"Although there is no charge, and no sign of any charge, your Worships, and therefore I have no locus standi;" Mr. Blickson had returned to his place, and adopted an airy and large-hearted style; "I would crave the indulgence of the Bench, for one or two quite informal remarks; my object being to remove every stigma from the characters of my respected Clients. On the best authority I may state, that their one desire, and intention, was to surrender, like a pair of lambs"—at this description a grin went round, and the learned Magistrates countenanced it—"if they could only realise the nature of the charge against them. But when they demanded, like Englishmen, to know why their liberty should be suddenly abridged, what happened? No one answered them! All those admirable men were doubtless eager to maintain the best traditions of the law; but the hurricane out-roared them. They laboured to convey their legal message; but where is education, when the sky falls on its head? On the other hand, one of these law-abiding men had been engaged gloriously, in maintaining the athletic honour of his county. This does not appear to have raised in him at all the pugnacity, that might have been expected. He strolled into the market-place, partly to stretch his poor bruised legs, and partly perhaps, to relieve his mind; which men of smaller nature would have done, by tippling. Suddenly he is surrounded by a crowd of very strong men in the dark. The Fair has long been over; the lights are burning low; scarcely enough of fire in them to singe the neck of an enterprising member of our brave Constabulary. In the thick darkness, and hubbub of the storm, the hero who has redeemed the belt, and therewith the ancient fame of our county, supposes—naturally supposes, charitable as his large mind is, that he is beset for the sake of the money, which he has not yet received, but intends to distribute so freely, when he gets it. The time of this honourable Bench is too valuable to the public to be wasted over any descriptions of a petty skirmish, no two of which are at all alike. My large-bodied Client, the mighty wrestler, might have been expected to put forth his strength. It is certain that he did not do so. The man, who had smitten down the pride of Cornwall, would strike not a blow against his own county. He gave a playful push or two, a chuck under the chin, such as a pretty milkmaid gets, when she declines a sweeter touch. I marvel at his wonderful self-control. His knuckles were shattered by a blow from a staff; like a roof in a hailstorm his great chest rang—for the men of Perliton can hit hard—yet is there anything to show that he even endeavoured to strike in return? And how did it end? In the very noblest way. The Pastor of the village, a most saintly man, but less than an infant in Harvey Tremlett's hands, appears at the gate, when there is no other let or hindrance to the freedom of a Briton. Is he thrust aside rudely? Is he kicked out of the way? Nay, he lays a hand upon the big man's breast, the hand of a Minister of the Cross. He explains that the law, by some misapprehension, is fain to apprehend this simple-minded hero. The nature of the sad mistake is explained; and to use a common metaphor, which excited some derision just now, but which I repeat, with facts to back me,—gentle as a lamb, yonder lion surrenders!"
"The lamb is very fortunate in his shepherd;" said Dr. Morshead drily, as the lawyer sat down, under general applause. "But there is nothing before the Bench, Mr. Blickson. What is the object of all this eloquence?"
"The object of my very simple narrative, your Worships, is to discharge my plain duty to my clients. I would ask this Worshipful Bench, not only to dismiss a very absurd application, but also to add their most weighty opinions, that Harvey Tremlett, and James Fox—no, I beg pardon that was the first mistake of this ever erroneous blacksmith—James Kettel, I should say, have set a fine example of perfect submission to the law of the land."
"Oh come, Mr. Blickson, that is out of the record. We pronounce no opinion upon that point. We simply adjudge that the case be now dismissed."
CHAPTER XXXVIII. AN INLAND RUN.
"Won'erful well, 'e doed it, sir. If ever I gets into Queer Street, you be the one to get me out."
This well-merited compliment was addressed by Dick Herniman to Attorney Blickson, at a convivial gathering held that same afternoon, to celebrate the above recorded triumph of Astræa. The festal party had been convoked at the Wheatsheaf Tavern in Perliton Square, and had taken the best room in the house, looking out of two windows upon that noble parallelogram, which Perliton never failed to bring with it, orally, when it condescended to visit Perlycross. The party had no idea of being too abstemious, the object of its existence being the promotion, as well as the assertion, of the liberty of the subject.
Six individuals were combining for this lofty purpose, to wit the two gentlemen so unjustly charged, and their shrewd ally of high artistic standing, that very able lawyer who had vindicated right; also Captain Timberlegs, and Horatio Peckover, Esquire; and pleasant it is as well as strange to add, Master Joseph Crang of Susscot, blacksmith, farrier, and engineer. For now little differences of opinion, charges of perjury and body-snatching, assault and battery, and general malfeasance, were sunk in the large liberality of success, the plenitude of John Barleycorn, and the congeniality of cordials.