“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.