“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.”