Now George Nupkins, Esquire, the principal magistrate aforesaid, was as grand a personage as the fastest walker would find out, between sunrise and sunset, on the twenty-first of June, which being, according to the almanacs, the longest day in the whole year, would naturally afford him the longest period for his search. On this particular morning, Mr. Nupkins was in a state of the utmost excitement and irritation, for there had been a rebellion in the town; all the day-scholars at the largest day-school had conspired to break the windows of an obnoxious apple-seller, and had hooted the beadle, and pelted the constabulary—an elderly gentleman in top-boots, who had been called out to repress the tumult, and who had been a peace-officer, man and boy, for half a century at least. And Mr. Nupkins was sitting in his easy chair, frowning with majesty, and boiling with rage, when a lady was announced on pressing, private, and particular business. Mr. Nupkins looked calmly terrible, and commanded that the lady should be shown in: which command, like all the mandates of emperors, and magistrates, and other great potentates of the earth, was forthwith obeyed; and Miss Witherfield, interestingly agitated, was ushered in accordingly.
“Muzzle!” said the magistrate.
Muzzle was an undersized footman, with a long body and short legs.
“Muzzle!”
“Yes, your worship.”
“Place a chair, and leave the room.”
“Yes, your worship.”
“Now, ma’am, will you state your business?” said the magistrate.
“It is of a very painful kind, sir,” said Miss Witherfield.
“Very likely, ma’am,” said the magistrate. “Compose your feelings, ma’am.” Here Mr. Nupkins looked benignant. “And then tell me what legal business brings you here, ma’am.” Here the magistrate triumphed over the man; and he looked stern again.