a day as any Superior judge, cases are tried nearly always on the day they are set down for. At the Criminal Courts, where every case is at least as important as any Civil case, everyone gets tried without unnecessary delay. In the Common Law Courts it’s very much like hunt the slipper—you hardly ever know which Court the case is in for five minutes together. Then they sit one day and not another, to the incalculable expense of the suitors, who may come up from Devonshire to-night, and, after waiting a week, go back and return again to town at the end of the following month.”

“But, now that O’Rapley has taken the matter up, is there not some hope?”

“Well, he seems to have as much power as anyone.”

“Then I hope he’ll exert it; for it’s a shame that this poor man should be kept waiting about so long. I

quite feel for him: there really ought not to be so much delay in the administration of justice.”

“A dilatory administration of justice amounts too often to a denial of it altogether. It always increases the expense, and often results in absolute ruin.”

“I wonder men don’t appoint someone when they fell out to arbitrate between them.”

“They often do, and too frequently, after all the expense of getting ready for trial has been incurred, the case is at last sent to the still more costly tribunal called a reference. Many matters cannot be tried by a jury, but many can be that are not; one side clamouring for a reference in order to postpone the inevitable result; the other often obliged to submit and be defeated by mere lapse of time.”

“It seems an endless sort of business.”

“Not quite; the measure of it is too frequently the length of the purse on the one side or the other. A Railway Company, who has been cast in damages for £1,000, can soon wear out a poor plaintiff. One of the greatest evils of modern litigation is the frequency with which new trials are granted.”

“Lawyers,” said my wife, “are not apparently good men of business.”

“They are not organizers.”

“It wants such a man as General Wolseley.”

“Precisely.” And here I felt the usual drowsiness which the subject invariably produces. So I dreamed again.

CHAPTER XXVI.

Morning reflections—Mrs. Oldtimes proves herself to be a great philosopher—the departure of the recruits to be sworn in.

And as I dreamed, methought what a strange paradox is human nature. How often the night’s convivialities are followed by despondent morning reflections! In the evening we grow valiant over the inspiriting converse and the inspiring glass; in the morning we are tame and calculating. The artificial gaslight disappears, and the sober, grey morning breaks in upon our reason. If the sunshine only ripened one-half the good resolves and high purposes formed at night over the social glass, what a harvest of good deeds there would be! Yes, and if the evening dissipations did not obliterate the good resolves of the morning, which we so often form as a protection against sin and sorrow, what happy creatures we should be!

Methought I looked into a piece of three-cornered glass, which was resting on a ledge of the old wall in the room where Joe was sleeping, and that I read therein the innermost thoughts of this country lad. And I saw that he awoke to a very dreadful sense of the realities of his new position; that, one after another, visions of other days passed before his mind’s eye as he lay gazing at the dormer window of his narrow chamber. What a

profound stillness there was! How different from the roystering glee of the previous night! It was a stillness that seemed to whisper of home; of his poor old mother; of the green sward lane that led to the old farm; of the old oak tree, where the owls lived, and ghosts were said to take up their quarters; of the stile where, of a Sunday morning, he used to smoke his pipe with Jack, and Ned, and Charley; where he had often stood to see Polly go by to church; and he knew that, notwithstanding she would not so much as look at him, he loved her down to the very sole of her boot; and would stand and contemplate the print of her foot after she had passed; he didn’t know why, for there was nothing in it, after all. No, Joe, nothing in it—it was in you; that makes all the difference. And the voice whispered to him of sunny days in the bright fields, when he held the plough, and the sly old rook would come bobbing and pecking behind him; and the little field-mouse would flit away from its turned up nest, frightened to death, as if it were smitten with an earthquake; and the skylark would dart up over his head, letting fall a song upon him, as though it were Heaven’s blessing. Then the voice spoke of the noontide meal under the hedge in the warm sunshine, or in the shade of the cool spreading tree; of the horses feeding close up alongside the hedge; of the going home in the evening, and the warm fireside, and the rustic song, and of the thousand and one beloved associations that he was leaving and casting behind him for ever. But then, again, he thought of “bettering his condition,” of getting on in the world, of the smart figure he should look in the eyes of Polly, who would be sure now to like him better

than she liked the baker. He never could see what there was in the baker that any girl should care for; and he thought of what the Sergeant had said about asking his mother’s leave. And then he pondered on the beef steaks and onions and mutton chops, and other glories of a soldier’s life; so he got up with a brave, resolute heart to face the world like a man, although it was plainly visible that sorrow struggled in his eyes.

There was just one tear for old times, the one tear that showed how very human Joe was beneath all the rough incrustations with which ignorance and poverty had enveloped him.

As he was sousing his head and neck in a pail of cold water in the little backyard of the Inn, the thought occurred to him,—

“I wonder whether or no we ’gins these ’ere mutton chops for brakfast to-day or arter we’re sweared in. I expects not till arter we’re sweared in.”

Then his head went into the pail with a dash, as if that was part of the swearing-in process. As it came out he was conscious of a twofold sensation, which it may not be out of place to describe: the sensation produced by the water, which was refreshing in the highest degree, and the sensation produced by what is called wind, which was also deliciously refreshing; and it was in this wise. Borne along upon the current of air which passed through the kitchen, there was the most odoriferous savour of fried bacon that the most luxurious appetite could enjoy. It was so beautifully and voluptuously fragrant that Joe actually stopped while in the act of soaping his face that he might enjoy it. No one, I think, will deny that it must have been an

agreeable odour that kept a man waiting with his eyes fall of soap for half a minute.

“That beant amiss,” thought Joe; “I wonder whether it be for I.”

The problem was soon solved, for as he entered the kitchen with a face as bright and ruddy almost as the sun when he comes up through a mist, he saw the table was laid out for five, and all the other recruits had already assembled. There was not one who did not look well up to his resolution, and I must say a better looking lot of recruits were never seen: they were tall, well made, healthy, good-looking fellows.

Now Mrs. Oldtimes was busy at the kitchen fire; the frying-pan was doing its best to show what could be done for Her Majesty’s recruits. He was hissing bravely, and seemed every now and then to give a louder and heartier welcome to the company. As Joe came in I believe it fairly gave a shout of enthusiasm, a kind of hooray. In addition to the rashers that were frying, there was a large dish heaped up in front of the fire, so that it was quite clear there would be no lack, however hungry the company might be.

Then they sat down and every one was helped. Mrs. Oldtimes was a woman of the world; let me also state she had a deep insight into human nature. She knew the feelings of her guests at this supreme moment, and how cheaply they could be bought off at their present state of soldiering. She was also aware that courage, fortitude, firmness, and the higher qualities of the soul depend so much upon a contented stomach, that she gave every one of her guests some nice gravy from the pan.

It was a treat to see them eat. The Boardman was

terrific, so was Jack. Harry seemed to have a little more on his mind than the others, but this did not interfere with his appetite; it simply affected his manner of appeasing it. He seemed to be in love, for his manner was somewhat reserved. At length the Sergeant came in, looking so cheerful and radiant that one could hardly see him and not wish to be a soldier. Then his cheery “Well, lads; good morning, lads,” was so home-like that you almost fancied soldiering consisted in sitting by a blazing kitchen fire on a frosty morning and eating fried bacon. What a spirit his presence infused into the company! He detected at a glance the down-heartedness of Harry, and began a story about his own enlistment years ago, when the chances for a young man of education were nothing to what they are now. The story seemed exactly to fit the circumstances of the case and cheered Harry up wonderfully. Breakfast was nearly finished when the Sergeant, after filling his pipe, said:

“Comrades, what do you say; shall I wait till you’ve quite finished?”

“No, no, Sergeant; no, no,” said all.

Oh! the fragrance of that pipe! And the multiplied fragrance of all the pipes! Then came smiling Miss Prettyface to see if their ribbons were all right; and the longing look of all the recruits was quite an affecting sight; and the genial motherly good-natured best wishes of Mrs. Oldtimes were very welcome. All these things were pleasant, and proved Mrs. Oldtimes’ philosophy to be correct—if you want to develop the higher virtues in a man, feed him.

Then came the word of command in the tone of an invitation to a pleasure party: “Now, lads, what do you

say?” And off went Harry, upright as if he had been drilled; off went Bill, trying to shake off the deal boards in which he had been sandwiched for a year and a half; off went Bob as though he had found an agreeable occupation at last; off went Devilmecare as though the war was only just the other side of the road; off went Jack as though it mattered nothing to him whether it was the Army or the Church; and, just as Mr. Bumpkin looked out of the parlour window, off went his “head witness,” swaggering along in imitation of the Sergeant, with the colours streaming from his hat as though any honest employment was better than hanging about London for a case to “come on.”

CHAPTER XXVII.

A letter from home.

“I wonder,” said Mrs. Oldtimes, “who this letter be for; it have been ’ere now nigh upon a week, and I’m tired o’ seein’ it.”

Miss Prettyface took the letter in her hand and began, as best she could, for the twentieth time to endeavour to decipher the address. It was very much blotted and besmeared, and presented a very remarkable specimen of caligraphy. The most legible word on it seemed “Gouse.”

“There’s nobody here of that name,” said the young lady. “Do you know anybody, Mr. Bumpkin, of the name of Gouse?”

“Devil a bit,” said he, taking the letter in his hands, and turning it over as if it had been a skittle-ball.

“The postman said it belonged here,” said Mrs. Oldtimes, “but I can’t make un out.”

“I can’t read the postmark,” said Miss Prettyface.

Mr. Bumpkin put on a large pair of glasses and examined the envelope with great care.

“I think you’ve got un upside down,” said Mrs. Oldtimes.

“Ah! so ur be,” replied the farmer, turning it over several times. “Why,” he continued, “here be a b—

and a u, beant it? See if that beant a u, Miss, your eyes be better un mine; they be younger.”

“O yes, that’s a u,” said Miss Prettyface, “and an m.”

“And that spell bum.”

“But stop,” said Miss Prettyface, “here’s a p.”

“That’s bump,” said Mrs. Oldtimes; “we shall get at something presently.”

“Why,” exclaimed Bumpkin, “I be danged if I doant think it be my old ’ooman’s writin’: but I beant sure. That be the way ur twists the tail of ur y’s and g’s, I’ll swear; and lookee ’ere, beant this k i n?”

“I think it is,” said the maid.

“Ah, then, thee med be sure that be Bumpkin, and the letter be for I.”

“Yes,” said the young lady, “and that other word which looks more like Grouse is meant for Goose, the sign of the house.”

“Sure be un,” exclaimed Mr. Bumpkin, “and Nancy ha put Bumpkin and Goose all in one line, when ur ought to ha made two lines ov un. Now look at that, that letter might ha been partickler.”

“So it may be as it is,” said Mrs. Oldtimes; “it’s from Mrs. Bumpkin, no doubt. Aren’t you going to open it?”

“I think I wool,” said Bumpkin, turning the letter round and round, and over and over, as though there was some special private entrance which could only be discovered by the closest search. At length Mrs. Oldtimes’ curiosity was gratified, for he found a way in, and drew out the many folded letter of the most difficult penmanship that ever was subjected to mortal gaze. It was not that the writing was illegible, but that the spelling was so extraordinary, and the terms of expression

so varied. Had I to interpret this letter without the aid of a dream I should have a long and difficult task before me. But it is the privilege of dreamers to see things clearly and in a moment: to live a lifetime in a few seconds, and to traverse oceans in the space of a single respiration. So, in the present instance, that which took Mr. Bumpkin, with the help of Mrs. Oldtimes and the occasional assistance of Lucy an hour to decipher, flashed before me in a single second. I ought perhaps to translate it into a more civilized language, but that would be impossible without spoiling the effect and disturbing the continuity of character which is so essential in a work made up of various actors. Mr. Bumpkin himself in his ordinary costume would be no more out of place in my Lord Mayor’s state carriage than Mrs. Bumpkin wielding the Queen’s English in its statelier and more fashionable adornment. So I give it as it was written. It began in a bold but irregular hand, and clearly indicated a certain agitation of mind not altogether in keeping with the even temperament of the writer’s daily life.

“Deer Tom” (the letter began), “I ope thee be well for it be a long time agoo since thee left ere I cant mak un out wot be all this bother about a pig but Tom thee’ll be glad to ear as I be doin weel the lamin be over and we got semteen as pooty lams as ever thee clapped eyes on The weet be lookin well and so be the barly an wuts thee’ll be glad Tom to ear wot good luck I been avin wi sellin Mister Prigg have the kolt for twenty pun a pun more an the Squoire ofered Sam broked er in and ur do look well in Mrs. Prigg faten I met un the tother day Mr. Prigg wur drivin un an he tooked off his at jist th’ sam as if I’d been a lady

Missis Prigg din’t see me as her edd wur turned th’ tother way I be glad to tell ee we sold the wuts ten quorter these was bort by Mister Prigg and so wur the stror ten load as clane and brite as ever thee seed Mr. Prigg be a rale good custumer an a nice man I wish there was moore like im it ud be the makin o’ th’ Parish we shal ave a nice lot o monie to dror from un at Miklemes he be the best customer we ever ad an I toold th’ Squoire wen ur corled about the wuts as Mister Prigg ad orfered ten shillin a quorter for un more un ee Ur dint seem to like un an rod away but we dooant o un anythink Tom so I dont mind we must sell ware we ken mak moast monie I spose Sampson be stronger an grander than ever it’s my belief an I thinks we shal do well wi un this Spring tell t’ Joe not to stop out o’ nites or keep bad kumpany and to read evere nite wat the Wicker told un the fust sarm an do thee read un Tom for its my bleef ur cant ’urt thee nuther.”

“Humph!” said Bumpkin, “fust sarms indade. I got a lot o’ time for sarms, an’ as for thic Joe—lor, lor, Nancy, whatever will thee say, I wonder, when thee knows he’s gone for a soger—a sarm beant much good to un now; he be done for.”

And then Mr. Bumpkin went and looked out of the window, and thought over all the good news of Mrs. Bumpkin’s letter, and mentally calculated that even up to this time Mr. Prigg’s account would come to enough to pay the year’s rent.

Going to law seemed truly a most advantageous business. Here he had got two shillings a quarter more for the oats than the Squire had offered, and a pound more for the colt. Prigg was a famous customer, and no doubt would buy the hay. And, strange to say, just as

Mr. Bumpkin thought this, he happened to turn over the last page of the letter, and there he saw what was really a Postscript.

“Halloo!” says he, “my dear, here be moore on’t; lookee ’ere.”

“So there is,” answered Lucy; “let’s have a look.” And thus she read:—

“The klover cut out well it made six lode the little rik an four pun nineteen The Squoire ony offered four pun ten so in corse I let Mister Prigg ave un.”

“Well done, Nancy, thee be famous. Now, thic big rik’ll fetch moore’n thic.”

Such cheering intelligence put Mr. Bumpkin in good heart in spite of his witness’s desertion. Joe was a good deal, but he wasn’t money, and if he liked to go for a soger, he must go; but, in Mr. Bumpkin’s judgment, he would very soon be tired of it, and wish himself back at his fireside.

“Now, you must write to Mrs. Bumpkin,” said Lucy.

“Thee’ll write for I, my dear; won’t thee?”

“If you like,” said Lucy. And so, after dinner, when she had changed her dress, she proceeded to write an epistle for Mrs. Bumpkin’s edification. She had carte blanche to put in what she liked, except that the main facts were to be that Joe had gone for a horse soger; that he expected “the case would come on every day;” and that he had the highest opinion of the unquestioned ability of honest Lawyer Prigg.

And now another surprise awaited the patient Bumpkin. As he sat, later in the day, smoking his pipe, in company with Mrs. Oldtimes, two men, somewhat

shabbily dressed, walked into the parlour and ordered refreshment.

“A fine day, sir,” said the elder of the two, a man about thirty-five. This observation was addressed to Mr. Bumpkin.

“It be,” said the farmer.

The other individual had seated himself near the fire, and was apparently immersed in the study of the Daily Telegraph. Suddenly he observed to his companion, as though he had never seen it before,—

“Hallo! Ned, have you seen this?”

“What’s that?” asked the gentleman called Ned.

“Never read such a thing in my life. Just listen.”

“‘A YOUNG MAN FROM THE COUNTRY.’
“extraordinary story.

“A man, apparently about sixty-eight, who gave the name of Bumpkin, appeared as the prosecutor in a case under the following extraordinary circumstances. He said he was from the country, but declined to give any more particular address, and had been taken by a friend to see the Old Bailey and to hear the trials at that Court. After leaving the Central Criminal Court, he deposed, that, walking with his friend, he was accosted in the Street in the open daylight and robbed of his watch; that he pursued the thief, and when near Blackfriars Bridge met a man coming towards him; that he seized the supposed thief, and found him wearing the watch which he affirmed had been stolen. The manner and appearance of ‘the young man from the country’ excited great laughter in Court, and the Lord Mayor, in the absence of any evidence to the contrary, thought there was a primâ facie case under the circumstances, and committed the accused for trial to the Central Criminal Court. The prisoner, who was respectably dressed, and against whom nothing appeared to be known, was most ably defended by Mr. Nimble, who declined to put any questions in cross-examination, and did not address his Lordship. The case created great sensation, and it is expected that at the trial some remarkable and astounding disclosures will be made. ‘The young man from the country’ was very remarkably dressed: he twirled in his hand a large old-fashioned white-beaver hat with a black band round it; wore a very peculiar frock, elaborately ornamented with needlework in front and behind, while a yellow kerchief with red ends was twisted round his neck. The countryman declined to give his town address; but a remarkable incident occurred during the hearing, which did not seem to strike either the Lord Mayor or the counsel for the defence, and that was that no appearance of the countryman’s companion was put in. Who he is and to what region he belongs will probably transpire at the ensuing trial, which is expected to be taken on the second day of the next Sessions. It is obvious that while the case is sub judice no comments can properly be made thereon, but we are not prevented from saying that the evidence of this extraordinary ‘young man from the country’ will be subjected to the most searching cross-examination of one of the ablest counsel of the English Bar.”

The two men looked at Mr. Bumpkin; while the latter coloured until his complexion resembled beetroot. Miss Prettyface giggled; and Mrs. Oldtimes winked at

Mr. Bumpkin, and shook her head in the most significant manner.

“That’s a rum case, sir,” said Ned.

Silence.

“I don’t believe a word of the story,” said his companion.

Silence.

“Do you believe,” he continued, “that that man could have been wearing that watch if he’d stole it?”

“Not I.”

“Lor! won’t Jemmy Nimble make mincemeat of ’im!”

Mrs. Oldtimes looked frequently towards Mr. Bumpkin as she continued her sewing, making the most unmistakeable signals that under no circumstances was he to answer. It was apparent to everyone, from Mr. Bumpkin’s manner, that the paragraph referred to him.

“The best thing that chap can do,” said Ned, “is not to appear at the trial. He can easily keep away.”

“He won’t, you’re sure,” answered the other man; “he knows a trick worth two of that. They say the old chap deserted his poor old wife, after beating her black and blue, and leaving her for dead.”

“It be a lie!” exclaimed Bumpkin, thumping his fist on the table.

“Oh!” said Ned, “do you know anything about it, sir? It’s no odds to me, only a man can’t shut his ears.”

“P’r’aps I do and p’r’aps I doant; but it beant no bi’niss o’ thine.”

“I didn’t mean no offence, but anybody can read the paper, surely; it’s a free country. P’r’aps you’re the man himself; I didn’t think o’ that.”

“P’r’aps I be, and p’r’aps I beant.”

“And p’r’aps your name is Bumpkin?”

“And p’r’aps it beant, and what then?”

“Why, you’ve nothing to do with it, that’s all; and I don’t see why you should interfere.”

“I can’t have no quarrelling in my house,” said the landlady. “This gentleman’s nothing to do with it; he knows nothing at all about it; so, if you please, gentlemen, we needn’t say any more.”

“Oh! I don’t want to talk about it,” said Ned.

“No more do I,” chimed in his companion; “but it’s a pity that he should take up our conversation when he hasn’t anything to do with it, and his name isn’t Bumpkin, and he hasn’t lost his watch. It’s no odds to me; I don’t care, do you, Ned?”

“Not I,” said Ned; “let’s be off; I don’t want no row; anybody mustn’t open his mouth now. Good day, sir.”

And the two young men went away.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

Mr. Bumpkin determines to maintain a discreet silence about his case at the Old Bailey—Mr. Prigg confers with him thereon.

And I saw that Mr. Bumpkin’s case did not come on. Day by day passed away, and still it was not in the paper. The reason, however, is simple, and need not be told to any except those of my readers who are under the impression that the expeditious administration of justice is of any consequence. It was obvious to the most simple-minded that the case could not be taken for a day or two, because there was a block in every one of the three Courts devoted to the trial of Nisi Prius actions. And you know as well as anyone, Mr. Bumpkin, that when you get a load of turnips, or what not, in the market town blocked by innumerable other turnip carts, you must wait. Patience, therefore, good Bumpkin. Justice may be slow-footed, but she is sure handed; she may be blind and deaf, but she is not dumb; as you shall see if you look into one of the “blocked Courts” where a trial has been going on for the last sixteen days. A case involving a dispute of no consequence to any person in the world, and in which there is absolutely nothing except—O rare phenomenon!—plenty of money. It was interesting only on account of the bickerings between the learned counsel, and the occasionally friendly

altercations between the Bench and the Bar. But the papers had written it into a cause célèbre, and made it a dramatic entertainment for the beauty and the chivalry of England. So Mr. Bumpkin had still to wait; but it enabled him to attend comfortably the February sittings of the Old Bailey, where his other case was to be tried.

When Mr. Prigg read the account of the proceedings before the Lord Mayor, he was very much concerned, not to say annoyed, because he was under the impression that he ought to have been consulted. Not knowing what to do under the circumstances, he resolved, after due consideration, to get into a hansom and drive down to the “Goose.” Mr. Prigg, as I have before observed, was swift in decision and prompt in action. He had no sooner resolved to see Bumpkin than to Bumpkin he went. But his client was out; it was uncertain when he would be in. Judge of Mr. Prigg’s disappointment! He left word that he would call again; he did call again, and, after much dodging on the part of the wily Bumpkin, he was obliged to surrender himself a captive to honest Prigg.

“My dear Mr. Bumpkin,” exclaimed he, taking both the hands of his client into his own and yielding him a double measure of friendship; “is it possible—have you been robbed? Is it you in the paper this morning in this very extraordinary case?”

Bumpkin looked and blushed. He was not a liar, but truth is not always the most convenient thing, say what you will.

“I see,” said Mr. Prigg; “quite so—quite so! Now how did this happen?”

Bumpkin still looked and blushed.

“Ah!” said Mr. Prigg; “just so. But who was this companion?”

Bumpkin muttered “A friend!”

“O! O! O!” said Mr. Prigg, drawing a long face and placing the fore-finger of his left hand perpendicularly from the tip of his nose to the top of his forehead.

“Noa,” said Bumpkin, “’taint none o’ that nuther; I beant a man o’ that sort.”

“Well, well,” said Mr. Prigg, “I only thought I’d call, you know, in case there should be anything which might in any way affect our action.”

Mr. Bumpkin, conscious of his moral rectitude, like all good men, was fearless: he knew that nothing which he had done would affect the merits of his case, and, therefore, instead of replying to the subtle question of his adviser, he merely enquired of that gentleman when he thought the case would be on. The usual question.

Mr. Prigg rubbed his hands and glanced his eyes as though just under his left elbow was a very deep well, at the bottom of which lay that inestimable jewel, truth. “Really,” Mr. Bumpkin, “I expect every hour to see us in the paper. It’s very extraordinary; they have no less than three Courts sitting, as I daresay you are aware. No less than—let me see, my mind’s so full of business, I have seven cases ready to come on. Where was I? O, I know; I say there are no less than three Courts, under the continuous sittings system, and yet we seem to make no progress in the diminution of the tremendous and overwhelming mass of business that pours in upon us.”

Mr. Bumpkin said “Hem!”

“You see,” continued Mr. Prigg, “there’s one thing, we shall not last long when we do come on.”

“Shan’t ur?”

“You see there’s only one witness, besides yourself, on our side.”

“And ’eve gone for a soger,” said Mr. Bumpkin.

“A soldier!” exclaimed Prigg. “A soldier, my dear Bumpkin. No—no—you don’t say so, really!”

“Ay, sure ’ave ur; and wot the devil I be to do agin that there Snooks, as ’ll lie through a brick wall, I beant able to say. I be pooty nigh off my chump wot wi’ one thing and another.”

“Off what, sir?” enquired Mr. Prigg.

“Chump,” shouted Bumpkin.

“O, indeed, yes; dear me, you don’t say so. Well, now I’m glad I called. I must see about this. What regiment did you say he’d joined?”

“Hoosors!”

“Ha! dear me, has he, indeed?” said Mr. Prigg, noting it down in his pocket-book. “What a pity for a young man like that to throw himself away—such an intelligent young fellow, too, and might have done so well; dear me!”

“Ha,” answered Bumpkin, “there worn’t a better feller at plough nor thic there; and he could mend a barrer or a ’arrer, and turn his ’and to pooty nigh anything about t’ farm.”

“And is there any reason that can be assigned for this extraordinary conduct? Wasn’t in debt, I suppose?”

Mr. Bumpkin laughed one of his old big fireside laughs such as he had not indulged in lately.

“Debt! why they wouldn’t trust un a shoe-string.

Where the devil wur such a chap as thic to get money to get into debt wi’?”

“My dear sir, we don’t want money to get into debt with; we get into debt when we have none.”

“Do ur, sir. Then if I hadn’t ’ad any money I’d like to know ’ow fur thee’d ha’ trusted I.”

“Dear me,” said Mr. Prigg, “what a very curious way of putting it! But, however, soldier or no soldier, we must have his evidence. I must see about it: I must go to the dépôt. Now, with regard to your case at the Old Bailey.”

“Well,” said Mr. Bumpkin, rather testily; “I be bound over to proserkit, and that be all I knows about un. I got to give seam evidence as I guv afore the Lord Mayor, and the Lord Mayor said as the case wur clear, and away it went for trial.”

“Indeed! dear me!”

“And I got to tak no trouble at all about un, but to keep my mouth shut till the case comes on, that’s what the pleeceman told I. I bean’t to talk about un, or to tak any money not to proserkit.”

“O dear, no,” said Mr. Prigg. “O dear, dear, no; you would be compounding a felony.” (Here Mr. Prigg made a note in his diary to this effect:—“Attending you at ‘The Goose’ at Westminster, when you informed me that you were the prosecutor in a case at the Old Bailey, and in which I advised you not, under any circumstances, to accept a compromise or money for the purpose of withdrawing from the prosecution, and strongly impressed upon you that such conduct would amount in law to a misdemeanor. Long conference with you thereon, when you promised to abide by my advice, £1 6s. 0d.”).

“Now,” said Bumpkin, “it seem to me that turn which way I wool, there be too much law, too many pitfalls; I be gettin’ sick on’t.”

“Well,” said Mr. Prigg, “we have only to do our duty in that station of life in which we are called, and we have no cause to fear. Now you know you would not have liked that unprincipled man, Snooks, to have the laugh of you, would you now?”

Mr. Bumpkin clenched his fist as he said, “Noa, I’d sooner lose every penny I got than thic there feller should ha’ the grin o’ me.”

“Quite so,” said the straightforward moralist. “Quite so! dear me! Well, well, I must wish you good morning, for really I am so overwhelmed with work that I hardly know which way to turn—bye, bye. I will take care to keep you posted up in—.” Here Mr. Prigg’s cab drove off, and I could not ascertain whether the posting up was to be in the state of the list or in the lawyer’s ledger.

“What a nice man!” said the landlady.

Yes, that was Mr. Prigg’s character, go where he would: “A nice man!”

CHAPTER XXIX.

The trial at the Old Bailey of Mr. Simple Simonman for highway robbery with violence—Mr. Alibi introduces himself to Mr. Bumpkin.

I next saw Mr. Bumpkin wandering about the precincts of that Grand Institution, the Old Bailey, on a drizzly morning about the middle of February, 187—, waiting to go before the Grand Jury. As the famous prison in Scotland was called the “Heart of Midlothian” so the Old Bailey may be considered the Heart of Civilization. Its commanding situation, in the very centre of a commercial population, entitles it to this distinction; for nothing is supposed to have so civilizing an influence as Commerce. I was always impressed with its beautiful and picturesque appearance, especially on a fine summer morning, during its sittings, when the sun was pouring its brightest beams on its lively portals. What a charming picture was presented to your view, when the gates being open, the range of sheds on the left met the eye, especially the centre one where the gallows is kept packed up for future use. The gallows on the one side might be seen and the stately carriages of my Lord Mayor and Sheriffs on the other! Gorgeous coachmen and footmen in resplendent liveries; magnificent civic dignitaries in elaborate liveries too, rich with gold and bright with

colour, stepping forth from their carriages, amid loud cries of “Make way!” holding in their white-gloved hands large bouquets of the loveliest flowers, emblems of—what?

Crime truly has its magnificent accompaniments, and if it does not dress itself, as of old, in the rich costumes of a Turpin or a Duval, it is not without its beautiful surroundings. Here, where the channels and gutters of crime converge, is built, in the centre of the greatest commercial city in the world, the Bailey. Mr. Bumpkin wandered about for hours through a reeking unsavoury crowd of thieves and thieves’ companions, idlers of every type of blackguardism, ruffians of every degree of criminality; boys and girls receiving their finishing lessons in crime under the dock, as they used to do only a few years ago under the gallows. The public street is given over to the enemies of Society; and Civilisation looks on without a shudder or regret, as though crime were a necessity, and the Old Bailey, in the heart of London, no disgrace.

And a little dirty, greasy hatted, black whiskered man, after pushing hither and thither through this pestiferous crowd as though he had business with everybody, but did not exactly know what it was, at length approached Mr. Bumpkin; and after standing a few minutes by his side eyeing him with keen hungry looks, began that interesting conversation about the weather which seems always so universally acceptable. Mr. Bumpkin was tired. He had been wandering for hours in the street, and was wondering when he should be called before the Grand Jury. Mr. Alibi, that was the dark gentleman’s name, knew all about Mr. Bumpkin’s case, his condition of mind, and his impatience; and he said deferentially:

“You are waiting to go before the Grand Jury, I suppose, sir?”

“I be,” answered Bumpkin.

“Where’s your policeman?” enquired Alibi.

“I doant know,” said Bumpkin.

“What’s his number?”

“Sev’n hunderd and sev’nty.”

“O, I know,” said Alibi; “why not let me get you before the Grand Jury at once, instead of waiting about here all day, and perhaps to-morrow and the next day, and the day after that; besides, the sooner you go before the Grand Jury, the sooner your case will come on; that stands to common sense, I think.”

“So ur do,” answered the farmer.

“You will be here a month if you don’t look out. Have you got any counsel or solicitor?”

“Noa, I beant; my case be that plaain, it spaks for itself.”

“Ah!” said Mr. Alibi; “they won’t always let a case speak for itself—they very often stop it—but if you can get a counsel for nothing, why not have one; that stands to reason, I think?”

“For nothing? well that be the fust time I ever eeard o’ a loryer as chape as thic.”

How it could pay was the wonder to Mr. Bumpkin. And what a strange delusion it must seem to the mind of the general reader! But wait, gentle peruser of this history, you shall see this strange sight.

“If you like to have a counsel and a lawyer to conduct your case, sir, it shall not cost you a farthing, I give you my word of honour! What do you think of that?”

What could Mr. Bumpkin think of that? What a pity that he had not met this gentleman before! Probably he

would have brought several actions if he had; for if you could work the machinery of the law for nothing, you would always stand to win.

“O,” said Mr. Alibi, “here is seven hundred and seventy! This gentleman wants a counsel, and I’ve been telling him he can have one, and it won’t cost him anything.”

“That’s right enough,” said the Policeman; “but it ain’t nothin’ to do with me!”

“Just step this way, sir, we’ll soon have this case on,” said Alibi; and he led the way to the back room of a public-house, which seemed to be used as a “hedge” lawyer’s office.

“Med I mak so bold, sir; be thee a loryer?”

“No,” answered Alibi, “I am clerk to Mr. Deadandgone.”

“And don’t Mr. Deadandam charge nothin’?”

“O dear, no!”

What a very nice man Mr. Deadandam must be!

“You see,” said Alibi, “the Crown pays us!”

“The Crown!”

And here Mr. Alibi slipped a crown-piece into the artfully extended palm of the policeman, who said:

“It ain’t nothin’ to do wi’ me; but the gentleman’s quite right, the Crown pays.” And he dropped the money into his leather purse, which he rolled up carefully and placed in his pocket.

“You see,” said Alibi, “I act as the Public Prosecutor, who can’t be expected to do everything—you can’t grind all the wheat in the country in one mill, that stands to common sense.”

“That be right, that’s werry good,”

“And,” continued Mr. Alibi, “the Government

allows two guineas for counsel, a guinea for the solicitor, and so on, and the witnesses, don’t you see?”

“Zactly!” said Bumpkin.

“And that’s quite enough,” continued Alibi; “we don’t want anything from the prosecutor—that’s right, policeman!”

“It ain’t nothink to do wi’ me,” said the policeman; “but what this ’ere gentleman says is the law.”

“There,” said Alibi, “I told you so.”

“I spose,” said the policeman, “you don’t want me, gentlemen; it ain’t nothink to do with me?”

“Oh, no, Leary,” replied Alibi; “we don’t want you; the case is pretty straight, I suppose.”

“Oh, yes, sir; I expects it’ll be a plea of guilty. There ain’t no defence, not as I’m aware of.”

“Oh,” said Alibi, “that’s all right—keep your witnesses together, Leary—don’t be out of the way.”

“No, sir,” says Leary; “I thinks I knows my dooty.”

And with this he slouched out of the room, and went and refreshed himself at the bar.

In two or three minutes the policeman returned, and was in the act of drawing the back of his hand across his mouth, when Alibi said:

“Yes?”

“Beg pardin, sir; but there’s another gentleman wants to see you—I thinks he wants you to defend ---; but it ain’t nothink to do wi’ me, sir.”

“Very good,” answered Alibi, “very good; now let me see—”

“You got the Baker’s case?” said Leary.

“Yes,” said Alibi; “O, yes—embezzlement.”

Everything was thus far satisfactorily settled, and Mr.

Bumpkin’s interests duly represented by Mr. Deadandgone, an eminent practitioner. No doubt the services of competent counsel would be procured, and the case fully presented to the consideration of an intelligent jury.

Who shall say after this that the Old Bailey is not the Heart of Civilization?

I pass over the preliminary canter of Mr. Bumpkin before the Grand Jury; the decision of that judicial body, the finding of the true bill, the return of the said bill in Court, the bringing up of the prisoner for arraignment, and the fixing of the case to be taken first on Thursday in deference to the wishes of Mr. Nimble. I pass by all those preliminary proceedings which I have before attempted to describe, and which, if I might employ a racing simile, might be compared to the saddling of Mr. Bumpkin in the paddock, where, unquestionably, he was first favourite for the coming race, to be ridden by that excellent jockey, Alibi; and come at once to the great and memorable trial of Regina on the prosecution of Thomas Bumpkin against Simon Simpleman for highway robbery with violence.

As the prisoner entered the dock there was a look of unaffected innocence in his appearance that seemed to make an impression on the learned Judge, Mr. Justice Technical, a recently appointed Chancery barrister. I may be allowed to mention that his Lordship had never had any experience in Criminal Courts whatever: so he brought to the discharge of his important duty a thoroughly unprejudiced and impartial mind. He did not suspect that a man was guilty because he was charged: and the respectable and harmless manner of the accused was not interpreted by his Lordship as a piece of consummate acting, as it would be by some Judges

who have seen much of the world as it is exhibited in Criminal Courts.

Many ladies of rank were ushered in by the Sheriff, all looking as smiling and happy as if they were about to witness the performance of some celebrated actress for the first time; they had fans and opera-glasses, and as they took their places in the boxes allotted to rank and fashion, there was quite a pleasant sensation produced in Court, and they attracted more notice for the time being than the prisoners themselves.

Now these ladies were not there to witness the first piece, the mere trial of Simpleman for highway robbery, although the sentence might include the necessary brutality of flogging. The afterpiece was what they had come to see—namely, a fearful tragedy, in which two men at least were sure of being sentenced to death. This is the nearest approach to shedding human blood which ladies can now witness in this country; for I do not regard pigeon slaughtering, brutal and bloodthirsty as it is, as comparable to the sentencing of a fellow-creature to be strangled. And no one can blame ladies of rank if they slake their thirst for horrors in the only way the law now leaves open to them. The Beauty of Spain is better provided for. What a blessed thing is humanity!

It is due to Mr. Newboy, the counsel for the prosecution in the great case of Regina v. Simpleman, to say that he had only lately been called to the Bar, and only “instructed,” as the prisoner was placed in the dock. Consequently, he had not had time to read his brief. I do not know that that was a disadvantage, inasmuch as the brief consisted in what purported to be a copy of the depositions so illegibly scrawled that it would have

required the most intense study to make out the meaning of a single line.

Mr. Newboy was by no means devoid of ability; but no amount of ability would give a man a knowledge of the facts of a case which were never communicated to him. In its simplicity the prosecution was beautifully commonplace, and five minutes’ consideration would have been sufficient to enable counsel to master the details and be prepared to meet the defence. Alas, for the lack of those five minutes! The more Mr. Newboy looked at the writing (?) the more confused he got. All he could make out was his own name, and Reg. v. Somebody on the back.

Now it happened that Mr. Alibi saw the difficulty in which Mr. Newboy was, and knowing that his, Alibi’s, clerk, was not remarkable for penmanship, handed to the learned counsel at the last moment, when the last juryman was being bawled at with the “well and truly try,” a copy of the depositions.

The first name at the top of the first page which caught the eye of the learned counsel, was that of the prisoner; for the depositions commence in such a way as to show the name of the prisoner in close proximity to, if not among the names of witnesses.

So Mr. Newboy, in his confusion, taking the name of the prisoner as his first witness, shouted out in a bold voice, to give himself courage, “Simon Simpleman.”

“’Ere!” answered the prisoner.

The learned Judge was a little astonished; and, although, he had got his criminal law up with remarkable rapidity, his lordship knew well enough that you cannot call the prisoner as a witness either for or against himself. Mr. Newboy perceived his mistake and apologised.

The laugh, of course, went round against him; and when it got to Mr. Nimble, that merry gentleman slid it into the jury-box with a turn of his eyes and a twist of his mouth. The counsel for the prosecution being by this time pretty considerably confused, and not being able to make out the name of a single witness on the depositions (there were only two) called out, “The Prosecutor.”

“Here, I be,” said a voice from the crowd in a tone which provoked more laughter, all of which was turned into the jury-box by Mr. Nimble. “Here I be” struggled manfully with all his might and main to push through the miscellaneous crowd of all sorts and conditions that hemmed him in. All the arrangements at the Old Bailey, like the arrangements at most Courts, are expressly devised for the inconvenience of those who have business there.

All eyes were turned towards “Here I be,” as, after much pushing and struggling as though he were in a football match, he was thrust headlong forward by three policemen and the crier into the body of the Court. There he stood utterly confounded by the treatment he had undergone and the sight that presented itself to his astonished gaze. Opera-glasses were turned on him from the boxes, the gentlemen on the grand tier strained their necks in order to catch a glimpse of him; the pit, filled for the most part with young barristers, was in suppressed ecstasies; while the gallery, packed to the utmost limit of its capacity, broke out into unrestrained laughter. I say, unrestrained; but as the Press truly observed in the evening papers, “it was immediately suppressed by the Usher.”

Mr. Bumpkin climbed into the witness-box (as though

he were going up a rick), which was situated between the Judge and the jury. His appearance again provoked a titter through the Court; but it was not loud enough to call for any further measure of suppression than the usual “Si—lence!” loudly articulated in two widely separated syllables by the crier, who had no sooner pronounced it than he turned his face from the learned Judge and pressed his hand tightly against his mouth, straining his eyes as if he had swallowed a crown-piece. Mr. Bumpkin wore his long drab frock overcoat, with the waist high up and its large flaps; his hell-fire waistcoat, his trousers of corduroy, and his shirt-collar, got up expressly for the occasion as though he had been a prime minister. The ends of his neckerchief bore no inconsiderable likeness to two well-grown carrots. In his two hands he carefully nursed his large-brimmed well-shaped white beaver hat; a useful article to hold in one’s hands when there is any danger of nervousness, for nothing is so hard to get rid of as one’s hands. I am not sure that Mr. Bumpkin was nervous. He was a brave self-contained man, who had fought the world and conquered. His maxim was, “right is right,” and “wrong is no man’s right.” He was of the upright and down-straight character, and didn’t care “for all the counsellors in the kingdom.” And why should he? His cause was good, his conscience clear, and the story he had to tell plain and “straightforrard” as himself. No wonder then that his face beamed with a good old country smile, such as he would wear at an exhibition where he could show the largest “turmut as ever wur growed.” That was the sort of smile he turned upon the audience. And as the audience looked at the “turmut,” it felt that it was indeed the most extraordinary

specimen of field culture it had ever beheld, and worthy of the first prize.

“What is your name?” inquired Mr. Newboy; “I mustn’t lead.”

“Bumpkin, and I bearned asheamed on ’im,” answered the bold farmer.

“Never mind whether you are ashamed or not,” interposed Mr. Nimble; “just answer the question.”

“You must answer,” remarked the learned Judge, “not make a speech.”

“Zackly, sir,” said Bumpkin, pulling at his hair.

Another titter. The jury titter and hold down their heads. Evidently there’s fun in the case.

Then Mr. Newboy questioned him about the occurrence; asked him if he recollected such a day, and where he had been, and where he was going, and a variety of other questions; the answer to every one of which provoked fresh laughter; until, after much floundering on the part of both himself and Mr. Newboy, as though they were engaged in a wrestling match, he was asked by the learned Judge “to tell them exactly what happened. Let him tell his own story,” said the Judge.

“Ha!” said everybody; “now we shall hear something!”

“I wur a gwine,” began Bumpkin, “hoame—”

“That’s not evidence,” said Mr. Nimble.

“How so?” asks the Judge.

“It doesn’t matter where he was going to, my lord, but where he was!”

“Well, that is so,” says the Judge; “you mustn’t tell us, Mr. Bumpkin, whither you were going, but where you were!”

Bumpkin scratched his head; there were too many where’s for him.

“Can’t yon tell us,” says Mr. Newboy, “where you were?”

“Where I were?” says Bumpkin.

A roar of laughter greeted this statement. Mr. Nimble turning it into the jury-box like a flood.

“I wur in Lunnun—”

“Yes—yes,” says his counsel; “but what locality?”

You might just as well have put him under a mangle, as to try to get evidence out of him like that.

“Look,” says the Judge, “attend to me; if you go on like that, you will not be allowed your expenses.”

“What took place?” asks his counsel; “can’t you tell us, man?”

“Why the thief cotch—”

“I object,” says Mr. Nimble; “you mustn’t call him a thief; it is for the jury, my lord, to determine that.”

“That is so,” says my lord; “you mustn’t call him a thief, Mr. Bumpkin.”

“Beg pardon, your lord; but ur stole my watch.”

“No—no,” says Mr. Newboy; “took your watch.”

“An if ur took un, ur stole un, I allows,” says Bumpkin; “for I never gin it to un.”

There was so much laughter that for some time nothing further was said; but every audience knows better than to check the source of merriment by a continued uproar; so it waited for another supply.

“You must confine yourself,” says the Judge, “to telling us what took place.”

“I’ll spak truth and sheam t’ devil,” says Bumpkin.

“Now go on,” says Newboy.

“The thief stole my watch, and that be t’ plain English on ’t.”

“I shall have to commit you to prison,” says the Judge, “if you go on like that; remember you are upon your oath, and it’s a very serious thing—serious for you and serious for the young man at the bar.”

At these touching words, the young man at the bar burst out crying, said “he was a respectable man, and it was all got up against him;” whereupon Mr. Nimble said “he must be quiet, and that his lordship and the gentlemen in the box would take care of him and not allow him to be trampled on.”

“You are liable,” said the Judge, “to be prosecuted for perjury if you do not tell the truth.”

“Well, then, your lord, if a man maun goo to prison for losin’ his watch, I’ll goo that’s all; but that ere man stole un.”

Mr. Newboy: “He took it, did he?”

“I object,” said Mr. Nimble; “that is a leading question.”

“Yes,” said the Judge; “I think that is rather leading,” Mr. Newboy; “you may vary the form though, and ask him whether the prisoner stole it.”

“Really, my lord,” said Mr. Nimble, “that, with very great respect, is as leading as the other form.”

“Not quite, I think, Mr. Nimble. You see in the other form, you make a positive assertion that he did steal it; in this, you merely ask the question.”

And I saw that this was a very keen and subtle distinction, such as could only be drawn by a Chancery Judge.

“Would it not be better, my lord, if he told us what took place?”

“That is what he is doing,” said the Judge; “go on, witness.”

“I say as ’ow thic feller comed out and hugged up aginst I and took ’t watch and runned away. I arter’d him, and met him coomin’ along wi’ it in ’s pocket; what can be plaainer an thic?”

There was great laughter as Mr. Bumpkin shook his head at the learned counsel for the defence, and thumped one hand upon the ledge in front of him.

“That will do,” said Mr. Newboy, sitting down triumphantly.

Then the counsel for the defence arose, and a titter again went round the Court, and there was a very audible adjustment of persons in preparation for the treat that was to come.

“May the prisoner have a seat, my lord?”

“Oh, certainly,” said his lordship; “let an easy-chair be brought immediately.”

“Now then, Mr. Bumpkin, or whatever your name is, don’t lounge on the desk like that, but just stand up and attend to me. Stand up, sir, and answer my questions,” says Mr. Nimble.

“I be standin’ oop,” said Bumpkin, “and I can answer thee; ax away.”

“Just attend,” said the Judge. “You must not go on like that. You are here to answer questions and not to make speeches. If you wish those gentlemen to believe you, you must conduct yourself in a proper manner. Remember this is a serious charge, and you are upon your oath.”

Poor Bumpkin! Never was there a more friendless position than that of Ignorance in the witness-box.

“Just attend!” repeated Mr. Nimble; this was a favourite expression of his.

“How may aliases have you?”

“Ow many who?” asked Bumpkin. (Roars of laughter.)

“How many different names?”

“Naames! why I s’pose I got two, like moast people.”

“How many more?”

“None as iver I knowed of.”

“Wait a bit, we shall see. Now, sir, will you swear you have never gone by the name of Pumpkin?”

Loud laughter, in which the learned judge tried not to join.

“Never!”

“Do you swear it?”

“I do.”

“My lord, would you kindly let me see the depositions. Now look here, sir, is that your signature?”

“I ain’t much of a scollard.”

“No; but you can make a cross, I suppose.”

“Ay, I can make a cross, or zummut in imitation as well as any man.”

“Look at that, is that your cross?”

“It look like un.”

“Now then, sir; when you were before the Lord Mayor, I ask you, upon your oath, did you not give the name of Pumpkin?”

“Noa, I din’t!”

“Was this read over to you, and were you asked if it was correct?”

“It med be.”

“Med be; but wasn’t it? You know it was, or, don’t you?”

Bumpkin seemed spiked, so silent; seemed on fire, so red.

“Well, we know it was so. Now, my lord, I call your lordship’s attention to this remarkable fact; here in the depositions he calls himself Pumpkin.”

His lordship looks carefully at the depositions and says that certainly is so.

Mr. Newboy rises and says he understands that it may be a mistake of the clerk’s.

Judge: “How can you say that, Mr. Newboy, when it’s in his affidavit?”

(Clerk of Arraigns whispers to his lordship.) “I mean in his depositions, as I am told they are called in this Court; these are read over to him by the clerk, and he is asked if they are correct.” Shakes his head.

(So they began to try the prisoner, not so much on the merits of the case as on the merits of the magistrate’s clerk.)

“You certainly said your name was Pumpkin,” said the Judge, “and what is more you swore to it.”

(“They’ve got the round square at work,” muttered a voice in the gallery.)

Mr. Nimble: “Now just attend; have you ever gone so far as to say that this case did not refer to you because your name was not Bumpkin?”

The witness hesitates, then says “he b’leeves not.”

“Let those two gentlemen, Mr. Crackcrib and Mr. Centrebit, step forward.”

There was a bustle in Court, and then, with grinning faces, up stepped the two men who had visited Mr. Bumpkin at the “Goose” some days before.

“Have you ever seen these gentlemen before?” asks the learned counsel.

The gentlemen alluded to looked up as if they had

practised it together, and both grinned. How can Mr. Bumpkin’s confusion be described? His under jaw fell, and his head drooped; he was like one caught in a net looking at the fowler.

The question was repeated, and Mr. Bumpkin wiped his face and returned his handkerchief into the depths of his hat, into which he would have liked to plunge also.

Question repeated in a tone that conveyed the impression that witness was one of the biggest scoundrels in the Heart of Civilization.

“You must really answer,” says the Judge.

“They be put on, your lordship.”

“No, no,” says the counsel, “you mustn’t say that, I’ll have an answer. Have you seen them before?”

“Yes,” muttered the prosecutor.

“Let them go out of Court. Now then,” says the counsel, extending his right hand and his forefinger and leaning towards the witness, “have—you—not—told—them—that—this case was nothing to do with you as your name wasn’t Bumpkin?”

“My lord,” says the witness.

“No, no; you must answer.”

The witness stood confounded.

“You decline to answer,” says the counsel. “Very well; now then, let me see if you will decline to answer this. When you were robbed, as you say, was anybody with you?”

“Be I obligated to answer, my lord?”

“I think you must answer,” said his lordship.

“There wur.”

“Who was it?”

“A companion, I s’poase.”

“Yes, but who was he? what was his name?”

No answer.

“You’d rather not answer; very well. Where does he live?”

“I doant know. Westmunster, I believe.”

“Is he here?”

“Not as I knows on.”

(“What a lark this is,” chuckled the Don, as he sat in the corner of the gallery peeping from behind the front row.)

“Did he see the watch taken?”

“He did, leastways I s’poase so.”

“And has never appeared as a witness?”

“How is that?” asks his lordship.

“He axed me, m’lud, not to say as ’ow he wur in it.”

Judge shakes his head. Counsel for the prisoner shakes his head at the jury, and the jury shake their heads at one another.

Now in the front row of the gallery sat five young men in the undress uniform of the hussars: they were Joe and his brother recruits come to hear the famous trial. At this moment Mr. Bumpkin in sheer despair lifted his eyes in the direction of the gallery and immediately caught sight of his old servant. He gave a nod of recognition as if he were the only friend left in the wide world of that Court of Justice.

“Never mind your friends in the gallery,” said Mr. Nimble; “I dare say you have plenty of them about; now attend to this question:”—Yes, and a nice question it was, considering the tone and manner with which it was asked. “At the moment when you were being robbed, as you say, did a young woman with a baby in her arms come up?”

The witness’s attention was again distracted, but this

time by no such pleasing object as on the former occasion. He was dumbfoundered; a sparrow facing an owl could hardly be in a greater state of nervousness and discomfiture: for down in the well of the Court, a place where he had never once cast his eyes till now, with a broad grin on his coarse features, and a look of malignant triumph, sat the fiendlike Snooks! His mouth was wide open, and Bumpkin found himself looking down into it as though it had been a saw-pit. By his side sat Locust taking notes of the cross-examination.

“What are you looking at, Mr. Bumpkin?” inquired the learned counsel.

Mr. Bumpkin started.

“What are you looking at?”

“I wur lookin’ doun thic there hole in thic feller’s head,” answered Bumpkin.

Such a roar of laughter followed this speech as is seldom heard even in a breach of promise case, where the most touching pathos often causes the greatest amusement to the audience.

“What a lark!” said Harry.

“As good as a play,” responded Dick.

“I be sorry for the old chap,” said Joe; “they be givin’ it to un pooty stiff.”

“Now attend,” said the counsel, “and never mind the hole. Did a young woman with a baby come up?”

“To the best o’ my b’leef.”

“Don’t say to the best of your belief; did she or not?”

“He can only speak to the best of his belief,” said the Judge.

(“There’s the round square,” whispered O’Rapley.)

“Did she come up then to the best of your belief?”

“Yes.”

“And—did—she—accuse—you—to the best of your belief of assaulting her?”

“I be a married man,” answered the witness. (Great laughter.)

“Yes, we know all about you; we’ll see who you are presently. Did she accuse you, and did you run away?”

“I runned arter thic feller.”

“No, no; did she accuse you?”

“She might.”

The learned counsel then sat down with the quickest motion imaginable, and then the policeman gave his evidence as to taking the man into custody; and produced the huge watch. Mr. Bumpkin was recalled and asked how long he had had it, and where he bought it; the only answers to which were that he had had it five years, and bought it of a man in the market; did not know who he was or where he came from; all which answers looked very black against Mr. Bumpkin. Then the policeman was asked to answer this question—yes or no. “Did he know the prisoner?” He said “No.”

Mr. Nimble said to the jury, “Here was a man dressing himself up as an old man from the country (laughter) prowling about the streets of London in company with an associate whose name he dared not mention, and who probably was well-known to the police; here was this countryman actually accused of committing an assault in the public streets on a young woman with a baby in her arms: he runs away as hard as his legs will carry him and meets a man who is actually wearing the watch that this Bumpkin or Pumpkin charges him with stealing. He, the learned counsel, would call witness after witness

to speak to the character of his client, who was an engraver (I believe he was an engraver of bank notes); he would call witness after witness who would tell them how long they had known him, and how long he had had the watch; and, curiously enough, such curious things did sometimes almost providentially take place in a Court of Justice, he would call the very man that poor Mr. Simpleman had purchased it of five years ago, when he was almost, as you might say, in the first happy blush of boyhood (that ‘blush of boyhood’ went down with many of the jury who were fond of pathos); let the jury only fancy! but really would it be safe—really would it be safe, let him ask them upon their consciences, which in after life, perhaps years to come, when their heads were on their pillows, and their hands upon their hearts, (here several of the jury audibly sniffed), would those consciences upbraid, or would those consciences approve them for their work to-day? would it be safe to convict after the exhibition the prosecutor had made of himself in that box, where, he ventured to say, Bumpkin stood self-condemned before that intelligent jury.”

Here the intelligent jury turned towards one another, and after a moment or two announced, through their foreman (who was a general-dealer in old metal, in a dark street over the water), that if they heard a witness or two to the young man’s character that would be enough for them.

Witnesses, therefore, were called to character, and the young man was promptly acquitted, the jury appending to their verdict that he left the Court without a stain upon his character.

“Bean’t I ’lowed to call witnesses to charickter?” asks the Prosecutor.

“Oh, no,” replied Mr. Nimble; “we know your character pretty well.”

“What’s that?” inquired the Judge.

“He wants to know, my lord,” says Mr. Nimble, laughing, “if he may call witnesses to character!”

“Oh dear, no,” says the Judge; “you were not being tried.”

Now many persons might have been of a different opinion from his lordship on this point. Snooks for one, I think; for he gave a great loud vulgar haw! haw! haw! and said, “I could ha’ gien him a charakter.”

“Si-lence!” said the Usher.

“May the prisoner have his watch, my lord?” asks Mr. Nimble.

“O, yes,” said his lordship, “to be sure. Give the prisoner his watch.”

“His watch,” groaned a voice.

CHAPTER XXX.

Mr. Alibi is stricken with a thunderbolt—interview with Horatio and Mr. Prigg.

The “round square,” as the facetious Don called the new style of putting the round judicial pegs into the square judicial holes, had indeed been applied with great effect on this occasion; for I perceived that Mr. Alibi, remarkable man, was not only engaged on the part of the Crown to prosecute, but also on that of the prisoner to defend. And this fact came to my knowledge in the manner following:

When Mr. Bumpkin got into the lower part of that magnificent pile of buildings which we have agreed to call the Heart of Civilisation, he soon became the centre of a dirty mob of undersized beings who were anxious to obtain a sight of him; and many of whom were waiting to congratulate their friend, the engraver. Amidst the crowd was Mr. Alibi. That gentleman had no intention of meeting Mr. Bumpkin any more, for certain expenses were due to him as a witness, and it had long been a custom at the Old Bailey, that if the representative of the Crown did not see the witnesses the expenses due to them would fall into the Consolidated Fund, so that it was a clear gain to the State if its representative officers did not meet the witnesses. On this occasion, however, Mr. Alibi ran against his client

accidentally, and being a courteous gentleman, could not forbear condoling with him on the unsuccessful termination of his case.

“You, see,” began Mr. Alibi, “I was instructed so late—really, the wonder is, when gentlemen don’t employ a solicitor till the last moment, how we ever lay hold of the facts at all. Now look at your case, sir. Yes, yes, I’m coming—bother my clerks, how they worry—I’ll be there directly.”

“But thic feller,” said Mr. Bumpkin, “who had my case din’t know nowt about it. I could ha’ done un better mysel.”

“Ah, sir; so we are all apt to think. He’s a most clever man, that—a very rising man, sir.”

“Be he?” said Bumpkin.

“Why, do you know, sir,” continued Mr. Alibi, “he was very great at his University.”

“That bean’t everything, though, by a long way.”

“No, sir, granted, granted. But he was Number Four in his boat; and the papers all said his feathering was beautiful.”

“A good boatman, wur he?”

“Magnificent, sir; magnificent!”

“Then he’d better keep a ferry; bean’t no good at law.”

“Ah! I am afraid you are a little prejudiced. He’s a very learned man.”

“I wish he’d larned to open his mouth. Why, I got a duck can quack a devilish sight better un thic feller can talk.”

“Ha, how d’ye do, Mr. Swindle?” said a shabby-looking gentleman, who came up at this moment.

“Excuse me, sir; but you have the advantage of me,” said Alibi, winking.

“Dear me, how very strange, I thought you were Mr. Wideawake’s representative.”

“Ah!” said Mr. Alibi, laughing, “we are often taken for brothers—and yet, would you believe me, there is no relationship.”

“No?” said the gentleman.

“None, whatever. I think you’ll find him in the Second Court, if not, he’ll be there in a short time. I saw him only just now.”

That is how I learned that Mr. Alibi represented the Crown and Mr. Deadandgone for the prosecutor; also the prisoner, and Mr. Wideawake for the defence. Clever man!

“Now,” said Mr. Bumpkin, “Can’t un get a new trial?”

“I fear not,” said Alibi; “but I should not be in the least surprised if that Wideawake, who represented the prisoner, brought an action against you for false imprisonment and malicious prosecution.”

“What, thic thief?”

“Ah, sir—law is a very deep pit—it’s depth is not to be measured by any moral plummet.”

“Doan’t ’zacly zee’t.”

“Well, it’s this,” said Mr. Alibi. “Whether you’re right or whether you’re wrong, if he brings an action you must defend it—it’s not your being in the right will save you.”

“Then, what wool?” asked Mr. Bumpkin.

Mr. Alibi did not know, unless it was instructing him in due time and not leaving it to the last moment. That seemed the only safe course.

Mr. Bumpkin took off his hat, drew out his handkerchief, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. Then he breathed heavily. Now at this moment a strange phenomenon occurred, not to be passed over in this truthful history. Past Mr. Bumpkin’s ear something shot, in appearance like a human fist, in velocity like a thunderbolt, and unfortunately it alighted full on the nose and eye of the great Mr. Alibi, causing that gentleman to reel back into the arms of the faithful thieves around. I cannot tell from what quarter it proceeded, it was so sudden, but I saw that in the neighbourhood whence it came stood five tall hussars, and I heard a voice say:

“Now, look at that. Come on, Maister, don’t let us git into no row.”

Mr. Bumpkin, with the politeness of his nature, said:

“Good marnin’, sir,” and retired.

And thus thought the unfortunate prosecutor: “This ’ere country be all law, actions grows out o’ actions, like that ’ere cooch that runs all over everywhere’s.” And then he saw the five recruits strutting along with their caps at the side of their heads, the straps across their chins, their riding-whips under their arms, and walking with such a swagger that one would have thought they had just put down a rebellion, or set up a throne.

It was some time before, in the confusion of his mind, the disappointed Bumpkin could realize the fact that there was any connection between him and the military. But as he looked, with half-closed eyes, suddenly the thought crossed his mind: “Why, that be like our Joe—that middle un.”

And so it was: they were walking at a fastish pace, and as they strutted along Joe seemed to be marching

away with the whole farm and with all the pleasures of his past life. Even Mrs. Bumpkin herself, in some extraordinary manner, seemed to be eloping with him. Why was it? And now, despondent, disappointed and humiliated, with his blood once more up, poor old Bumpkin bethought himself seriously of his position. For weeks he had been waiting for his case to “come on”; weeks more might pass idly away unless he made a stir. So he would call at the office of Mr. Prigg. And being an artful man, he had a reason for calling without further delay. It was this: his desire to see Prigg before that gentleman should hear of his defeat. Prigg would certainly blame him for not employing a solicitor, or going to the Public Prosecutor. So to Prigg’s he went about three o’clock on that Thursday afternoon. I do not undertake to describe furniture, so I say nothing of Prigg’s dingy office, except this, that if Prigg had been a spider, it was just the sort of corner in which I should have expected him to spin his web. Being a man of enormous practice, and in all probability having some fifty to sixty representatives of county families to confer with, two hours elapsed before Mr. Bumpkin could be introduced. The place, small as it was, was filled with tin boxes bearing, no doubt, eminent names. Horatio was busy copying drafts of marriage settlements, conveyances, and other matters of great importance. He had little time for gossip because his work seemed urgent, and although he was particularly glad to see Mr. Bumpkin, yet being a lad of strict adherence to duty, he always replied courteously, but in the smallest number of words to that gentleman’s questions.

“Will ur be long?” asked the client; “I don’t think so,” said Horatio.

Then in a whisper, asked Mr. Bumpkin, “How does thee think, sir, we shall get on: win, shan’t us?”

Horatio just raised his face from the paper and winked, as though he were conveying a valuable secret.

“Have ur heard anythink, sir?”

Another artful wink.

“Thee know’s zummat, I knows thee do.”

Another artful wink.

“Thee can tell I, surely? I wunt let un goo no furder.”

Horatio winked once more, and made a face at the door where the great Prigg was supposed to be.

“Ain’t give in, ave ur?”

Horatio put his finger in his mouth and made a popping noise as he pulled it out.

“What the devil does thee mean, lad? there be zummat up, I’ll swear.”

“Hush! hush!”

“Now, look here,” said Bumpkin, taking out his purse; “thee beest a good chap, and writ out thic brief, didn’t thee? I got zummat for thee;” and hereupon he handed Horatio half-a-crown.

The youth took the money, spun it into the air, caught it in the palm of his hand, spat on it for good luck, and put it in his pocket

“I’ll have a spree with that,” said he, “if I never do again.”

“Be careful, lad,” said Bumpkin, “don’t fool un away.”

“Not I,” said Horatio; “I’m on for the Argille tonight, please the pigs.”

“Be thic a place o’ wusship” said Bumpkin, laughing.

“Not exactly,” answered Horatio; “it’s a place where you can just do the gentleman on the cheap, shoulder it with noblemen’s sons, and some of the highest. Would you like to go now, just for a lark? I’m sure you’d like it.”

“Not I,” said the client; “this ’ere Lunnun life doan’t do for I.’.’

“Yes; but this is a nice quiet sort of place.”

“Gals, I spoase.”

“Rather; I believe you my boy; stunners too.”

“Thee be too young, it’s my thinking.”

“Well, that’s what the Governor says; everybody says I’m too young; but I hope to mend that fault, Master Bumpkin, if I don’t get the better of any other.”

“I wish I wur as old in the ’ead; but tell I, lad, hast thee ’eard anything? Thee might just as well tell I; it wunt goo no furder.”

Horatio put his finger to his nose and made a number of dumb signs, expressive of more than mere words could convey.

“Danged if I can mak’ thee out,” said Bumpkin.

“You recollect that ride we had in the gig.”

“Ha, now it’s coming,” thought he; “I shall have un now,” so he answered: “Well, it wur nice, wurn’t ur?”

“Never enjoyed myself more in my life,” rejoined Horatio; “what a nice morning it was!”

“Beautiful!”

“And do you recollect the rum and milk?”

Mr. Bumpkin remembered it.

“Well, I believe that rum and milk was the luckiest investment you ever made. Hallo! there’s the bell—hush, mither woy!”

“Dang thee!” said Bumpkin, “thee’s got un;” and he followed the youthful clerk into Mr. Prigg’s room.

There sat that distinguished lawyer with his respectable head, in his easy chair, much worn, both himself and the chair, by constant use. There sat the good creature ready to offer himself up on the altar of Benevolence for the good of the first comer. His collar was still unruffled, so was his temper, notwithstanding the severe strain of the county families. There was his clear complexion indicating the continued health resulting from a well-spent life. His almost angelic features were beautiful rather in the amiability of their expression than in their loveliness of form. Anyone looking at him for the first time must exclaim, “Dear me, what a nice man!”

“Well, Mr. Bumpkin,” said he, extending his left hand lazily as though it were the last effort of exhausted humanity, “how are we now?”—always identifying himself with Bumpkin, as though he should say “We are in the same boat, brother; come what may, we sink or swim together—how are we now?”

“Bean’t wery well,” answered Mr. Bumpkin, “I can tell ’ee.”

“What’s the matter? dear me, why, what’s the matter? We must be cool, you know. Nothing like coolness, if we are to win our battle.”

“Lookee ’ere,” said Bumpkin; “lookee ’ere, sir; I bin here dordlin’ about off an’ on six weeks, and this ’ere dam trial—”

“Sh—sh!” remonstrated Mr. Prigg with the softest voice, and just lifting his left hand on a level with his forehead. “Let us learn resignation, good Mr. Bumpkin. Let us learn it at the feet of disappointment and losses and crosses.”

“Yes, yes,” said Bumpkin; “but thic larnin’ be spensive, I be payin’ for it.”

“Mr. Bumpkin,” said the good man sternly, “the dispensations of Providence are not to be denounced in this way. You are a man, Bumpkin; let us act, then, the man’s part. You see these boxes, these names: they represent men who have gone through the furnace; let us be patient.”

“But I be sick on it. I wish I’d never know’d what law wur.”

“Ah, sir, most of us would like to exist in that state of wild and uncultured freedom which only savages and beasts are permitted to enjoy; but life has higher aims, Mr. Bumpkin; grander pursuits; more sublime duties.”

“Well, sir, I bean’t no schollard and so can’t argify; but if thee plase to tell I, sir, when this case o’ mine be likely to come on—”

“I was just that minute going to write to you, Mr. Bumpkin, as your name was announced, to say that it would not be taken until next term.”

Mr. Bumpkin uttered an exclamation which is not for print, and which caused the good Prigg to clap his hands to his ears and press them tightly for five minutes. Then he took them away and rubbed them together (I mean his hands), as though he were washing them from the contaminating influence of Mr. Bumpkin’s language.

“Quite so,” he said, mechanically; “dear me!”

“What be quite so,” asked Mr. Bumpkin.

“Yes—yes—you see,” said Prigg, “Her Majesty’s Judges have to go circuit; or, as it is technically called, jail delivery.”

“They be allays gwine suckitt.”

“Quite so. That is precisely what the profession is always observing. No sooner do they return from one circuit than they start off on another. Are you aware, Mr. Bumpkin, that we pay a judge five thousand a-year to try a pickpocket?”

“Hem!” said Bumpkin, “I bean’t aware on it. Never used t’ have so many o’ these ’ere—what d’ye call ’ems?”

“Circuits. No—but you see, here now is an instance. There’s a prisoner away somewhere, I think down at Bodmin, hundreds of miles off, and I believe he has sent to say that they must come down and try him at once, for he can’t wait.”

“I’d mak’ un wait. Why should honest men wait for sich as he? I bin waitin’ long enough.”

“Quite so. And the consequence is that the Lord Chief Justice of England is going down to try him, a common pickpocket, I believe, and his Lordship is the very head of the Judicial Body.”

“Hem!” said Mr. Bumpkin; “then I may as well goo hoame?”

“Quite so,” answered the amiable Prigg; “in fact, better—much better.”

“An’ we shan’t come on now, sir; bean’t there no chance?”

“Not the least, my dear sir; but you see we have not been idle; we have been advancing, in fact, during the whole time that has seemed to you so long. Now, just look, my dear sir; we have fought no less than ten appeals, right up, mind you, to the Court of Appeal itself; we have fought two demurrers; we have compelled them three times to give better answers to our interrogatories, and we have had fourteen other

summonses at Chambers on which they have not thought proper to appeal beyond the Judge. Now, Mr. Bumpkin, after that, I think you ought to be satisfied; but really that is one of the most disparaging things in the profession, the most disparaging, I may say; we find it so difficult to show our clients that we have done enough for them.”

“An’ thee think, sir, as we shall win un?” said Bumpkin.

“Well,” said Mr. Prigg, “I never like to prophesy; but if ever a case looked like winning it’s Bumpkin v. Snooks. And I may tell you this, Mr. Bumpkin, only pray don’t say that I told you.”

“What be thic, sir?” asked the eager client, with his eyes open as widely as ever client’s can be.

“The other side are in a tre-men-dous way!”

“What, funkin’, be um? I said so. That there Snooks be a rank bad un—now, then, we’ll at un like steam.”

“All in good time, Bumpkin,” said the worthy Prigg, affectionately taking his client’s hand. “All in good time. My kind regards to Mrs. Bumpkin. I suppose you return to-night?”

“Ay, sir, I be off by the fust train. Good day t’ ye, sir; good day and thankee.”

Thus comforted and thus grateful did the confiding client take leave of his legal adviser, who immediately took down his costs-book and booked a long conference, including the two hours that Mr. Bumpkin was kept in the “outer office.” This followed immediately after another “long conference with you when you thought we should be in the paper to-morrow from what a certain Mr. O’Rapley had told you, and I thought we should not.”

As he passed through the “outer office” he shook. Horatio by the hand. “Good-bye, sir. I knows what it wur now—bean’t comin’ on.”

“Don’t say I told you,” said the pale boy, as though he were afraid of communicating some tremendous secret.

“Noa, thee bean’t told I. Now, lookee ’ere, Mr. Jigger, come down when thee like; I shall be rare and prood to see thee, and so’ll Missus.”

“Thanks,” said Horatio; “I’ll be sure and come. Mither woy!”

“Ha! mither woy, lad! that’s ur; thee got un. Good-bye.”

CHAPTER XXXI.

Mr. Bumpkin at home again.

How peaceful the farm seemed after all the turmoil and worry that Farmer Bumpkin had been subjected to in London! What a haven of rest is a peaceful Home! How the ducks seemed to quack!—louder, as Mr. Bumpkin thought, than they ever did before. The little flock of sheep looked up as he went, with his old ash stick under his arm, to look round the farm. They seemed to say to one another, “Why, here’s Master; I told you he’d come back.” And the cows turned their heads and bellowed a loud welcome. They knew nothing of his troubles, and only expressed their extreme pleasure at seeing him again. They left off eating the whole time he was with them; for they were very well bred Shorthorns and Alderneys. It was quite pleasant to see how well behaved they all were. And Mrs. Bumpkin pointed out which ones had calved and which were expected to calve in the course of a few months. And then the majestic bull looked up with an expression of immense delight; came up to Mr. Bumpkin and put his nose in his master’s hand, and gazed as only a bull would gaze on a farmer who had spent several weeks in London. It was astonishing with what admiration the bull regarded him; and he seemed quite delighted as Mrs. Bumpkin told her husband of the bull’s good conduct in his absence; how he had never broken bounds once,

and had behaved himself as an exemplary bull on all occasions.

“But,” said Mrs. Bumpkin, “I be ’bliged to say, Tom, that there Mrs. Snooks have belied him shamefully. She haven’t got a good word to say for un; nor, for the matter o’ that, for anything on the farm.”

“Never mind,” said Mr. Bumpkin; “he bean’t the only one as ’ave been slandered hereabouts.”

“No, Tom, sure enough; but we bean’t ’bliged to heed un.”

“No, nor wun’t. And now here come Tim.”

To see Tim run and bound and leap and put his paws round Mr. Bumpkin’s neck and lick him, was a sight which must have made up for a great deal of the unkindness which he had experienced of late. Nor could any dog say more plainly than Tim did, how he had had a row with that ill-natured cur of Snooks’, called Towser, and how he had driven him off the farm and forbade him ever setting foot on it again. Tim told all about the snarling of Towser, and said he would not have minded his taking Snooks’ part in the action, if he had confined himself to that; but when he went on and barked at Mr. Bumpkin’s sheep and pigs, against whom he ought to have shown no ill-feeling, it was more than Tim could stand; so he flew at him and thoroughly well punished him for his malignant disposition.

But in the midst of all this welcoming, there was an unpleasant experience, and that was, that all the pigs were gone but two. The rare old Chichester sow was no more.

“There be only two affidavys left, Nancy!”

“No, Tom—only two; the man fetched two yesterday.”

“I hope they sold well. Have he sent any money yet?”

“Not a farthing,” said Mrs. Bumpkin; “nor yet for the sheep. He have had six sheep.”

“Zo I zee; and where be th’ heifers? we had six.”

“They be all sold, Tom.”

“And how much did ’em fetch?”

“The man ain’t brought in the account yet, Tom; but I spect we shall have un soon.”

“Why,” said Mr. Bumpkin, looking at the stackyard, “another rick be gone!”

“Yes, Tom, it be gone, and fine good hay it wur; it cut out as well as any hay I ever zeed.”

“Sure did ur!” answered Tom; “it were the six ak’r o’ clover, and were got up wirout a drop o’ rain on un; it wur prime hay, thic. Why, I wur offered six pun’ a looad for un.”

“I don’ow what ur fetched, Tom; but I be mighty troubled about this ’ere lawsuit. I wish we’d never ’a had un.”

“Doan’t say thic, Nancy; we be bound to bring un. As Laryer Prigg say, it bean’t so much t’ pig—”

“No, Tom, thee said un fust.”

“Well, s’poase I did—so ur did, and it worn’t so much t’ pig, it wur thic feller’s cheek.”

“Well, I don’t know nothing about un; I dissay you be right, because you’ve allays been right, Tom; and we’ve allays got on well togither these five and thirty year: but, some’ow, Tom—down, Tim!—down, Tim!”

“Poor old Tim!” said Tom. “Good boy! I wish men wur as good as dogs be.”

“Some’ow,” continued Mrs. Bumpkin, “I doan’t

like that ’aire Prigg; he seem to shake his head too much for I; and ’olds his ’at up to his face too long in church when ur goes in; and then ur shakes his head so much when ur prays. I don’t like un, Tom.”

“Now, Nancy, thee knows nothing about un. I can tell ’ee he be a rare good man, and sich a clever lawyer, he’ll knock that ’aire Snooks out o’ time. But, come on, let’s goo in and ’ave some ta.”

So they went in. And a very comfortable tea there was set out on the old oak table in front of the large fireplace where the dog-irons were. And a bright, blazing log there was on the hearth; for a cold east wind was blowing, notwithstanding that the sun had shone out bravely in the day. Ah! how glad Tom was to see the bright pewter plates and dishes ranged in rows all round the homely kitchen! They seemed to smile a welcome on the master; and one very large family sort of dish seemed to go out of his way to give him welcome. I believe he tumbled down in his enthusiasm at Tom’s return, although it was accounted for by saying that Tim had done it by the excessive “waggling” of his tail. I believe that dish fell down in the name of all the plates and dishes on the shelves, for the purpose of congratulating the master; else why should all their faces brighten up so suddenly with smiles as he did so? It’s ridiculous to suppose plates and dishes have no feelings; they’ve a great deal more than some people. And then, how the great, big, bright copper kettle, suspended on his hook, which was in the centre of the huge fireplace, how he did sing! Why the nightingale couldn’t throw more feeling into a song than did that old kettle! And then the home-made bread and rashers of bacon, such as you never see out of a farmhouse; and tea, such as can’t

be made anywhere else! And then the long pipe was brought out of his corner, where he had been just as Tom had left it before going to town. And the bowl of that pipe gave off circular clouds of the bluest smoke, expressive of its joy at the master’s return: it wasn’t very expressive, perhaps, but it was all that a pipe could do; and when one does his best in this world, it is all that mortal man can expect of him.

And then said Mrs. Bumpkin,—still dubious as to the policy of the proceedings, but too loving to combat her husband upon them,—“When be thee gwine agin, Tom?”

“I doan’t rightly know,” said Bumpkin. “Mr. Prigg will let I know; sometime in May, I reckon.”

“Dear, dear!” said Mrs. Bumpkin; “it may be on, then, just as th’ haymakin’s about.”

“Lor, lor! no, dearie; it’ll be over long enough afore.”

“Doan’t be too sure, Tom; it be a long time now since it begun.”

“Ah!” said Tom, “a long time enough; but it’ll be in th’ paper afore long now; an’ we got one o’ the cleverest counsel in Lunnun?”

“What be his name?”

“Danged if I know, but it be one o’ the stunninest men o’ the day; two on ’em, by Golly; we got two, Nancy.”

“Who be th’ tother? p’r’aps thee med mind his name?”

“Noa, I doan’t mind his name nuther. Now, what d’ye think o’ thic?”

Mrs. Bumpkin laughed, and said, “I think it be a rum thing that thee ’as counsellors and doan’t mind their names.”

And then the conversation turned upon Joe, whose place was vacant in the old chimney corner.

The tears ran down Mrs. Bumpkin’s rosy cheeks as she said for the twentieth time since Mr. Bumpkin’s return,—

“Poor Joe! why did ur goo for a soger?”

“He wur a fool!” said Bumpkin, “and I told un so. So as I warned un about thic Sergeant; the artfullest man as ever lived, Nancy.”

Mrs. Bumpkin wiped her eyes. “He wur a good boy, wur Joe, goo where ur wool; but, Tom, couldn’t thee ’a’ kept thine eye on un when thee see thic Sergeant hoverin’ roun’ like a ’awk arter a sparrer?”

“I did keep eye on un, I tell ’ee; but what be the good o’ thic; as well keep thee eye on th’ sparrer when th’ hawk be at un. I tell ’ee I ’suaded un and warned un, and begged on un to look out.”

“An’ what did ur say?”

“Say, why said ur wur up to un.”

“Up to un,” repeated Mrs. Bumpkin. “Can’t think ’ow ur got ’old on un.”

“No, and thee mark I, no more can nobody else—in Lunnon thee’re ’ad afore thee knows where thee be.”

And now Mr. Bumpkin had his “little drop of warm gin and water before going to bed”: and Mrs. Bumpkin had a mug of elder wine, for the Christmas elder wine was not quite gone: and after that Mrs. Bumpkin, who as the reader knows, was the better scholar of the two, took down from a shelf on which the family documents and books were kept, a large old bible covered with green baize. Then she wiped her glasses, and after turning over the old brown leaves until she came to the place where she had read last before Tom went away, commenced

her evening task, while her husband smoked on and listened.

Was it the old tone with which she spelt her way through the sacred words? Hardly: here it could be perceived that in her secret heart there was doubt and mistrust. Do what she would her eyes frequently became so dim that it was necessary to pause and wipe her glasses; and when she had finished and closed the book, she took Tom’s hand and said:

“O, Tom, I hope all ’ll turn out well, but sure enough I ha’ misgivings.”

“What be it, my dear? Mr. Prigg say we shall win—how can ur do better ’an thic?”

“Shall we get back the pigs and sheep, Tom?”

“Why not?”

Mrs. Bumpkin looked into her lap, and folding her apron very smooth with both hands, answered:

“I doan’t think, Tom, that man looks like bringing anything back. He be very chuffy and masterful, and looks all round as he goo away, as though he wur lookin’ to see what ur would take next. I think he’ll have un all, Tom.”

“Stuff!” said Mr. Bumpkin, “he be sellin’ for I, take what ur may.”

“He be sellin’ thee, Tom, I think, and I’d stop un from takin’ more.”

They rose to go to bed, and as Mrs. Bumpkin looked at the cosy old hearth, and put up the embers of the log to make it safe for the night, it seemed as if the prosperity of their old home had burnt down at last to dull ashes, and she looked sadly at the vacant place where Joe had used to sit.

CHAPTER XXXII.

Joe’s return to Southwood—an invitation from the Vicar—what the old oak saw.

It was a long time after the circumstances mentioned in the last chapter. The jails had been “delivered” of their prisoners, and prodigious events had taken place in the world; great battles had been fought and won, great laws made for the future interpretation of judges, and for the vexation of unfortunate suitors. It seemed an age to Mr. Bumpkin since his case commenced; and Joe had been in foreign parts and won his share of the glory and renown that falls to the lot of privates who have helped to achieve victory for the honour and glory of their General and the happiness of their country. It was a very long time, measured by events, since Mr. Bumpkin’s return from town, when on a bright morning towards the end of June, a fine sunburnt soldier of Her Majesty’s regiment of the --- Hussars knocked with the butt-end of his riding whip at the old oak door in the old porch of Southwood farm-house.

“Well, I never! if that there bean’t our Joe!” exclaimed Mrs. Bumpkin, looking out of the window; and throwing down the rolling-pin which she had just been using in rolling-out the dough for a dumpling—(Mr. Bumpkin was “uncommon fond o’ dumplins”)—“well, I never!” repeated Mrs. Bumpkin, as she opened

the door; “who ever would ha’ thought it? Why, how be’est thee, Joe? And bless the lad, ’ow thee’ve growed! My ’art alive, come along! The master’ll be mighty glad to see thee, and so be I, sure a ly.”

And here Mrs. Bumpkin paused to look round him, sticking her knuckles in her sides and her elbows in the air as though Joe were a piece of handiwork—a dumpling, say—which she herself had turned out, clothes and all. And then she put the corner of her apron to her eye.

“Why, Joe, I thought,” said she, “I should never see thee agin! Dear, dear, this ’ere lawsuit be the ruin on us, mark my words! But lor, don’t say as I said so to the master for the world, for he be that wropped up in un that nothing goes down night and morning, morning and night, but affidavys, and summonses, and counsellors, and jussices, and what not.”

“Well,” said the soldier, slapping his whip on his leg as was his custom, “you might be sure I should come and see yer if they left me a leg to hop with, and I should ’a wrote, but what wi’ the smoke and what with the cannon balls flying about, you haven’t got much time to think about anything; but I did think this, that if ever I got back to Old England, if it was twenty year to come, I’d go and see the old master and missus and ’ear ’ow that lawsuit wur going on.”

“And that be right, Joe—I knowed ’ee would; I said as much to master. But ’ow do thee think it’ll end? shall us win or lose?”

Now this was the first time he had ever been called upon to give a legal opinion, or rather, an opinion upon a legal matter, so he was naturally somewhat put about;

and looking at the rolling-pin and the dough and then at Mrs. Bumpkin, said:

“Well, it’s like this: a man med win or a man med lose, there’s no telling about the case; but I be dang’d well sure o’ this, missus, he’ll lose his money: I wish master had chucked her up long agoo.”

This opinion was not encouraging; and perceiving that the subject troubled Mrs. Bumpkin more than she liked to confess, he asked a question which was of more immediate importance to himself, and that was in reference to Polly Sweetlove.

“Why, thee’ll make her look at thee now, I’ll warrant; thy clothes fit thee as though they growed on thee.”

“Do she walk with the baker?” inquired Joe, with trembling accents.

“I never heeard so, an’ it’s my belief she never looked at un wi’ any meaning. I’ve seen her many a time comin’ down the Green Lane by herself and peepin’ over th’ gate.”

“Now look at that!” said Joe; “and when I was here I couldn’t get Polly to come near the farm—allays some excuse—did you ever speak to her about me, missus?”

“I ain’t going to tell tales out of school, Joe, so there.”

“Now look at that,” said Joe; “here’s a chap comes all this way and you won’t tell him anything.”

Mrs. Bumpkin laughed, and went on rolling the dough, and told him what a nice dumpling she was making, and how he would like it, and asked how long he was going to stop, and hoped it would be a month, and was telling him all about the sheep and the cows

and the good behaviour of the bull, when suddenly she said:

“Here he be, Joe! lor, lor, how glad he’ll be to see thee!”

But it wasn’t the Bull that stepped into the room; it was Mr. Bumpkin, rosy, stalwart, jolly, and artful as ever. Now Mrs. Bumpkin was very anxious to be the bearer of such good intelligence as Joe’s arrival, so, notwithstanding the fact that Mr. Bumpkin and he were face to face, the eager woman exclaimed:

“Here be our Joe, Tom, hearty and well. And bean’t he a smart fine feller? What’ll Polly think of un now?”

“Shut up thic chatter,” said Mr. Bumpkin, laughing. “Halloa! why, Joe, egad thee looks like a gineral. I’d take thee for a kernel at the wery least. Why, when did thee come, lad?”

“Just now, master.”

“That be right, an’ I be glad to see thee. I’ll warrant Nancy ain’t axed thee t’ have nothun.”

“Why, thee be welcome to the ’ouse if thee can eat un, thee knows thic,” answered Nancy; “but dinner’ll be ready at twelve, and thee best not spoil un.”

“A quart o’ ale wun’t spile un, will un, Joe?”

“Now look at that,” said the soldier. “Thankee, master, but not a quart.”

“Well, thee hasn’t got thee head snicked off yet, Joe?”

“No, master, if my head had been snicked off I couldn’t ha’ bin here.” And he laughed a loud ha! ha! ha!

And Mr. Bumpkin laughed a loud haw! haw! haw! at this tremendous witticism. It was not much of a

witticism, perhaps, after all, when duly considered, but it answered the purpose as well as the very best, and produced as much pleasure as the most brilliant repartee, in the most fashionable circles. We must take people as they are.

So Joe stayed chattering away till dinner-time, and then, referring to the pudding, said he had never tasted anything like it in his life; and went on telling the old people all the wonders of the campaign: how their regiment just mowed down the enemy as he used to cut corn in the harvest-field, and how nothing could stand aginst a charge of cavalry; and how they liked their officers; and how their General, who warn’t above up to Joe’s shoulder, were a genleman, every inch on him, an’ as brave as any lion you could pick out. And so he went on, until Mr. Bumpkin said:

“An’ if I had my time over agin I’d goo for a soger too, Joe,” which made Mrs. Bumpkin laugh and ask what would become of her.

“Ha! ha! ha! look at that!” said Joe; “she’s got you there, master.”

“No she bean’t, she’d a married thic feller that wur so sweet on her afore I had ur.”

“What, Jem?” said Mrs. Bumpkin, “why I wouldn’t ha’ had un, Tom, if every ’air had been hung wi’ dimonds.”

“Now look at that,” laughed Joe.

And so they went on until it was time to take a turn round the farm. Everything seemed startled at Joe’s fine clothes, especially the bull, who snorted and pawed the earth and put out his tail, and placed his head to the ground, until Joe called him by name, and then, as he told his comrades afterwards in barracks, the bull said:

“Why danged if it bean’t our Joe!”

I must confess I did not hear this observation in my dream, but I was some distance off, and if Mr. Ricochet, Q.C., in cross-examination had said, “Will you swear, sir, upon your oath that the bull did not use those words?” I must have been bound to answer, “I will not.”

But presently they met old Tim, the Collie, and there was no need for Joe to speak to him. Up he came with a bound and caressed his old mate in the most loving manner.

The Queen’s uniform was no disguise to him.

The next day it was quite a treat to see Joe go through the village. Such a swagger he put on that you would have thought he was the whole regiment. And when he went by the Vicarage, where Polly was housemaid, it was remarkable to see the air of indifference which he assumed. Whack went his riding-whip on his leg: you could hear it a hundred yards off. He didn’t seem to care a bit whether she was staring at him out of the study window as hard as she could stare or not. Two or three times he struck the same leg, and marched on perfectly indifferent to all around.

At length came Sunday, as Sunday only comes in a country village. No such peace, no such Sabbath anywhere. You have only got to look at anything you like to know that it is Sunday. Bill’s shirt collar; the milkman; even his bright milk-can has a Sunday shine about it. The cows standing in the shallow brook have a reverent air about them. They never look like that on any other day. Why the very sunshine is Sabbath sunshine, and seems to bring more peace and more pleasantness than on any other day of the week. And

all the trees seem to whisper together, “It’s Sunday morning.”

Presently you see the people straggling up to the little church, whose donging bell keeps on as much as to say, “I know I’m not much of a peal, but in my humble way I do my duty to the best of my ability; it’s not the sound but the spirit of the thing that is required; and if I’m not very musical, and can’t give you many changes, I’m sincere in what I say.” And this was an emblem of the sincerity and the simplicity of the clergyman inside. He kept on hammering away at the old truths and performing his part in God’s great work to the best of his ability; and I know with very great success. So in they all came to church; and Joe, who had been a very good Sunday-school pupil (notwithstanding his love of poaching) and was a favourite with the vicar, as the reader knows, took his old place in the free seats, not very far from the pew where the vicar’s servants sat. Who can tell what his feelings were as he wondered whether Polly would be there that morning?

The other servants came in. Ah, dear! Polly can’t come, now look at that! Just as he was thinking this in she came. Such a flutter in her heart as she saw the bright uniform and the brighter face, bronzed with a foreign clime and looking as handsome as ever a face could look. O what a flutter too in Joe’s heart! But he was determined not to care for her. So he wouldn’t look, and that was a very good way; and he certainly would have kept his word if he could.

I think if I had to choose where and how I would be admired, if ever such a luxury could come to me, I would be Joe Wurzel under present circumstances. A young hero, handsome, tall, in the uniform of the

Hussars, with a loved one near and all the village girls fixing their eyes on me! That for once only, and my utmost ambition would be gratified. Life could have no greater pride for me. I don’t know whether the sermon made much impression that day, but of the two, I verily believe Joe made the most; and as they streamed out of the little church all the young faces of the congregation were turned to him: and everywhere when they got outside it was, “Halloa, Joe!” “Why, Joe, my lad, what cheer?” “Dang’d if here bean’t Joe!” and other exclamations of welcome and surprise. And then, how all the pinafored boys flocked round and gazed with wondering eyes at this conquering hero; chattering to one another and contradicting one another about what this part of his uniform was and what that part was, and so on; but all agreeing that Joe was about the finest sight that had come into Yokelton since ever it was a place.

And then the old clergyman sent for him and was as kind as ever he could be; and Joe was on the enchanted ground where the fairy Polly flitted about as noiselessly as a butterfly. Ah, and what’s this? Now let not the reader be over-anxious; for a few lines I must keep you, gentle one, in suspense; a great surprise must be duly prepared. If I told you at once what I saw, you would not think so much of it as if I kept you a little while in a state of wondering curiosity. What do you think happened in the Vicarage?

Now’s the moment to tell it in a fresh paragraph. Why in came the fairy with a little tray of cake and wine! Now pause on that before I say any more. What about their eyes? Did they swim? What about their hearts; did they flutter? Did Polly blush? Did Joe’s bronzed face shine? Ah, it all took place, and

much more than I could tell in a whole volume. The vicar did not perceive it, for luckily he was looking out of the window. It only took a moment to place the tray on the table, and the fairy disappeared. But that moment, not then considered as of so much importance, exciting as it was, stamped the whole lives of two beings, and who can tell whether or no such a moment leaves its impress on Eternity?

All good and all kind was the old vicar; and how attentively he listened with Mrs. Goodheart to the eye-witness of England’s great deeds! And then—no, he did not give Joe a claptrap maudlin sermon, but treated him as a man subject to human frailties, and, only hoped in all his career he would remember some of the things he had been taught at the Sunday School.

“Ay,” said Joe, “ay, sir, and the best lesson I ever larned, and what have done me most good, be the kindness I always had from you.”

So they parted, and a day or two after, strangely enough, just as Joe was walking along by the old Oak that is haunted, and which the owls and the ghosts occupy between them, who should come down the lane in the opposite direction but Polly Sweetlove! Where she came from was the greatest mystery in the world! And it was so extraordinary that Joe should meet her: and he said so, as soon as he could speak.

“Now look at that! Whoever would have thought of meeting anybody here?”

Polly hung down her head and blushed. Neither of them knew what to say for a long time; for Joe was not a spokesman to any extent. At last Polly Sweetlove broke silence and murmured in the softest voice, and I should think the very sweetest ever heard in this world:

“Are you going away soon, Joe?”

“Friday,” answered the young Hussar.

Ah me! This was Wednesday already; to-morrow would be Thursday, and the next day Friday! I did not hear this, but I give you my word it took place.

“Are you coming to see the Vicar again?” asked the sweet voice.

“No,” said Joe.

They both looked down at the gnarled roots of the old tree—the roots did stick out a long way, and I suppose attracted their attention—and then Polly just touched the big root with her tiny toe. And the point of that tiny toe touched Joe’s heart too, which seemed to have got into that root somehow, and sent a thrill as of an electric shock, only much pleasanter, right through his whole body, and even into the roots of his hair.

“When are you coming again?” whispered the sweet lips.

“Don’t know,” said the young soldier; “perhaps never.”

“But you’ll come and see—your mother?”

“O yes,” answered Joe, “I shall come and see mother; but what’s it matter to thee, lassie?”

The lassie blushed, and Joe thought it a good opportunity to take hold of her hand. I don’t know why, but he did; and he was greatly surprised that the hand did not run away.

“I think the Vicar likes you, Joe?”

“Do he?” and he kept drawing nearer and nearer, little by little, until his other hand went clean round Polly Sweetlove’s waist, and—well an owl flew out of the tree at that moment, and drew off my attention; but afterwards

I saw that they both kept looking at the root of the tree, and then Joe said;

“But you love th’ baker, Polly?”

“No,” whispered Polly; “no, no, never!”

“Now, look at that!” said Joe, recovering himself a little; “I always thought you liked the baker.”

“Never, Joe.”

“Well then, why didn’t you look at me?”

Polly blushed.

“Joe, they said you was so wild.”

“Now, look at that,” said Joe; “did you ever see me wild, Polly?”

“Never, Joe—I will say that.”

“No, and you can ask my mother or Mrs. Bumpkin, or the Vicar, or anybody else you like, Polly—.”

“I shall go and see your mother,” said Polly.

“Will you come to-morrow night?” asked Joe.

“If I can get away I will; but I must go now—good-bye—good-bye—good——”

“Are you in a hurry, Polly.”

“I must go, Joe—good—; but I will come to-morrow, as soon as dinner is over—good—good—good-bye.”

“And then——,” but the Old Oak kept his counsel. Here I awoke.

* * * * *

“Well,” cried my wife, “you have broken off abruptly.”

“One can’t help it,” quoth I, rubbing my eyes. “I cannot help waking any more than I can help going to sleep.”

“Well, this would be a very pretty little courtship if true.”

“Ah,” I said, “if I have described all that I saw in my dream, you may depend upon it it is true. But when I go to Southwood I will ask the Old Oak, for we are the greatest friends imaginable, and he tells me everything. He has known me ever since I was a child, and never sees me but he enters into conversation.”

“What about?”

“The past, present, and future—a very fruitful subject of conversation, I assure you.”

“Wide enough, certainly.”

“None too wide for a tree of his standing.”

“Ask him, dear, if Joe will marry this Polly Sweetlove.”

“He will not tell me that; he makes a special reservation in favour of lovers’ secrets. They would not confide their loves to his keeping so often as they do if he betrayed them. No, he’s a staunch old fellow in that respect, and the consequence is, that for centuries lovers have breathed their vows under his protecting branches.”

“I’m sorry for that—I mean I am sorry he will not tell you about this young couple, for I should like to know if they will marry. Indeed, you must find out somehow, for everyone who reads your book will be curious on this subject.”

“What, as to whether ploughman Joe will marry Polly the housemaid. Had he been the eldest son of the Squire now, and she the Vicar’s daughter, instead of the maid—”

“It would not have been a whit more interesting, for love is love, and human nature the same in high and

low degree. But, perhaps, this old tree doesn’t know anything about future events?”

“He knows from his long experience of the past what will happen if certain conditions are given; he knows, for instance, the secret whispers, and the silent tokens exchanged beneath his boughs, and from them he knows what will assuredly result if things take their ordinary course.”

“So does anyone, prophet or no prophet.”

“But his process of reasoning, based upon the experience of a thousand years, is unerring; he saw William the Conqueror, and listened to a council of war held under his branches; he knew what would happen if William’s projects were successful: whether they would be successful was not within his knowledge. He was intimately acquainted with Herne’s Oak at Windsor, and they frequently visited.”

“Visited! how was that possible?”

“Quite possible; trees visit one another just the same as human beings—they hold intercourse by means of the wind. For instance, when the wind blows from the north-east, Southwood Oak visits at Windsor Park, and when the wind is in the opposite direction a return visit is paid. There isn’t a tree of any position in England but the Old Oak of Southwood knows. He is in himself the History of England, only he is unlike all other histories, for he speaks the truth.”

“He must have witnessed many love scenes!”

“Thousands!”

“Tell me some?”

“Not now—besides, I must ask leave.”

“Does he ever tell you anything about yourself?”

“A great deal—it is our principal topic of conversation;

but he always begins it, lest my modesty should prevent any intercourse on the subject.”

“What has he said?”

“A great deal: he has inspired me with hope, even instilled into me some ambition: he has tried to impart to me an admiration of all that is true, and to awaken a detestation of all that is mean and pettifogging. I never look at him but I see the symbol of all that is noble, grand and brave: he is the emblem of stability, friendship and affection; a monument of courage, honesty, and fidelity; he is the type of manly independence and self-reliance. I am glad, therefore, that under his beautiful branches, and within his protecting presence, two young hearts have again met and pledged, as I believe they have, their troth, honestly resolving to battle together against the storms of life, rooted in stedfast love, and rejoicing in the sunshine of the Creator’s smiles!”

After these observations, which were received with marked approval, I again gave myself up to the soft influence of a dreamy repose.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

A consultation as to new lodgings.—Also a consultation with counsel.

It was a subject of grave discussion between the Bumpkins and Joe, as to where would be the best place for the plaintiff to lodge on his next visit to London. If he had moved in the upper ranks of life, in all probability he would have taken Mrs. Bumpkin to his town house: but being only a plain man and a farmer, it was necessary to decide upon the most convenient, and at the same time, inexpensive locality.

Mrs. Bumpkin, who, of course, knew all about her husband’s adventures, was strongly opposed to his returning to the Goose. Never had created thing lost so much in her estimation by mere association as this domestic bird. Joe was a fine soldier, no doubt, but it was the Goose that had taken him in.

Curiously enough, as they were discussing this important question, who should come in but honest Lawyer Prigg himself.

What a blessing that man seemed to be, go where he would! Why, he spread an air of hope and cheerfulness over this simple household the moment he entered it! But the greatest virtue he dispensed was resignation; he had a large stock of this on hand. He always preached

it: “resignation to the will of Providence;” resignation to him, Prigg!

So when he came in with his respectable head, professional collar, and virtuous necktie, Mr. and Mrs. Bumpkin could not choose but rise. Mr. Bumpkin meekly pulled his hair, and humbly bowed obeisance as to his benefactor. Mrs. Bumpkin curtseyed as to a superior power, whom she could not recognize as a benefactor. Joe stood up, and looked as if he couldn’t quite make out what Mr. Prigg was. He knew he worked the Law somehow, and “summut like as a man works a steam-threshing machine, but how or by what means, was a mystery unrevealed to the mind of the simple soldier.”

“Good morning! good morning!” said Mr. Prigg, after the manner of a patriarch conferring a blessing. “Well, Joe, so you are returned, are you? Come, now, let me shake hands with one of our brave heroes!”

What condescension! and his tone was the tone of a man reaching down from a giddy height to the world beneath him.

“So you were in the thick of the fight, were you—dear me! what a charge that was!” Ah, but, dear reader, you should see Prigg’s charges!

“I wur someur about, sir,” said Joe. “I dunnow where now though.”

“Quite so,” said Mr. Prigg, “it was a great victory; I’m told the enemy ran away directly they heard our troops were coming.”

“Now look at that,” said Joe; “what a lot of lies do get about sure-ly!”

“Dear me!” said Mr. Prigg; “but you beat them, did you not? we won the battle?”

“That’s right enough,” said Joe; “but if they’d run away we couldn’t a beat un—’tain’t much of a fight when there’s no enemy.”

“Haw, haw, haw!” laughed Bumpkin. “That be good, Mr. Prigg, that be good!”

“Very good, very good, indeed,” said Mr. Prigg; “I don’t wonder at your winning if you could make such sallies as that.”

And that was good for Mr. Prigg.

“And now,” said he, “to business—business, eh?”

“We be jist gwine to ’ave a nice piece o’ pork and greens, Mr. Prigg, would ee please to tak some,” said Mr. Bumpkin.

“Dear me!” answered Prigg; “how very strange, my favourite dish—if ever Mrs. Prigg is in doubt about—”

“It be wery plain,” said Bumpkin.

“The plainer the better, my dear sir; as I always say to my servants, if you—”

“I’m sure,” said Mrs. Bumpkin; “I be ’ardly fit to wait on a gennleman like you. I ain’t ’ad time this morning to change my gown and tidy up myself.”

“Really, my dear madam—don’t, now; I adjure you; make no apologies—it is not the dress—or the—or the —, anything in fact, that makes us what we are;—don’t, if you please.”

And here his profound sentiments died away again and were lost to the world; and the worthy man, not long after, was discussing his favourite dish with greedy relish.

“An when’ll this ’ere thing be on, Mr. Prigg, does thee think? It be a hell of a long time.”

“Tom! Tom!” exclaimed Mrs. Bumpkin. But Mr.

Prigg was too well bred and too much occupied with his pork and greens to hear the very wayward epithet of the Farmer Bumpkin.

“Quite so,” said the lawyer; “quite so, it is so difficult to tell when a case will come on. You’re in the list to-day and gone to-morrow; a man the other day was just worried as you have been; but mark this; at the trial, Mr. Bumpkin, the jury gave that man a verdict for a thousand pounds!”

“Look at that, Nancy,” exclaimed Mr. Bumpkin; “Will ’ee tak a little more pork, sir?”

“Thank you,” said Mr. Prigg, “it’s uncommonly good; some of your own feeding, I suppose?”

“Ay,” said Mr. Bumpkin.

“Were that a pig case, Mr. Prigg, where the man got the thousand pounds?” asked Mrs. Bumpkin.

“Let me see,” answered Prigg, “was it a pig case?” Here he put his finger to the side of his nose. “I really, at this moment, quite forget whether it was or was not a pig case. I’ll trouble you, Mrs. Bumpkin, for a little more greens, if you please.”

“Now, I wur saying,” said Bumpkin, “jist as thee comed in, where be I to lodge when I gooes to Lunnon agin?”

“Ah, now, quite so—yes; and you must go in a day or two. I expect we shall be on shortly. Now, let me see, you don’t like ‘The Goose’? A nice respectable hostelry, too!”

“I wunt ’ave un goo there, Mr. Prigg,” said Mrs. Bumpkin.

“Quite so—quite so. Now what I was thinking was, suppose you took lodgings at some nice suburban place, say—”

“What pleace, sir?” inquired Bumpkin.

“Let us say Camden Town, for instance—nice healthy neighbourhood and remarkably quiet. You could come every morning by ’bus, or if you preferred it, by rail; and if by rail, you could take a season ticket, which would be much cheaper; a six months’ ticket, again, being cheaper than a three months’ ticket.”

“In the name o’ Heaven, sir,” exclaimed Mrs. Bumpkin, “be this ’ere thing gwine on for ever?”

Mr. Prigg smiled benignly, as much as to say, “You ladies are so impatient, so innocent of the business of life.”

“It seems to me, Mr. Prigg, one need live to be as old as thic there Mackthusaler to bring a law-suit now-a-days.”

“Now, look at that!” broke in Joe, “it’s made master look forty year older aready.”

“So it have, Joe,” rejoined the mistress; “I wish it could be chucked up altogether.”

Mr. Prigg benignantly shook his head.

“D’ye think I be gwine to give in to thic sniggerin’ Snooks feller?” asked Mr. Bumpkin. “Not if I knows it. Why thic feller goo sniggerin’ along th’ street as though he’d won; and he ’ave told lots o’ people how he’ll laugh I out o’ Coourt—his counsel be gwine to laugh I out o’ Coourt becors I be a country farmer.”

“Right can’t be laughed out of Court, sir,” said the excellent Prigg, solemnly.

“Noa, noa, right bean’t asheamed, goo where ur wool. Upright and down-straight wur allays my motto. I be a plain man, but I allays tried to act straight-forrerd, and bean’t asheamed o’ no man.”

This speech was a complete success: it was unanswerable.

It fixed the lodgings at Camden Town. It stopped Mrs. Bumpkin’s impatience; diminished her apprehensions; and apparently, lulled her misgivings. She was a gentle, hard-working, loving wife.

And so all was settled. It was the month of April, and it was confidently expected that by the end of July all would be comfortably finished in time to get in the harvest. The crops looked well; the meadows and clover-field promised a fair crop, and the wheat and barley never looked better.

The following week found Mr. Bumpkin in his new lodgings at Camden Town; and I verily believe, as Mr. Prigg very sagaciously observed, if it had not been for the Judges going circuit, Bumpkin v. Snooks would have been in the paper six weeks earlier than it really was. But even lawsuits must come on at last, be they never so tardy: and one day, in bustling haste, Mr. Prigg’s young man informed Mr. Bumpkin that a consultation was actually fixed at his leader’s chambers, Garden Court, Temple, at seven o’clock punctually the next day.

Bumpkin was delighted: he was to be present at the express wish of the leading counsel. So to Garden Court he went at seven, with Mr. Prigg; and there sure enough was Mr. Dynamite, his junior counsel. Mr. Catapult, Q.C., had not yet arrived. So while they waited, Mr. Bumpkin had an opportunity of looking about him; never in his life had he seen so many books. There they were all over the walls; shelves upon shelves. The chambers seemed built with books, and Mr. Bumpkin raised his eyes with awe to the ceiling, expecting to see books there.

“What be all these ’ere books, sir?” he whispered to Prigg.

“These are law books,” answered the intelligent Prigg; “but these are only a few.”

“Must be a good dale o’ law,” said Bumpkin.

“A good deal too much,” observed Mr. Dynamite, with a smile; “if we were to burn nine-tenths of the law books we should have better law, eh, Mr. Prigg?”

Mr. Prigg never contradicted counsel; and if Mr. Dynamite had said it’s a great pity that our libraries have so few authorities, Prigg would have made the same answer, “I quite agree, quite so! quite so!”

“Mr. Cats-’is-name don’t seem to come,” observed Bumpkin, after an hour and a half had passed.

“Mr. Catapult, Mr. Catapult,” said Mr. Prigg; “no, he doesn’t seem to come.” And then he rang for the clerk, and the clerk came.

“Do you think Mr. Catapult will return to-night?” inquired Prigg.

“I don’t think he will,” said the clerk, looking at his watch; “I am afraid not.”

“Beant much good to stop then,” said Mr. Bumpkin.

“I fear not,” observed the clerk, “he has so many engagements. Shall we fix another consultation, Mr. Prigg?”

“If you please,” said that gentleman.

“Say half-past seven to-morrow, then. The case, I find, is not in the paper to-morrow.”

“Quite so, quite so,” returned Prigg, “half-past seven to-morrow.”

And thus the consultation was at an end and the parties went their several ways.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

Mr. Bumpkin receives compliments from distinguished persons.

One evening as Mr. Bumpkin was sitting in his little parlour, ruminating, or as he termed it, “rummaging” in his mind over many things, and especially wondering when the trial would come on, Horatio, in breathless impatience, entered the room. His excited and cheerful appearance indicated that something of an unusually pleasant nature had occurred. A strong intimacy had long been established between this boy and Mr. Bumpkin, who regarded Horatio as a kind of legal prodigy; his very hopes seemed centered in and inspired by this lad. He seemed to be the guiding spirit and the flywheel of the whole proceedings. Was Snooks to be pulverized? it must be under Horatio’s heel!

This legal stripling brought almost as much comfort as Mr. Prigg himself; and it was quite a pleasure to hear the familiar terms in which he spoke of the bigwigs of the profession. He would say of McCannister, the Queen’s Counsel, “I like Mac’s style of putting a question, it’s so soft like—it goes down like a Pick-me-up.” Then he would allude to Mr. Heavytop, Q.C., as Jack; to Mr. Bigpot as old Kettledrum; to Mr. Swagger, Q.C., as Pat; to B. C. Windbag, Q.C., M.P., as B. C.—all which indicated to the mind of Mr. Bumpkin the particularly

intimate terms upon which Horatio was with these celebrities. Nor did his intimacy cease there: instead of speaking of the highest legal official of the land in terms of respectful deference, as “my Lord High Chancellor,” or “my Lord Allworthy,”—he would say, in the most indifferent manner “Old Allworthy” this, and “Old Allworthy,” that; sometimes even, he ventured to call some of Her Majesty’s Judges by nick-names; an example which, I trust, will not be followed by the Horatios of the future. But I believe the pale boy, like his great namesake, was fearless. It was a comfort to hear him denounce the law’s delay, and the terrible “cumbersomeness” of legal proceedings: not that he did it in soothing language or in happy phraseology: it was rather in a manner that led Mr. Bumpkin to believe the young champion was standing up for his particular rights; as if he had said to the authorities, whoever they might be, “Look here! I’ll have no more of this: it’s a shame and disgrace to this country that a simple dispute between a couple of neighbours can’t be tried without months of quarrelling in Judges’ Chambers and elsewhere; if you don’t try this case before long I’ll see what can be done.” Then there was further consolation in the fact that Horatio declared that, in his opinion, Tommy Catpup, Q.C., would knock Snooks into a cocked hat, and that Snooks already looked very down in the mouth.

On the evening at which I have arrived in my dream, when the pale boy came in, Mr. Bumpkin inquired what was the matter: was the case settled? Had Snooks paid the damages? Nothing of the kind. Horatio’s visit was of a common-place nature. He had simply come to inform Mr. Bumpkin that the Archbishop of

Canterbury had kindly sent him a couple of tickets for the reserved seats at Canterbury Hall.

Mr. Bumpkin was disappointed. He cared nothing for Archbishops. He was in hopes it had been something better.

“I wunt goo,” said he.

“We ought to go, I think,” said Horatio; “it was very kind of old Archy to send em, and he wouldn’t like it if we didn’t go: besides, he and the Rolls are great chums.”

“Rolls!” said Bumpkin.

“The Master of the Rolls. I shouldn’t wonder if he aint got Archy to send em—don’t you be a fool. And another thing, Paganani’s going to play the farmyard on the fiddle to-night. Gemminey, ain’t that good! You hear the pigs squeak, and the bull roar, and the old cock crow, and the sow grunt, and the horse kick—”

“How the devil can thee hear a horse kick, unless he kicks zummat?”

“Well, he does,” said Horatio; “that’s just what he does do. Let’s go, I am sure you will like it.”

“It beant one o’ these ere playhouse pleaces, be it?”

“Lor bless you,” said Horatio, “there’s pews just the same as if you was in Church: and the singing’s beautiful.”

“No sarmon, I s’pooase.”

“Not on week nights, but I’ll tell you what there is instead: a chap climbs up to the top of a high pole and stands on his head for ten minutes.”

Mr. Bumpkin, although a man who never went out of an evening, could not resist the persuasions of his pale young friend. He had never been to any place of amusement, except the Old Bailey, since he had been in London;

although he had promised himself a treat to the Cattle Show, provided that came on, which was very likely, as it only wanted five months to it, before his case.

So they got on the top of a ’Bus and proceeded on their way to Lambeth Palace; for the Canterbury Hall, as everyone knows, is in that ancient pile. And truly, when they arrived everything was astonishingly beautiful and pleasing. Mr. Bumpkin was taken through the Picture Gallery, which he enjoyed, although he would have liked to see one or two like the Squire had got in his Hall, such as “Clinker,” the prize bull; and “Father Tommy,” the celebrated ram. But the Archbishop probably had never taken a prize: not much of a breeder maybe.

Now they entered the Hall amid strains of sweet, soft, enchanting music. Never before had the soul of Bumpkin been so enthralled: it was as if the region of fairyland had suddenly burst upon his astonished view. In presence of all this beauty, and this delicious cadence of sweet sounds, what a common-place thing Bumpkin v. Snooks seemed!

Theirs was a very nice pew, commanding a full view of the stage and all the angelic looking beings. And evidently our friends were considered fashionable people, for many of the audience looked round at them as they entered. So awed was Mr. Bumpkin when he first sat down, that he wondered whether he ought to look into his hat as the Squire did in Church; but, resolving to be guided by Horatio, and seeing that the pale youth did not even take his billycock off, but spread his elbows out on the front ledge and clapped his hands with terrific vehemence, and shouted “Anchore” as loudly as he

could, Mr. Bumpkin, in imitation, clapped his hands and said “Hooroar!”

It was glorious. The waiter came and exchanged winks with the pale boy, and brought some soda-and-brandy and a cigar. Mr. Bumpkin wondered more and more. It was the strangest place he had ever heard of. It seemed so strange to have smoking and drinking. But then he knew there were things occurring every day that the cleverest men could not account for: not even Mr. Slater, the schoolmaster at Yokelton, could account for them.

Just in front of the two friends was another pew, a very nice one that was, and for some little time it was unoccupied. Presently with a great rustling of silks and a great smell of Jockey Club, and preceded by one of the servants of the establishment, entered two beautiful and fashionably dressed ladies of extremely quiet (except the Jockey Club) and retiring demeanour. They could not but attract Mr. Bumpkin’s attention: they so reminded him of the Squire’s daughters, only they dressed much better. How he would like Nancy to see them: she was very fond of beautiful gowns, was Nancy.

“I wonder who they be?” whispered Bumpkin.

“I don’t know,” answered Horatio; “I’ll ask as soon as I get a chance. It’s the Archbishop’s pew; I believe they are his daughters.”

“Wouldn’t ur ha come wi em?” said Bumpkin.

“He generally does, but I suppose he can’t get away to-night.”

At this moment a waiter, or as Bumpkin called him a pew opener, was passing, and Horatio whispered something in his ear, his companion looking at him the while from the corner of his eyes.

“The one on the right,” whispered the waiter, untwisting the wire of a bottle of sodawater, “is the Countess Squeezem, and the other is Lady Flora, her sister.”

Bumpkin nodded his head as much as to say, “Just see that: high life, that, if you like!”

And really the Countess and Lady Flora were as quiet and unassuming as if they had been the commonest bred people in the world.

Now came forward on the stage a sweet young lady dressed in yellow satin, with lovely red roses all down the front and one on the left shoulder, greeted by a thunder of applause. Her voice was thrilling: now it was at the back of the stage; now it was just behind your ear; now in the ceiling. You didn’t know where to have it. After she had done, Horatio said:

“What do you think of Nilsson?”

“Wery good! wery good!”

“Hallo,” says Horatio, “here’s Sims Reeves. Bravo Sims! bravo Reeves!”

“I’ve eered tell o’ he,” says Bumpkin; “he be wery young, bean’t he?”

“O,” says Horatio, “they paint up so; but ain’t he got a tenor—O gemminey crikery!”

“A tenner?” says Bumpkin, “what’s thee mean, ten pun a week?”

“O my eye!” says the youth, “he gets more than that.”

“It be good wages.”

“Yes, but it’s nothing to what some of em get,” says Horatio; “why if a man can play the fool well he can get as much as the Prime Minister.”

“Ah, and thic Prime Minister can play the fool well

at times; it seem to me—they tooked the dooty of whate and made un too chape.”

“Who’s this?” asks Horatio of the waiter.

“Patti,” says the waiter, “at the express wish of the Queen.”

Bumpkin nods again, as though there was no end to the grandeur of the company.

Then comes another no less celebrated, if Horatio was correct.

“Hullo,” says he, “here’s Trebelli!”

Now this was too much for the absorbing powers of even a Bumpkin. Horatio had carried it too far. Not that his friend had ever heard of the great vocalist, but if you are inclined for fun pray use names that will go down. Mr. Bumpkin looked hard at Horatio’s face, on which was just the faintest trace of a smile. And then he said:

“What a name, Bellie! danged if I doan’t think thee be stickin it into I,” and then he laughed and repeated, “thee be stickin it into I.”

“Now for Pagannini!” says Horatio; “now you’ll hear something. By Jove, he’ll show you!”

“Why I’ve eerd tell o’ thic Piganiny when I were a boy,” says Bumpkin, “used to play on one leg.”

“That’s the man,” says Horatio.

“But this ere man got two legs, how can he be Piganiny?”

“I don’t know anything about that,” says Horatio; “what’s it matter how many legs he’s got, just listen to that!”

“Why danged if that bean’t as much like thic Cochin Chiner cock o’ mine as ever I eered in my life.”

“Told you so,” says Horatio; “but keep quiet, you’ll hear something presently.”

And sure enough he did: pig in the straw; sow in the stye; bull in the meadow; sheep in the fold; everything was perfect.

Never before had Mr. Bumpkin been so overpowered. He never before knew what music was. Truly Piganiny was a deserving man, and a clever one too. Mr. Bumpkin’s enthusiasm had carried him thus far, when to his great satisfaction the Lady Flora looked round. It was very nice of her, because it was as if she wished to know if Mr. Bumpkin and his friend felt the same rapturous delight as she and her sister. What a nice face Lady Flora’s was! It wasn’t unlike the Squire’s eldest daughter’s. Between that, perhaps, and the Vicar’s youngest daughter’s.

Then the Countess slightly turned round, her face wearing a smile of great complaisance, and Mr. Bumpkin could have seen at once that she was a person of great distinction even if he had not been informed of her rank. Well, taken for all in all, it was a night he would never forget, and his only feeling of regret was that Mrs. Bumpkin was not present to share his pleasure—the roar of that bull would have just pleased her; it was so like Sampson.

And now the scene shifters were preparing for another performance, and were adjusting ropes and fixing poles, and what not, when, as Mr. Bumpkin was lost in profound meditation, up rose from her seat the beautiful Lady Flora, and turning round with a bewitching face, and assuming an air of inexpressible simplicity, she exclaimed to Mr. Bumpkin in the sweetest of voices: “O you duck!”

Mr. Bumpkin started as if a cannon had exploded in his face instead of a beautiful young lady. He blushed to the deepest crimson, and then the lady Flora poured into him a volley of her sweetiest prettiest laughter. Attacked thus so suddenly and so effectively, what could he do? He felt there must be some mistake, and that he ought to apologize. But the Lady Flora gave him no time; leaning forward, she held out her hand—

“Beg pardon, m’lady—thic—I—I.”

Then the Countess rose and smiled upon Mr. Bumpkin, and said she hoped he wouldn’t mind; her sister was of such a playful disposition.

The playful one here just touched Mr. Bumpkin under the chin with her forefinger, and again said he was a “perfect duck!”

“What be the manin’ o’ this?” said he. “I be off; come on, sir. This be quite enough for I.”

“Don’t go like that,” said Lady Flora. “Oh, dear, dear, what a cruel man!”

“Not a glass of wine,” said the Countess.

“Not one, Mr. Bumpkin!” urged Lady Flora.

Mr. Bumpkin had risen, and was angry: he was startled at his name being known: he looked to Horatio, hoping some explanation might come; but the pale youth had his back to him, and was preparing to leave the Hall. There were many curious eyes looking at them, and there was much laughter. Mr. Bumpkin’s appearance would alone have been sufficient to cause this: but his mind was to be farther enlightened as to the meaning of this extraordinary scene; and it happened in this wise. As he was proceeding between the rows of people, followed closely by those illustrious members of the aristocracy, the Countess and Lady

Flora; while the waiters grinned and the people laughed, his eye caught sight of an object away over the front seat, which formed a right angle with the one he had been occupying; it was an object unattractive in itself but which, under the circumstances, fixed and riveted his attention; that object was Snooks, in the corner of the third row, with his sawpit mouth on the broadest grin.

CHAPTER XXXV.

The trial.

Who shall describe the feelings of joy which animated the breast of Mr. Bumpkin when at last, with the suddenness of lightning, Mr. Prigg’s clerk flashed into his little parlour the intelligence, “Case in paper; be at Court by ten o’clock; Bail Court.” Such was the telegram which Mr. Bumpkin got his landlady to read on that pleasant evening towards the end of July. The far-seeing Prigg was right. It would come on about the end of July. That is what he had predicted. But it would not have been safe for Mr. Bumpkin to be away from town for a single day. It might have been in the paper at any moment; and here it was, just as he was beginning to get tired of “Camden Town and the whole thing.”

Mr. Bumpkin put on a clean shirt, with a good stiff high collar, which he had reserved from Mrs. Bumpkin’s wash; for, in his opinion, there was no stiffening in the London starch, and no getting up like Mrs. Bumpkin’s. He put on his best neckerchief, and a bran new waistcoat which he had bought for Sundays six years ago at the market town. He put on his drab coat with the long tails, which he had worn on the day of his marriage, and had kept for his best ever since; he put on his velvety

looking corduroy trowsers and his best lace-up watertight boots; and then, after a good breakfast, put on his white beaver hat, took his ash-stick, and got into a Westminster ‘Bus. What a beautiful morning it was! Just the morning for a law suit! Down he got at Palace Yard, walked towards the spacious door of the old hall, entered its shadowy precincts, and then, in my dream, I lost sight of him as he mingled with the crowd. But I saw some few moments after in the Bail Court enter, amidst profound silence and with impressive dignity, Mr. Justice Stedfast. Let me here inform the reader that if by any chance, say by settlement, postponement or otherwise, the first case in the list “goes off,” as it is called (from its bearing a striking resemblance to the unexpected going off of a gun), and the parties in the next case, taken by surprise, are not there at the moment, that case goes off by being struck out; and very often the next and the next, and so on to the end of the list. Parties therefore should be ready, so as to prevent a waste of time. The time of the Court is not to be wasted by parties not being ready. Now, strangely enough, this is what happened in the case of Bumpkin v. Snooks. Being number eight, no one thought it would be reached; and the leading counsel, and also the junior counsel being engaged elsewhere; and Mr. Prigg and Mr. Prigg’s clerk not having arrived; and Mr. Bumpkin not knowing his way; at five minutes after the sitting of the Court, so expeditious are our legal proceedings, the celebrated case was actually reached, and this is what took place:

“Are the parties ready?” inquired his Lordship.

Mr. Ricochet, Q.C., who appeared with Mr. Weasel for the defendant, said he was ready for the defendant.

“Call the plaintiff!” said a voice.

Loud cries for Bumpkin, who was just pushing his way down the passage outside.

“Does anyone answer?” asked his lordship; “do you know if any gentleman is instructed, Mr. Ricochet?”

“I am not aware, my lud.”

“Stand up and be sworn, gentlemen,” says the associate. Up stood the jury; and in less than half a minute they found a verdict for the defendant, counterclaim being abandoned, just as Mr. Bumpkin had pushed into Court. And judgment is given.

The business having been thus got through, the Court rose and went away. And then came in both counsel and Mr. Prigg and Horatio; and great complaints were made of everybody except the Judge, who couldn’t help it.

But our administration of justice is not so inelastic that it cannot adapt itself to a set of circumstances such as these. It was only to make a few more affidavits, and to appear before his lordship by counsel, and state the facts in a calm and respectful manner, to obtain the necessary rectification of the matter. All was explained and all forgiven. Bumpkin v. Snooks was to be restored to the paper upon payment of the costs of the day—a trifling matter, amounting only to about eighteen pounds seventeen shillings. But a severe admonition from the Bench accompanied this act of grace: “The Court cannot be kept waiting,” said his lordship; “and it is necessary that all suitors should know that if they are not here when their cases are called on they will be struck out, or the party to the cause who is here will be entitled to a verdict, if the defendant; or to try his case in the other’s absence, if he be the plaintiff. It was idle to suppose

that parties could not be there in time: it was their business to be there.”

At this every junior barrister nodded approvingly, and the usher called silence.

Of course, the cause could not be in the paper again for some time: they must suit Mr. Ricochet’s convenience now: and accordingly another period of waiting had to be endured. Mr. Bumpkin was almost distracted, but his peace of mind was restored by the worthy Prigg, who persuaded him that a most laudable piece of good fortune had been brought about by his intervention; and that was the preventing the wily Snooks from keeping the verdict he had snatched.

What a small thing will sometimes comfort us!

Mr. Bumpkin was, indeed, a lucky man; for if his case had not been in the paper when at last it was, it would have “gone over the Long Vacation.”

At length I saw Mr. Justice Pangloss, the eminent Chancery Judge, take his seat in the Bail Court. He was an immense case lawyer. He knew cases that had been tried in the reigns of the Edwards and Henries. A pig case could not, therefore, come amiss.

A case lawyer is like Moses and Sons; he can fit anybody, from Chang down to a midget. But there is sometimes an inconvenience in trying to fit an old precedent on to new circumstances: and I am not unfrequently reminded of the boy whose corduroy trousers were of the exact length, and looked tolerable in front; but if you went round they stuck out a good deal on the other side. He might grow to them, no doubt, but it is a clumsy mode of tailoring after all.

Now Mr. Bumpkin, of course, could not be sure that his case was “coming on.” All he knew was, that he

must avoid Snooks’ snatching another verdict. He had been to great expense, and a commission had actually been issued to take Joe’s evidence while his regiment was detained at Malta. Mr. Prigg had taken the plaintiff into a crowd, and there had left him early in the morning.

Mr. Bumpkin’s appearance even in the densest crowd was attractive, to say the least: and many and various were the observations from time to time made by the vulgar roughs around as to his personal appearance. His shirtcollar was greatly praised, so was the beauty of his waistcoat: while I heard one gentleman make an enquiry which showed he was desirous of ascertaining what was the name of the distinguished firm which had the honour of supplying him with hats. One said it was Heath, he could tell by the brim; another that it was Cole, he went by the polish; and the particular curl of the brim, which no other hatter had ever succeeded in producing. While another gentleman with one eye and half a nose protested that it was one of Lincoln and Bennett’s patent dynamite resisters on an entirely new principle.

The subject of all these remarks listened as one in doubt as to whether they were levelled at him or in any other direction. He glanced at the many eyes turned upon him, and heard the laughter that succeeded every new witticism. His uncertainty as to whether he was “the party eamed at,” heightened the amusement of the wits.

Now came a bolder and less mistakable allusion to his personal appearance:

“I should like Gladstone to see that, Jem; talk about

a collar! the Grand Old Man’s nowhere—he’d better take to turndowns after this.”

“Yes,” replied the gentleman addressed; “I think this would settle him—is he liberal or tory, I wonder?”

“Tory, you’re sure—wotes for the Squoire, I’ll warrant. A small loaf and a big jail.”

Mr. Bumpkin turned his eyes first towards one speaker and then towards another without moving his head, as he thought:

“Danged if I doan’t bleeve thee means I.” But he wisely said nothing.

“I say,” said another, “I wonder if pigeon’s milk is good for the complexion.”

“No,” said Jem, “it makes your nose red, and makes the hair sprout out of the top of it.”

Here was a laugh all round, which made the Usher call out silence; and the Judge said he would have the Court cleared if order was not preserved. Then there was a loud shouting all over the Court for “Thomas Bumpkin!”

“Here I be!” said Bumpkin, amid more laughter—and especially of the wits around him. Then a great bustling and hustling, and pushing and struggling took place.

“Danged if that beant my case,” said Mr. Bumpkin; “but it ain’t my counsellor.”

“Make way for the plaintiff,” shouted the Usher; “stand on one side—don’t crowd up this passage. This way, sir, make haste; the Court’s waiting for you, why do you keep the Court waiting in this way?”

“I was just going to strike your case out,” said the Judge, “the public time can’t be wasted in this way.”

Bumpkin scrambled along through the crowd, and was

hustled into the witness-box. The Judge put up his eye-glass, and looked at the plaintiff as though he was hardly fit to bring an action in a Superior Court. Up went the book into his hand. “Take the book in your right hand. Kiss the book; now attend and speak up—speak up so that those gentlemen may hear.”

“Why weren’t you here before?” asked the Judge.

“I wur, my lord?”

“Didn’t you hear your learned counsel opening your case?”

“I didn’t know it wur my case,” said Bumpkin, amid roars of laughter.

“I don’t wonder at that,” said Mr. Ricochet, looking at the jury.

“Now then,” said the Judge.

“And now, then,” said Mr. Silverspoon; for neither of his own counsel was able to be present.

“You are a farmer, I believe?”

“I be.”

“On the 29th of May, 18--; did the defendant come to your farm?”

“Ur did.”

“Did he buy a pig?”

“Ur did not; but ur said he’d be d---d if ur wouldn’t ’ave un.”

“And did he come and take it away?”

“Ur did; pulled un slick out of the sty; and when I tried to stop un in the Lane, took un by main force?”

Mr. Silverspoon sat down.

“What was the age of this pig, Mr. Bumpkin,” enquired the Judge.

“He wur ten weeks old, your lord.”

“Isn’t there a calf case, Mr. Ricochet, very similar to this?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I think,” said Mr. Justice Pangloss, “it was tried in the reign of James the First.”

Mr. Ricochet, who knew nothing of the calf case, except what his Lordship had told him, said he believed it was.

“If this was anything,” continued Mr. Ricochet, “upon the plaintiff’s own showing it was a felony, and the plaintiff should have prosecuted the defendant criminally before having recourse to his civil remedy; that is laid down in the sheep case reported in Walker’s Trumpery Cases.”

“What volume of the Trumpery Cases is that, Mr. Ricochet?”

“Six hundred and fifty, my lud.”

His Lordship writes it down. “Page?” says his lordship.

“Nineteen hundred and ninety-five, my lud; about the middle of the book.”

Judge calls to the Usher to bring the six hundred and fiftieth volume of Walker’s Trumpery Cases.

“But there’s a case before that,” said his lordship. “There’s a case, if I recollect rightly, about the time of Julius Cæsar—the donkey case.”

“It’s on all fours with this,” said Mr. Ricochet.

“What do you say, Mr. Silverspoon?”

Then Mr. Silverspoon proceeded to show that none of those cases was on all fours with the present case; and a long and interesting argument followed between the Bench and the Bar. And it was said by those who were most competent to judge, that Mr. Silverspoon quite

distinguished himself for the wonderful erudition he displayed in his knowledge of the donkey case, and several other cases of four-footed beasts that were called to his attention by Mr. Justice Pangloss. A perfect menagerie was “adduced.” Mr. Bumpkin meanwhile wondering where he was, and what on earth they had all got to do with the plain fact of Snooks taking his pig without paying for it.

At length, after four hours had been consumed in these learned disquisitions, Mr. Justice Pangloss, reviewing the judgments of the various eminent lawyers who had presided over the respective cases in the several reigns, and after quoting many observations of those eminent jurists, said that in order to save time he would hold, for the purposes of to-day, that Mr. Bumpkin was entitled to bring his action: but, of course, he would reserve the point; he was by no means clear; he considered himself bound by authority; and as the point was extremely important, and left undecided after no less than twelve hundred years of argument on the one side and the other, he thought it ought to be solemnly settled. An unsettled state of the law was a very bad thing in his lordship’s opinion; especially in these modern times, when it appeared to him that the public were clamouring for further reform, and a still further simplification of legal procedure.

This suited Mr. Ricochet exactly; he could not be said now to have lost his case, even if the jury should find against him. But he had yet to cut up Bumpkin in cross-examination. The old trial was brought up against the plaintiff; and every thing that could tend to discredit him was asked. Mr. Ricochet, indeed, seemed to think that the art of cross-examination consisted

in bullying a witness, and asking all sorts of questions tending to cast reflections upon his character. He was especially great in insinuating perjury; knowing that that is always open to a counsel who has no other defence.

“Will you swear that?” was asked at almost every answer; sometimes prefaced by the warning, “Be careful, sir—be careful.” If he could get hold of anything against a witness’s character, be it ever so small, and at ever so remote a distance in the man’s life, he brought it out; and being a Queen’s Counsel he did not always receive the reproofs that would have crushed a stuff gownsman into respectable behaviour.

“Were you charged with assaulting a female in the public streets, sir?”

“No, I worn’t.”

“Be careful, sir—she may be in Court.”

“Let her come forward then,” said the courageous Silverspoon, who was by no means wanting in tact.

“Will you be quiet, sir,” retorted Ricochet. “Now Mr. Bumpkin, or whatever your name is, will you swear she did not accuse you of assaulting her?”

“She coomed oop, and it’s my belief she wur in the robbery.”

“Bravo Bumpkin!” said one of the men who had chaffed him. And the jury looked at one another in a manner that showed approval.

“Will you swear, sir, you have never been in trouble?”

“I donnow what thee means.”

“Be careful, sir; you know what I mean perfectly well.”

Then Locust whispers to him, and he says:

“O, you frequent Music Halls, don’t you?”

“Donnow what thee means,” says Bumpkin.

“O, you don’t, don’t you; will you swear that?”

“I wool.”

“Be careful, sir. Were you at the Canterbury Hall with two women, who passed as the Countess and Lady Flora?”

“It be a lie!”

And thus every form of torture was ruthlessly employed, till Mr. Bumpkin broke down under it, and cried like a child in the witness-box. This awakened sympathy for him. There had been much humour and much laughter; and Mr. Ricochet having no knowledge of human nature, was not aware how closely allied are laughter and tears; that in proportion as the jury had laughed at the expense of Mr. Bumpkin they would sympathize with his unhappy position.

“I’ve worked hard,” said he, “for sixty year, and let any man come forrard and say I’ve wronged man, ooman, or child!”

That was a point for Bumpkin. Every one said, “Poor old man!” and even his Lordship, who was supposed to have no feeling, was quite sympathetic. Only Mr. Ricochet was obtuse. He had no heart, and very little skill, or he would have managed his case more adroitly. “Badgering” is not much use if you have no better mode of winning your case.

“Stand down, Mr. Bumpkin,” said his counsel, as Mr. Ricochet resumed his seat amid the suppressed hisses of the gallery.

“Joseph Wurzel,” said Mr. Silverspoon.

Joe appeared in the uniform of the Hussars. And he wore a medal too. Mr. Ricochet had no sympathy

with heroes any more than he had with men of letters, artists, or any other class of talent. He was a dry, uncompromising, blunt, unfeeling lawyer, looking at justice as a thimblerig looks at his pea; lift which thimble you may, he will take care the pea shall not be found if he can help it. He smiled a grim, inhuman smile at Bumpkin’s tears, and muttered that he was an “unmanly milksop.”

Joe gave his evidence briefly and without hesitation. Everyone could see he was speaking the truth; everybody but Mr. Ricochet, who commenced his cross-examination by telling him to be careful, and that he was upon his oath.

“Be careful, sir;” he repeated.

Joe looked.

“You are on your oath, sir.” Joe faced him.

“You deserted your master, did you?”

“No,” said Joe; “I aint no deserter?”

“But you enlisted.”

“I don’t know as that’s desertion,” said Joe; “and I’m here to speak for him now; and I give my evidence at Malta, too.”

“Do you swear that, sir?” enquired Mr. Ricochet. “Were you not with your master when the young woman accused him of assaulting her?”

“I was not.”

“Why did you enlist, then?” enquired Mr. Ricochet.

“Cause I choose to,” said Joe.

“Now, sir, upon your oath; I ask you, did you not enlist because of this charge?”

“No; I never heard on it till arter I was listed.”

“When did you hear of it?”

“At the trial at the Old Bailey.”

“O,” said the learned Q.C.; “wait a minute, you were there, were you? Were you there as a witness?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I warnt.”

“Will you swear that?” asked Ricochet, amid roars of laughter.

“What were you there for?”

“To hear the trial!”

“And you were not called?”

“No.”

“And do you mean on your oath, sir, to say that you had enlisted at that time.”

“Now look at that,” said Joe; “the Sergeant there enlisted me, and he knows.”

“I suppose you had seen your master’s watch many times?”

“I’d seen it,” said Joe.

“And did not give evidence!”

“No; I warnt called, and know’d nothing about it.”

“You’ve been paid for coming here, I suppose?”

“Not a farden, and wouldn’t take un; he bin a good maister to me as ever lived.”

“And you left him. Now then, sir, be careful; do you swear you heard Bumpkin say Snooks should not have the pig?”

“I do.”

“Have you been speaking to anyone about this case before to-day?”

Joe thought a bit.

“Be careful, sir, I warn you,” says Ricochet.

“Yes,” said Joe; “I have.”

“I thought so. When? To whom?”

And here an air of triumph lit up the features of Mr. Ricochet.

“Afore I comed here.”

“When! let’s have it?”

“Outside the Court.”

“To Bumpkin?”

“No; to that there Locust; he axed un—”

“Never mind what he axed you;” said Ricochet, whose idea of humour consisted in the repetition of an illiterate observation; and he sat down—as well he might—after such an exhibition of the art of advocacy.

But on re-examination, it turned out that Mr. Locust had put several questions to Joe with a view of securing his evidence himself at a reasonable remuneration, and of contradicting Mr. Bumpkin.

This caused the jury to look at one another with grave faces and shake their heads.

Mr. Ricochet began and continued his speech in the same common-place style as his cross-examination; abusing everyone on the other side, especially that respectable solicitor, Mr. Prigg; and endeavouring to undo his own bad performance with the witness by a worse speech to the jury. What he was going to show, and what he was going to prove, was wonderful; everybody who had been called was guilty of perjury; everybody he was going to call would be a paragon of all the virtues. He expatiated upon the great common sense of the jury (as though they were fools), relied on their sound judgment and denounced the conduct of Mr. Bumpkin in the witness-box as a piece of artful acting, intended to appeal to the weakness of the jury. But all was useless. Snooks

made a sorry figure in the box. He was too emphatic, too positive, too abusive. Mr. Ricochet could not get over his own cross-examination. The ridiculous counterclaim with its pettifogging innuendoes vanished before that common sense of the jury to which Mr. Ricochet so dryly appealed. The edifice erected by the modern pleader’s subtle craftiness was unsubstantial as the icy patterns on the window-pane, which a single breath can dissipate. And yet these ingenious contrivances were sufficient to give an unimportant case an appearance of substantiality which it otherwise would not have possessed.

The jury, after a most elaborate charge from Mr. Justice Pangloss, who went through the cases of the last 900 years in the most careful manner, returned a verdict for the plaintiff with twenty-five pounds damages. The learned Judge did not give judgment, inasmuch as there were points of law to be argued. Mr. Bumpkin, although he had won his case so far as the verdict was concerned, did not look by any means triumphant. He had undergone so much anxiety and misery, that he felt more like a man who had escaped a great danger than one who had accomplished a great achievement.

Snooks’ mouth, during the badgering of the witnesses, which was intended for cross-examination was quite a study for an artist or a physiologist. When he thought a witness was going to be caught, the orifice took the form of a gothic window in a ruinous condition. When he imagined the witness had slipped out of the trap laid for him, it stretched horizontally, and resembled a baker’s oven. He was of too coarse a nature to suspect that his own counsel had damaged his case, and believed the result of the trial to have been due to the

plaintiff’s “snivelling.” He left the Court with a melancholy downcast look, and his only chance of happiness hereafter in this life seemed now to be in proportion to his power of making Mr. Bumpkin miserable. Mr. Locust was not behind in his advice on their future course; and, after joining his client in the hall, at once pointed out the utterly absurd conclusion at which the jury had arrived; declared that there must be friends of the plaintiff among them, and that Mr. Ricochet would take the earliest opportunity of moving for a new trial; a piece of information which quite lit up the coarse features of his client, as a breath of air will bring a passing glow to the mouldering embers of an ash-heap on a dark night.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

Motion for rule nisi, in which is displayed much learning, ancient and modern.

On the following day there was a great array of judicial talent and judicial dignity sitting in what is called “Banco,” not to be in any way confounded with “Sancho;” the two words are totally distinct both as to their meaning and etymology. In the centre of the Bench sat Mr. Justice Doughty, one of the clearest heads perhaps that ever enveloped itself in horsehair. On his right was Mr. Justice Pangloss, and on his left Mr. Justice Technical.

Then arose from the Queen’s Counsel row, Mr. Ricochet to apply for a rule nisi for a new trial in the cause of Bumpkin v. Snooks which was tried yesterday before Mr. Justice Pangloss.

“Before me?” says Mr. Justice Pangloss.

“Yes, my lud,” says Mr. Ricochet.

“Are you sure?” enquired the learned Judge, turning over his notes.

“O, quite, my lud.”

“Ah!” says his lordship: “what do you say the name of the case was?”

“Bumpkin against Snooks, my lud,” says Mr. Ricochet, Q.C.

“Coots; what was it,—a Bill of Exchange?” asks his lordship.

“Snooks, my lud, Snooks;” says Mr. Ricochet, “with the greatest deference, my lud, his name is spelt with an S.”

Judge, still turning over his book from end to end calls to his clerk, and addressing Mr. Ricochet, says: “When do you say it was tried, Mr. Ricochet?”

“Yesterday, my lud; with great submission, my lud, I overheard your ludship say Coots. Snooks, my lud.”

Then all the Judges cried “Snooks!” as if it had been a puzzle or a conundrum at a family Christmas party, and they had all guessed it at once.

“Bring me the book for this term,” said the Judge sharply to his clerk.

“What was the name of the plaintiff?” enquired Mr. Justice Doughty.

“Bumpkin, my lud,” said Mr. Ricochet, “with great deference.”

“Ah, Pumpkin, so it was,” said the presiding Judge.

“With great submission, my lud, Bumpkin!”

“Eh?”

“Bumpkin, my lud;” and then all the Judges’ cried “Bumpkin!” as pleased as the followers of Columbus when they discovered America.

“Ah, here it is,” said Mr. Justice Pangloss, passing his forefinger slowly along the page; “the name of the case you refer to, Mr. Ricochet, is Bumpkin v. Snooks, not Coots v. Pumpkin, and it was tried before me and a special jury on the twenty-eighth of July of the present year.”

“Yes, my lud, with all submission.”

“Why, that was yesterday,” said Mr. Justice Pangloss. “Why did you not say so; I was referring to last year’s book.”

“With all deference, my lud—”

“Never mind, never mind, Mr. Ricochet; let us get on.”

“What do you move for?” asked Mr. Justice Doughty.

“A new trial, my lud.”

“A new trial—yes—? Which way was the verdict, Mr. Ricochet?”

“Verdict for the plaintiff, my lud.”

“And whom do you appear for?”

“I am for the defendant, my lud.”

“O! you’re for the defendant. Stop—let me have my note correct. I find it always of great assistance when the rule comes on to be argued. I don’t say you’re going to have a rule. I must know a little more of the case before we grant a rule.”

“If your ludship pleases.”

I did not gather what his lordship intended to say when he made the observations recorded, and can only regret that his lordship should have broken off so abruptly.

“What ground do you move upon, Mr. Ricochet.”

Mr. Ricochet said, “The usual grounds, my lud; that is to say, that the verdict was against the weight of evidence.”

“Stop a minute,” said Mr. Justice Doughty; “let me have my note correct, ‘against the weight of evidence,’ Mr. Ricochet.”

“Misdirection, my lud—with all respect to Mr. Justice Pangloss—and wrongful admission of evidence.”

“What was the action for?”

Now this was a question that no man living had been able to answer yet. What was in the pleadings, that is, the pattern of the lawyer’s net, was visible enough; but as regards merits, I predict with the greatest confidence, that no man will ever be able to discover what the action of Bumpkin versus Snooks was about. But it speaks wonders for the elasticity of our system of jurisprudence and the ingenuity of our lawyers that such a case could be invented.

“Trespass,” said Ricochet, “was one paragraph; then there was assault and battery; breach of contract in not accepting a pig at the price agreed; trespass in seizing the pig without paying for it; and then, my lud, there were the usual money counts, as they used to be called, to which the defendant pleaded, among other pleas, a right of way; an easement; leave and license; a right to take the pig; that the pig was the property of the defendant, and various other matters. Then, my lud, there was a counter-claim for slander, for assault and battery; for loss of profit which would have been made if the pig had been delivered according to contract; breach of contract for the non-delivery of the pig.”

Mr. Justice Doughty: “This was pig-iron, I suppose?”

The two other Judges fell back, shaking their sides with laughter; and then forcibly thrust their hands against their hips which made their tippets stick out very much, and gave them a dignified and imposing appearance. Then, seeing the Judges laugh, all the bar laughed, and all the ushers laughed, and all the public laughed. The mistake, however, was a very easy one to fall into, and when Mr. Justice Doughty, who was an

exceedingly good-tempered man, saw the mistake he had made, he laughed as much as any man, and even caused greater laughter still by good-humouredly and wittily observing that he supposed somebody must be a pigheaded man. To which Mr. Ricochet laughingly replied, that he believed the plaintiff was a very pigheaded man.

“Now,” said Mr. Justice Pangloss, “have you considered what Vinnius in his ‘Commentary on Urban Servitudes’ says.”

Mr. Ricochet said, “Hem!” and that was the very best answer he could make to the learned Pangloss, and if he only continues to answer in that manner he’ll get any rule he likes to apply for—(no, not the Rule of Three, perhaps).

So Mr. Justice Pangloss went on:

“There are, as Gale says, ‘two classes of easements distinctly recognised by the Civil Law—’”

“Hem!” said Ricochet.

“‘Under the head of “Urban Servitudes—’”

Ricochet: “Hem!”

“‘That a man,’ (continued Mr. Justice Pangloss), ‘shall receive upon his house or land the flumen or stillicidium of his neighbour—’”

“Hem!” coughed Mr. Ricochet, in a very high key; I verily believe in imitation of that wonderful comedian, J. C. Clarke.

Then Mr. Justice Pangloss proceeded, to the admiration of the whole Bar:

“‘The difference,’ says Vinnius, in his Commentary on this passage, between the flumen and the stillicidium is this—the latter is the rain falling from the roof by drops (guttatim et stillatim).’”

“Hem!” from the whole Bar.

“‘The flumen’—”

“I think,” said Mr. Justice Doughty, “you are entitled to a rule on that point, Mr. Ricochet.”

Then Mr. Justice Technical whispered, and I heard Mr. Justice Doughty say the principle was the same, although there might be some difference of opinion about the facts, which could be argued hereafter. “But what is the misreception of evidence, Mr. Ricochet? I don’t quite see that.”

“With all submission, my lud, evidence was admitted of what the solicitor for the defendant said to the plaintiff.”

“Wait a minute, let me see how that stands,” said Mr. Justice Doughty; “the solicitor for the defendant said something to the plaintiff, I don’t quite follow that.”

Mr. Justice Technical observed that it was quite clear that what is said by the solicitor of one party to the solicitor of another party is not evidence.

“O,” said the learned Pangloss, “so far back as the time of Justinian it was laid down—”

“And that being so,” said the eminent Chancery Judge, Mr. Justice Technical, “I should go so far as to say, that what the solicitor of one party says to the client stands upon the same footing.”

“Precisely,” said Mr. Ricochet

“I think you are entitled to a rule on that point,” remarked Mr. Justice Doughty, “although my brother Pangloss seems to entertain some doubt as to whether there was any such evidence.”

“O, my lud, with all submission, with the greatest possible deference and respect to the learned Judge, I

assure your ludship that it was so, for I have a note of it.”

“I was about to say,” continued Mr. Justice Doughty, “as my brother Pangloss says, it may have been given while he was considering a point in Justinian. What is the misdirection?”

“O, my lud, the misdirection was, I venture respectfully and deferentially to submit, and with the utmost deference to the learned Judge, in his lordship’s telling the jury that if they found that the right of way which the defendant set up in his answer to the trespass, or easement—but perhaps, my lud, I had better read from the short-hand writer’s notes of his ludship’s summing-up. This is it, my lud, his ludship said: ‘In an action for stopping of his ancient lights —.”

“What!” said Mr. Justice Doughty, “did he black the plaintiff’s eyes, then?”

“No, my lud,” said Mr. Ricochet, “that was never alleged or suggested.”

“I only used it by way of illustration,” said Mr. Justice Pangloss.

Then their lordships consulted together, and after about three-quarters of an hour’s conversation the learned Mr. Justice Doughty said:

“You can take a rule, Mr. Ricochet.”

“On all points, my lud, if your ludships please.”

“It will be more satisfactory,” said his lordship, “and then we shall see what there is in it. At present, I must confess, I don’t understand anything about it.”

And I saw that what there was really in it was very much like what there is in a kaleidoscope, odds and ends, which form all sorts of combinations when you twist and turn them about in the dark tube of a “legal argument.”

And so poor Bumpkin was deprived of the fruit of his victory. Truly the law is very expeditious. Before Bumpkin had got home with the cheerful intelligence that he had won, the wind had changed and was setting in fearfully from the north-east. Juries may find as many facts as they like, but the Court applies the law to them; and law is like gunpowder in its operation upon them,—twists them out of all recognisable shape. It is very difficult in a Court of law to get over “guttatims” and “stillatims,” even in an action for the price of a pig.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

Mr. Bumpkin is congratulated by his neighbours and friends in the market place and sells his corn.

What a lovely peace there was again over the farm! It was true Mr. Bumpkin had not obtained as large a measure of damages as his solicitor had led him to anticipate, but he was triumphant, and that over a man like Snooks was something. So the damages were forgotten beneath that peaceful August sky. How bright the corn looked! There was not a particle of “smut” in the whole field. And it was a good breadth of wheat this year for Southwood Farm. The barley too, was evidently fit for malting, and would be sure to fetch a decent price: especially as they seemed to say there was not much barley this year that was quite up to the mark for malting. The swedes, too, were coming on apace, and a little rain by and by would make them swell considerably. So everything looked exceedingly prosperous, except perhaps the stock. There certainly were not so many pigs. Out of a stye of eleven there was only one left. The sow was nowhere to be seen. She had been sold, it appeared, so no more were to be expected from that quarter. When Mr. Bumpkin asked where “old Jack” was (that was the donkey), he was informed that “the man” had fetched it. “The man”

it appeared was always fetching something. Yesterday it was pigs; the day before it was ducks; the day before that it was geese; and about a week ago it was a stack of this year’s hay: a stack of very prime clover indeed. Then “the man” took a fancy to some cheeses which Mrs. Bumpkin had in the dairy, some of her very finest make. She remonstrated, but “the man” was peremptory. But what most surprised Mr. Bumpkin, and drew tears from Mrs. Bumpkin’s eyes, was when the successful litigant enquired how the bull was.

Mrs. Bumpkin had invented many plans with a view to “breaking this out” to her husband: and now that the time had come every plan was a failure. The tears betrayed her.

“What, be he dead?” enquired Mr. Bumpkin.

“O, no, Tom—no, no—”

“Well, what then?”

“The man!”

“The man! The devil’s in thic man, who be he? Where do ur come from? I’ll bring an action agin him as sure’s he’s alive or shoot un dead wi my gun;” here Mr. Bumpkin, in a great rage, got up and went to the beam which ran across the kitchen ceiling, and formed what is called the roof-tree of the house, by the side of which the gun was suspended by two loops.

“No, no, Tom, don’t—don’t—we have never wronged any one yet, and don’t—don’t now.”

“But I wool,” said Bumpkin; “what! be I to be stripped naaked and not fight for th’ cloathes—who be thic feller as took the bull?”

Mrs. Bumpkin was holding her apron to her eyes, and for a long while could say nothing.

“Who be he, Nancy?”

“I don’t know, Tom—but he held a paper in his hand writ all over as close as the stubble-rows in the field, and he said thee had signed un.”

“Lord! lord!” exclaimed Mr. Bumpkin, and then sat down on the settle and looked at the fire as though it threw a light over his past actions. He couldn’t speak for a long time, not till Mrs. Bumpkin went up to him and laid her hand upon his shoulder, and said:

“Tom! Tom! thee ha winned the case.”

“Aye, aye,” said Bumpkin, starting up as from a reverie. “I ha winned, Nancy. I ha beat thic there Snooks; ur wont snigger now when ur gooes by—lor, lor,—our counsellor put it into un straight, Nancy.”

“Did ur, Tom?—well, I be proud.”

“Ah!” said Bumpkin, “and what d’ye think?—it wornt our counsellor, that is the Queen’s Counsellor nuther; he wornt there although I paid un, but I spoase he’ll gie up the money, Nancy?”

“Were it much, Tom?”

“Farty guineas!”

“Farty guineas, Tom! Why, it wur enough to set up housekeepin wi—and thee only winned twenty-five, Tom; why thic winnin were a heavy loss I think.”

“Now, lookee ere,” said Bumpkin; “I oughter had five undered, as Laryer Prigg said, our case were that good, but lor it baint sartain: gie I a little gin and water, Nancy—thee ain’t asked I to have a drap since I bin oame.”

“Lor, Tom, thee knows I be all for thee, and that all be thine.”

“It beant much, it strikes me; lor, lor, whatever shall us do wirout pigs and sheep, and wirout thic bull. I be fit to cry, Nancy, although I winned the case.”

Tom had his gin and water and smoked his pipe, and went to bed and dreamed of all that had taken place. He rose with the lark and went into the fields and enjoyed once again the fresh morning air, and the sweet scent of the new hayrick in the yard; and, without regarding it, the song of the lark as it shot heavenward and poured down its stream of glad music: but there was amidst all a sadness of spirit and a feeling of desolation. It was not like the old times when everything seemed to welcome him about the farm wherever he went. The work of “the man” was everywhere. But the harvest was got in, and a plentiful harvest it was: the corn was threshed, and one day Mr. Bumpkin went to market with his little bags of samples of the newly-housed grain. Everybody was glad to see him, for he was known everywhere as a regular upright and down-straight man. Every farmer and every corn-dealer and cattle-dealer congratulated him in his homely way on his success. They looked at his samples and acknowledged they were very bright and weighty. “I never liked that Snooks feller,” was the general cry, and at the farmers’ ordinary, which was held every market day at the “Plough,” every one who knew Bumpkin shook hands and wished him well, and after dinner, before they broke up, Farmer Gosling proposed his health, and said how proud he “were that his old neighbour had in the beautiful words o’ the National Anthem, ‘confounded their politicks’: and he hoped that the backbone o’ old England, which were the farmers, wornt gwine to be broked jist yet awhile. Farmin might be bad, but yet wi little cheaper rents and a good deal cheaper rates and taxes, there’d be good farmin and good farmers in England yit.”

Now this speech, I saw in my dream, brought down the

house. Everyone said it was more to the point than the half-mile speeches which took up so much of the newspapers to the exclusion of murders, burglaries and divorces. And in truth, now I come to look at it in my waking moments, I respectfully commend it to our legislators, or what is better, to their constituencies, as embodying on this subject both the principles of true conservatism and true liberalism: and I don’t see what the most exacting of politicians can require more than that.

Mr. Bumpkin made a suitable reply—that is to say, “he wur mighty proud o’ their neighbourliness—he wur a plaain man, as had made his own way in the world, or leastwise tried to do un by ard work and uprightedness and downstraightedness; tried to be straight forrerd, and nobody as he knowed of could ax un for a shillin’. But,” he added: “I be praisin oop myself, neighbours, I be afeard, and I doant wish to do thic, only to put I straaight afore thee. I beant dead yit, and I hope we shall all be friends and neighbours, and meet many moore times at this ornary together.”

And so, delighted with one another, after a glass or two, and a song or two, the party broke up, all going to their several farms. Mr. Bumpkin was particularly well pleased, for he had sold twenty quarters of wheat at forty-nine shillings a quarter; which, as times went, was a very considerable increase, showing the excellent quality of the samples.

Sooner or later, however, it must be told, that when Bumpkin reached his quiet farm, a strange and sad scene presented itself. Evidences of “the man” were in all directions. He had been at work while Mr. Bumpkin in his convivial moments was protesting that he did not

owe anyone a shilling. Alas! how little the best of as know how much we owe!

Mrs. Bumpkin, who had borne up like a true woman through all the troubles that had come upon her home,—borne up for his sake, hoping for better days, and knowing nothing of the terrible net that had been spread around them by the wily fowler, at length gave way, as she saw “the man” loading his cart with her husband’s wheat; the wheat he had gone that day to sell. Bitterly she wrung her hands, and begged him to spare her husband that last infliction. Was there anything that she could do or give to save him this blow? No, no; the man was obstinate in the performance of his duty; “right was right, and wrong was no man’s right!”

So when Mr. Bumpkin returned, the greater part of his wheat was gone, and the rest was being loaded. The beautiful rick of hay too, which had not yet ceased to give out the fresh scent that a new rick yields, were being cut and bound into trusses.

Poor Tom was fairly beside himself, but Mrs. Bumpkin had taken the precaution to hide the gun and the powder-flask, for she could not tell what her husband might do in his distraction. Possibly she was right. Tom’s rage knew no bounds. Youth itself seemed to be restored in the strength of his fury. He saw dimly the men standing around looking on; he saw, as in a dream, the man cutting on the rick, and he uttered incoherent sentences which those only understood who were accustomed to his provincial accent.

“Tom, Tom,” said Mrs. Bumpkin, “don’t be in a rage.”

“Who be thic feller on my rick?”

“I beant any more a feller nor thee, Maister Boompkin; it aint thy rick nuther.”

“Then in the name of h—, whose be it?”

“It be Maister Skinalive’s; thee can’t have t’ cake an eat un; thee sowled it to un.”

“It be a lie, a --- lie; come down!”

“Noa, noa, I beant coomin doon till I coot all t’ hay; it be good hay an all, as sweet as a noot.”

“Where is thy master?” enquired Mrs. Bumpkin.

“I dooant rightly knoo, missus, where ur be; but I think if thee could see un, he’d poot it right if thee wanted time loike, and so on, for he be a kind-hearted man enoo.”

“Can we find un, do ur think?” asked Mrs. Bumpkin.

“If thee do, missus, it wur moor un I bin able to do for the last three moonths.”

“I’ll find some un,” said Mr. Bumpkin; “here, goo and fetch a pleeceman.”

This was said to a small boy who did the bird-minding, and was now looking on with his mouth wide open, and his eyes actually shedding tears.

“Ah, fetch a pleeceman an all,” said the man, thrusting the big hay-knife down into the centre of the rick; “but take a soop o’ cyder, maister; I dessay thee feels a bit out o’ sorts loike.”

“Thee darn thief; it be my cyder, too, I’ve a notion.”

“How can it be thine, maister, when thee ha’ sowled un?” said the man with his unanswerable logic: “haw! haw! haw!”

Mrs. Bumpkin held her husband’s hand, and tried her hardest to keep him from using violence towards the man. She felt the convulsive twitches of his strong muscles, and the inward struggle that was shaking his stalwart frame. “Come away, Tom; come away; let

un do as they like, we’ll have them as will see us righted yet. There’s law for un, surely.”

“It beant no use to kick, maister,” said the man, again ramming the knife down into the rick as though he were cutting Mr. Bumpkin himself in half, and were talking to him the while; “it beant no use to kick, maister. Here thee be; thee owes the man the money, and can’t pay, so ur does this out of kindness to prevent thee being sowled oop loike.”

“Here be the pleeceman,” said Mrs. Bumpkin.

Mr. Bumpkin turned suddenly, and shouted, “Tak thic thief into custody.”

The policeman, albeit a country constable, was a very sensible man; and seeing how matters stood, he very wisely set himself to the better task of taking Mr. Bumpkin into custody without appearing to do so, and without Mr. Bumpkin knowing it.

“Now,” said he, “if so be as you will come indoors, Mr. Bumpkin, I think we can put our heads together and see what can be done in this ’ere case; if it’s stealing let him steal, and I’ll have him nicely; but if it ain’t stealing, then I woant have him at all.” (A pause.)

“For why?” (A pause.)

“Because the law gives you other remedies.”

“That be right, pleeceman,” said Bumpkin; “I’ll goo wi’ thee. Now then, Nancy, let’s goo; and look ’ere, thee thief, I’ll ha’ thee in th’ jail yet.”

The man grinned with a mouth that seemed to have been cut with his own hay-knife, so large was it, and went on with his work, merely saying: “I dooant charge thee nothin for cootin’ nor yet for bindin, maister; I does it all free graatis, loike.”

“Thee d--- thief, thee’ll be paid.”

So they went in, and the policeman was quite a comforter to the poor old man. He talked to him about what the law was on this point and that point, and how a trespass was one thing, and a breach of the peace another; and how he mustn’t take a man up for felony just because somebody charged him: otherwise, the man on the rick might have charged Mr. Bumpkin, and so on; till he got the old man into quite a discussion on legal points. But meanwhile he had given him another piece of advice, which was also much to his credit, and that was to send to his solicitor, Mr. Prigg. Mr. Prigg was accordingly sent for; but, like most good men, was very scarce. Nowhere could Mr. Prigg be found. But it was well known, for it was advertised everywhere on large bills, that the excellent gentleman would take the chair at a meeting, to be held in the schoolroom in the evening, for the propagation of Christianity among the Jews. The policeman would be on duty at that meeting, and he would be sure to see Mr. Prigg, and tell him Mr. Bumpkin was very desirous to see him as early as possible on the following day. Mr. Bumpkin was thankful, and to some extent pacified. As the policeman wished them goodnight, Mrs. Bumpkin accompanied him to the door, and begged, if he wouldn’t mind, that he would look in to-morrow, for he seemed a kind of protection for them.

It was about three in the afternoon of the following day when good Mr. Prigg drove up to Mr. Bumpkin’s door; he drove up with the mare that had been Mr. Bumpkin’s cow.

“Here he be,” said Mrs. Bumpkin; and if Mr. Prigg had been an angel from heaven, his presence could not have been more welcome. Oh, what sunshine he seemed to bring! Was it a rainbow round his face, or was it only

his genial Christian smile? His collar was perfect, so was his tie; his head immoveable, so were his principles. “Dear, dear!” said Mrs. Bumpkin, “I be so glad thee be come, Mr. Prigg—here be master takin’ on so as never was; I never see’d anything like it.”

“What’s the matter, my dear lady?” inquired the good man.

“Be that loryer Prigg?” shouted a voice from the inner room.

“Aye, aye, Tom, it be Mr. Prigg.”

“Come in, zur,” said the voice, “come in; I be mighty glad to see thee. Why dam—”

“Hush!” remonstrated the diffuser of Christianity among the Jews; “hush!” and his hands were softly raised in gentle protest—albeit his head never turned so much as a hair’s breadth. “Let us be calm, my dear sir, let us be calm. We win by being calm.”

“Ah, we winned the lawsuit; didn’t us, sir?”

“Ah, that thee did, Tom!” exclaimed Mrs. Bumpkin, delighted at this momentary gleam of gladness in her husband’s broken heart.

“Of course we won,” said Mr. Prigg. “Did I ever entertain a doubt from the first about the merits of that case?”

“Thee did not, sir,” said Tom; “but lookee ’ere, sir,” he continued, in almost a whisper, “I dreamt last night as we lost un; and I see thic Snooks a sniggering as plaain as ever I see’d anybody in my life.”

“My dear sir, what matters your dream? We won, sir. And as for Snooks’ sniggering, I am sorry to say he is sold up.”

“Sold oop!” exclaimed Bumpkin. “Sorry! why beest thee sorry for un—beant thee sorry for I?”

“Sorry you’ve won, Mr. Bumpkin? No; but, I’m sorry for Snooks, because we lose our costs. Oh, that Locust is the greatest dodger I ever met.”

“I don’t understand thee, sir,” said Bumpkin. “What d’ye mean by not getting costs—won’t ur pay?”

“I fear not,” said Mr. Prigg, rubbing his hands. “I am surprised, too, that he should not have waited until the rule for a new trial was argued.”

“What the devil be the meaning o’ all this?” exclaimed Bumpkin.

“Really, really,” said the pious diffuser of Christianity, “we must exercise patience; we may get more damages if there should be another trial.”

“This be trial enough,” said Mr. Bumpkin; “and after all it were a trumpery case about a pig.”

“Quite so, quite so,” said the lawyer, rubbing his hands; “but you see, my dear sir, it’s not so much the pig.”

“No, no,” said Mr. Bumpkin, “it beant so much th’ pig; it be the hoarses moore, and the hayricks, and the whate, and—where be all my fowls and dooks?”

“The fowls—quite so! Let me see,” said the meditative man, pressing the head of his gold pencil-case against his forehead, “the fowls—let me see—oh, I know, they did the pleadings—so they did.”

“And thic sow o’ mine?”

“Yes, yes; I think she made an affidavit, if I remember rightly. Yes, yes—and the bacon,” said he, elevating his left hand, “six flitches I think there were; they used to be in this very room—”

“Ay, sure did ur,” said Mr. Bumpkin.

“Well I remember; they made a very splendid affidavit too: I have a note of all of them in my memory.”

“What coomed o’ the cows?”

“Cows? Yes—I have it—our leading counsel had them; and the calf, if I remember rightly, went to the junior.”

‘“Who had the cheeses?” inquired Mr. Bumpkin.

“Cheeses!” said the good man. “Oh, yes, the cheeses; they went in refreshers.”

“And the poor old donkey?” asked Mrs. Bumpkin.

“Ah, where be Jock?” said Mr. Bumpkin.

“Went for the opinion,” answered the lawyer.

“Where be thic bull o’ mine?” said Tom. “He wur the finest bull in all thic county, woren’t he, Nancy?”

“Ay,” answered Mrs. Bumpkin, “and ur follered I about, Tom, jist like a Christian.”

“So ur did, Nancy. Dost thee mind, when ur got through thic gap into Squire Stucky’s meadow, ’mong the cows?”

“Ay, Tom; and thee went and whistled un; but ur wouldn’t come for thy whistlin; and Joe, poor Joe! went and got a great stick.”

“There I mind un,” said Bumpkin; “what coomed of un, Master Prigg?”

“Quite so,” said Mr. Prigg; “quite so; let me see.” And again the gold pencil-case was pressed against his respectable forehead in placid cogitation. “Yes, that bull argued the appeal.”

“Hem!” said Mr. Bumpkin; “argied appeal, did ur? Well, I tell ee what, Master Prigg, if that air bull ’ad knowed what I knows now, he’d a gi’en them jusseses a bit o’ his mind, and thee too.”

“Dear me,” said Mr. Prigg; “you entirely mis-apprehend—”

“Well, lookee ’ere,” said Tom, “it beant no use to mince matters wi’ ee. What I wants to know is as this; I winned my case—”

“Quite so,” said Prigg.

“And ’ow be it then that all my sheep and things be took off the farm?”

“Dear me!” said Mr. Prigg, in the tone of an injured man; “I think, of all men, clients are the most ungrateful. I have worked night and day to serve you; I have sacrificed my pleasures, which I do not reckon—my home comforts—”

“But who be thic feller that steals my corn an’ hay, and pigs?”

“Really, Mr. Bumpkin, this is language which I did not expect from you.”

“But ’ow comes my farm stripped, Maister Prigg? tell I thic.”

“I suppose you have given a bill of sale, Mr. Bumpkin. You are aware that a lawsuit cannot be carried on without means, and you should have calculated the cost before going to war. I think there is Scripture authority for that.”

“Then have this Skinalive feller the right to take un?”

“I presume so,” said Prigg; “I know he’s a most respectable man.”

“A friend o’ thine, I s’poase?”

“Well,” said Prigg, hesitating, “I may even go so far as to say that.”

“Then I be gwine so fur as to say thee be a damned rogue!” said Mr. Bumpkin, rising, and thumping the table with great vehemence.

You might have knocked Mr. Prigg down with a feather, certainly with a bludgeon; such a shock he had never received at the hands of a client in the whole course of his professional experience. He rose and drew from his pocket an envelope, a very large official-looking envelope, such as no man twice in his life would like to see, even if he could be said to enjoy the prospect once.

It is not usual for respectable solicitors to carry about their bills of costs in their pockets, and why Mr. Prigg should have done so on this occasion I am not aware. I merely saw in my dream that he did so. There was not a change in his countenance; his piety was intact; there was not even a suffusion of colour. Placid, sweet-tempered, and urbane, as a Christian should be, he looked pityingly towards the hot and irascible Bumpkin, as though he should say, “You have smitten me on this cheek, now smite me on that!” and placed the great envelope on the table before the ungrateful man.

“What be thic?” inquired Mr. Bumpkin.

“A list of my services, sir,” said Prigg, meekly: “You will see there, ungrateful man, the sacrifices I have made on your behalf; the journeyings oft; the hunger, and, I may say, thirst; the perils of robbers, the perils amongst false friends, the—”

“I doant understand, sir,” said Bumpkin.

“Because darkness hath blinded your eyes,” said the pious lawyer; “but I leave you, Mr. Bumpkin, and I will ask you, since you no longer repose confidence in my judgment and integrity, to obtain the services of some other professional gentleman, who will conduct your case with more zeal and fidelity than you think I have shown; I who have carried your cause to a triumphant issue;

and may be said to have established the grand principle that an Englishman’s house is his castle.”

And with this the good man, evidently affected by deep emotion, shook hands silently with Mrs. Bumpkin, and disappeared for ever from my view.

Never in any dream have I beheld that man again. Never, surely, under any form of humanity have so many virtues been concealed. I have looked for him in daily life, about the Courts of Justice and in the political arena, but his equal for simplicity of character, for unaffected piety, and purity of motive, have I never discovered, although I have seen many, who, without his talents, have vainly endeavoured to emulate his virtues.

Mrs. Bumpkin examined the document he had left, and found a most righteous statement of the services rendered by this great and good man; which, after giving credit to Mr. Bumpkin for cash received from Mr. Skinalive, Mr. Prigg’s friend, of seven hundred and twenty-two pounds, six shillings and eightpence-half-penny, left a balance due to Honest Lawyer Prigg of three hundred and twenty-eight pounds, seven shillings and threepence,—subject, of course, to be reduced on taxation.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

Farewell.

The last chapter of a book must always possess a special and melancholy interest for the author. He gives his words reluctantly, almost grudgingly, like one who is spending his last coins and will soon be left penniless upon the world. Or like one who is passing his last moments at the house of a friend whom he may see no more for ever. The author is taking farewell of his characters and his readers, and therefore his regret is twofold; added to which is the doubt as to whether, judged by the severe standard of Public Opinion, he has been faithful to both. Thought is large, and may fill the world, permeating every class and every section of society; it may be circumscribed, and operate only upon some infinitesimal proportion of mankind: but whether great or small, for good or evil, it is published, and a corresponding responsibility devolves upon the writer. I record my dream faithfully, and am therefore exonerated, in my conscience, from responsibility in its effect.

How shall I describe the closing scene of this eventful story? I will imagine nothing; I will exaggerate nothing; for, during the whole progress of the story, it has been my constant care not to give the most captious critic the opportunity of saying that I have exaggerated a single incident. I will relate faithfully what I saw in

my dream, and that only; diminishing nothing, and adding nothing.

In my waking moments my wife said it was very wrong of Mr. Bumpkin, after all that Mr. Prigg had done for him, to be so rude. I agreed that it was: but said, great allowance must be made for Mr. Bumpkin’s want of education. Then said my wife, “Will not some shallow-minded persons say that your story attacks the administration of justice?” To which I replied that it did not matter what shallow-minded persons said, but that in fact I had in no way attacked the administration of justice; nor had I in the least degree reflected on the great body of respectable solicitors who had in their hands the interests of the country, and faithfully discharged their duties. And then I stood up, and putting forth my hand in imitation of Pitt’s statue in the corridor of the House of Commons, I said, “Justice is Divine, not Human; and you cannot detract from anything that is Divine, any more than you can lessen the brilliancy of the sun. You may obscure its splendour to mortal eyes, but its effulgence is the same. Man may so ostensibly assert his own dignity, or the dignity of a perishable system, that it may temporarily veil the beauty of a Divine attribute; but Justice must still remain the untarnished glory of Divine wisdom. It is not the pomp of position or the majesty of office that imparts dignity to Justice.”

Here, exhausted with my effort, and with my wife’s applause ringing in my ears, I fell asleep again, and dreamed that I saw Bumpkin sadly wandering about the old farm; his faithful wife following, and never for one moment ceasing to cheer him up. It was a fine bright morning in October as they wandered

forth. There wasn’t a living thing about the farm except the birds, and even they seemed sad in their twittering. Could it be possible that they knew of poor Bumpkin’s miserable condition?

There was an old jackdaw that certainly did; for he hopped and hopped along after the master with the saddest expression I ever saw bird wear. But the master took no notice. On and on he wandered, seemingly unconscious of the presence even of his wife.

“Tom!” she said, “Tom, where beest thee gwine?”

Bumpkin started; turned round, and said:

“Nancy! what, be it thee, lassie?”

“Ay, Tom, sure enough it be I. Let’s cheer up, Tom. If the worst come to the worst—we can but goo to Union.”

“The wust have come to th’ wust, Nancy; we be ruined! Look at this ’ere farm—all be bare—all be lost, Nancy. Hark how silent it all be!”

“Never mind, Tom; never mind. I wish Joe wur here.”

“Ah! Joe, yes. I wonder where Joe be; praps he be out here in th’ six akre.”

“No, no, Tom, he be gwine for a sojer; but I’ve a mind he’ll come back. And who knows, we may be ’appy yet! We’ve worked hard, Tom, together these five-and-thirty year, and sure we can trudge on t’ th’ end. Come, let’s goo in and ave some breakfast.”

But Tom kept on walking and looking round the fields after his old manner.

“I think we’ll ave wuts here,” said he.

“So ur will, Tom, but let’s have breakfast fust. Come, lad.”

They wandered still through the quiet fields, and the old man’s mind seemed giving way. But I saw that

Mrs. Bumpkin kept up with him and cheered him whenever she could put in a word of comfort, cold and hopeless as it was. And so the day was spent, and the night came, and they entered their home for the last time. It was a terribly sad night; but the Vicar came and sat up late with the old people, and talked to them and read and cried with them, until at last Tom said:

“I zee it, sir, thee hast showed I; thank God for thy words. Yes, yes, we maun leave t’ morrer, and we’ll call on thee, and maybe thou’lt goo to th’ Squire wi’ us and explaain to un how we can’t pay our rent, and may be th’ Squire’ll let I work un out. If we could only work un out, I’d be ’appy.”

“Ay, Tom,” said Mrs. Bumpkin, “an I’ll work too; thee knows that.”

“Thee wast allays a good wife, Nancy; and I’ll allays say’t, come what wooll.”

“Yes,” said the Vicar, “to-morrow we will go—”

“I don’t want un to forgive I th’ rent,” said Tom; “only to gie us time, and Nancy and I’ll work un out.” And so it was arranged that the next morning the old home was to be left for ever. It was no longer home, for every article of furniture, every tool, every scrap that was of any value had been ruthlessly seized by the heartless money-lender whom the Law permitted to rob under the name of a bill of sale. The man was in possession to take away their bed and the few other articles that were left for their accommodation till the morrow.

And on the morrow I saw the last of poor Bumpkin that I shall ever see. In the beautiful sunshine of that October morning, just by the old oak, he was leaning over the gate looking his last at the dear old fields and the old farm-house where so many happy years had been

spent. By his side was his wife, with her hand shading her eyes; the old dog was between them, looking into the face now of Tom and then of his wife. Mr. Bumpkin’s arms were resting on the gate, and his old ash stick that he used to walk with over the fields was in his hand. They stood there for a long, long time as though they could never leave it. And I saw the tears trickle down the old man’s face as Mrs. Bumpkin, letting fall the corner of her apron, which she had held to her eyes, and placing her arm through his, said in a faltering voice:—

“Come, Tom, we must goo.”

THE END.

THE LAWSUIT.

Tom Bumpkin was a thriving man,
As all the world could see;
In forty years he’d raised himself
From direst poverty.

And now he rented from the Squir
Some acres, near a score;
Some people said ’twas twenty-five,
And some that it was more.

He had a sow of rare brave breed,
And nine good pigs had he;
A cow and calf, a rick of hay,
And horses he had three.

And Mrs. Bumpkin had a bull,
The finest creature out;
“And, like a Christian,” so she said,
“It follered her about.”

So Bumpkin was a thriving man,
As all the world could see;
A self-made man, but yet not made
Of scholarship was he.

With neighbour Snooks he dealings had
About his latest farrow;
Snooks said he’d bought a pig, and so,
To prove it, brought his barrow.

Tom said, “It wur to be two crowns;”
Snooks said, “Twur nine-and-six;”
Then Tom observed, “You doan’t ’ave me
Wi none o’ them there tricks.”

So there was battle; Lawyer Prigg
Was told this tale of woe;
The Lawyer rubbed his bony hands
And said, “I see; quite so!”

“A case of trespass,”—“Ay zo ’t be!”
Said Bumpkin, feeling big;
“Now mak un pay vor’t, mak un pay;
It beant so much th’ pig.”

“No, no, it’s not so much the pig,
That were a matter small;
Indeed, good Bumpkin, we may say
It’s not the pig at all!

“It’s more the principle involved,
The rights of man, you see”—
“Ay, ay,” quoth Tom; “the devil’s in’t
’F I beant as good as he.”

There never was a man more prompt
Or swift to strike a blow:
Give but the word, and Charger Prigg
Was down upon the foe.

The Letter, Writ, and Statement went
Like lightning, thunder, rain;
Inspection and Discovery rode
Like Uhlans o’er the plain!

Then Interrogatories flew
Without procrastination:
As when the ambushed outposts give
A deadly salutation.

Now Snooks’s lawyer was a man
To wrong would never pander;
And like a high-souled Pleader drew
A Counterclaim for slander;

And then with cautious skill behind
The legal outworks clambers;
Until dislodged, he held his own
Entrenched in Judges’ Chambers.

At length came battle hot and fierce,
And points reserved as though
The case must be economized,
Not murdered at a blow.

Then came appeals upon the points,
New trials on the facts;
More points, more learned arguments,
More precedents and Acts.

But Law, thou art a tender plant
That needs must droop and die;
And bear no fruit unless thy root
Be watered constantly:

And Bumpkin with a generous hand
Had given thee good supply;
He drained the well, and yet withal
The noble Prigg was dry.

With plaintive look would move a stone,
Tom gazed on Lawyer Prigg:
Who rubbed his hands and said, “You see,
It’s not so much the pig.”

“Noa, noa, it be th’ horses moore,
The calf and sheep and kine,
Where be th’ hay-rick and the straw?
And where thic bull o’ mine?”

The Lawyer said, “Quite so, quite so!”
Looked wise, and wisely grinned;
For Tom was like a ship becalmed,
He stopped for want of wind.

“You see,” said Prigg with gravity
Would almost make you laugh,
“Our leading Counsel had the Cow,
The junior had the Calf.

“The hay and straw Rules nisi got,
Made Absolute with corn,
The pigs made Interrogat’ries,
Most beautifully drawn.

“The Bacon—ah, dear Bumpkin, few
In Law suits ever save it;
It made together with the sow,
A splendid Affidavit.

“The cocks and hens the Pleadings did
Most exquisitely utter;
And some few pans of cream there were,
Which made the Surre-butter.”

“Why, Surrey butter! I’d a tub
The best in this ere nation”—
“Quite so!” said Prigg; “but you forget,
’Twas used in Consultation.”

“Well, well, of all the hungry mouths,
There’s nothing like the Law’s;
No wonder they can talk if that
Be how they iles their jaws.

“Now just look ere; I’d twenty cheese,
The finest of old Cheshires,”—
“Quite so, quite so!” said Prigg; “but they
Just furnished the Refreshers.

“The Ass for the Opinion went;
The Horses, Costs between us;
And all the Ducks and Drakes, my boy,
Were turned into Subpœnas.”

“I zee it all; the road to Ruin,
Straight as any furrer:
That Bull o’ mine”—“Excuse me, Sir,
Went up upon Demurrer.”

“Then beant there nothing left for I,
In all this ere undoin?
Nay, Nance, our fireside be gone,
It’s emptiness and ruin.

“I wish we’d fought un out ourselves
Wi’ fists instead o’ law;
Since Samson fit, there never was
Good fightin wi the jaw.”

So now Tom’s not a thriving man,
He owns not cow or pig;
And evermore he’ll be in debt
To Honest Lawyer Prigg.

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