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Title: The Humourous Story of Farmer Bumpkin's Lawsuit
Author: Harris, Richard, 1833-1906
Language: English
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BUMPKIN'S LAWSUIT***
Transcribed from the 1883 Stevens and Sons edition by David Price, email
ccx074@pglaf.org
THE
HUMOUROUS STORY
OF
FARMER BUMPKIN’S LAWSUIT:
BY
RICHARD HARRIS,
BARRISTER-AT-LAW,
AUTHOR OF “HINTS ON ADVOCACY,” ETC., ETC.
SECOND EDITION.
* * * * *
LONDON:
STEVENS AND SONS, 119, CHANCERY LANE,
Law Publishers and Booksellers.
1883.
LONDON:
BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.
PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.
Considering the enormous interest which the Public have in “a more
efficient and speedy administration of justice,” I am not surprised that
a Second Edition of “Mr. Bumpkin’s Lawsuit” should be called for so soon
after the publication of the first. If any proof were wanting that I had
not overstated the evils attendant on the present system, it would be
found in the case of _Smitherman_ v. _The South Eastern Railway Company_,
which came before the House of Lords recently; and judgment in which was
delivered on the 16th of July, 1883. The facts of the case were
extremely simple, and were as follow:—A man of the name of Smitherman was
killed on a level crossing of the South Eastern Railway Company at East
Farleigh, in December, 1878. His widow, on behalf of herself and four
children, brought an action against the Company on the ground of
negligence on the part of the defendants. The case in due course was
tried at the Maidstone Assizes, and the plaintiff obtained a verdict for
£400 for herself and £125 for each of the children. A rule for a new
trial was granted by the Divisional Court: the rule for the new trial was
discharged by the Court of Appeal. The Lords reversed the decision of
the Court of Appeal, and ordered a new trial. New trial took place at
Guildhall, City of London, before Mr. Baron Pollock; jury again found for
the plaintiff, with £700 _agreed_ damages: Company thereby saving £200.
Once more rule for new trial granted by Divisional Court: once more rule
discharged by Court of Appeal: once more House of Lords reverse decision
of Court of Appeal, and order _second new trial_. So that after more
than four years of harassing litigation, this poor widow and her children
are left in the same position that they were in immediately after the
accident—except that they are so much the worse as being liable for an
amount of costs which need not be calculated. The case was tried by
competent judges and special juries; and yet, by the subtleties of the
doctrine of contributory negligence, questions of such extreme nicety are
raised that a third jury are required to give an opinion _upon the same
state of facts_ upon which two juries have already decided in favour of
the plaintiff and her children.
Such is the power placed by our complicated, bewildering, and inartistic
mode of procedure, in the hands of a rich Company.
No one can call in question the wisdom or the learning of the House of
Lords: it is above criticism, and beyond censure; but the House of Lords
itself works upon the basis of our system of Procedure, and as that is
neither beyond criticism nor censure, I unhesitatingly ask, _Can Old
Fogeyism and Pettifoggism further go_?
RICHARD HARRIS.
LAMB BUILDING, TEMPLE,
_October_, 1883.
PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION.
When Old Fogeyism is being lowered to his last resting place,
Pettifoggism, being his chief mourner, will be so overwhelmed with grief
that he will tumble into the same grave. How then to hasten the demise
of this venerable Humbug is the question. Some are for letting him die a
natural death, others for reducing him gradually by a system of slow
starvation: for myself, I confess, I am for knocking him on the head at
once. Until this event, so long wished for by all the friends of
Enlightenment and Progress, shall have happened, there will be no
possibility of a Reform which will lessen the needless expense and
shorten the unjustifiable delay which our present system of legal
procedure occasions; a system which gives to the rich immeasurable
advantages over poor litigants; and amounts in many cases not only to a
perversion of justice but to a denial of it altogether.
Old Fogeyism only tinkers at reform, and is so nervous and incompetent
that in attempting to mend one hole he almost invariably makes two. The
Public, doubtless, will, before long, undertake the much needed reform
and abolish some of the unnecessary business of “judges’ chambers,” where
the ingenuity of the Pettifogging Pleader is so marvellously displayed.
How many righteous claims are smothered in their infancy at this stage of
their existence!
I have endeavoured to bring the evils of our system before the Public in
the story of Mr. Bumpkin. The solicitors, equally with their clients, as
a body, would welcome a change which would enable actions to be carried
to a legitimate conclusion instead of being stifled by the “Priggs” and
“Locusts” who will crawl into an honorable profession. It is impossible
to keep them out, but it is not impossible to prevent their using the
profession to the injury of their clients. All respectable solicitors
would be glad to see the powers of these unscrupulous gentlemen
curtailed.
The verses at the end of the story have been so often favourably received
at the Circuit Mess, that I thought an amplified version of them in prose
would not be unacceptable to the general reader, and might ultimately
awaken in the public mind a desire for the long-needed reform of our
legal procedure.
RICHARD HARRIS.
LAMB BUILDING, TEMPLE,
_July_, 1883.
ADVERTISEMENT.
On the 4th of December, 1882, Our Gracious Queen, on the occasion of the
opening of the Royal Courts of Justice, said:—
“I trust that the uniting together in one place of the various
branches of Judicature in this my Supreme Court, will conduce to the
_more efficient_ and _speedy_ administration of justice to my
subjects.”
On April 20th, 1883, in the House of Commons, Mr. H. H. Fowler asked the
Attorney-General whether he was aware of the large number of causes
waiting for trial in the Chancery Division of the High Court, and in the
Court of Appeal; and whether the Government proposed to take any steps to
remedy the delay and increased cost occasioned to the suitors by the
present administration of the Judicature Acts.
The Attorney-General said the number of cases of all descriptions then
waiting for trial in the Chancery Division was 848, and in the Court of
Appeal 270. The House would be aware that a committee of Judges had been
engaged for some time in framing rules in the hope of getting rid of some
of the delay that now existed in the hearing of cases; and until those
rules were prepared, which would be shortly, the Government were not
desirous of interfering with a matter over which the Judges had
jurisdiction. The Government were now considering the introduction of a
short Judicature Act for the purpose of lessening the delay.—_Morning
Post_.
[No rules or short Judicature Act at present!] {0a}
On the 13th April, 1883, Mr. Glasse, Q.C., thus referred to a statement
made by Mr. Justice Pearson of the Chancery Division: “The citizens of
this great country, of which your Lordship is one of the representatives,
will look at the statement you have made with respectful amazement.” The
statement appears to have been, that his Lordship had intended to
continue the business of the Court in exactly the same way in which it
had been conducted by Mr. Justice Fry; but he had been informed that he
would have to take the interlocutory business of Mr. Justice Kay’s Court
whilst his Lordship _was on Circuit_; and, as it was requisite that he
should take his own interlocutory business _before the causes set down
for hearing_, “ALL THE CAUSES IN THE TWO COURTS MUST GO TO THE WALL”!!!
His Lordship added, that it would be necessary for him to rise at 3
o’clock every day (not at 3 o’clock in the _morning_, gentle reader),
because he understood he should have to conduct the business of Mr.
Justice Kay’s Chambers as well as his own.—_Morning Post_.
On the 16th April, 1883, Mr. Justice Day, in charging the Grand Jury at
the Manchester Spring Assizes, expressed his disagreement with the
opinion of the other Judges in favour of the Commission being so altered
that the Judge would have to “_deliver all the prisoners detained in
gaol_,” and regarded it as “a waste of the Judge’s time that he should
have to try a case in which a woman was indicted for _stealing a shawl
worth_ 3_s._ 9_d._; or a prisoner charged with stealing _two mutton pies_
and _two ounces of bacon_.”—_Evening Standard_.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
Shows the Beauty of a Farm Yard on a Sabbath-Day, and what a 1
difference a single letter will sometimes make in the legal
signification of a Sentence
CHAPTER II.
The Simplicity and Enjoyments of a Country life depicted 11
CHAPTER III.
Showing how true it is that it takes at least Two to make a 17
Bargain or a Quarrel
CHAPTER IV.
On the extreme Simplicity of Going to Law 27
CHAPTER V.
In which it appears that the Sting of Slander is not always 35
in the Head
CHAPTER VI.
Showing how the greatest Wisdom of Parliament may be thrown 45
away on Ungrateful People
CHAPTER VII.
Showing that Appropriateness of Time and Place should be 55
studied in our Pastimes
CHAPTER VIII.
The Pleasure of a Country Drive on a Summer Evening described 63
as enhanced by a Pious Mind
CHAPTER IX.
A Farm-house Winter Fire-side—A morning Drive and a mutual 71
interchange of Ideas between Town and Country, showing how we
may all learn something from one another
CHAPTER X.
The last Night before the first London Expedition, which 87
gives occasion to recall pleasant reminiscences
CHAPTER XI.
Commencement of London Life and Adventures 97
CHAPTER XII.
How the great Don O’Rapley became an Usher of the Court of 105
Queen’s Bench, and explained the Ingenious Invention of the
Round Square—How Mr. Bumpkin took the water and studied
Character from a Penny Steamboat
CHAPTER XIII.
An interesting Gentleman—showing how true it is that one half 111
the World does not know how the other half lives
CHAPTER XIV.
The Old Bailey—Advantages of the New System illustrated 119
CHAPTER XV.
Mr. Bumpkin’s Experience of London Life enlarged 133
CHAPTER XVI.
The coarse mode of Procedure in Ahab _versus_ Naboth 143
ruthlessly exposed and carefully contrasted with the humane
and enlightened form of the Present Day
CHAPTER XVII.
Showing that Lay Tribunals are not exactly Punch and Judy 151
Shows where the Puppet is moved by the Man underneath
CHAPTER XVIII.
A comfortable Evening at the “Goose” 165
CHAPTER XIX.
The Subject continued 175
CHAPTER XX.
Mr. Bumpkin sings a good old Song—The Sergeant becomes quite 179
a convivial Companion and plays Dominoes
CHAPTER XXI.
Joe electrifies the Company and surprises the Reader 191
CHAPTER XXII.
The Sergeant makes a loyal Speech and sings a Song, both of 203
which are well received by the Company
CHAPTER XXIII.
The famous Don O’Rapley and Mr. Bumpkin spend a social 213
Evening at the “Goose”
CHAPTER XXIV.
Don O’Rapley expresses his views of the Policy of the 221
Legislature in not permitting Dominoes to be played in
Public-houses
CHAPTER XXV.
In spite of all warnings, Joe takes his own part, not to be 227
persuaded on one side or the other—Affecting Scene between
Mr. Bumpkin and his old Servant
CHAPTER XXVI.
Morning Reflections—Mrs. Oldtimes proves herself to be a 239
great Philosopher—The Departure of the Recruits to be sworn
in
CHAPTER XXVII.
A Letter from Home 245
CHAPTER XXVIII.
Mr. Bumpkin determines to maintain a discreet silence about 255
his Case at the Old Bailey—Mr. Prigg confers with him thereon
CHAPTER XXIX.
The Trial at the Old Bailey of Mr. Simple Simonman for 261
Highway Robbery with violence—Mr. Alibi introduces himself to
Mr. Bumpkin
CHAPTER XXX.
Mr. Alibi is stricken with a Thunderbolt—Interview with 283
Horatio and Mr. Prigg
CHAPTER XXXI.
Mr. Bumpkin at Home again 295
CHAPTER XXXII.
Joe’s Return to Southwood—An Invitation from the Vicar—What 303
the Old Oak saw
CHAPTER XXXIII.
A Consultation as to new Lodgings—Also a Consultation with 317
Counsel
CHAPTER XXXIV.
Mr. Bumpkin receives Compliments from distinguished Persons 325
CHAPTER XXXV.
The Trial 335
CHAPTER XXXVI.
Motion for Rule _Nisi_, in which is displayed much Learning, 351
Ancient and Modern
CHAPTER XXXVII.
Mr. Bumpkin is congratulated by his Neighbours and Friends in 359
the Market Place and sells his Corn
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
Farewell 375
THE LAWSUIT 381
“_He never suffered his private partiality to intrude into the
conduct of publick business_. _Nor in appointing to employments did
he permit solicitation to supply the place of merit_; _wisely
sensible_, _that a proper choice of officers is almost the whole of
Government_.”—BURKE.
_Extract from Notice of the Work in_ THE SATURDAY REVIEW, _September_
15_th_, 1883:—
“He was obviously quite as eager for a good battle in Court as ever
was Dandy Dinmont.”
CHAPTER I.
The beauty of a farm yard on a Sabbath day, and what a difference a
single letter will sometimes make in the legal signification of a
sentence.
It was during the Long Vacation—that period which is Paradise to the Rich
and Purgatory to the Poor Lawyer—to say nothing of the client, who simply
exists as a necessary evil in the economy of our enlightened system of
Legal Procedure: it was during this delightful or dismal period that I
returned one day to my old Farm-house in Devonshire, from a long and
interesting ramble. My excellent thirst and appetite having been
temperately appeased, I seated myself cosily by the huge chimney, where
the log was always burning; and, having lighted my pipe, surrendered my
whole being to the luxurious enjoyment of so charming a situation. I had
scarcely finished smoking, when I fell into a sound and delicious sleep.
And behold! I dreamed a dream; and methought:
It was a beautiful Sabbath morning, in the early part of May, 18--, when
two men might have been seen leaning over a pigstye. The pigstye was
situated in a farm-yard in the lovely village of Yokelton, in the county
of Somerset. Both men had evidently passed what is called the “prime of
life,” as was manifest from their white hair, wrinkled brows, and
stooping shoulders. It was obvious that they were contemplating some
object with great interest and thoughtful attention.
And I perceived that in quiet and respectful conversation with them was a
fine, well-formed, well-educated sow of the Chichester breed. It was
plain from the number of her rings that she was a sow of great
distinction, and, indeed, as I afterwards learned, was the most famous
for miles around: her progeny (all of whom I suppose were honourables)
were esteemed and sought by squire and farmer. How that sow was bred up
to become so polite a creature, was a mystery to all; because there were
gentlemen’s homesteads all around, where no such thoroughbred could be
found. But I suppose it’s the same with pigs as it is with men: a
well-bred gentleman may work in the fields for his living, and a cad may
occupy the manor-house or the nobleman’s hall.
The Chichester sow looked up with an air of easy nonchalance into the
faces of the two men who smoked their short pipes, and uttered ever and
anon some short ejaculation, such as, “Hem!” “Ah!” “Zounds!” and so
forth, while the sow exhibited a familiarity with her superiors only to
be acquired by mixing in the best society. There was a respectful
deference which, while it betrayed no sign of servility, was in pleasing
contrast with the boisterous and somewhat unbecoming levity of the other
inhabitants of the stye. These people were the last progeny of this
illustrious Chichester, and numbered in all eleven—seven sons and four
daughters—honourables all. It was impossible not to admire the high
spirit of this well-descended family. That they had as yet received no
education was due to the fact that their existence dated only from the
21st of January last. Hence their somewhat erratic conduct, such as
jumping, running, diving into the straw, boring their heads into one
another’s sides, and other unceremonious proceedings in the presence of
the two gentlemen whom it is necessary now more particularly to describe.
Mr. Thomas Bumpkin, the elder of the two, was a man of about seventy
summers, as tall and stalwart a specimen of Anglo-Saxon peasantry as you
could wish to behold. And while I use the word “peasantry” let it be
clearly understood that I do so in no sense as expressing Mr. Bumpkin’s
present condition. He had risen from the English peasantry, and was what
is usually termed a “self-made man.” He was born in a little hut
consisting of “wattle and dab,” and as soon as he could make himself
heard was sent into the fields to “mind the birds.” Early in the
November mornings, immediately after the winter sowings, he would be seen
with his little bag of brown bread round his neck, trudging along with a
merry whistle, as happy as if he had been going home to a bright fire and
a plentiful breakfast of ham, eggs, and coffee. By degrees he had raised
himself to the position of ploughman, and never ploughman drove a
straighter or leveller furrow. He had won prizes at the annual ploughing
and harrowing matches: and upon the strength of ten and sixpence a week
had married Nancy Tugby, to whom he had been engaged off and on for
eleven years. Nancy was a frugal housewife, and worked hard, morning,
noon and night. She was quite a treasure to Bumpkin; and, what with
taking in a little washing, and what with going out to do a little
charing, and what with Tom’s skill in mending cart-harness (nearly all
the cart-harness in the neighbourhood was in a perpetual state of
“mendin’”), they had managed to put together in a year or two enough
money to buy a sow. This, Tom always said, was “his first start.” And
mighty proud they both were as they stood together of a Sunday morning
looking at this wonderful treasure. The sow soon had pigs, and the pigs
got on and were sold, and then the money was expended in other things,
which in their turn proved equally remunerative. Then Tom got a piece of
land, and next a pet ewe-lamb, and so on, until little by little wealth
accumulated, and he rented at last, after a long course of laborious
years, from the Squire, a small homestead called “Southwood Farm,”
consisting of some fifty acres. Let it not be supposed that the
accession of an extra head of live stock was a small matter. Everything
is great or little by relation. I believe the statesman himself knows no
greater pleasure when he first obtains admission to the Cabinet, than Tom
did when he took possession of his little farm. And he certainly
experienced as great a joy when he got a fresh pig as any young barrister
does when he secures a new client.
Southwood Farm was a lovely homestead, situated near a very pretty river,
and in the midst of the most picturesque scenery. The little rivulet
(for it was scarcely more) twisted about in the quaintest conceivable
manner, almost encircling the cosy farm; while on the further side rose
abruptly from the water’s edge high embankments studded thickly with oak,
ash, and an undergrowth of saplings of almost every variety. The old
house was spacious for the size of the farm, and consisted of a large
living-room, ceiled with massive oak beams and oak boards, which were
duly whitewashed, and looked as white as the sugar on a wedding cake.
The fireplace was a huge space with seats on either side cut in the wall;
while from one corner rose a rude ladder leading to a bacon loft.
Dog-irons of at least a century old graced the brick hearth, while the
chimney-back was adorned with a huge slab of iron wrought with divers
quaint designs, and supposed to have been in some way or other connected
with the Roman invasion, as it had been dug up somewhere in the
neighbourhood, by whom or when no one ever knew. There was an inner
chamber besides the one we are now in, which was used as a kitchen; while
on the opposite side was a little parlour with red-tiled floor and a
comparatively modern grate. This was the reception room, used chiefly
when any of the ladies from “t’Squoire’s” did Mrs. Bumpkin the honour to
call and taste her tea-cakes or her gooseberry wine. The thatched roof
was gabled, and the four low-ceiled bedrooms had each of them a window in
a gable. The house stood in a well-stocked garden, beyond which was a
lovely green meadow sloping to the river side. In front was the little
farm-yard, with its double-bayed barn, its lean-to cow-houses, its
stables for five horses, and its cosy loft. Then there were the pigstyes
and the henhouses: all forming together a very convenient and compact
homestead. Adjoining the home meadow was a pretty orchard, full of
apple, pear, cherry and plum trees; and if any one could imagine that Mr.
and Mrs. Bumpkin had no eye or taste for the beautiful, I would have
advised that ill-conditioned person to visit those good people of a
Sunday morning after “brakfast” when the orchard was in full blossom.
This beautiful picture it was not only Mr. and Mrs. Bumpkin’s special joy
to behold, but their great and proud delight to show; and if they had
painted the blossoms themselves they could not have felt more intense
enjoyment and satisfaction.
There was one other feature about the little farm which I must mention,
because it is one of the grandest and most beautiful things in nature,
and that is the magnificent “Old Oak” that stood in the corner of one of
the home fields, and marked the boundary of the farm in that direction.
If the measure of its girth would be interesting to the reader to know,
it was just twenty-seven feet: not the largest in England certainly,
notwithstanding which the tree was one of the grandest and most
beautiful. It towered high into the air and spread its stalwart branches
like giant trees in all directions. It was said to be a thousand years
old, and to be inhabited by owls and ghosts. Whether the ghosts lived
there or not I am unable to say, but from generation to generation the
tradition was handed down and believed to be true. Such was Mr.
Bumpkin’s home, in my dream: the home of Peace and Plenty, Happiness and
Love.
The man who was contemplating Mr. Bumpkin’s pigs on this same Sunday
morning was also a “self-made man,” whose name was Josiah SNOOKS. He was
not made so well as Bumpkin, I should say, by a great deal, but
nevertheless was a man who, as things go, was tolerably well put
together. He was the village coal-merchant, not a Cockerell by any
means, but a merchant who would have a couple of trucks of “Derby
Brights” down at a time, and sell them round the village by the
hundredweight. No doubt he was a very thrifty man, and to the extent, so
some people said, of nipping the poor in their weight. And once he
nearly lost the contract for supplying the coal-gifts at Christmas on
that account. But he made it a rule to attend church very regularly as
the season came round, and so did Mrs. Josiah Snooks; and it will require
a great deal of “nipping” to get over that in a country village, I
promise you. I did not think Snooks a nice looking man, by any means;
for he had a low forehead, a scowling brow, a nobbly fat nose, small
eyes, one of which had a cast, a large mouth always awry and distorted
with a sneer, straight hair that hung over his forehead, and a large scar
on his right cheek. His teeth were large and yellow, and the top ones
protruded more, I thought, than was at all necessary. Nor was he
generally beliked. In fact, so unpopular was this man with the poor,
that it was a common thing for mothers to say to their children when they
could not get them in of a summer’s evening, “You, Betsy,” or “You, Jane,
come in directly, or old Snooks will have you!” A warning which always
produced the desired effect.
No one could actually tell whether Snooks had made money or merely
pretended to possess it. Some said they knew he had, for he lived so
niggardly; others said the coal trade was not what it was; and there were
not wanting people who hinted that old Betty Bodger’s house and
garden—which had been given to her years ago by the old squire, what for,
nobody knew—had been first mortgaged to Josiah and then sold to him and
“taken out in coals.” A very cunning man was Snooks; kept his own
counsel—I don’t mean a barrister in wig and gown on his premises—but in
the sense of never divulging what was in his sagacious mind. He was
known as a universal buyer of everything that he could turn a penny out
of; and he sold everybody whenever he got the chance. Such was the
character of old Snooks.
How then came our good guileless friend Bumpkin to be associated with
such a man on this beautiful Sunday morning? I can only answer: there
are things in this world which admit of no explanation. This, so far as
I am concerned, was one.
“They be pooty pork,” said Mr. Bumpkin.
“Middlin’,” rejoined the artful Snooks.
“They be a mighty dale more an middlin’, if you come to thic,” said the
farmer.
“I’ve seen a good deal better,” remarked Snooks. This was always his
line of bargaining.
“Well, I aint,” returned Bumpkin, emphatically. “Look at that un—why, he
be fit for anything—a regler pictur.”
“What’s he worth?” said Snooks. “Three arf crowns?” That was Snooks’
way of dealing.
“Whisht!” exclaimed Bumpkin; “and four arf-crowns wouldn’t buy un.” That
was Bumpkin’s way.
Snooks expectorated and gave a roar, which he intended for a laugh, but
which made every pig jump off its feet and dive into the straw.
“I tell ’ee what, maister Bumpkin, I doant want un”—that was his way
again; “but I doant mind giving o’ thee nine shillings for that un.”
“Thee wunt ’ave un—not a farden less nor ten if I knows it; ye doant ’ave
we loike that, nuther—ye beant sellin’ coals, maister Snooks—no, nor
buyin’ pigs if I knows un.”
How far this conversation would have proceeded, and whether any serious
altercation would have arisen, I know not; but at this moment a
combination of circumstances occurred to interrupt the would-be
contracting parties. First, Mrs. Bumpkin, who had been preparing the
Sunday dinner, came across the yard with her apron full of cabbage-leaves
and potato-peelings, followed by an immense number of chickens, while the
ducks in the pond clapped their wings, and flew and ran with as much
eagerness as though they were so many lawyers seeking some judicial
appointment, and Mrs. Bumpkin were Lord High Chancellor of Great Britain;
and they made as much row as a flock of Chancery Barristers arguing about
costs. Then came along, with many a grunt and squeak, a pig or two, who
seemed to be enjoying a Sunday holiday in their best clothes, for they
had just come out of a puddle of mud; then came slouching along, a young
man whose name was Joe (or, more correctly speaking, Joseph Wurzel), a
young man of about seventeen, well built, tall and straight, with a
pleasant country farm-house face, a roguish black eye, even teeth, and a
head of brown straight hair, that looked as if the only attention it ever
received was an occasional trimming with a reap-hook, and a brush with a
bush-harrow.
It was just feeding time; that was why Joe came up at this moment; and in
addition to all these circumstances, there came faintly booming through
the trees the ding of the old church bell, reminding Mr. Bumpkin that he
must “goo and smarten oop a bit” for church. He already had on his
purple cord trousers, and, as Joe termed it, his hell-fire waistcoat with
the flames coming out of it in all directions; but he had to put on his
drab “cooat” and white smock-frock, and then walk half a mile before
service commenced. He always liked to be there before the Squire, and
see him and his daughters, Miss Judith and Miss Mary, come in.
So he had to leave the question of the “walley” of the pig and attend to
the more important interests of his immortal soul. But now as he was
going comes the point to which the reader’s special attention is
directed. He had got about six yards from the stye, or it may have been
a little more, when Snooks cried out:
“I’ve bought un for nine and six.”
To which Mr. Bumpkin replied, without so much as turning his head—
“’Ave ur.”
Now this expression, according to Chitty on Contracts, would mean, “Have
you, indeed? Mr. Snooks.” But the extreme cunning of Josiah converted it
into “’Ave un,” which, by the same learned authority would signify, “Very
well, Mr. Snooks, you can have him.”
CHAPTER II.
The simplicity and enjoyments of a country life depicted.
A quiet day was Sunday on Southwood Farm. Joe used to slumber in the
meadows among the buttercups, or in the loft, or near the kitchen-fire,
as the season and weather invited. That is to say, until such time as,
coming out of Sunday School (for to Sunday School he sometimes went) he
saw one of the fairest creatures he had ever read about either in the
Bible or elsewhere! It was a very strange thing she should be so
different from everybody else: not even the clergyman’s daughters—no, nor
the Squire’s daughters, for the matter of that—looked half so nice as
pretty Polly Sweetlove, the housemaid at the Vicar’s.
“Now look at that,” said Joe, as he went along the lane on that Sunday
when he first beheld this divine creature. “I’m danged if she beant
about the smartest lookin o’ any on ’em. Miss Mary beant nothing to her:
it’s a dandelion to a toolup.”
So ever since that time Joe had slept less frequently in the hay-loft on
a Sunday afternoon; and, be it said to his credit, had attended his
church with greater punctuality. The vicar took great notice of the
lad’s religious tendencies, and had him to his night-school at the
vicarage, in consequence; and certainly no vicar ever knew a boy more
regular in his attendance. He was there waiting to go in ever so long
before the school began, and was always the very last to leave the
premises.
Often he would peep over the quick-set hedge into the kitchen-window,
just to catch a glance of this lovely angel. And yet, so far as he could
tell, she had never looked at him. When she opened the door, Joe always
felt a thrill run through him as if some extraordinary thing had
happened. It was a kind of jump; and yet he had jumped many times before
that: “it wasn’t the sort of jump,” he said, “as a chap gits either from
bein’ frit or bein’ pleased.” And what to make of it he didn’t know.
Then Polly’s cap was about the loveliest thing, next to Polly herself, he
had ever seen. It was more like a May blossom than anything else, or a
beautiful butterfly on the top of a water-lily. In fact, all the rural
images of a rude but not inartistic mind came and went as this country
boy thought of his beautiful Polly. As he ploughed the field, if he saw
a May-blossom in the hedgerow, it reminded him of Polly’s cap; and even
the little gentle daisy was like Polly herself. Pretty Polly was
everywhere!
Mr. and Mrs. Bumpkin, on a fine Sabbath afternoon, would take their
pastime in the open air. First Mr. Bumpkin would take down his long
churchwarden pipe from its rack on the ceiling, where it lay in close
companionship with an ancient flint-gun; then he would fill it tightly,
so as to make it last the longer, with tobacco from his leaden jar; and
then, having lighted it, he and his wife would go out of the back door,
through the garden and the orchard, and along by the side of the quiet
river. By their side, as a matter of course, came Tim the Collie (named
after Mrs. Bumpkin’s grandfather Timothy), who knew as well as possible
every word that was being said. If Mrs. Bumpkin only asked, “Where is
Betsy?” (that was the head Alderney cow) Tim would bark and fly across to
the meadow where she was; and then, having said to her and to the five
other Alderney cows and four heifers, “Why, here’s master and missus
coming round to look at you, why on earth don’t you come and see them?”
up the whole herd would come, straggling one after the other, to the
meadow where Mr. and Mrs. Bumpkin were waiting for them; and all would
look over the hedge, as much as to say, “How d’ye do, master, and how
d’ye do, missus; what a nice day, isn’t it?” exactly in the same manner
as men and women greet one another as often as they meet. And then there
was the old donkey, Jack, whom Tim would chaff no matter when or where he
saw him. I believe if Tim had got him in church, he would have chaffed
him. It was very amusing to see Jack duck his head and describe a circle
as Tim swept round him, barking with all his might, and yet only laughing
all the while. Sometimes Jack, miscalculating distances—he wasn’t very
great at mathematics—and having no eye for situations, would kick out
vigorously with his hind legs, thinking Tim was in close proximity to his
heels; whereas the sagacious and jocular Tim was leaning on his
outstretched fore-feet immediately in front of Jack’s head.
Then there was another sight, not the least interesting on these
afternoon rambles: in the far meadow, right under “the lids,” as they
were called, lived the famous Bull of Southwood Farm. He was Mrs.
Bumpkin’s pet. She had had him from a baby, and used to feed him in his
infant days from a bottle by the kitchen fire. And so docile was he
that, although few strangers would be safe in intruding into his
presence, he would follow Mrs. Bumpkin about, as she said, “just like a
Christian.” The merits of this bull were the theme, on all appropriate
occasions, of Mrs. Bumpkin’s unqualified praise. If the Vicar’s wife
called, as she sometimes did, to see how Mrs. Bumpkin was getting on,
Mrs. Bumpkin’s “baby” (that is the bull) was sure to be brought up—I
don’t mean by the nurse, but in conversation. No matter how long she
waited her opportunity, Mrs. Goodheart never left without hearing
something of the exploits of this remarkable bull. In truth, he was a
handsome, well-bred fellow. He had come from the Squire’s—so you may be
sure his breed was gentlemanly in the extreme; and his grandmother, on
the maternal side, had belonged to the Bishop of Winchester; so you have
a sufficient guarantee, I hope, for his moral character and orthodox
principles. Indeed, it had been said that no dissenter dared pass
through the meadow where he was, in consequence of his connection with
the Establishment. Now, on the occasions when Mr. and Mrs. Bumpkin took
their walks abroad through the meadows to see their lambkins and their
bull skip, this is what would invariably happen. First, Mrs. Bumpkin
would go through the little cosy-looking gate in the corner of the
meadow, right down by the side of the old boat-house; then Mr. Bumpkin
would follow, holding his long pipe in one hand and his ash-stick in the
other. Then, away in the long distance, at the far end of the meadow (he
was always up there on these occasions), stood “Sampson” (that was the
bull), with his head turned right round towards his master and mistress,
as if he were having his photograph taken. Thus he stood for a moment;
then down went his huge forehead to the ground; up went his tail to the
sky; then he sent a bellow along the earth which would have frightened
anybody but his “mother,” and started off towards his master and mistress
like a ship in a heavy sea; sometimes with his keel up in the air, and
sometimes with his prow under water: it not only was playful, it was
magnificent, and anybody unaccustomed to oxen might have been a little
terrified by the furious glare of his eyes and the terrible snort of his
nostrils as he approached.
Not so Mrs. Bumpkin, who held out her hand, and ejaculated,
“My pretty baby; my sweet pet; good Sampson!” and many other expressions
of an endearing character.
“Good Sampson” looked, snorted, danced, plunged and careered; and then
came up and let Mrs. Bumpkin stroke and pat him; while Bumpkin looked on,
smoking his pipe peacefully, and thinking what a fine fellow he, the
bull, was, and what a great man he, Bumpkin, must be to be the possessor
of “sich!”
Thus the peaceful afternoon would glide quietly and sweetly away, and so
would the bull, after the interesting interview was over.
They always returned in time for tea, and then Mrs. Bumpkin would go to
evening service, while Mr. Bumpkin would wait for her on the little piece
of green near the church, where neighbours used to meet and chat of a
Sunday evening; such as old Mr. Gosling, the market gardener, and old
Master Mott, the head gardener to the Squire, and Master Cole, the
farmer, and various others, the original inhabitants of Yokelton;
discussing the weather and the crops, the probability of Mr. Tomson
getting in again at the vestry as waywarden; what kind of a highway rate
there would be for the coming year; how that horse got on that Mr. Sooby
bought at the fair; and various other matters of importance to a village
community. They would also pass remarks upon any striking personage who
passed them on his way to church. Mr. Prigg, for instance, the village
lawyer, who, they said, was a remarkably upright and down-straight sort
of man; although his wife, they thought, was “a little bit stuck up like”
and gave herself airs a little different from Mrs. Goodheart, who would
“always talk to ’em jist the same as if she was one o’ th’ people.” So
that, on the whole, they entertained themselves very amicably until such
time as the “organ played the people out of church.” Then every one
looked for his wife or daughter, as the case might be, and wished one
another good night: most of them having been to church in the morning,
they did not think it necessary to repeat the performance in the evening.
CHAPTER III.
Showing how true it is that it takes at least two to make a bargain or a
quarrel.
The day after the events which I have recorded, while the good farmer and
his wife were at breakfast, which was about seven o’clock, Joe presented
himself in the sitting-room, and said:
“Plase, maister, here be t’ money for t’ pig.”
“Money for t’ pig,” exclaimed Mr. Bumpkin; “what’s thee mean, lad? what
pig?”
“Maister Snooks!” said Joe, “there ur be, gwine wi’ t’ pig in t’ barrer.”
Nothing shall induce me to repeat the language of Mr. Bumpkin, as he
jumped up from the table, and without hat or cap rushed out of the room,
followed by Joe, and watched by Mrs. Bumpkin from the door. Just as he
got to the farmyard by one gate, there was Snooks leaving it by another
with Mr. Bumpkin’s pig in a sack in the box barrow which he was wheeling.
“Hulloa!” shouted the farmer; “hulloa here! Thee put un down—dang thee,
what be this? I said thee shouldn’t ave un, no more thee sha’n’t. I
beant gwine to breed Chichster pigs for such as thee at thy own price,
nuther.” Snooks grinned and went on his way, saying;
“I bought un and I’ll ’ave un.”
“An I’ll ’ave thee, dang’d if I doant, afore jussices; t’ Squoire’ll tell
thee.”
“I doant keer for t’ Squire no more nor I do for thee, old Bumpkin; thee
be a cunnin’ man, but thee sold I t’ pig and I’ll ’ave un, and I got un
too: haw! haw! haw! an thee got t’ money—nine-and-six—haw! haw! haw!”
Mr. Bumpkin by this time came up to him, but was so much out of breath,
or “winded,” that he was unable to carry on the conversation, so he just
tapped the bag with his stick as if to be certain the pig was there, and
sure enough it was, if you might judge by the extraordinary wriggling
that went on inside the bag.
The indomitable Snooks, however, with the largest and most hideous grin I
ever saw, pushed on with his barrow, and Mr. Bumpkin having now
sufficiently recovered his breath, said,
“Thee see ur tak un, didn’t thee, Joe?”
“Sure did ur,” answered the lad. “I seed un took un clane out o’ the
stye, and put un in the sack, and wheeled un away.”
“Ha! so ur did, Joe; stick to that, lad—stick to un.”
“And thee seed I pay th’ money for un, Joe, didn’t thee?” laughed Snooks.
“Seed I put un on t’ poast, and thee took un oop—haw! haw! haw! I got t’
pig and thee got t’ money—haw! haw! haw! Thee thowt thee’d done I, and I
done thee—haw! haw! haw!”
And away went Snooks and away went pig; but Snooks’ laugh remained, and
every now and then Snooks turned his head and showed his large yellow
teeth and roared again.
The rage of Mr. Bumpkin knew no bounds. There are some things in life
which are utterly unendurable; and one is the having your pig taken from
you against your will and without your consent—an act which would be
described legally as _the rape of the pig_. This offence, in Mr.
Bumpkin’s judgment, Snooks was guilty of; and therefore he resolved to do
that which is considered usually a wise thing, namely, to consult a
solicitor.
Now, if I were giving advice—which I do not presume to do—I should say
that in all matters of difficulty a man should consult his wife, his
priest, or his solicitor, and in the order in which I have named them.
In the event of consulting a solicitor the next important question
arises, “What solicitor?” I could write a book on this subject. There
are numerous solicitors, within my acquaintance, to whom I would entrust
my life and my character; there are some, not of my acquaintance, but of
my knowledge, into whose hands, if I had one spark of Christian feeling
left, I would not see my enemy delivered. There is little difference
between one class of men and another as to natural disposition; and
whether you take one or another, you must find the shady character. But
where the opportunities for mischief are so great as they are in the
practice of the Law, it is necessary that the utmost care should be
exercised in committing one’s interests to the keeping of another. Had
Mr. Bumpkin been a man of the world he would have suspected that under
the most ostentatious piety very often lurked the most subtle fraud.
Good easy man, had he been going to buy a hay-stack, he would not have
judged by the outside but have put his “iron” into it; he could not put
his iron into Mr. Prigg, I know, but he need not have taken him by his
appearance alone. I may observe that if Mr. Bumpkin had consulted his
sensible and affectionate spouse, or a really respectable solicitor, this
book would not have been written. If he had consulted the Vicar,
possibly another book might have been written; but, as it was, he
resolved to consult Mr. Prigg in the first instance. Now Mrs. Bumpkin,
except as the mother of the illustrious Bull, has very little to do with
this story. Mr. Prigg is one of its leading characters; but in my
description of that gentleman I am obliged to be concise: I must minimize
Prigg, great as he is, and I trust that in doing so I shall prospectively
minimize all future Priggs that may ever appear on the world’s stage. I
do not attempt to pulverize him, that would require the crushing pestle
of the legislature; but merely to make him as little as I can, with due
consideration for the requirements of my story.
I should be thought premature in mentioning Prigg, but that he was a
gentleman of great pretensions in the little village of Yokelton.
Gentleman by Act of Parliament, and in his own estimation, you may be
sure he was respected by all around him. That was not many, it is true,
for his house was the last of the straggling village. He was a man of
great piety and an extremely white neck-cloth; attended the parish church
regularly, and kept his white hair well brushed upwards—as though, like
the church steeple, it was to point the way at all times. He was the
most amiable of persons in regard to the distribution of the parish
gifts; and, being a lawyer it was not considered by the churchwardens, a
blacksmith and a builder, safe to refuse his kind and generous
assistance. He involved the parish in a law-suit once, in a question
relating to the duty to repair the parish pump; and since that time
everyone knew better than to ignore Mr. Prigg. I have heard that the
money spent in that action would have repaired all the parish pumps in
England for a century, but have no means of ascertaining the truth of
this statement.
Mr. Prigg was a man whose merits were not appreciated by the local
gentry, who never asked him to dinner. Virtue is thus sometimes
ill-rewarded in this world. And Mrs. Prigg’s virtue had also been
equally ignored when she had sought, almost with tears, to obtain tickets
for the County Ball.
Mr. Prigg was about sixty years old, methodical in his habits,
punctilious in his dress, polite in his demeanour, and precise in his
language. He wore a high collar of such remarkable stiffness that his
shoulders had to turn with his head whenever it was necessary to alter
his position. This gave an appearance of respectability to the head, not
to be acquired by any other means. It was, indeed, the most respectable
head I ever saw either in the flesh or in marble.
Mr. Prigg had descended from the well-known family of Prigg, and he
prided himself on the circumstance. How often was he seen in the little
churchyard of Yokelton of a Sunday morning, both before and after
service, pointing with family pride to the tombstone of a relative which
bore this beautiful and touching inscription:—
HERE
LIE THE ASHES OF
MR. JOHN PRIGG,
OF SMITH STREET, BRISTOL,
ORIGINALLY OF DUCK GREEN, YOKELTON,
WHO UNDER PECULIAR DISADVANTAGES
WHICH TO COMMON MINDS
WOULD HAVE BEEN A BAR TO ANY EXERTIONS
RAISED HIMSELF FROM ALL OBSCURE SITUATIONS
OF BIRTH AND FORTUNE
BY HIS OWN INDUSTRY AND FRUGALITY
TO THE ENJOYMENT OF A _MODERATE COMPETENCY_.
HE ATTAINED A PECULIAR EXCELLENCE
IN PENMANSHIP AND DRAWING
WITHOUT THE INSTRUCTIONS OF A MASTER,
AND TO EMINENCE IN ARITHMETIC,
THE USEFUL AND THE HIGHER BRANCHES OF
THE MATHEMATICS,
BY GOING TO SCHOOL ONLY A YEAR AND EIGHT MONTHS.
* * * * *
HE
DIED A BACHELOR
ON THE 24TH DAY OF OCTOBER, 1807,
IN THE 55TH YEAR OF HIS AGE;
AND WITHOUT FORGETTING
RELATIONS FRIENDS AND ACQUAINTANCES
BEQUEATHED ONE FIFTH OF HIS PROPERTY
TO PUBLIC CHARITY.
READER
THE WORLD IS OPEN TO THEE.
“GO THOU AND DO LIKEWISE.” {22}
It was generally supposed that this beautiful composition was from the
pen of Mr. Prigg himself, who, sitting as he did so high on his branch of
the Family Tree,
COULD LOOK
WITH PRIDE AND SYMPATHY
ON
THE MANLY STRUGGLES
OF A HUMBLER MEMBER
LOWER DOWN!
High Birth, like Great Wealth, can afford to condescend!
Mrs. Prigg was worthy of her illustrious consort. She was of the noble
family of the Snobs, and in every way did honour to her progenitors. As
the reader is aware, there is what is known as a “cultivated voice,” the
result of education—it is absolutely without affectation: there is also
the voice which, in imitation of the well-trained one, is little more
than a burlesque, and is affected in the highest degree: this was the
only fault in Mrs. Prigg’s voice.
Mr. Prigg’s home was charmingly small, but had all the pretensions of a
stately country house—its conservatory, its drawing-room, its study, and
a dining-room which told you as plainly as any dining-room could speak,
“I am related to Donkey Hall, where the Squire lives: I belong to the
same aristocratic family.”
Then there was the great heavy-headed clock in the passage. He did not
appear at all to know that he had come down in the world through being
sold by auction for two pounds ten. He said with great plausibility, “My
worth is not to be measured by the amount of money I can command; I am
the same personage as before.” And I thought it a very true observation,
but the philosophy thereof was a little discounted by his haughty
demeanour, which had certainly gone up as he himself had come down; and
that is a reason why I don’t as a rule like people who have come down in
the world—they are sure to be so stuck up. But I do like a person who
has come down in the world and doesn’t at all mind it—much better than
any man who has got up in the world from the half-crown, and does mind it
upon all occasions.
Mrs. Prigg, apart from her high descent, was a very aristocratic person:
as the presence of the grand piano in the drawing-room would testify.
She could no more live without a grand piano than ordinary people could
exist without food: the grand piano, albeit a very dilapidated one, was a
necessity of her well-descended condition. It was no matter that it
displaced more useful furniture; in that it only imitated a good many
other persons, and it told you whenever you entered the room: “You see me
here in a comparatively small way, but understand, I have been in far
different circumstances: I have been courted by the great, and listened
to by the aristocracy of England. I follow Mrs. Prigg wherever she goes:
she is a lady; her connections are high, and she never yet associated
with any but the best families. You could not diminish from her very
high breeding: put her in the workhouse, and with me to accompany her, it
would be transformed into a palace.”
Mr. Prigg was by no means a rich man as the world counts richness. No
one ever heard of his having a “_practice_,” although it was believed he
did a great deal in the way of “lending his name” _and profession_ to
impecunious and uneducated men; who could turn many a six-and-eightpence
under its prestige. So great is the moral “power of attorney,” as
contradistinguished from the legal “power of attorney.”
But Prigg, as I have hinted, was not only respectable, he was _good_: he
was more than that even, he was _notoriously_ good: so much so, that he
was called, in contradistinction to all other lawyers, “_Honest Lawyer
Prigg_”; and he had further acquired, almost as a universal title, the
sobriquet of “Nice.” Everybody said, “What a very nice man Mr. Prigg
is!” Then, in addition to all this, he was considered _clever_—why, I do
not know; but I have often observed that men can obtain the reputation of
being clever at very little cost, and without the least foundation. The
cheapest of all ways is to abuse men who really are clever, and if your
abuse be pungently and not too coarsely worded, it will be accepted by
the ignorant as _criticism_. Nothing goes down with shallow minds like
criticism, and the severest criticism is generally based on envy and
jealousy.
Mr. Prigg, then, was clever, respectable, good, and nice, remarkably
potent qualities for success in this world.
So I saw in my dream that Mr. Bumpkin, whose feelings were duly aroused,
turned his eye upon Honest Lawyer Prigg, and resolved to consult him upon
the grievous outrage to which he had been subjected at the hands of the
cunning Snooks: and without more ado he resolved to call on that very
worthy and extremely nice gentleman.
CHAPTER IV.
On the extreme simplicity of going to law.
With his right leg resting on his left, with his two thumbs nicely
adjusted, and with the four points of his right fingers in delicate
contact with the fingers of his left hand, sat Honest Lawyer Prigg,
listening to the tale of unutterable woe, as recounted by Farmer Bumpkin.
Sometimes the good man’s eyes looked keenly at the farmer, and sometimes
they scanned vacantly the ceiling, where a wandering fly seemed, like Mr.
Bumpkin, in search of consolation or redress. Sometimes Mr. Prigg nodded
his respectable head and shoulders in token of his comprehension of Mr.
Bumpkin’s lucid statement: then he nodded two or three times in
succession, implying that the Court was with Mr. Bumpkin, and
occasionally he would utter with a soft soothing voice,
“Quite so!”
When he said “quite so,” he parted his fingers, and reunited them with
great precision; then he softly tapped them together, closed his eyes,
and seemed lost in profound meditation.
Here Mr. Bumpkin paused and stared. Was Mr. Prigg listening?
“Pray proceed,” said the lawyer, “I quite follow you;—never mind about
what anybody else had offered you for the pig—the question really is
whether you actually sold this pig to Snooks or not—whether the bargain
was complete or inchoate.”
Mr. Bumpkin stared again. “I beant much of a scollard, sir,” he
observed; “but I’ll take my oath I never sold un t’pig.”
“That is the question,” remarked the lawyer. “You say you did not?
Quite so; had this Joe of yours any authority to receive money on your
behalf?”
“Devil a bit,” answered Bumpkin.
“Excuse me,” said Mr. Prigg, “I have to put these questions: it is
necessary that I should understand where we are: of course, if you did
not sell the pig, he had no right whatever to come and take it out of the
sty—it was a trespass?”
“That’s what I says,” said Bumpkin; and down went his fist on Mr. Prigg’s
table with such vehemence that the solicitor started as though aroused by
a shock of dynamite.
“Let us be calm,” said the lawyer, taking some paper from his desk, and
carefully examining the nib of a quill pen, “Let me see, I think you said
your name was Thomas?”
“That’s it, sir; and so was my father’s afore me.”
“Thomas Bumpkin?”
“I beant ashamed on him.”
And then Mr. Prigg wrote out a document and read it aloud; and Mr.
Bumpkin agreeing with it, scratched his name at the bottom—very badly
scratched it was, but well enough for Mr. Prigg. This was simply to
retain Mr. Prigg as his solicitor in the cause of _Bumpkin_ v. _Snooks_.
“Quite so, quite so; now let me see; be calm, Mr. Bumpkin, be calm; in
all these matters we must never lose our self-possession. You see, I am
not excited.”
“Noa,” said Bumpkin; “but then ur dint tak thy pig.”
“Quite true, I can appreciate the position, it was no doubt a gross
outrage. Now tell me—this Snooks, as I understand, is the coal-merchant
down the village?”
“That’s ur,” said Bumpkin.
“I suppose he’s a man of some property, eh?”
Mr. Bumpkin looked for a few moments without speaking, and then said:
“He wur allays a close-fisted un, and I should reckon have a goodish bit
o’ property.”
“Because you know,” remarked the solicitor, “it is highly important, when
one wins a case and obtains damages, that the defendant should be in a
position to pay them.”
This was the first time that ever the flavour of damages had got into
Bumpkin’s mouth; and a very nice flavour it was. To beat Snooks was one
thing, a satisfaction; to make him pay was another, a luxury.
“Yes, sir,” he repeated; “I bleeve he ave, I bleeve he ave.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Wull, fust and foremust, I knows he lent a party a matter of a hundred
pound, for I witnessed un.”
“Then he hasn’t got that,” said the lawyer.
“Yes ur ave, sir, or how so be as good; for it wur a morgage like, and
since then he’ve got the house.”
Mr. Prigg made a note, and asked where the house was.
“It be widder Jackson’s.”
“Indeed; very well.”
“An then there be the bisness.”
“Exactly,” said the lawyer, “horses and carts, weighing machines, and so
on?”
“And the house he live in,” said Bumpkin, “I know as ow that longs to
him.”
“Very well; I think that will be enough to start with.” Now, Mr. Prigg
knew pretty well the position of the respective parties himself; so it
was not so much for his own information that he made these inquiries as
to infuse into Bumpkin’s mind a notion of the importance of the case.
“Now,” said he, throwing down the pen, “this is a very serious matter,
Mr. Bumpkin.”
This was a comfort, and Bumpkin looked agreeably surprised and vastly
important.
“A very serious case,” and again the tips of the fingers were brought in
contact.
“I spoase we can’t bring un afore jusseses, sir?”
“Well, you see the criminal law is dangerous; you can’t get damages, and
you may get an action for malicious prosecution.”
“I think we ought to mak un pay for ’t.”
“That is precisely my own view, but I am totally at a loss to understand
the reason of such outrageous conduct on the part of this Snooks. Now
don’t be offended, Mr. Bumpkin, if I put a question to you. You know, we
lawyers like to search to the bottom of things. I can understand, if you
had owed him any money—”
“Owe un money!” exclaimed Bumpkin contemptuously; “why I could buy un out
and out.”
“Ah, quite so, quite so; so I should have supposed from what I know of
you, Mr. Bumpkin.”
“Lookee ere, sir,” said the farmer; “I bin a ard workin man all my life,
paid my way, twenty shillins in the pound, and doant owe a penny as fur
as I knows.”
“And if you did, Mr. Bumpkin,” said the lawyer with a good-natured laugh,
“I dare say you could pay.”
“Wull, I bleeve there’s no man can axe me for nothing; and thank God,
what I’ve got’s my own; and there aint many as got pootier stock nor
mine—all good bred uns, Mr. Prigg.”
“Yes, I’ve often heard your cattle praised.”
“He be a blagard if ur says I owed un money.”
“O, dear, Mr. Bumpkin, pray don’t misunderstand me; he did not, that I am
aware, allege that he took the pig because you owed him money; and even
if you did, he could not legally have done so. Now this is not a mere
matter of debt; it’s a very serious case of trespass.”
“Ay; zo ’t be sir; that was my bleef, might jist as wull a tooked baacon
out o’ baacon loft.”
“Just the same. Quite so—quite so!”
“And I want thee, Mr. Prigg, to mak un pay for’t—mak un pay, sir; it
beant so much th’ pig.”
“Quite so: quite so: that were a very trifling affair, and might be
settled in the County Court; but, in fact, it’s not the pig at all, it’s
trespass, and you want to make him answerable in damages.”
“That’s it, sir; you’ve got un.”
“I suppose an apology and a return of the pig would not be enough.”
“I’ll make un know he beant everybody,” said Bumpkin.
“Quite so; now what shall we lay the damages at?”
“Wull, sir, as for that, I doant rightly know; if so be he’d pay down,
that’s one thing, but it’s my bleef as you might jist as wull try to dror
blood out of a stoane as git thic feller to do what’s right.”
“Shall we say a hundred pounds and costs?”
Never did man look more astonished than Bumpkin. A hundred pounds! What
a capital thing going to law must be! But, as the reader knows, he was a
remarkably discreet man, and never in the course of his dealing committed
himself till the final moment. Whenever anybody made him a “bid,” he
invariably met the offer with one form of refusal. “Nay, nay; it beant
good enough: I bin offered moore.” And this had answered so well, that
it came natural to Bumpkin to refuse on all occasions the first offer.
It was not to be wondered at then that the question should be regarded in
the light of an offer from Snooks himself. Now he could hardly say “I
bin _bid moore_ money,” because the case wasn’t in the market; but he
could and did say the next best thing to it, namely:—
“I wunt let un goo for that—’t be wuth moore!”
“Very well,” observed Prigg; “so long as we know: we can lay our damages
at what we please.”
Now there was great consolation in that. The plaintiff paused and rubbed
his chin. “What do thee think, sir?”
“I think if he pays something handsome, and gives us an apology, and pays
the costs, I should advise you to take it.”
“As you please, sir; I leaves it to you; I beant a hard man, I hope.”
“Very good; we will see what can be done. I shall bring this action in
the Chancery Division.”
“Hem! I’ve eerd tell, sir, that if ever a case gets into that ere Coourt
he niver comes out agin.”
“O, that’s all nonsense; there used to be a good deal of truth in that;
but the procedure is now so altered that you can do pretty much what you
like: this is an age of despatch; you bring your action, and your writ is
almost like a cheque payable on demand!”
“Wull, I beant no lawyer, never had nothing to do wi un in my life; but I
should like to axe, sir, why thee’ll bring this ere case in Chancery?”
“Good; well, come now, I like to be frank; we shall get more costs?”
Mr. Bumpkin again rubbed his chin. “And do I get em?” he asked.
“Well, they go towards expenses; the other side always pays.”
This was a stroke of reasoning not to be gainsaid. But Mr. Prigg had a
further observation to make on the subject, and it was this:
“After the case has gone on up to being ready for trial, and the Judges
find that it is a case more fitting to be tried in the Common Law Courts,
then an order is made transferring it, that is, sending it out of
Chancery to be tried by one of the other Judges.”
“Can’t see un,” said Bumpkin, “I beant much of a scollard, but I tak it
thee knows best.”
Mr. Prigg smiled: a beneficent, sympathizing smile.
“I dare say,” he said, “it looks a little mysterious, but we lawyers
understand it; so, if you don’t mind, I shall bring it in the Chancery
Division in the first instance; and nice and wild the other side will be.
I fancy I see the countenance of Snooks’ lawyer.”
This was a good argument, and perfectly satisfactory to the
unsophisticated mind of Bumpkin.
“And when,” he asked, “will ur come on, think’ee?”
“O, in due time; everything is done very quickly now—not like it used to
be—you’d be surprised, we used to have to wait years—yes, years, sir,
before an action could be tried; and now, why bless my soul, you get
judgment before you know where you are.”
How true this turned out to be may hereafter appear; but in a dream you
never anticipate.
“I shall write at once,” said “Honest Prigg,” “for compensation and an
apology; I think I would have an apology.”
“Make un pay—I doant so much keer for the t’other thing; that beant much
quonsequence.”
“Quite so—quite so.” And with this observation Mr. Prigg escorted his
client to the door.
CHAPTER V.
In which it appears that the sting of slander is not always in the head.
Mr. Prigg lost no time in addressing a letter to the ill-advised Josiah
Snooks with the familiar and affectionate commencement of “Dear Sir,’”
asking for compensation for the “gross outrage” he had committed upon
“his client;” and an apology to be printed in such papers as he, the
client, should select.
The “Dear Sir” replied, not in writing, for he was too artful for that,
but by returning, as became his vulgar nature, Mr. Prigg’s letter in a
very torn and disgusting condition.
To a gentleman of cultivated mind and sensitive nature, this was
intolerable; and Mr. Prigg knew that even the golden bridge of compromise
was now destroyed. He no longer felt as a mere lawyer, anxious in the
interests of his client, which was a sufficient number of horse-power for
anything, but like an outraged and insulted gentleman, which was more
after the force of hydraulic pressure than any calculable amount of
horse-power. It was clear to his upright and sensitive mind that Snooks
was a low creature. Consequently all professional courtesies were at an
end: the writ was issued and duly served upon the uncompromising Snooks.
Now a writ is not a matter to grin at and to treat with contempt or
levity. Mr. Snooks could not return that document to Mr. Prigg, so he
had to consider. And first he consulted his wife: this consultation led
to a domestic brawl and then to his kicking one of his horses in the
stomach. Then he threw a shovel at his dog, and next the thought
occurred to him that he had better go and see Mr. Locust. This gentleman
was a solicitor who practised at petty sessions. He did not practise
much, but that was, perhaps, his misfortune rather than his fault. He
was a small, fiery haired man, with a close cut tuft of beard; small
eyes, and a pimply nose, which showed an ostentatious disdain for
everything beneath it.
Mr. Locust was not at home, but would return about nine. At nine,
therefore, the impatient Snooks appeared.
“Yes,” said Mr. Locust, as he looked at the writ, “I see this writ is
issued by Mr. Prigg.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did he not write to you before issuing it?—dear me, this is very sharp
practice—very sharp practice: the sharpest thing I ever heard of in all
my life.”
“Wull, he did write, but I giv un as good as he sent.”
“Dear me!” exclaimed Mr. Locust; “I am afraid you have committed
yourself.”
“No I beant, sir,” said the cunning Snooks, with a grin, “no I beant.”
“You should never write without consulting a solicitor—bear that in mind,
Mr. Snooks; it will be an invaluable lesson—hem!”
“I never writ, sir—I ony sent un his letter back.”
“Ah!” said Locust, “come now, that is better; but still you should have
consulted me. I see this claim is for three hundred and fifty
pounds—it’s for trespass. Now sit down quietly and calmly, and tell me
the facts.” And then he took pen and paper and placed himself in
position to take his retainer and instructions.
“Wull, sir, it is as this: a Sunday mornin—no, a Sunday mornin week—I
won’t tell no lie if I knows it—a Sunday mornin week—”
“Sunday morning week,” writes Locust.
“I buyd a pig off this ere man for nine and six: well, o’ the Monday
mornin I goes with my barrer and a sack and I fetches the pig and gies
the money to his man Joe Wurzel; leastways I puts it on the poast and he
takes it up. Then out comes Bumpkin and swears I never bought un at all,
gets in a rage and hits the bag wi’ a stick—”
“Now stop,” said the Lawyer; “are you quite sure he did not strike _you_?
That’s the point.”
“Well, sir, he would a’ done if I adn’t a bobbed.”
“Good: that’s an assault in law. You are sure he would have struck you
if you hadn’t ducked or bobbed your head?”
“In course it would, else why should I bob?”
“Just so—just so. Now then, we’ve got him there—we’ve got him nicely.”
Snooks’ eyes gleamed.
“Next I want to know: I suppose you didn’t owe him anything?”
“No, nor no other man,” said Snooks, with an air of triumph. “I worked
hard for what I got, and no man can’t ax me for a farden. I allays paid
twenty shillings in the pound.”
The reader will observe how virtuous both parties were on this point.
“So!” said Locust. “Now you haven’t told me all that took place.”
“That be about all, sir.”
“Yes, yes; but I suppose there was something said between you—did you
have any words—was he angry—did he call you any names or say anything in
an angry way?”
“Well, not partickler—”
“Not particular: I will judge of that. Just tell me what was said.”
“When, sir?”
“Well, begin on the Sunday morning. What was first said?”
Then Snooks told the Solicitor all that took place, with sundry additions
which his imagination supplied when his memory failed.
“And I member the price wull, becos he said ‘You beant sellin coals,
recollect, so you doant ave me.”
“Ho! ho!” exclaimed Locust rubbing his hands, “You are sure he said
that?” writing down the words carefully.
“I be.”
“That will do, we’ve got him: we’ve got him nicely. Was anybody present
when he said this?”
“Yes, sir. Joe were there, and t’ best o’ my belief, Mrs. Bumpkin.”
“Never mind Mrs. Bumpkin. I don’t suppose she was there, if you come to
recollect; it’s quite enough if Joe was present and could hear what was
said. I suppose he could hear it?”
“Stood cloase by.”
“Very well—that is slander—and slander of a very gross kind. We’ve got
him.”
“Be it?” said Snooks.
“I’ll show you,” said Locust; “in law a man slanders you if he insinuates
that you are dishonest; now what does this Bumpkin do? he says ‘you don’t
have me,’ meaning thereby that you don’t trick him out of his pig; and,
‘you are not selling coals,’ meaning that when you do sell coals you do
trick people. Do you see?—that you cheat them, in fact rob them.”
Snooks thought Mr. Locust the most wonderful man he had ever come across.
This was quite a new way of putting it.
“But ur didn’t say as much,” he said, wondering whether that made any
difference.
“Perfectly immaterial in law,” said Mr. Locust: “it isn’t what a man
says, it’s what he _means_: you put that in by an innuendo—”
“A what, sir? begging pardon—”
“It’s what we lawyers call an innuendo: that is to say, making out that a
man says so and so when he doesn’t.”
“I zee,” said the artful Snooks, quick at apprehending every point.
“Then if he called a chap a devilish honest man and the innu—what d’ye
call it, meant he were a thief, you got him?”
“Well,” said Mr. Locust, smiling, “that is going rather far, Mr. Snooks,
but I see you understand what I mean.”
“I thinks so, sir. I thinks I has your meanin.”
“It’s a very gross slander,” observed Mr. Locust, “and especially upon a
tradesman in your position. I suppose now you have lived in the
neighbourhood a considerable time?”
“All my life, sir.”
“Ah! just so, just so—now let me see; and, if I remember rightly, you
have a vote for the County.”
“I ave, sir, and allus votes blue, and that’s moore.”
“Then you’re on our side. I’m very glad indeed to hear that; a vote’s a
vote, you know, now-a-days.”
Any one would have thought, to hear Mr. Locust, that votes were scarce
commodities, whereas we know that they are among the most plentiful
articles of commerce as well as the cheapest.
“And you have, I think, a family, Mr. Snooks.”
“Four on em, sir.”
“Ah! how very nice, how laudable to make a little provision for them: as
I often say, if a man can only leave his children a few hundreds apiece,
it’s something.”
The solicitor watched his client’s face as he uttered this profound
truism, and the face being as open and genuine as was Snooks’ character,
it said plainly enough “Yes, I have a few hundreds.”
“Well then,” continued Mr. Locust, “having been in business all these
years, and being, as times go, tolerably successful, being a careful man,
and having got together by honest industry a nice little independency—”
Here the learned gentleman paused, and here, unfortunately, Snooks’ open
and candid heart revealed itself through his open and candid countenance.
“I _believe_,” said Mr. Locust, “I am right?”
“You’re about right, sir.”
“Very charming, very gratifying to one’s feelings,” continued Mr. Locust;
“and then, just as you are beginning to get comfortable and getting your
family placed in the world, here comes this what shall I call him, I
never like to use strong language, this intolerable blackguard, and calls
you a thief—a detestable thief.”
“Well, he didn’t use that air word, sir—I wool say that,” said Mr.
Snooks.
“In law he did, my good man—he meant it and said it—he insinuated that
you cheated the poor—you serve a good many of the poor, I think?”
“I do, sir.”
“Well, he insinuated that you cheated them by giving short weight and bad
coals—that is worse than being a thief, to my mind—such a man deserves
hanging.”
“Damn him,” said Snooks, “that’s it, is it?”
“That’s it, my dear sir, smooth it over as you will. I don’t want to
make more of it than necessary, but we must look at it fairly and study
the consequences. Now I want to ask you particularly, because we must
claim special damage for this, if possible—have you lost any customers
through this outrageous slander?”
“Can’t say I have, rightly, sir.”
“No, but you will—mark my words, as soon as people hear of this they will
cease to deal with you. They can’t deal with you.”
“I hope not, sir.”
“So do I; but let me tell Mr. Bumpkin” (here the learned man shook his
forefinger as though it had been the often quoted finger of scorn) “that
for every customer you lose we’ll make him answerable in damages. He’ll
repeat this slander: take my advice and get some one to look out, and
make a note of it—be on your guard!”
Snooks wiped the perspiration from his forehead and then threw his large
coloured handkerchief into his hat, which he held by both hands between
his knees,
“It be a bad case then, sir?”
“A very bad case for Bumpkin!” replied Mr. Locust; “let me have a list of
your customers as soon as you can, and we shall see who leaves you in
consequence of this slander. Does my friend, Mr. Overrighteous, deal
with you? I think he does?”
“He do, sir, and have for five or six years—and a good customer he be.”
“Ah! now, there’s a man! Whatever you do don’t let Mr. Overrighteous
know of it: he would leave you directly: a more particular man than that
can’t be. Then again, there is my friend Flythekite, does he deal with
you? Of course he does!”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you’ll lose him—sure to lose him.”
Judging from Mr. Snooks’ countenance it would have been small damage if
he did.
“Ve-ry well,” continued Locust, after a pause, “ve-ry well—just so.”
Then he looked at the copy of the writ and perceived that it was dated
eighteen hundred and ninety something instead of eighteen hundred and
seventy something. So he said that the writ was wrong and they ought not
to appear; “by which means,” said he, “we shall let them in at the start
for a lot of costs—we shall let them in.”
“And will that stash the action?” asked Snooks.
“It will not stash ours,” said Locust. “I suppose you mean to go on
whether he does or not? Your claim is for assault and slander.”
“As you please, sir.”
“No, no, as you please. I have not been called a thief—they haven’t said
that I sell short weight and cheat and defraud the poor: _my_ business
will not be ruined—_my_ character is not at stake.”
“Let un have it, sir; he be a bad un,” and here he rose to depart. Mr.
Locust gave him a professional shake of the hand and wished him good day.
But as the door was just about to be closed on his client, he remembered
something which he desired to ask, so he called, “Mr. Snooks!”
“Sir,” said the client.
“Is there any truth in the statement that this Bumpkin beats his wife?”
“I doant rightly know,” said Snooks, in a hesitating voice; “it may be
true. I shouldn’t wonder—he’s just the sort o’ man.”
“Just enquire about that, will you?”
“I wool, sir,” said Snooks; and thus his interview with his Solicitor
terminated.
Now the result of the enquiries as to the domestic happiness of Bumpkin
was this; first, the question floated about in a vague sort of form,
“_Does Bumpkin beat his wife_?” then it grew into “_Have you heard that
Bumpkin beats his wife_?” and lastly, it was affirmed that Bumpkin
“_really did beat his wife_.” And the scandal spread so rapidly that it
soon reached the ears of plaintiff himself, who would have treated it
with the contempt it deserved, knowing the quarter whence it came, but
that it was so gross a calumny that he determined to give the lying
Snooks no quarter, and to press his action with all the energy at his
command.
After this there could be no compromise.
“I wish,” said Snooks to himself, as he smoked his pipe that evening, “I
could a worked one o’ them there innerenders in my trade—I could a made
summut on him.”
CHAPTER VI.
Showing how the greatest wisdom of Parliament may be thrown away on
ungrateful people.
The first skirmish between the two doughty champions of the hostile
forces took place over the misdated writ. Judgment was signed for want
of appearance; and then came a summons to set it aside. The Judge set it
aside, and the Divisional Court set aside the Judge, and the Court of
Appeal set aside the Divisional Court upon the terms of the defendant
paying the costs, and the writ being amended, &c. &c. And I saw that
when the Judge in Chambers had hesitatingly and “not without grave doubt”
set aside the judgment, Mr. Prigg said to Mr. Locust, “What a very nice
point!” And Mr. Locust replied:
“A very nice point, indeed! Of course you’ll appeal?” And Mr. Quibbler,
Mr. Locust’s pleader, said, “A very neat point!”
“Oh dear, yes,” answered Mr. Prigg.
And then Mr. Prigg’s clerk said to Mr. Locust’s clerk—“What a very nice
point!” And Mr. Locust’s clerk rejoined that it was indeed a very nice
point! And then Mr. Locust’s boy in the office said to Mr. Prigg’s boy
in the office, “What a very nice point!” And Mr. Prigg’s boy, a pale
tall lad of about five feet six, and of remarkably quiet demeanour,
replied—
“A dam nice point!”
Next came letters from the respective Solicitors, suggesting a compromise
in such terms that compromise became impossible; each affirming that he
was so averse from litigation that almost any amicable arrangement that
could be come to would be most welcome. Each required a sum of two
hundred pounds and an apology in six morning papers. And I saw at the
foot of one of Mr. Prigg’s letters, when the hope of compromise was
nearly at an end, these touching words:
“Bumpkin’s blood’s up!”
And at the end of the answer thereto, this very expressive retort:
“You say Bumpkin’s blood is up; so is Snooks’—do your worst!”
As I desire to inform the lay reader as to the interesting course an
action may take under the present expeditious mode of procedure, I must
now state what I saw in my dream. The course is sinuosity itself in
appearance, but that only renders it the more beautiful. The reader will
be able to judge for himself of the simple method by which we try actions
nowadays, and how very delightful the procedure is. The first skirmish
cost Snooks seventeen pounds six shillings and eight-pence. It cost
Bumpkin only three pounds seventeen shillings, or _one heifer_. Now
commenced that wonderful process called “Pleading,” which has been the
delight and the pride of so many ages; developing gradually century by
century, until at last it has perfected itself into the most beautiful
system of evasion and duplicity that the world has ever seen. It ranks
as one of the fine Arts with Poetry and Painting. A great Pleader is
truly a great Artist, and more imaginative than any other. The number of
summonses at Chambers is only limited by his capacity to invent them.
Ask any respectable solicitor how many honest claims are stifled by
proceedings at Chambers. And if I may digress in all sincerity for the
purpose of usefulness, I may state that while recording my dream for the
Press, Solicitors have begged of me to bring this matter forward, so that
the Public may know how their interests are played with, and their rights
stifled by the iniquitous system of proceedings at Chambers.
The Victorian age will be surely known as the Age of Pleading, Poetry,
and Painting.
First, the Statement of Claim. Summons at Chambers to plead and demur;
summons to strike out; summons to let in; summons to answer, summons not
to answer; summonses for all sorts of conceivable and inconceivable
objects; summonses for no objects at all except costs. And let me here
say Mr. Prigg and Mr. Locust are not alone blameable for this: Mr.
Quibbler, Mr. Locust’s Pleader, had more to do with this than the
Solicitor himself. And so had Mr. Wrangler, the Pleader of Mr. Prigg.
But without repeating what I saw, let the reader take this as the line of
proceeding throughout, repeated in at least a dozen instances:—
The Judge at Chambers reversed the Master;
The Divisional Court reversed the Judge;
And the Court of Appeal reversed the Divisional Court.
And let this be the chorus:—
“What a very nice point!” said Prigg;
“What a very nice point!” said Locust;
“What a very nice point!” said Gride (Prigg’s clerk);
“What a d--- nice point!” said Horatio! (the pale boy).
Summons for particulars.—Chorus.
Further and better particulars.—Chorus.
Interrogatories—Summons to strike out.—Chorus.
Summons for further and better answers.—Chorus.
More summonses for more, further, better, and all sorts of
things.—Chorus.
All this repeated by the other side, of course; because each has his
proper innings. There is great fairness and impartiality in the game.
Something was always going up from the foot of this Jacob’s ladder called
“the Master” to the higher regions called the Court of Appeal. The
simplest possible matter, which any old laundress of the Temple ought to
have been competent to decide by giving both the parties a box on the
ear, was taken before the Master, from the Master to the Judge, from the
Judge to the Divisional Court, and from the Divisional Court to the Court
of Appeal, at the expense of the unfortunate litigants; while Judges, who
ought to have been engaged in disposing of the business of the country,
were occupied in deciding legal quibbles and miserable technicalities.
All this I saw in my dream. Up and down this ladder Bumpkin and Snooks
were driven—one going up the front while the other was coming down the
back. And I heard Bumpkin ask if he wasn’t entitled to the costs which
the Court gave when he won. But the answer of Mr. Prigg was, “No, my
dear sir, the labourer is worthy of his hire.” And I saw a great many
more ups and downs on the ladder which I should weary the reader by
repeating: they are all alike equally useless and equally contemptible.
Then I thought that poor Bumpkin went up the ladder with a great bundle
on his back; and his face seemed quite changed, so that I hardly knew
him, and I said to Horatio, the pale boy—
“Who is that going up now? It looks like Christian in the Pilgrim’s
Progress.”
“Oh, no,” said Horatio, “that’s old Bumpkin—it’s a regler sweater for
him, ain’t it?”
I said, “Whatever can it be? will he ever reach the top?”
Here Bumpkin seemed to slip, and it almost took my breath away; whereat
the pale boy laughed, stooping down as he laughed, and thrusting his
hands into his breeches pockets,
“By George!” he exclaimed, “what a jolly lark!”
“I hope he won’t fall,” I exclaimed. “What has he got on his back?”
“A DEMURRER,” said Horatio, laughing. “Look at him! That there ladder’s
the Judicatur Act: don’t it reach a height? There’s as many rounds in
that there ladder as would take a man a lifetime to go up if it was all
spread out; it’s just like them fire escapes in reaching up, but nobody
ever escapes by it.”
“It will break the poor man’s back,” said I, as he was a few feet from
the top. And then in my dream I thought he fell; and the fright was so
great that I awoke, and found I was sitting in my easy chair by the fire,
and the pipe I had been smoking had fallen out of my hand.
* * * * *
“You’ve been dreaming,” said my wife; “and I fear have had a nightmare.”
When I was thoroughly aroused, and had refilled my pipe, I told her all
my dream.
Then cried she, “I hope good Mr. Bumpkin will get up safely with that
great bundle.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said I, “whether he do or not; he will have to bear
its burden, whether he take it up or bring it back. He will have to
bring it down again after showing it to the gentlemen at the top.”
“What do they want to see it for?” cried she.
“They have no wish to see it,” I replied; “on the contrary, they would
rather not. They will simply say he is a very foolish man for his pains
to clamber up so high with so useless a burden.”
“But why don’t they check him?”
“Because they have no power; they look and wonder at the folly of
mankind, who can devise no better scheme of amusement for getting rid of
their money.”
“But the lawyers are wise people, and they should know better.”
“The lawyers,” said I, “do know better; and all respectable lawyers
detest the complicated system which brings them more abuse than fees.
They see men, permitted by the law, without character and conscience,
bring disgrace on an honourable body of practitioners.”
“But do they not remonstrate?”
“They do, but with little effect; no one knows who is responsible for the
mischief or how to cure it.”
“That is strange.”
“Yes, but the time will come when the people will insist on a cheaper and
more expeditious system. Half-a-dozen solicitors and members of the
junior bar could devise such a system in a week.”
“Then why are they not permitted to take it in hand?”
“Because,” said I, “Old Fogeyism has, at present, only got the gout in
one leg; wait till he has it in both, and then Common Sense will rise to
the occasion.”
“But what,” quoth she, “is this fine art you spoke of?”
“Pleading!”
“Yes; in what consists its great art?”
“In artfulness,” quoth I.
Then there was a pause, and at length I said, “I will endeavour to give
you an illustration of the process of pleading from ancient history: you
have heard, I doubt not, of Joseph and his Brethren.”
“O, to be sure,” cried she; “did they not put him in the pit?”
“Well, I believe they put him in the pit, but I am not referring to that.
The corn in Egypt is what I mean.”
“When they found all their money in their sacks’ mouths?”
“Exactly. Now if Joseph had prosecuted those men for stealing the money,
they would simply have pleaded not guilty, and the case would have been
tried without any bother, and the defendants have been acquitted or
convicted according to the wisdom of the judge, the skill of the counsel,
and the common sense of the jury. But now suppose instead thereof,
Joseph had brought an action for the price of the corn.”
“Would it not have been as simple?”
“You shall see. The facts would have been stated with some accuracy and
a good deal of inaccuracy, and a good many things which were not facts
would have been introduced. Then the defendants in their statement of
defence would have denied that there was any such place as Egypt as
alleged; {52} denied that Pharaoh was King thereof; denied that he had
any corn to sell; denied that the said Joseph had any authority to sell;
denied that they or any of them went into Egypt; denied that they ever
saw the said Joseph or had any communication with him whatever, either by
means of an interpreter or otherwise; denied, in fact, everything except
their own existence; but in the alternative they would go on to say, if
it should be proved that there was a place called Egypt, a man called
Pharaoh, an agent of his called Joseph, and that the defendants actually
did go to Egypt, all of which they one and all absolutely deny (as
becomes men of honour), then they say, that being large corn-merchants
and well known to the said Joseph, the factor of the said Pharaoh, as
purchasers only of corn for domestic purposes, and requiring therefore a
good sound merchantable article, the said Joseph, by falsely and
fraudulently representing that certain corn of which he, the said Joseph,
was possessed, was at that time of a good sound and merchantable quality
and fit for seed and domestic purposes, by the said false and fraudulent
representations he, the said Joseph, induced the defendants to purchase a
large quantity thereof, to wit, five thousand sacks; whereas the said
corn was not of a good sound and merchantable quality and fit for seed
and domestic purposes, but was maggoty from damp, and infected with smut
and altogether worthless, as he, the said Joseph, well knew at the time
he made the said false representations. The defendants would also
further allege that, relying on the said Joseph’s word, they took away
the said corn, but having occasion at the inn to look into the said
sacks, they found that the said wheat was worthless, and immediately
communicated with the said Joseph by sending their younger brother Simeon
down to demand a return of the price of the said corn. But when the said
Simeon came to the said Joseph the said Joseph caught him, and kicked
him, and beat him with a great stick, and had him to prison, and would
not restore him to his brethren, the defendants. Whereupon the
defendants sent other messengers, and at length, after being detained a
long time at the said inn, the said Joseph came down, and on being shown
the said corn, admitted that it was in bad condition. Whereupon the
defendants, fearing to trust the said Joseph with the said sacks until
they had got a return of their said money, demanded that he, the said
Joseph, should put the full tale of every man’s money in the sack of the
said man; which thing the said Joseph agreed to, and placed every man’s
money in the mouth of his said sack. And when the said man was about to
reach forth his hand to take his said money, the said Joseph seized the
said hand and held him fast—.”
“Stop, stop!” cried my wife; “the said Joseph had not ten hands. You
must surely draw the line somewhere.”
“No, no,” said I, “that is good pleading; if the other side should omit
to deny it, it will be taken by the rules of pleading to be admitted.”
“But surely you can’t admit impossibilities!”
“Can’t you, though!” cried I. “You can do almost anything in pleading.”
“Except, it seems to me, tell the truth.”
“You mustn’t be too hard upon us poor juniors,” cried I. “I haven’t come
to the Counterclaim yet.”
“O don’t let us have Counterclaims,” quoth she; “they can have no claim
against Joseph?”
“What, not for selling them smutty wheat?”
“Nonsense.”
“I say yes; and he’ll have to call a number of witnesses to prove the
contrary—nor do I think he will be able to do it.”
“I fail now,” said my wife, “to see how this pleading is a fine art.
Really, without joking, what is the art?”
“The art of pleading,” said I, “consists in denying what is, and inducing
your adversary to admit what isn’t.”
CHAPTER VII.
Showing that appropriateness of time and place should be studied in our
pastimes.
The next night, sitting over the cheerful fire and comfortably resting
after the labours of the day, I dreamed again, and I saw that Horatio
Snigger was “the Office Boy” of Mr. Prigg. He had been in the employment
of that gentleman about two years. He was tall for his money, standing,
in his shoes, at least five feet six, and receiving for his services,
five shillings and sixpence a week, (that is, a shilling for every foot
and a penny for every odd inch), his last rise (I mean in money,) having
taken place about a month ago.
Horatio was a lad of as much spirit as any boy I ever saw. I do not
believe he had any liking for the profession, but had entered it simply
as his first step in life, utterly in the dark as to whither it would
lead him. It was, I believe, some disappointment to his father that on
no occasion when he interrogated him as to his “getting on,” could he
elicit any more cheering reply than “very well.” And yet Horatio, during
the time he had been with Mr. Prigg, had had opportunities of studying
character in its ever-varying phases as presented by Courts of Justice
and kindred places.
“Kindred places!” Yes, I mean “Judges’ Chambers,” where any boy may
speedily be impressed with the dignity and simplicity of the practice of
the Law, especially since the passing of the Judicature Act. To my lay
readers who may wish to know what “Judges’ Chambers” means, I may observe
that it is a place where innumerable proceedings may be taken for
lengthening a case, embarrassing the clients, and spending money. It is,
to put it in another form, a sort of Grands Mulets in the Mont Blanc of
litigation, whence, if by the time you get there you are not thoroughly
“pumped out,” you may go on farther and in due time reach the top,
whence, I am told, there is a most magnificent view.
But even the beauty of the proceedings at Judges’ Chambers failed to
impress Horatio with the dignity of the profession. He lounged among the
crowds of chattering boys and youths who “cheeked” one another before
that august personage “the Master,” declaring that “Master” couldn’t do
this and “Master” couldn’t do that; that the other side was too late or
too soon; that his particulars were too meagre or too full; or his
answers to interrogatories too evasive or not sufficiently diffuse, and
went on generally as if the whole object of the law were to raise as many
difficulties as possible in the way of its application. As if, in fact,
it had fenced itself in with such an undergrowth of brambles that no
amount of ability and perseverance could arrive at it.
From what I perceived of the character of Horatio, I should say that he
was a scoffer. He was a mild, good-tempered, well-behaved boy enough,
but ridiculed many proceedings which he ought to have reverenced. He was
a great favourite with Mr. Prigg, because, if anything in the world
attracted the boy’s admiration, it was that gentleman’s pious demeanour
and profound knowledge. But the exuberance of the lad’s spirits when
away from his employer was in exact proportion to the moral pressure
brought to bear upon him while in that gentleman’s presence. As an
illustration of this remark and proof of the twofold character of
Horatio, I will relate what I saw after the “Master” had determined that
the tail of the 9 was a very nice point, but that there was nothing in
it. They had all waited a long time at Judge’s Chambers, and their
spirits were, no doubt, somewhat elated by at last getting the matter
disposed of.
Horatio heard Mr. Prigg say to Mr. Locust, “What a very nice point!” and
had heard Mr. Locust reply, “A very nice point, indeed!” And Mr. Gride,
the clerk, say, “What, a very nice point!” and somebody else’s clerk say,
“What a very nice point!” And Horatio felt, as a humble member of the
profession, he must chime in with the rest of the firm. So, having said
to Locust’s boy, “What a dam nice point!” he went back to his lonely den
in Bedford Row and then, as he termed it, “let himself out.” He
accomplished this proceeding by first taking off his coat and throwing it
on to a chair; he next threw but his arms, with his fists firmly
clenched, as though he had hardly yet to its fullest extent realized the
“_niceness_” of the point which the Master had determined. The next step
which Horatio took was what is called “The double shuffle,” which, I may
inform my readers, is the step usually practised by the gentleman who
imitates the sailor in the hornpipe on the stage. Being a slim and agile
youth, Horatio’s performance was by no means contemptible, except that it
was no part of his professional duty to dance a Hornpipe. Then I saw
that this young gentleman in the exuberance of his youthful spirits
prepared for another exhibition of his talent. He cleared his throat,
once more threw out his arms, stamped his right foot loudly on the floor,
after the manner of the Ethiopian dancer with the long shoe, and then to
my astonishment poured forth the following words in a very agreeable,
and, as it seemed to me, melodious voice,—
“What a very nice point, said Prigg.”
Then came what I suppose would be called a few bars of the hornpipe; then
he gave another line,—
“What a very nice point, said Gride.”
(Another part of the hornpipe.) Then he sang the third and fourth lines,
dancing vigorously the while:
“It will take a dozen lawyers with their everlasting jaw:
It will take a dozen judges with their ever changing law”—
(Vigorous dancing for some moments), and then a pause, during which
Horatio, slightly stooping, placed two fingers of his left hand to the
side of his nose, and turning his eyes to the right, sang—
“And”—
Paused again, and finished vehemently as follows:
“Twenty golden guineas to decide!”
Then came the most enthusiastic hornpipe that ever was seen, and Horatio
was in the seventh Heaven of delight, when the door suddenly opened, and
Mr. Prigg entered!
It was unfortunate for Horatio that his back being towards the door he
could not see his master enter; and it need scarcely be said that the
noise produced by the dance prevented him from hearing his approach.
Mr. Prigg looked astounded at the sight that presented itself. The whole
verse was repeated, and the whole dance gone through again in the sight
and hearing of that gentleman. Was the boy mad? Had the strain of
business been too much for him?
As if by instinct Horatio at last became aware of his master’s presence.
A change more rapid, transformation more complete I never saw. The lad
hung his head, and wandered to the chair where his coat was lying. It
took him some time to put it on, for the sleeves seemed somehow to be
twisted; at length, once more arrayed, and apparently in his right mind,
he stood with three-quarter face towards his astonished master.
Mr. Prigg did not turn his head even on this occasion. He preserved a
dignified silence for some time, and then spoke in a deep tragic tone:
“Horatio!”
Horatio did hot answer.
“What is the meaning of this exhibition, Horatio?”
“I was only having a little fun, sir,” said the youthful clerk.
“I am not averse to youth enjoying itself,” said Mr. Prigg; “but it must
be at proper seasons, and in appropriate places; there is also to be
exercised a certain discretion in the choice of those amusements in which
youth should indulge. I am not aware what category of recreation your
present exhibition may belong to, but I may inform you that in my humble
judgment—I may be mistaken, and you may know far better than I—but as at
present advised, I do not see that your late performance is consistent
with the duties of a solicitor’s clerk.” And then he muttered to
himself, “Quite so.”
After this magnificent rebuke, Mr. Prigg drew out his cambric
handkerchief, and most gently applied it to his stately nose.
“Again,” said Mr. Prigg, “I heard language, or thought I heard language,
which I should construe as decidedly derogatory to the Profession which
you serve and to which I have the honour to belong.”
“I was only in fun, sir,” said Horatio, gathering confidence as Mr. Prigg
proceeded.
“Quite so, quite so; that may be, I sincerely hope you were; but never
make fun of that by which you live; you derive what I may call a very
competent, not to say handsome, salary from the proceedings which you
make fun of. This is sad, and manifests a spirit of levity.”
“I didn’t mean it like that, sir.”
“Very well,” said the good man, “I am glad to perceive that you are
brought to a proper sense of the impropriety of your conduct. I will not
discharge you on this occasion, for the sake of your father, whom I have
known for so many years: but never let this occur again. Dancing is at
all times, to my mind, a very questionable amusement; but when it is
accompanied, as I perceived it was on this occasion, with gestures which
I cannot characterize by any other term than disgusting; and when further
you take the liberty of using my name in what I presume you intended for
a comic song, I must confess that I can hardly repress my feelings of
indignation. I hope you are penitent.”
Horatio hung down his head, and said he was very sorry Mr. Prigg had
heard it, for he only intended it for his own amusement.
“I shall take care,” said Mr. Prigg, “that you have less opportunity for
such exercises as I have unfortunately witnessed.” And having thus
admonished the repentant youth, Mr. Prigg left him to his reflections. I
am glad Mr. Prigg did not return while the pale boy was reflecting.
CHAPTER VIII.
The pleasure of a country drive on a summer evening described as enhanced
by a pious mind.
It is only fair to the very able solicitors on both sides in the
memorable case of _Bumpkin_ v. _Snooks_ to state that the greatest
possible despatch was exercised on all occasions. Scarcely a day passed
without something being done, as Prigg expressed it, “to expedite
matters.” Month after month may have passed away without any apparent
advance; but this in reality was not the case. Many appeals on what
seemed trifling matters had been heard; so many indeed that _Bumpkin_ v.
_Snooks_ had become a household word with the Court of Appeal, and a
bye-word among the innumerable loafers about Judge’s Chambers.
“What! _Bumpkin_ v. _Snooks_ again!” the President would say. “What is
it now? It’s a pity the parties to this case can’t agree: it seems a
very trifling matter.”
“Not so, my lord, as your lordship will quickly apprehend when the new
point is brought before your notice. A question of principle is here
which may form a precedent for the guidance of future Judges, as did the
famous case of _Perryman_ v. _Lister_, which went to the House of Lords
about prosecuting a man for stealing a gun. This is about a pig, my
lord—a little pig, no doubt, and although there is not much in the pig,
there is a good deal outside it.”
And often did Prigg say to Locust:
“I say, Locust, whenever _shall_ we be ready to set this case down for
trial?”
“Really, my dear Prigg,” Locust would reply, “it seems interminable—come
and dine with me.” So the gentle and innocent reader will at once
perceive that there was great impatience on all sides to get this case
ready for trial. Meanwhile it may not be uninteresting to describe
shortly some of the many changes that had taken place in the few short
months since the action commenced.
First it was clearly observable by the inhabitants of Yokelton that Mr.
Prigg’s position had considerably improved. I say nothing of his new
hat; that was a small matter, but not so his style of living—so great an
advance had that made that it attracted the attention of the neighbours,
who often remarked that Mr. Prigg seemed to be getting a large practice.
He was often seen with his lady on a summer afternoon taking the air in a
nice open carriage—hired, it is true, for the occasion. And everybody
remarked how uncommonly ladylike Mrs. Prigg lay back in the vehicle, and
how very gracefully she held her new æsthetic parasol. And what a proud
moment it was for Bumpkin, when he saw this good and respectable
gentleman pass with the ladylike creature beside him; and Mr. Bumpkin
would say to his neighbours, lifting his hat at the same moment,
“That be my loryer, that air be!”
And then Mr. Prigg would gracefully raise his hat, and Mrs. Prigg would
lie back perfectly motionless as became a very languid lady of her
exalted position. And when Mr. Prigg said to Mrs. Prigg, “My dear, that
is our new client;” Mrs. Prigg would elevate her arched eyebrows and
expand her delicate nostrils as she answered,—
“Really, my love, what a very vulgar-looking creechar!”
“Not nearly so vulgar as Locust’s client,” rejoined her husband. “You
should see him.”
“Thank you, my love, it is quite enough to catch a glimpse of the
superior person of the two.”
Mr. Prigg seemed to think it a qualifying circumstance that Snooks was a
more vulgar-looking man than Bumpkin, whereas a moment’s consideration
showed Mrs. Prigg how illogical that was. It is the intrinsic and
personal value that one has to measure things by. This value could not
be heightened by contrast. Mrs. Prigg’s curiosity, however, naturally
led her to inquire who the other creechar was? As if she had never heard
of _Bumpkin_ v. _Snooks_, although she had actually got the case on four
wheels and was riding in it at that very moment; as if in fact she was
not practically all Bumpkin, as a silkworm may be said to be all mulberry
leaves. As if she knew nothing of her husband’s business! Her ideas
were not of this world. Give her a church to build, she’d harass people
for subscriptions; or let it be a meeting to clothe the naked savage,
Mrs. Prigg would be there. She knew nothing of clothing Bumpkin! But
she did interest herself sufficiently in her husband’s conversation to
ask, in answer to his reference to Locust’s disreputable client,
“And who is he, pray?”
“My darling,” said Prigg, “you must have heard of Snooks?”
“Oh,” drawled Mrs. Prigg, “do you mean the creechar who sells coals?”
“The same, my dear.”
“And are you engaged against _that_ man? How very dreadful!”
“My darling,” observed Mr. Prigg, “it is not for us to choose our
opponents; nor indeed, for the matter of that, our clients.”
“I can quite perceive that,” returned the lady, “or you would never have
chosen such men—dear me!”
“We are like physicians,” returned Mr. Prigg, “called in in case of
need.”
“And the healing virtues of your profession must not be confined to rich
patients,” said Mrs. Prigg, in her jocular manner.
“By no means,” was the good man’s reply; “justice is as much the right of
the poor as the rich—so is the air we breathe—so is everything.” And he
put his fingers together again, as was his wont whenever he uttered a
philosophical or moral platitude.
So I saw in my dream that the good man and his ladylike wife rode through
the beautiful lanes, and over the breezy common on that lovely summer
afternoon, and as they drew up on the summit of a hill which gave a view
of the distant landscape, there was a serenity in the scene which could
only be compared to the serenity of Mr. Prigg’s benevolent countenance;
and there was a calm, deeply, sweetly impressive, which could only be
appreciated by a mind at peace with itself in particular, and with the
world in general. Then came from a neighbouring wood the clear voice of
the cuckoo. It seemed to sing purposely in honour of the good man; and I
fancied I could see a ravenous hawk upon a tree, abashed at Mr. Prigg’s
presence and superior ability; and a fluttering timid lark seemed to
shriek, “Wicked bird, live and let live;” but it was the last word the
silly lark uttered, for the hawk was upon him in a moment, and the little
innocent songster was crushed in its ravenous beak. Still the cuckoo
sang on in praise of Mr. Prigg, with now and then a little note for Mrs.
Prigg; for the cuckoo is a very gallant little bird, and Mrs. Prigg was
such a heavenly creature that no cuckoo could be conscious of her
presence without hymning her praise.
“Listen,” said Mrs. Prigg, “isn’t it beautiful? I wonder where cuckoos
go to?”
“Ah, my dear!” said Prigg, enraptured with the clear notes and the
beautiful scene; but neither of them seemed to wonder where hawks go to.
“Do you hear the echo, love? Isn’t it beautiful?”
O, yes, it was beautiful! Nature does indeed lift the soul on a quiet
evening from the grovelling occupations of earth to bask in the genial
sunshine of a more spiritual existence. What was Bumpkin? What was
Snooks to a scene like this? Suddenly the cuckoo ceased. Wonderful
bird! I don’t know whether it was the presence of the hawk that hushed
its voice or the sight of Mr. Prigg as he stood up in the carriage to
take a more extended view of the prospect; but the familiar note was
hushed, and the evening hymn in praise of the Priggs was over.
So the journey was continued by the beautiful wood of oaks and chestnuts,
along by the hillside from which you could perceive in the far distance
the little stream as it wound along by meadow and wood and then lost
itself beneath the hill that rose abruptly on the left.
The stream was the symbol of life—probably Bumpkin’s life; all nature
presents similes to a religious mind. And so the evening journey was
continued with ever awakening feelings of delight and gratitude until
they once more entered their peaceful home. And this brings me to
another consideration which ought not to be passed over with
indifference.
I saw in my dream that a great change had taken place in the home of the
Priggs. The furniture had undergone a metamorphosis almost so striking
that I thought Mr. Prigg must be a wizard. The gentle reader knows all
about Cinderella; but here was a transformation more surprising. I saw
that one of Mr. Bumpkin’s pigs had been turned into a very pretty
walnut-wood whatnot, and stood in the drawing-room, and on it stood
several of the ducks and geese that used to swim in the pond of Southwood
farm. They were not ducks and geese now, but pretty silent ornaments.
An old rough-looking stack of oats had been turned into a very nice
Turkey carpet for the dining-room. Poor old Jack the donkey had been
changed into a musical box that stood on a little table made out of a
calf. One day Mr. Bumpkin called to see how his case was going on, and
by mistake got into this room among his cows and pigs; but not one of
them did the farmer know, and when the maid invited him to sit down he
was afraid of spoiling something.
Now summonses at Chambers, and appeals, and demurrers, are not at all bad
conjuring wands, if you only know how to use them. Two clever men like
Prigg and Locust, not only surprise the profession, but alarm the public,
since no one knows what will take place next, and Justice herself is
startled from her propriety. Let no clamorous law reformer say that
interrogatories or any other multitudinous proceedings at Judge’s
Chambers are useless. It is astonishing how many changes you can ring
upon them with a little ingenuity, and a very little scrupulosity. Mr.
Prigg turned two sides of bacon into an Indian vase, and performed many
other feats truly astonishing to persons who look on as mere spectators,
and wonder how it is done. Wave your magic wand, good Prigg, and you
shall see a hayrick turn into a chestnut mare; and a four-wheeled waggon
into a Victoria.
But the greatest change he had effected was in Mr. Bumpkin himself, who
loved to hear his wife read the interrogatories and answers. The almanac
was nothing to this. He had no idea law was so interesting. I dare say
there were two guiding influences working within him, in addition to the
many influences working without; one being that inherent British pluck,
which once aroused, “doesn’t care, sir, if it costs me a thousand pound,
I’ll have it out wi’ un;” the other was the delicious thought that all
his present outlay would be repaid by the cunning and covetous Snooks.
So much was Bumpkin’s heart in the work of crushing his opponent, that
expense was treated with ridicule. I heard him one day say jocularly to
Mr. Prigg, who had come for an affidavit:
“Be it a pig, sir, or a heifer?”
“O,” said the worthy Prigg, “we want a pretty good one; I think it must
be a heifer.”
All this was very pleasant, and made the business, dull and prosaic in
itself, a cheerful recreation.
Then, again, there was a feeling of self-importance whenever these
affidavits came to be sworn. Mr. Bumpkin would put down his ash-stick by
the side of the fireplace, and bidding his visitor be seated, would
compose himself with satisfaction to listen to the oft-repeated words:
“I, Thomas Bumpkin, make oath, and say—”
Fancy, “_I_, _Bumpkin_!” Just let the reader pause over that for a
moment! What must “I, Bumpkin,” be whose statement is required on oath
before my Lord Judge?
Always, at these words, he would shout. “That be it—now then, sir, would
you please begin that agin?”—while, if Mrs. Bumpkin were not too busy, he
would call her in to hear them too.
So there was no wonder that the action went merrily along. Once get up
enthusiasm in a cause, and it is half won. Without enthusiasm, few
causes can succeed against opposition. Then, again, the affidavit
described Bumpkin as a Yeoman. What, I wonder, would Snooks the
coal-merchant think of that?
So everything proceeded satisfactorily, and the months rolled away; the
seasons came in their turn, so did the crops, so did the farrows of pigs,
so did the spring chickens, and young ducks (prettiest little golden
things in the world, on the water); so did Mr. Prigg, and so did a
gentleman (hereafter to be called “the man,”) with whom a very convenient
arrangement was made, by which Mr. Bumpkin preserved the whole of his
remaining stock intact; had not in fact to advance a single penny piece
more; all advances necessary for the prosecution of the action being made
by the strange gentleman (whose name I did not catch) under that most
convenient of all legal forms, “a Bill of Sale.”
CHAPTER IX.
A farmhouse winter fireside—a morning drive and a mutual interchange of
ideas between town and country: showing how we may all learn something
from one another.
I never saw the home of Farmer Bumpkin without thinking what a happy and
comfortable home it was. The old elm tree that waved over the thatched
roof, seemed to bless and protect it. On a winter’s evening, when
Bumpkin was sitting in one corner smoking his long pipe, Mrs. Bumpkin
darning her stockings, and Joe on the other side looking into the blazing
fire, while the old Collie stretched himself in a snug corner beside his
master, it represented a scene of comfort almost as perfect as rustic
human nature was capable of enjoying. And when the wind blew through the
branches of the elm over the roof, it was like music, played on purpose
to heighten the enjoyment. Comfort, thou art at the evening fireside of
a farm-house, if anywhere!
You should have seen Tim, when an unusual sound disturbed the harmony of
this peaceful fireside. He growled first as he lay with his head resting
between his paws, and just turned up his eyes to his master for approval.
Then, if that warning was not sufficient, he rose and barked
vociferously. Possessed, I believe, of more insight than Bumpkin, he got
into the most tremendous state of excitement whensoever anyone came from
Prigg’s, and he cordially hated Prigg. But most of all was he angry when
“the man” came. There was no keeping him quiet. I wonder if dogs know
more about Bills of Sale than farmers. I am aware that some farmers know
a good deal about them; and when they read this story, many of them will
accuse me of being too personal; but Tim was a dog of strong prejudices,
and I am sure he had a prejudice against money-lenders.
As the persons I have mentioned were thus sitting on this dreary evening
in the month of November, suddenly, Tim sprang from his recumbent
position, and barked furiously.
“Down, Tim! down, Tim!” said the farmer; “what be this, I wonder!”
“Tim, Tim,” said Mrs. Bumpkin, “down, Tim! hold thee noise, I tell ee.”
“Good Tim!” said Joe; he also had an instinct.
“I’ll goo and see what it be,” said Mrs. Bumpkin; “whoever can come here
at this time o’ night! it be summat, Tom.” And she put down her
stockings, and lighting a candle went to the front door, whereat there
was a loud knocking. Tim jumped and flew and thrust his nose down to the
bottom of the door long before Mrs. Bumpkin could get there.
“Quiet, Tim! I tell thee; who be there?”
“From Mr. Prigg’s,” answered a voice.
This was enough for Tim; the name of Prigg made him furious.
“Somebody from Mr. Prigg, Tom.”
“Wull, let un in, Nance; bless thee soul, let un in; may be the case be
settled. I hope they ain’t took less nor a hundred pound. I told un not
to.” The door was unbolted and unbarred, and a long time it took, and
then stood before Mrs. Bumpkin a tall pale youth.
“I’ve come from Mr. Prigg.”
“Will er plase to walk in, sir?” said Mrs. Bumpkin.
By this time the master had got up from his seat, and advancing towards
the youth said:—
“How do, sir; how do, sir; wark in, wark in, tak a seat, I be glad to see
thee.”
“I come from Mr. Prigg,” said the youth, “and we want another affidavit.”
“Hem!” said Bumpkin, “be it a pig or a eifer, sir?” He couldn’t forget
the old joke.
“We want an affidavit of documents,” said the youth.
“And what be the manin o’ that?—affiday o’ what?”
“Documents, sir,” said the mild youth; “here it is.”
“Oh,” said Bumpkin, “I got to swear un, I spoase, that’s all.”
“That’s it, sir,” said Horatio.
“Well, thee can’t take oaths, I spoase.”
“No, sir, not exactly.”
“Wull then I spoase I must goo to --- in the marnin. And thee’ll stop
here the night and mak thyself comfortable. We can gie un a bed, can’t
us, Nancy?”
“Two, if ur wishes it,” answered Mrs. Bumpkin.
“Devil’s in it, ur doan’t want two beds, I’ll warrant? Now then, sir,
sitten doon and mak theeself comfortable. What’ll thee drink?”
“I’m too young to drink,” said Horatio, with a smile.
Bumpkin smiled too. “I’ll warrant thee be.”
“I’m always too young,” said Horatio, “for every thing that’s nice. Mr.
Prigg says I’m too young to enjoy myself; but if you don’t mind, sir, I’m
not too young to be hungry. I’ve walked a long distance.”
“Have ur now?” said Mrs. Bumpkin. “We ain’t got anything wery grand,
sir; but there be a nice piece o’ pickle pork and pease-puddin, if thee
doan’t mind thic.”
“Bring un out,” said Bumpkin; and accordingly a nice clean cloth was soon
spread, and the table was groaning (as the saying is), with a large leg
of pork and pease-pudding and home-made bread; to which Horatio did ample
justice.
“Bain’t bad pooark,” said Bumpkin.
“Best I ever tasted,” replied Horatio; “we don’t get this sort of pork in
London—pork there doesn’t seem like pork.”
“Now look at that,” said Joe; “I fed that air pig.”
“So ur did, Joe,” said the farmer; “I’ll gie thee credit, Joe, thee fed
un well.”
“Ah!” said Joe; “and that air pig knowed I as well as I knows thee.”
When Horatio had supped, and the things were removed, Mr. Bumpkin assured
the youth that a little drop of gin-and-water would not hurt him after
his journey; and accordingly mixed him a tumbler. “Thee doan’t smoke, I
spoase?” he said; to which Mrs. Bumpkin added that she “spoased he wur
too young like.”
“I’ll try,” answered the courageous youth, nothing daunted by his
youngness.
“So thee shall—dang if thee shan’t,” rejoined Mr. Bumpkin; and produced a
long churchwarden pipe, and a big leaden jar of tobacco of a very dark
character, called “shag.”
Horatio filled his pipe, and puffed away as if he had been a veteran
smoker; cloud after cloud came forth, and when Mr. and Mrs. Bumpkin and
Joe looked, expecting that the boy should be ill, there was not the least
sign; so Joe observed with great sagacity:
“Look at that now, maister; I bleeve he’ve smoked afoore.”
“Have ur, sir?” asked Mr. Bumpkin.
“A little,” said Horatio.
“Why, I never smoked afoore I wur turned twenty,” said the farmer.
“I believe the right time now is fourteen,” observed the youth; “it used
to be twenty, I have heard father say; but everything has been altered by
the Judicature Act.”
“Look at that air,” said Joe, “he’ve eeard father say. You knows a thing
or two, I’ll warrant, Mr. —.”
Here Joe was baffled, and coming so abruptly to an end of his address,
Mr. Bumpkin took the matter up, and asked, if he might make so bold, what
the youth’s name might be.
“Horatio Snigger,” answered that gentleman.
“When will this ere case be on, think’ee, sir?” inquired Mr. Bumpkin.
“We expect it to be in the paper every day now,” said the youth; “they’ve
tried to dodge us a good deal, but they can’t dodge us much longer—we’re
a little too downy for em.”
“It have been a mighty long time about, surely,” said Mr. Bumpkin.
“O, that’s nothing,” said Horatio; “time’s nothing in Law! Why, a suit
to administer a Will sometimes takes ’ears; and Bankruptcy, O my eye,
ain’t there dodging about that, and jockeying too, eh! Crikey!”
Mr. Bumpkin here winked at his wife, as much as to say, “Now you hold
your tongue, and see me dror un out. I’ll have un.”
“Will ee tak a little more gin-and-water, sir?”
“No, thankee,” said the youth.
“A little more won’t hurt ee—it’ll do thee good.” And again he filled
the tumbler; while the pale boy refilled his pipe.
“Now, who’s my counsellor gwine to be?” asked the farmer.
“Oh,” said Horatio, “a regular cruncher—Mr. Catapult.”
“He be a cruncher, be he?”
“I believe you; he turned a man inside out the other day; a money-lender
he was.”
“Did ur now?”
“Look at that,” said Joe.
“And we’re going to have Mr. Dynamite for junior; my eye, don’t he make a
row!”
“Two an em!” exclaimed Bumpkin.
“Must have two for the plaintiff,” said Horatio; “that’s the law. Why, a
Queen’s Counsel ain’t allowed to open a case without a junior starts
him—it’s jist like the engine-driver and the guard. You have the junior
to shove the leader.”
“Look at that,” said Joe; expectorating into the fire.
Mr. Bumpkin looked again at Nancy, and gave another wink that you might
have heard.
“And the tother side?” he asked.
“Ah! I don’t know about them,” said the boy. “They’re artful dodgers,
they are.”
“Is ’em now? but artfulness don’t allays win, do ur?”
“No,” said Horatio; “but it goes a long way, and sometimes when it’s gone
a long way it beats itself.”
“Look at that,” said Joe; “that’s like that ere—”
“Be quiet, Joe,” said Bumpkin; “let I talk, will ur? You said it beats
itself, sir?”
“If the judge gets ’old of him, it’s sure to,” said Horatio. “There
ain’t no judge on the Bench as will let artfulness win if he knows it.
I’ve sin em watchin like a cat watches a mouse; and directly it comes out
o’ the ’ole, down he is on em—like that:” and he slapped his hand on the
table with startling effect.
“Good!” said Bumpkin.
“And don’t they know who the solicitor is, eh—that’s all! My word, if
he’s a shady one—the judge is down on the case like winkin.”
“And be this ere Locust a shady un?” (Another wink at Mrs. Bumpkin.)
“Ah! I’m too young to know.”
“Thee beest too old, thee meanest,” said Mrs. Bumpkin, laughing.
“Now hold thee tongue, Nancy; I wur gwine to say that myself—dang if I
warnt!”
“Now look at thic,” said Joe; “maister were gwine to say thic.”
“So I wur,” repeated Bumpkin. “Jist got the word o’ th’ tip o’ th’
tongue.”
“And be these Queen’s Counsellors,” he asked, “summat grand?”
“I believe you,” said Horatio; “they wears silk gowns.”
“Do em?” said Mrs. Bumpkin, laughing. “Silk gowns—and what kind o’
petticoats?”
“Shut up,” said Bumpkin; “thee be as igorant as a donkey; these Queen’s
Counsellors be made for their larnin and cleverness, beant em, sir?”
“Well,” said Horatio, “nobody ever could make out—some of em are pretty
good, and some of em ain’t much—not near so good as the others.”
“But this ere Mr. Catapult be a good un, bean’t he—a regler crunsher?”
“O, I believe you, my boy: his look’s enough for some of em.”
“I spoase he be dear?” (Another wink at Mrs. Bumpkin.)
“They’re all dear,” said Horatio; “some of em are dear because their fees
are high; and some of em would be dear at a gift, but I’m too young to
know much about it.”
“Now hark at that,” said Joe; “like that air old horse o’ Morris’.”
“Hold thee tongue, Joe, I tell ee, putten thy spoke in; does thee think
the Queen ’as old ’orses in her stable? It’s merit, I tell ee—ain’t it,
Mr. Jigger?”
“Merit, sir; I believe it’s merit.” And thus in pleasant conversation
the evening passed merrily away, until the clock striking nine warned the
company that it was time to retire.
A bright, brisk frosty morning succeeded, and a substantial breakfast of
bacon, eggs, fresh butter, and home-made bread, at seven o’clock,
somewhat astonished and delighted the youthful Horatio; and then the old
horse, with plenty of hair about his heels, was brought round with the
gig. And Mr. Bumpkin and his guest got up and took their seats. The old
Market Town was about seven miles off, and the road lay through the most
picturesque scenery of the county. To ride on such a pleasant morning
through such a country almost made one think that swearing affidavits was
the most pleasing occupation of life. It was the first time Horatio had
ever ridden in a gig: the horse went a good old market pace, and the
beautiful sunshine, lovely scenery, and crisp air produced in his
youthful bosom a peculiarly charming and delightful sense of
exhilaration. He praised the country and the weather and the horse, and
asked if it was what they called a thoroughbred.
“Chit!” said Bumpkin, “thoroughbred! So be I thoroughbred—did thee ever
see thoroughbred wi’ ’air on his ’eels?’
“Well, he goes well,” said Horatio.
“Gooes well enough for I,” said Bumpkin.
This answer somewhat abashed Horatio, who was unlearned in horses; for
some time he remained silent. Then it became Mr. Bumpkin’s turn to renew
the conversation:
“I spoase,” said he, “thee be gwine to be a loryer?”
“Not if I know it,” answered Horatio.
“Why not, then?”
“Don’t care for it; I like the country.”
“What wouldst thee like to be then, a farmer?”
“I should—that’s the life for me!”
“Thee likes plenty o’ fresh air?” said the farmer.
“Yes,” answered Horatio, “and fresh butter and fresh eggs.”
“I’ll go to ---, if thee doen’t know what’s good for thee, anyhow.
Thee’d ha’ to work ’ard to keep straaight, I can tell thee; thee’d had to
plough, and danged if I believe thee could hold plough! What’s thee say
to that, lad?”
“I think I could.”
“Devil a bit! now spoase thee’st got plough-handles under thy arms, and
the cord in the ’ands, and thee wanted to keep t’colter from jibbin into
t’ soil, wouldst thee press down wi’ might and main, or how?”
“Press down with might and main,” said Horatio.
“Right!” exclaimed Bumpkin; “danged if I doant think thee’d make a
ploughman now. Dost know what th’ manin o’ mither woiy be?”
This was rather a startling question for the unsophisticated London
youth. He had never heard such an expression in his life; and although
he might have puzzled his agricultural interrogator by a good many
questions in return, yet that possibility was no answer to “mither woiy.”
“I don’t know that, Mr. Bumpkin,” he ingenuously replied.
“No? well, there ain’t a commoner word down ere nor ‘mither woiy,’ and
there ain’t a boy arf your age as doan’t know the manin o’t, so thee see
thee got summat to larn. Now it mane this—spoase thee got a team o’
horses at dung cart or gravel cart, and thee wants em to come to ee; thee
jest holds whip up over to the ed o’ th’ leadin orse like this ere, and
says ‘mither woiy,’ and round er comes as natteral as possible.”
“O, that’s it!” said Horatio; “I see.”
“Ah!” said Bumpkin, “I can teach ee summat, can’t I, though thee comes
from town, and I be only a country clown farmer?”
“I should just like to come down a month on trial, that’s all, when I
have my holiday,” said the youth; “I think it would do me good: ‘mither
woiy,’” he said, mimicking his instructor.
“Thee shall come if thee likes,” replied the good-natured Bumpkin;
“Nancy’ll be proud to see thee—thee’s got ‘mither woiy’ to rights.”
“What a very nice public-house!” exclaimed Horatio, as they approached a
village green where an old Inn that had flourished in the coaching days
still stood, the decaying monument of a past age, and an almost forgotten
style of locomotion.
“Be a good house. I often pulls up there on way from market.”
“Did you ever try rum and milk for your cough?” inquired the pale youth.
“Never had no cough,” said Bumpkin.
“What a good thing! But it’s capital, they say, in case you should have
one; they say there’s nothing beats rum and milk.”
“Hem!” muttered Bumpkin, giving his horse a tremendous jerk with the
reins. “I spoase thee’d like a glass, Mr. Jigger.”
“I don’t care about it for myself,” answered the youth; “but if you like
to have one I’ll join you with pleasure.”
“So us wool then;” and up they pulled at the sign of the “Merry-go-round”
on Addlehead Green.
“Bain’t bad tackle!” said Mr. Bumpkin, tossing off his glass.
“No,” responded Horatio, “I’ve tasted worse medicine. I quite enjoy my
ride, Mr. Bumpkin; I wish we had a dozen more affidavits to swear.”
“I doan’t,” said the client; “I sworn a goodish many on em as it be. I
doan’t think that air Snooks can bate un.”
“I don’t think he can,” said Horatio, as they once more climbed into the
old-fashioned gig; “but talk about paper, you should see your brief:
that’s a caution and no mistake!”
“Is ur now? In what way, sir?”
“Lor, how I should like a cigar, Mr. Bumpkin, if I’d only got my case
with me, but unfortunately—”
“Would ur—then thee shall ’ave one; here, Mr. Ostler, jest goo and fetch
one o’ them there what d’ye call ems.”
“O, do they sell them down here? Cigars—cigars,” said Horatio, “I wasn’t
aware of that.”
“Now then, sir; what about this ere what d’ye call un—beef?”
Mr. Bumpkin, being a very artful man, was inwardly chuckling at the
successful manœuvring by which he was drawing out this pale
unsophisticated London youth, and hoped by dint of a little strategy to
learn a good deal before they parted company.
“Brief! brief!” said Horatio, laughing.
“Ah! so it wur; thee said he wur a hell of a big un.”
“Yes, and I wrote him myself.”
“Did ur now; then thee knows all about un?”
“From beginning to end—he is a clipper, I can tell you; a regular
whacker.”
“I hope he’ll whack thic Snooks then.”
“He’s a beauty!” rejoined Horatio, much to his companion’s surprise; for
here was this young man speaking of a brief in the same terms that he
(Bumpkin) would use with reference to a prize wurzel or swede. A brief
being a _beauty_ sounded somewhat strange in the ears of a farmer who
could associate the term with nothing that didn’t grow on the farm.
“I dare say you’ve heard of Macaulay’s England?” asked the lad.
“Whose England?”
“Macaulay’s.”
“I’ve eerd o’ England, if you mean this ere country, sartainly.”
“You’ve heard of Macaulay’s History, I mean?”
“Can’t say as ever I eerd tell on un.”
“Well, there’s as much in your brief as there is in that book, and that’s
saying something, ain’t it?”
“Zo’t be; but what th’ devil be ’t all about?”
“Well, I’ll tell you,” said Horatio, holding out his hands and putting
the point of his right forefinger on to the point of the forefinger of
his left hand. “First: biography of the plaintiff.”
“There now,” said Bumpkin, shaking the reins; “thee med jist as well talk
Greek—it’s the same wally (value) to me, for I doan’t understan’ a
word—bography, indade!”
“Well then, Mr. Bumpkin, there is first a history of your life.”
“Good lord, what be that for?”
“I’ll tell you presently—then there’s the history of Mrs. Bumpkin from
the cradle.” (Mr. Bumpkin uttered an exclamation which nothing shall
induce me to put on paper.) “Then”—and here the young man had reached
the third finger of the left hand—“then comes a history of the defendant
Snooks.”
“Ah!” said Bumpkin, as though they were getting nearer the mark; “that be
summut like—that’ll do un—have you put in about the gal?”
“What’s that?” asked the youth.
“Oh! didn’t thee ’ear? Why, thee ’st left out the best part o’ Snooks’
life; he were keepin company wi’ a gal and left her in t’ lurch: but I
’ope thee ’st shown up ur carater well in other ways—he be the worst man
as ever lived in this ’ere country.”
“Well,” said Horatio, travelling towards his little finger; “then there’s
the history of the pig.”
“Zounds!” laughed the farmer, “if ever I eerd tell o’ such a thing in my
bornd days. What the devil be the good o’ thic?”
“O, a good deal; the longer you make the brief the more money you get—you
are paid by the yard. They don’t pay lawyers accordin’ to the value of
their services, but the length of ’em.”
“Well, look ee ’ere, if I sells a pig it ain’t wallied by its length, but
by its weight.”
“It ain’t so with lawyers then,” rejoined Horatio; “the taxing master
takes the length of the pig, and his tail counts, and the longer the tail
the better the taxing master likes it; then comes,”—(as the young lad had
only four fingers he was obliged to have recourse to his thumb, placing
his forefinger thereon)—“then comes about ten pages on the immortality of
the soul.”
“That be the tail, I spoase.”
“You got it,” said Horatio, laughing. “O, he’s a stunner on the
immortality of the soul.”
“Who be?—Snooks?”
“No—Prigg—he goes into it like winkin’.”
“But what be it to do with thic case?”
“Well, if you only put in a brief what had got to do with the case it
would be a poor thing.”
And I saw in my dream that the young man was speaking truthfully: it was
a beautifully drawn essay on the immortality of the soul, especially
Bumpkin’s.
“By George!” continued the youth, “it’ll cost something—that brief.”
Mr. Bumpkin twitched as if he had touched with ice a nerve of his hollow
tooth.
“If I had the money that case’ll cost I wouldn’t do any more work,” said
the youth.
“What would’st thee be then?”
“Well, I should try and get an Associate’s place in one of the Courts.”
“Hem! but this ere Snooks ull have to pay, won’t he?”
“Ah!” said Horatio, breathing deeply and indignantly, “I hope so; he’s a
mean cuss—what d’ye think? never give Locust’s boy so much as a
half-sovereign! Now don’t such a feller deserve to lose? And do you
think Locust’s boy will interest himself in his behalf?”
Bumpkin looked slily out of the corners of his eyes at the young man, but
the young man was impassive as stone, and pale as if made of the best
Carrara marble.
“But tell I, sir—for here we be at the plaace of Mr. Commissioner to take
oaths—what need be there o’ this ere thing I be gwine to swear, for I’ll
be danged if I understand a word of un, so I tell ee.”
“Costs, my dear sir, costs!”
* * * * *
And I heard Bumpkin mutter to himself that “he’d he danged if this ’ere
feller wur so young as he made out—his ’ead wur a mighty dale older nor
his body.”
CHAPTER X.
The last night before the first London expedition, which gives occasion
to recall pleasant reminiscences.
“I, Bumpkin, make oath and say,” having been duly presented, and the
Commissioner having duly placed the Testament in Mr. Bumpkin’s hands, and
said to him that to the best of his knowledge and belief the contents of
the “I Bumpkin” paper were true, the matter was over, and Mr. Snigger,
with the valuable document in his possession, might have returned to
London by the next train. But as Horatio afterwards observed to a
friend, he “was not quite so green.” It was market day; Mr. Bumpkin was
a genial companion, and had asked him to partake of the Market Ordinary.
So thither at one o’clock they repaired, and a very fine dinner the pale
youth disposed of. It seemed in proportion to the wonderful brief whose
merits they had previously discussed. More and more did Horatio think
that a farmer’s life was the life for him. He had never seen such
“feeding;” more and more would he like that month on trial in the
country; more and more inclined was he to throw up the whole blessed law
at once and for ever. This partly-formed resolution he communicated to
Mr. Bumpkin, and assured him that, but for the case of _Bumpkin_ v.
_Snooks_, he would do so on that very afternoon, and wash his hands of
it.
“I don’t want,” said he, “to leave you in the lurch, Mr. Bumpkin, or else
I’d cut it at once, and throw this affidavit into the fire.”
“Come, come,” said the farmer, “thee beest a young man, don’t do nowt
that be wrong—stick to thy employer like a man, and when thee leaves,
leave like a man.”
“As soon as your case is over, I shall hook it, Mr. Bumpkin. And now let
me see—you’ll have to come to London in a week or two, for I am pretty
nigh sure we shall be in the paper by that time. I shall see you when
you come up—where shall you stay?”
“Danged if I know; I be a straanger in Lunnun.”
“Well, now, look ’ere, Mr. Bumpkin, I can tell you of a very nice quiet
public-house in Westminster where you’ll be at home; the woman, I
believe, comes from your part of the country, and so does the landlord.”
“What be the naame o’ the public ’ouse?” asked Mr. Bumpkin.
“It’s the sign of the ‘Goose,’ and stands just a little way off from the
water-side.”
“The Goose” sounded countryfied and homelike, and being near the water
would be pleasant, and the landlord and landlady being Somersetshire
people would also be pleasant.
“Be it a dear plaace?” he inquired.
“Oh, no; dirt cheap.”
“Ah, that air _dirt_ cheap I doan’t like—I likes it a bit clean like.”
“Oh, yes, clean as a smelt—clean as ever it can be; and I’ll bespeak your
lodgings for you if you like, and all.”
“Well, thankee, sir, thankee,” said the farmer, shaking hands with the
youth, and giving him a half-sovereign. “I be proud to know thee.” And
thus they parted: Horatio returning to his office, and Mr. Bumpkin
driving home at what is called a “shig-shog” pace, reflecting upon all
the events that had transpired during that memorable day.
Pretty much the same as ever went on the things at the farm, and the
weeks passed by, and the autumn was over, and Christmas Day came and
went, and the Assizes came and went, and _Bumpkin_ v. _Snooks_ alone in
all the world seemed to stand still. One day in the autumn a friend of
Mr. Prigg’s came and asked the favour of a day’s fishing, which was
granted with Mr. Bumpkin’s usual cordiality. He was not only to fish on
that day, but to come whenever he liked, and make the house his “hoame,
like.” So he came and fished, and partook of the hospitality of the
homely but plentiful table, and enjoyed himself as often as he pleased.
He was a most agreeable man, and knew how to talk. Understood a good
deal about agriculture and sheep breeding, and quite enjoyed a walk with
Mr. Bumpkin round the farm. This happened five or six times during the
autumn. He was reticent when Mr. Bumpkin mentioned the lawsuit, because
he knew so little about legal proceedings. Nor could Mr. Bumpkin “draw
him out” on any point. Nothing could be ascertained concerning him
except that he had a place in Yorkshire, and was in London on a visit;
that he had known Mr. Prigg for a good many years, and always “found him
the same.” At last, the month of February came, and the long expected
letter from Mr. Prigg. Bumpkin and Joe were to be in London on the
following day, for it was expected they would be in the paper. What a
flutter of preparation there was at the farm! Bumpkin was eager, Mrs.
Bumpkin anxious. She had never liked the lawsuit, but had never once
murmured; now she seemed to have a presentiment which she was too wise to
express. And she went about her preparations for her husband’s leaving
with all the courage she could command. It was, however, impossible
entirely to repress her feelings, and now and again as she was packing
the flannels and worsted stockings, a tear would force its way in spite
of all she could do.
Night came, and the fireside was as cosy as ever. But there was a sense
of sadness nevertheless. Tim seemed to understand that something was not
quite as it should be, for he was restless, and looked up plaintively in
his master’s face, and went to Joe and put his head in his lap; then
turned away and stretched himself out on the hearth, winking his eyes at
the fire.
It is always a melancholy effort to “keep up the spirits” when the moment
of separation is at hand. One longs for the last shake of the hand and
the final good-bye. This was the case at Southwood Farm on this
memorable evening. Nothing in the room looked as usual. The pewter
plates on the shelf shone indeed, but it was like the smile of a winter
sun; it lacked the usual cheery warmth. Even the old clock seemed to
feel sad as he ticked out with melancholy monotony the parting moments;
and the wind, as it came in heavy gusts and howled round the old chimney,
seemed more melancholy than need be under the circumstances.
“Thee must be careful, Tom,” said Mrs. Bumpkin; “that Lunnun, as I hear,
be a terrible plaace.”
“How be un a terrible plaace?” said Bumpkin, sarcastically. “I bean’t a
child, Nancy.”
“No, thee bean’t a child, Tom; but thee bean’t up to Lunnun ways: there
be thieves and murderers, and what not.”
“Thieves and murderers!”
“And Joe, doan’t ee git out o’ nights; if anything ’appened to thee, thy
old mother ’ud brak her ’art.”
“Look ee ’ere,” said Joe, “I bean’t got nuthin’ to lose, so I bean’t
afeared o’ thieves.”
“No, but thee might git into trouble, thee might be led away.”
“So might thic bull,” said Joe; “but I’d like to zee what ’ud become o’
the chap as led un.”
“Chap as led un!” said Mrs. Bumpkin, laughing.
“I’d gie un a crack o’ the canister,” said Joe.
“Don’t thee git knockin’ down, Joe, unless thee be ’bliged,” said Mrs.
Bumpkin; “keep out o’ bad company, and don’t stay out o’ nights.”
“And lookee ’ere, Joe,” said Bumpkin, “when thee comes afore th’
Counsellor wi’ wig on, hold up thee head; look un straight in t’ face and
spak oop. Thee needn’t be afeared t’ spak t’ truth.”
“I bean’t afeard,” said Joe; “I mind me when old Morris wur at plough,
and I was leadin’ th’ ’orses, Morris says, says he, ‘Now then, cock,
let’s see if we can’t git a eend this time;’ so on we goes, and jist
afore I gits the ’orses to eend o’ t’ field, Dobbin turns, and then, dash
my bootons, the tother turns after un, and me tryin’ to keep em oop,
Dobbin gits his legs over the trace. Well, Morris wur that wild, he
says, says he, ‘Damme, if yer doan’t look sharp, I’ll gie thee a crack o’
t’ canister wi’ this ’ere whippense presny’” (presently).
“Crack o’ the canister!” laughed Mrs. Bumpkin, “and that’s what Morris
called thy head, eh?”
This was a capital hit on Joe’s part, for it set them thinking of the
events of old times, and Joe, seeing the effect of it, ventured upon
another anecdote relating to the old carter.
“Thee recollect, master, when that there Mr. Gearns come down to shoot;
lor, lor, what a queer un he wur, surely!”
“Couldn’t shoot a hit,” said Bumpkin.
“Not he. Wall, we was carrying wheat, and Morris wur loadin, and jest as
we gits the last pitch on t’ load, right through th’ ’orses legs runds a
rat. Gearns wi’out more ado oops wi’ his loaded gun and bangs her off
right under t’ ’orses legs; up jumps th’ ’orse, and Morris wur wery nigh
tossed head fust into th’ yard. Wall, he makes no moore ado, for he
didn’t keer, gemman or no gemman—didn’t Morris—”
“No more ur didn’t, Joe,” said Mrs. Bumpkin.
“He makes no moore ado, but he up and said, ‘damme,’ he says, ‘sir, you
might as well a said you was gwine to shoot; you might a had me off and
broked my neck.’”
“Haw! haw! haw!” laughed Mr. Bumpkin, and “Well done, Morris,” said Mrs.
Bumpkin.
“Wall,” said Joe, “this ere gemman says, ‘It wouldn’t er bin much loss,’
he says, ‘if he had!’ ‘Damme,’ roars Morris, ‘it had a bin as much wally
to me as yourn, anyhow.’”
They all remembered the story, and even Tim seemed to remember it too,
for when they laughed he wagged his tail and laughed with them.
And thus the evening dragged along and bed time came.
In the morning all was in readiness, and the plaintiff with his witness
drove away in the gig to the station, where Morris waited to bring the
old horse back.
And as the train came into the little country station I awoke.
* * * * *
“I hope,” cried my wife, “that Mr. Prigg is a respectable man.”
“Respectable,” I answered, “I know he is; but whether he is honest is
another matter.”
“But don’t you know?”
“I only know what I dream.”
“I have no opinion of him,” said she; “nor of that Locust; I believe they
are a couple of rogues.”
“I should be very sorry to suggest such a thing as that,” I answered,
“without some proof. Everybody should give credit for the best of
motives.”
“But what are all these summonses you speak of?”
“O, they are summonses in the action. You may have as many of them as
you can invent occasion for. You may go up to the Court of Appeal about
twenty times before you try the action, which means about eighty
different hearings before Master and Judges.”
“But how can a poor man endure that? It’s a great shame.”
“He can’t—he may have a perfectly good cause of action against a rich man
or a rich company, and they can utterly ruin him before ever his case can
come into Court.”
“But will no solicitor take it up for the poor man?”
“Yes, some will, and the only reward they usually get for their pains is
to be stigmatized as having brought a speculative action—accused of doing
it for the sake of costs; although I have known the most honourable men
do it out of pure sympathy for the poor man.”
“And so they ought,” cried she.
“And I trust,” said I, “that hereafter it will be considered honourable
to do so. It is quite as honourable, in my judgment, to bring an action
when you may never be paid as to bring it when you know you will be.”
“Who was the person referred to as ‘the man?’”
“I don’t know,” said I, “but I strongly suspect he is, in reality, a
nominee of Prigg’s.”
“That is exactly my opinion,” said my wife. “And if so, between them,
they will ruin that poor man.”
“I can’t tell,” said I, lighting my pipe. “I know no more about the
future of my dream than you do; maybe when I sleep again something else
will transpire.”
“But can no one do anything to alter this state of things? I plainly
perceive that they are all against this poor Bumpkin.”
“Well, you see, in a tinkering sort of way, a good many try their hands
at reforming the law; but it’s to no one’s interest, that I can see, to
reform it.”
“I hope you’ll write this dream and publish it, so that someone’s eyes
may be opened.”
“It may make me enemies.”
“Not among honest people; they will all be on your side, and the
dishonest ones, who seem to me to be the only persons benefited by such a
dilatory and shocking mode of procedure, are the very persons whose
enmity you need not fear. But can the Judges do nothing?”
“No; their duty is merely to administer the law, not to change it. But
if the people would only give them full power and fair play, Old Fogeyism
would be buried to-morrow. They struggle might and main to break through
the fetters, but to no purpose while they are hampered by musty old
precedents, ridiculous forms and bad statutes. They are not masters of
the situation. I wish they were for the sake of suitors. I would only
make one condition with regard to them. If they were to set about the
task of reform, I would not let the Equity Judges reform the Common Law
nor the Common Law Judges the Equity.”
“I thought they were fused.”
“No, only transposed.”
CHAPTER XI.
Commencement of London life and adventures.
And I dreamt again, and methought there were three things with reference
to London that Joe had learnt at school. First, that there was a Bridge,
chiefly remarkable for the fact that Captain Cook, the Navigator, shot
his servant because he said he was under London Bridge when he was in the
South Pacific Ocean; secondly, that there was a famous Tower, where the
Queen’s Crown was kept; thirdly, that there was a Monument built to show
where the Great Fire began, and intimately connected in its cause with
Guy Faux, whom Joe had helped to carry on the Fifth of November. Now
when the young man woke in the morning at “The Goose,” in Millbank
Street, Westminster, his attention was immediately attracted by these
three historic objects; and it was not till after he had made inquiries
that he found that it was not London Bridge that crossed the water in a
line with the Horseferry Road, but a very inferior structure called
Lambeth Suspension Bridge. Nor was the Tower on the left the Tower of
London, but the Lollards’ tower of Lambeth Palace; while the supposed
Monument was only the handsome column of Messrs. Doulton’s Pottery.
But they were all interesting objects nevertheless; and so were the huge
cranes that were at work opposite the house lifting the most tremendous
loads of goods from the lighters to the wharves. The “Shipping,” too,
with its black and copper-coloured sails, gave some idea of the extent of
England’s mercantile marine. At all events, it excited the country lad’s
wonder and astonishment. But there was another matter that gave quite an
agricultural and countrified look to the busy scene, and that was the
prodigious quantity of straw that was being unloaded from the barges
alongside. While Mr. Bumpkin went to see his solicitor at Westminster
Hall, Joe wandered about the wharves looking at the boats and barges, the
cranes and busy workmen who drove their barrows from barge to wharf, and
ran along with loads on their backs over narrow planks, in the most
lively manner. But looking on, even at sights like these, day by day,
becomes a wearisome task, and Joe, being by no means an idle lad,
occasionally “lent a hand” where he saw an opportunity. London, no
doubt, was a very interesting place, but when he had seen Page Street,
and Wood Street, and Church Street, and Abingdon Street, and Millbank
Prison, and the other interesting objects referred to, his curiosity was
gratified, and he began to grow tired of the sameness of the place.
Occasionally he saw a soldier or two and the military sight fired his
rustic imagination. Not that Joe had the remotest intention of entering
the army; it was the last thing he would ever dream of; but, in common
with all mankind he liked to look at the smart bearing and brilliant
uniform of the sergeant, who seemed to have little else to do than walk
about with his cane under his arm, or tap the stone parapet with it as he
looked carelessly at some interesting object on the river.
The evenings in the taproom at “The Goose” were among the most enjoyable
periods of the lad’s London existence. A select party usually gathered
there, consisting chiefly of a young man who never apparently had had
anything to do in his life. His name was Harry Highlow, a clever sort of
wild young scapegrace who played well at “shove-ha’penny,” and sang a
good comic song. Another of the party was a youth who earned a
precarious livelihood by carrying two boards on his shoulders advertising
a great pickle, or a great singer, as the case might be. Another of the
company was a young man who was either a discharged or a retired groom; I
should presume the former, as he complained bitterly that the authorities
at Scotland Yard would not grant him a licence to drive a cab. He
appeared to be a striking instance of how every kind of patronage in this
country is distributed by favouritism. There were several others, all
equally candidates for remunerative situations, but equally unfortunate
in obtaining them: proving conclusively that life is indeed a lottery in
which there may be a few prizes, usually going, by the caprice of
Fortune, to the undeserving, while the blanks went indiscriminately to
all the rest.
Bound together by the sympathy which a common misfortune engenders, these
young men were happy in the pursuit of their innocent amusements at “The
Goose.” And while, at first, they were a little inclined to chaff the
rustic youth on account of his apparent simplicity, they soon learned to
respect him on account of his exceedingly good temper and his willingness
to fall in with the general views of the company on all occasions. They
learnt all about Joe’s business in London, and it was a common greeting
when they met in the evening to ask “how the pig was?” And they would
enquire what the Lord Chancellor thought about the case, and whether it
wouldn’t be as well to grease the pig’s tail and have a pig-hunt. To all
which jocular observations Joe would reply with excellent temper and
sometimes with no inappropriate wit. And then they said they would like
to see Joe tackle Mr. Orkins, and believed he would shut him up. But
chaff never roused his temper, and he laughed at the case as much as any
man there. Fine tales he would have to tell when he got back to
Yokelton; and pleasant, no doubt, would be in after-life, his
recollections of the evenings at “The Goose.”
As a great general surveys the field where the intended action is to be
fought, so Mr. Bumpkin was conducted by Horatio to Westminster Hall, and
shown the various Courts of Justice, and some of the judges.
“Be this Chancery?” he enquired.
“O my eye, no!” said Horatio; “the cause has been transferred from
Chancery to these ’ere Common Law Courts. It was only brought in
Chancery because the costs there are upon a higher scale; we didn’t mean
to try her there.”
“Where will she be tried then?”
“In one of these Courts.”
“Who be the judge?” whispered Bumpkin.
At this moment there was a loud shout of “Silence!” and although Mr.
Bumpkin was making no noise whatever, a gentleman approached him, looking
very angry, and enquired if Mr. Bumpkin desired to be committed for
contempt of Court.
Mr. Bumpkin thought the most prudent answer was silence; so he remained
speechless, looking the gentleman full in the face; while the gentleman
looked him full in the face for at least a minute and a half, as if he
were wondering whether he should take him off to prison there and then,
or give him another chance, as the judge sometimes does a prisoner when
he sentences him to two years imprisonment with hard labour.
Now the gentleman was a very amiable man of about forty, with large brown
mutton-chop whiskers, and a very well trained moustache; good-looking
and, I should think, with some humour, that is for a person connected
with the Courts. He was something about the Court, but in what capacity
he held up his official head, I am unable to say. He was evidently
regarded with great respect by the crowd of visitors. It was some time
before he took his gaze off Mr. Bumpkin; even when he had taken his eyes
off, he seemed looking at him as if he feared that the moment he went
away Bumpkin would do it again.
And then methought I heard someone whisper near me: “His lordship is
going to give judgment in the case of _Starling_ v. _Nightingale_,” and
all at once there was a great peace. I lost sight of Bumpkin, I lost
sight of the gentleman, I lost sight of the crowd; an indefinable
sensation of delight overpowered my senses. Where was I? I had but a
moment before been in a Court of Justice, with crowds of gaping idlers;
with prosaic-looking gentlemen in horsehair wigs; with gentlemen in a pew
with papers before them ready to take down the proceedings. Now it
seemed as if I must be far away in the distant country, where all was
calm and heavenly peace.
Surely I must be among the water-lilies! What a lullaby sound as of
rippling waters and of distant music in the evening air; of the eddying
and swirl of the mingling currents; of the chime of bells on the evening
breeze; of the zephyrs through fir-tops; of woodland whispers; of the
cadence of the cathedral organ; of the soft sweet melody of the maiden’s
laugh; of her gentlest accents in her sweetest mood; of—but similitudes
fail me. In this delicious retreat, which may be compared to the Garden
of Eden before the tempter entered, are the choicest flowers of rhetoric.
I hear a voice as from the far-off past, and I wonder will that be the
voice which will utter the “last syllable of recorded time?”
Then methought the scene changed, and I heard the question—
“Do you move, Mr. Jones?”
O the prosaic Jones!—“don’t you move?”
Yes, he does; he partly rises, ducks his head, and elevates the hinder
portion of his person, and his movement ceases. And the question is
repeated to Mr. Quick. “Do you move, Mr. Quick?”
Then I saw Mr. Bumpkin again, just as Mr. Quick ducked his head and
elevated his back.
And then some gentleman actually moved in real earnest upon these
interesting facts:—A farmer’s bull—just the very case for Mr. Bumpkin—had
strayed from the road and gone into another man’s yard, and upset a tub
of meal; was then driven into a shed and locked up. The owner of the
bull came up and demanded that the animal should be released. “Not
without paying two pounds,” said the meal-owner. The bull owner paid it
under protest, and summoned the meal-owner to the County Court for one
pound seventeen shillings and sixpence, the difference between the damage
done (which was really about twopence) and the money paid to redeem the
bull. Judgment for the plaintiff. Motion for new trial, or to enter
verdict for the defendant, on the ground that the meal man could charge
what he liked.
One of the learned Judges asked:
“Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Smiles, that if a man has a bull, and that
bull goes into a yard and eats some meal out of a meal-tub, and the
damage amounts to twopence, and the owner of the bull says ‘here’s your
twopence,’ that the owner of the meal can say, “No, I want a hundred
pounds, and shall take your bull damage feasant,” and then takes him and
locks him up, and the owner of the bull pays the hundred pounds, he
cannot afterwards get the money back?”
“That is so,” says the learned counsel, “such is the law.” And then he
cited cases innumerable to prove that it was the law.
“Well,” said the Judge, “unless you show me a case of a bull and a
meal-tub, I shall not pay attention to any case—must be a meal-tub.”
Second Judge: “It is extortion, and done for the purpose of extortion;
and I should say he could be indicted for obtaining money by false
pretences.”
“I am not sure he could not, my lord,” said the counsel; “but he can’t
recover the money back.”
“Then,” said the Judge, “if he obtains money by an indictable fraud
cannot he get it back?”
“Well,” said Bumpkin, “that be rum law; if it had bin my bull, he’d a gin
’em summat afore they runned him in.”
It was interesting to see how the judges struggled against this
ridiculous law; and it was manifest even to the unlettered Bumpkin, that
a good deal of old law is very much like old clothes, the worse for wear,
and totally inapplicable to the present day. A struggle against old
authorities is often a struggle of Judges to free themselves from the
fetters of antiquated dicta and decisions no longer appropriate to or
necessary for the modern requirements of civilisation.
In this case precedents running over _one hundred and eight years_ were
quoted, and so far from impressing the Court with respect, they simply
evoked a smile of contempt.
The learned Judges, after patiently listening to the arguments, decided
that extortion and fraud give no title, and thus were the mists and
vapours that arose from the accumulated mudbanks of centuries dispelled
by the clear shining of common sense. In spite of arguments by the hour,
and the pettifogging of one hundred and eight years, justice prevailed,
and the amazed appellant was far more damaged by his legal proceedings
than he was by the bull. The moral surely is, that however wise ancient
judges were in their day, their wisdom ought not to be allowed to work
injustice. He may be a wise Judge who makes a precedent, but he is often
a much wiser who sweeps it away.
CHAPTER XII.
How the great Don O’Rapley became an usher of the Court of Queen’s Bench
and explained the ingenious invention of the round square—how Mr. Bumpkin
took the water and studied character from a penny steamboat.
Some years ago there lived in a little village near Bridgewater a young
man who was the bowler of his village eleven—one of the first roundhand
bowlers in point of time, and by no means the last in point of merit.
Indeed, so great was the local fame of this young man that it produced a
sensation for miles around when it was announced that Don O’Rapley (such
was his name) was going to bowl. All the boys of the village where the
match was to take place were in a state of the utmost excitement to see
the Don. At times it was even suggested that he was unfairly “smugged
in” to play for a village to which he had no pretensions to belong. In
process of time the youth became a man, and by virtue of his cricket
reputation he obtained a post in the Court of Queen’s Bench. The
gentleman whom I have referred to as looking with such austerity at Mr.
Bumpkin is that very Don O’Rapley; the requirements of a large family
necessitated his abandonment of a profession which, although more to his
taste, was not sufficiently remunerative to admit of his indulging it
after the birth of his sixth child. But it was certain that he never
lost his love for the relinquished pursuit, as was manifest from his
habit when alone of frequently going through a kind of dumb motion with
his arm as if he were delivering one of his celebrated “twisters.” He
had even been seen in a quiet corner of the Court to go through the same
performance in a somewhat modified form. He was once caught by the Judge
in the very act of delivering a ball, but found a ready apology in the
explanation that he had a touch of “rheumatiz” in his right shoulder.
Now I saw in my dream that Don O’Rapley was in earnest conversation with
Horatio, and it was clear Mr. Bumpkin was the subject of it, from the
very marked manner in which the Don and the youth turned occasionally to
look at him. It may be stated that Horatio was the nephew of Don
O’Rapley, and, perhaps, it was partly in consequence of this
relationship, and partly in consequence of what Horatio told him, that
the latter gentleman rose from his seat under the witness-box and came
towards Mr. Bumpkin, shouting as he did so in a very solemn and prolonged
tone, “Si-lence!”
Mr. Bumpkin saw him, and, conscious that he was innocent this time of any
offence for which he could be committed, stood his ground with a bold
front, and firmly held his white beaver with both hands. O’Rapley
contemplated him for a few minutes with an almost affectionate interest.
Bumpkin felt much as a pigeon would under the gaze of an admiring owl.
At last O’Rapley spoke:—
“Why, it’s never Mr. Bumpkin, is it?”
“It be a good imitation, sir,” said Bumpkin, “and I bean’t asheamed of
un.”
“Silence!” cried the Don. “You don’t remember me, I s’pose?”
“Wall, not rightly, I doan’t.”
“I dissay you recollect Don O’Rapley, the demon bowler of Bridgewater?”
“I’ve ’eered tell on ’im,” said Bumpkin.
“I’m that man!” said the Don, “and this is my nephew, Mr. Snigger. He
tells me you’ve got a case comin’ on?”
“I be.”
“Just step outside,” said the Don, “we mustn’t talk ’ere.” So they went
into Westminster Hall, and the good-natured O’Rapley asked if Mr. Bumpkin
would like to look round, and if so he said he would be happy to show
him, for he was very pleased to see anyone from the scene of his youthful
exploits.
“Thankee, sir—thankee, sir,” answered Bumpkin, delighted to find another
“native” among “furriners.” “And this ’ere genleman be thy nevvy, sir?”
“He is, and very proud of him I am; he’s my sister’s son.”
“Seems a nice quiet boy,” said Mr. Bumpkin. “Now how old might he be?”
“Old,” said Mr. O’Rapley, looking deedily at the floor and pressing his
hand to his forehead, “why he’ll be seventeen come March.”
“Hem! his ’ed be a good deal older nor thic: his ’ed be forty—it’s my way
o’ thinkin’.”
The Don laughed.
“Yes, he has his head screwed on the right way, I think.”
“Why that air lad,” said Bumpkin, “might make a judge.”
O’Rapley laughed and shook his head.
“In old times,” said he, “he might ha’ made a Lord Chancellor; a man as
was clever had a chance then, but lor’ blesh you, Mr. Bumpkin, now-a-days
it’s so very different; the raw material is that plentiful in the law
that you can find fifty men as would make rattlin good Lord Chancellors
for one as you could pick out to make a rattlin’ good bowler. But come,
we’ll have a look round.”
So round they looked again, and Mr. Bumpkin was duly impressed with the
array of wigs and the number of books and the solemnity of the judges and
the arguments of counsel, not one word of which was intelligible to him.
Mr. O’Rapley explained everything and pointed out where a judge and jury
tried a case, and then took him into another court where two judges tried
the judge and jury, and very often set them both aside and gave new
trials and altered verdicts and judgments or refused to do so
notwithstanding the elaborate arguments of the most eloquent and
long-winded of learned counsel.
Then the Don asked if Mr. Bumpkin would like to see the Chancery
Judges—to which Mr. Bumpkin answered that “he hadn’t much opinion o’
Chancery from all he’d ’eeard, and that when a man got into them there
Cooarts maybe he’d never coome out agin, but he shouldn’t mind seein’ a
Chancery Judge.”
“Well, then,” said the distinguished bowler, “now-a-days we needn’t go to
Chancery, for they’ve invented the ‘Round Square.’”
Mr. Bumpkin stared. Could so great a man as the O’Rapley be joking? No;
the Don seldom laughed. He was a great admirer of everything relating to
the law, but had a marked prejudice against the new system; and when he
spoke of the “Round Square” he meant, as he afterwards explained, that
confusion of Law and Equity which consists in putting Chancery Judges to
try common law cases and Common Law Judges to unravel the nice twistings
of the elaborate system of Equity; “as though,” said he, “you should fuse
the butcher and the baker by getting the former to make bread and the
latter to dress a calf.”
Mr. Bumpkin could only stare by way of reply.
“If you want to see Chancery Judges,” added the Don, “come to the Old
Bailey!”
CHAPTER XIII.
An interesting gentleman—showing how true it is that one half the world
does not know how the other half lives.
“The Old Bailey,” said Mr. Bumpkin, as they crossed Palace Yard on their
way to the steamboat pier, “bean’t that where all these ’ere chaps be
tried for ship stealin’?” (sheep stealing).
“I don’t know about ship stealing,” said O’Rapley, “but it’s a place
where they can cure all sorts of diseases.”
“Zounds!” exclaimed Bumpkin, “I’ve ’eeard tell of un. A horsepital you
means—dooan’t want to goo there.”
“Horse or donkey, it don’t matter what,” said Don O’Rapley. “They’ve got
a stuff that’s so strong a single drop will cure any disease you’ve got.”
“I wonder if it ’ud cure my old ’ooman’s roomatiz. It ’ud be wuth
tryin’, maybe.”
“I’ll warrant it,” replied the Don. “She’d never feel ’em after takin’
one drop,” and he drew his hand across his mouth and coughed.
“I’d like to try un,” said the farmer, “for she be a terrible suffrer in
these ’ere east winds. ’As ’em like all up the grine.”
“Ah,” said the Don, “it don’t matter where she ’as ’em, it will cure
her.”
“How do ’em sell it—in bottles?”
“No, it isn’t in bottles—you take it by the foot; about nine feet’s
considered a goodish dose.”
Mr. Bumpkin looked straight before him, somewhat puzzled at this
extraordinary description of a medicine. At length he got a glimmering
of the Don’s meaning, and, looking towards, but not quite at him, said:—
“I be up to ’ee, sir!” and the Don laughed, and asked whether his
description wasn’t right?
“That be right enough. Zounds! it be right enough. Haw! haw! haw!”
“You never want a second dose,” said the Don, “do you?”
“No, sir—never wants moore ’an one dose; but ’ow comes it, if you please,
sir, that these ’ere Chancery chaps have changed their tack; be it
they’ve tried ’onest men so long that they be gwine to ’ave a slap at the
thieves for a change?”
“Look ’ere,” said the worthy O’Rapley, “you will certainly see the inside
of a jail before you set eyes on the outside of a haystack, if you go on
like that. It’s contempt of court to speak of Her Majesty’s Judges as
‘chaps’.”
“Beg pardon, sir,” said Bumpkin, “but we must all ’ave a larnin’. I
didn’t mane no disruspect to the Lord Judge; but I wur only a axin’ jist
the same as you might ax me about anythink on my farm.”
And I saw that they proceeded thus in edifying conversation until they
came to the Thames embankment. It was somewhat difficult to preserve his
presence of mind as Mr. Bumpkin descended the gangway and stepped on
board the boat, which was belching forth its volumes of black smoke and
rocking under the influence of the wash of a steamer that had just left
the pier.
“I doant much like these ’ere booats,” said he. “Doant mind my old punt,
but dang these ’ere ships.”
“There’s no danger,” said the O’Rapley, springing on board as though he
had been a pilot: and then making a motion with his arm as if he was
delivering a regular “length ball,” his fist unfortunately came down on
Mr. Bumpkin’s white hat, in consequence of a sudden jerk of the vessel; a
rocking boat not being the best of places for the delivery of length
balls.
Mr. Bumpkin looked round quite in the wrong direction for ascertaining
what was the cause of the sudden shock to his nervous system and his hat.
“Zounds!” said he, “what were thic?”
“What was what?” asked O’Rapley.
“Summut gie me a crack o’ the top o’ my ’ead like a thunderbolt.”
“I didn’t see anything fall,” said the Don.
“Noa; but I felt un, which I allows wur more’n seein’—lookee ’ere.”
And taking off his huge beaver he showed the dent of Mr. O’Rapley’s fist.
“Bless me,” said the roundhand bowler, “it’s like a crack with a cricket
ball.”
But there was no time for further examination of the extraordinary
circumstance, for the crowd of passengers poured along and pushed this
way and that, so that the two friends were fairly driven to the fore part
of the boat, where they took their seats. It was quite a new world to
Mr. Bumpkin, and more like a dream than a reality. As he stared at the
different buildings he was too much amazed even to enquire what was this
or what was that. But when they passed under the Suspension Bridge, and
the chimney ducked her head and the smoke came out of the “stump,” as Mr.
Bumpkin termed it, he thought she had struck and broken short off. Mr.
O’Rapley explained this phenomenon, as he did many others on their route;
and when they came to Cleopatra’s Needle he gave such information as he
possessed concerning that ancient work. Mr. Bumpkin looked as though he
were not to be taken in.
“I be up to ’ee, sir,” said he. “I s’pose that air thing the t’other
side were the needle-case?”
The O’Rapley informed him that it was a shot tower where they made shot.
Mr. Bumpkin laughed heartily at this; he was not to be taken in by any
manner of means; was far too sharp for that.
“And I spoase,” said he, “they makes the guns—”
“In Gunnersbury,” said Mr. O’Rapley; it was no use to be serious.
“I thought thee were gwine to say in a gun pit, but I don’t mind thy
chaff, Master Rapley, and shall be mighty proud to see thee down at
Southood for a day’s shoot-in’: and mind thee bring some o’ these ere
shot with thee that be made at yon tower, haw! haw! haw! Thee’ll kill a
white-tailed crow then, I shouldn’t wonder; thee knows a white-tailed
crow, doan’t thee, Master Rapley, when thee sees un—and danged if I
doan’t gie thee a quart bottle o’ pigeon’s milk to tak’ wi’ thee; haw!
haw! haw!”
The O’Rapley laughed heartily at these witty sallies, for Bumpkin was so
jolly, and took everything in such good part, that he could not but enjoy
his somewhat misplaced sarcasms.
“Now you’ve heard of Waterloo, I dare say,” said Mr. O’Rapley.
“Yes, I’ve ’eeard tell on un, and furder, my grand-feather wur out
theer.”
“Well, this that we are coming to is Waterloo Bridge.”
“Yes,” said Bumpkin, “it be a bridge, but it bean’t Worterloo more ’an I
be my grandfearther—what de think o’ that—haw! haw! haw!”
“Good,” said O’Rapley; “that’s quite right, but this is the bridge named
after the battle.”
“Zo’t be neamed artur un because it worn’t named afore un, haw! haw! haw!
Good agin, Maister Rapley, thee got it.”
Mr. O’Rapley found that any attempt to convey instruction was useless, so
he said:—
“Joking apart, Mr. Bumpkin, you see that man sitting over there with the
wideawake hat?”
“D’ye mane near the noase o’ the ship?”
“Well, the nose if you like.”
“I zee un—chap wi’ red faace, blue ’ankercher, and white spots?”
“That’s the man. Well, now, you’d never guess who he is?”
Mr. Bumpkin certainly would have been a sharp man if he could.
“Well,” continued the Don, “that man gets his living by bringing actions.
No matter who it is or what, out comes the writ and down he comes for
damages.”
“Hem! that be rum, too, bean’t it?”
“Yes, he’s always looking out for accidents; if he hears o’ one, down he
comes with his pocket-book, gets ’old o’ some chap that’s injured, or
thinks he is, and out comes the writ.”
“What be he then?”
“A scamp—works in the name of some broken-down attorney, and pays him for
the use of it.”
“So he can work the lor like wirout being a loryer?”
“That’s it—and, lor’ bless you, he’s got such a way with him that if he
was to come and talk to you for five minutes, he’d have a writ out
against you in the morning.”
“Ain’t it rayther cold at this eend o’ the booat,” asked Mr. Bumpkin, “I
feel a little chilly loike.”
“No,” said the Don, “we just caught the wind at that corner, that was
all.”
But Mr. Bumpkin kept his eye on the artful man, with a full determination
to “have no truck wi’ un.”
“As I was saying, this Ananias never misses a chance: he’s on the
look-out at this moment; if they was to push that gangway against his
toe, down he’d go and be laid up with an injured spine and concussion of
the brain, till he got damages from the company.”
“Must be a reg’ler rogue, I allows; I should like to push un overboard.”
“Just what he would like; he isn’t born to be drowned, that man; he’d
soon have a writ out against you. There was a railway accident once
miles away in the country; ever so many people were injured and some of
’em killed. Well, down he goes to see if he could get hold of
anybody—no, nobody would have him—so what does he do but bring an action
himself.”
“What for?”
“Why, just the same as if he’d been in the accident.”
“Ought to be hanged.”
“Well, the doctors were very pleased to find that no bones were broken,
and, although there were no bruises, they discovered that there were
internal injuries: the spine was wrong, and there was concussion of the
brain, and so on.”
“If ever I ’eerd tell o’ sich a thing in my borned days.”
“No, but it’s true. Well, he was laid up a long time under medical
treatment, and it was months before he could get about, and then he
brings his action: but before it came on he prosecutes his servant for
stealing some trumpery thing or other—a very pretty girl she was too—and
the trial came on at Quarter Sessions.”
“Where Squoire Stooky sits.”
“I never laughed so in all my life; there was the railway company with
the red light, and there was Fireaway, the counsel for the girl, and then
in hobbled the prosecutor, with a great white bandage round his head. He
was so feeble through the injuries he had received that he could hardly
walk. ‘Now then,’ says the counsel, ‘is he sworn?’ ‘Yes,’ says the
crier.
“‘He must be sworn on the Koran,’ says Fireaway; ‘he’s a Mommadon.’
“‘Where’s the Jorum?’ says the crier. ‘Must be swore on the Jorum.’
“O dear, dear, you should ha’ heard ’em laugh—it was more like a theayter
than a court. It was not only roars, but continnerus roars for several
minutes. And all the time the larfter was going on there was this man
throwin’ out his arms over the witness-box at the counsel like a madman;
and the more he raved the more they laughed. He was changed from a
hobblin’ invalid, as the counsel said, into a hathletic pugilist.”
“I ’ope she got off.”
“Got off with flying colours—we’re magnanimous said the jury, ‘not
guilty.’”
“Well, I likes upright and down-straight,” said Bumpkin, “it’ll goo
furdest in th’ long run.”
“Yes,” said O’Rapley, “and the longer the run the furder it’ll go.”
“So ’t wool; but if you doan’t mind, sir, I’d like to get nearer that
’ere fireplace.”
“The funnel—very well.” And as they moved Mr. O’Rapley, in the
exuberance of his spirits, delivered another ball at the chimney, which
apparently took the middle stump, for the chimney again broke in half.
“Got him!” said he. “I quite agree, and I’ll tell you for why. You can
play a straight ball if you mind what you are about—just take your bat
so, and bring your left elbow well round so, and keep your bat, as you
say, upright and down-straight, so—and there you are. And there, indeed,
Mr. Bumpkin was, on his back, for the boat at that moment bumped so
violently against the side of the pier that many persons were staggering
about as if they were in a storm.
“Zounds!” said the farmer, as he was being picked up—“these ’ere booats,
I doan’t like ’em—gie me the ole-fashioned uns.”
Now came the usual hullabaloo, “Stand back!—pass on!—out of the way! now,
then, look sharp there!” and the pushing of the gangway against people’s
shins as though they were so many skittles to be knocked over, and then
came the slow process of “passing out.”
“There’s one thing,” whispered O’Rapley, “if you do break your leg the
company’s liable—that’s one comfort.”
“Thankee, sir,” answered Bumpkin, “but I bean’t a gwine to break my leg
for the sake o’ a haction—and mebbee ha’ to pay the costs.”
CHAPTER XIV.
THE OLD BAILEY—ADVANTAGES OF THE NEW SYSTEM ILLUSTRATED.
And I saw in my dream that Don O’Rapley and worthy Master Bumpkin
proceeded together until they came to the Old Bailey; that delightful
place which will ever impress me with the belief that the Satanic
Personage is not a homeless wanderer. As they journeyed together
O’Rapley asked whether there was any particular kind of case which he
would prefer—much the same as he would enquire what he would like for
lunch.
“Well, thankee, sir,” said Bumpkin, “what he there?”—just the same as a
hungry guest would ask the waiter for the bill of fare.
“Well,” said Mr. O’Rapley, “there’s no murder to-day, but there’s sure to
be highway robberies, burglaries, rapes, and so on.”
“Wall, I thinks one o’ them air as good as anything,” said Bumpkin. “I
wur on the jury once when a chap were tried.”
“Did he get off?”
“Got off as clane as a whusle. Not guilty, we all said: sarved her
right.”
“It’s rather early in the morning, p’r’aps,” said O’Rapley; “but there’s
sure to be something interesting before lunch—crimes are very pop’lar,
and for my own part, I think they’re as nice as anything: divorces,
p’r’aps, are as good, and the female intellect prefers ’em as a more
digestable food for their minds.”
“As a what, sir!”
“Well, since they did away with _crim. cons_, there’s nothing left for
females but murders and divorces, worth speaking of.”
“Why, how’s that, then?”
“O, they’re not considered sufficiently moral, that’s all. You see,
Master Bumpkin, we’re getting to be a very moral and good people.
They’re doin’ away with all that’s naughty, such as music and dancing,
peep-shows and country fairs. This is a religious age. No pictur
galleries on a Sunday, but as many public-houses as you like; it’s wicked
to look at picturs on a Sunday. And now I’ll tell you another thing,
Master Bumpkin, although p’r’aps I ought to keep my mouth closed; but
’ere you’ll see a Chancery Judge as knows everything about land and
titles to property, and all that, and never had any training in Criminal
Courts, and may be never been inside of one before, you’ll see ’im down
’ere tryin’ burglaries and robberies, and down at the Assizes you’ll see
’im tryin’ men and women for stealing mutton pies and a couple of ounces
of bacon; that’s the way the Round Square’s worked, Master Bumpkin; and
very well it acts. There’s a moral atmosphere, too, about the Courts
which is very curious. It seems to make every crime look bigger than it
really is. But as I say, where’s the human natur of a Chancery
barrister? How can you get it in Chancery? They only sees human natur
in a haffidavit, and although I don’t say you can’t put a lot of it into
a haffidavit, such as perjury and such like, yet it’s so done up by the
skill of the profession that you can hardly see it. Learning from
haffidavits isn’t like learning from the witness-box, mark my words, Mr.
Bumpkin; and so you’ll find when you come to hear a case or two.”
Having thus eloquently delivered himself, Mr. O’Rapley paused to see its
effect: but there was no answer. There was no doubt the Don could talk
a-bit, and took especial pride in expressing his views on law reform,
which, to his idea, would best be effected by returning to the “old
style.”
And I saw that they pushed their way through a crowd of people of all
sorts and degrees of unwashedness and crime, and proceeded up a winding
stair, through other crowds of the most evil-looking indictable persons
you could meet with out of the Bottomless Pit.
And amongst them were pushing, with eager, hungry, dirty faces, men who
called themselves clerks, evil-disposed persons who traded under such
names as their owners could use no longer on their own account. These
prowlers amongst thieves, under the protection of the Law, were permitted
to extort what they could from the friends of miserable prisoners under
pretence of engaging counsel to defend them. Counsel they would engage
after a fashion—sometimes: but not unfrequently they cheated counsel,
client and the law at the same time, which is rather better than killing
two birds with one stone.
And the two friends, after threading their way through the obnoxious
crowd, came to the principal Court of the Old Bailey, called the “Old
Court,” and a very evil-looking place it was. All the ghosts of past
criminals seemed floating in the dingy atmosphere. Crowds of men, women
and children were heaped together in all directions, except on the bench
and in a kind of pew which was reserved for such ladies as desired to
witness the last degradation of human nature.
Presently came in, announced with a loud cry of “Silence!” and “Be
uncovered in Court!” a gorgeous array of stout and berobed gentlemen,
with massive chains and purple faces. These, I learned, were the noble
Aldermen of the Corporation. What a contrast to the meagre wretches who
composed the crowd! Here was a picture of what well-fed honesty and
virtue could accomplish for human nature on the one part, as opposed to
what hungry crime could effect, on the other. Blessings, say I, on good
victuals! It is a great promoter of innocence. And I thought how many
of the poor, half-starved, cadaverous wretches who crowded into the dock
in all their emaciated wretchedness and rags would, under other
conditions, have become as portly and rubicund and as moral as the row of
worthy aldermen who sat looking at them with contempt from their exalted
position.
The rich man doesn’t steal a loaf of bread; he has no temptation to do
so: the uneducated thief doesn’t get up sham companies, because _he_ has
no temptation to do so. Temptation and Opportunity have much to answer
for in the destinies of men. Honesty is the best policy, but it is not
always the most expedient or practicable.
Now there was much arraignment of prisoners, and much swearing of
jurymen, and proclamations about “informing my Lords Justices and the
Queen’s Attorney-General of any crimes, misdemeanours, felonies, &c.,
committed by any of the prisoners,” and “if anybody could so inform my
Lords Justices,” &c, he was to come forward and do so, and he would be
heard. And then the crowd of prisoners, except the one about to be
tried, were told to stand down. And down they all swarmed, some laughing
and some crying, to the depths below. And the stout warders took their
stand beside the remaining prisoner.
“Now,” said Mr. O’Rapley, “this Judge is quite fresh to the work, and
I’ll warrant he’ll take a moral view of the law, which is about the worst
view a Judge _can_ take.”
The man left in the dock was a singular specimen of humanity: he was a
thin, wizen-looking man of about seventy, with a wooden leg: and as he
stood up to plead, leant on two crutches, while his head shook a good
deal, as if he had got the palsy. A smile went round the bar, and in
some places broke out into a laugh: the situation was, indeed,
ridiculous; and before any but a Chancery Judge, methought, there must be
an acquittal on the view. However, I saw that the man pleaded not
guilty, and then Mr. Makebelieve opened the case for the Crown. He put
it very clearly, and, as he said, fairly before the jury; and then called
a tall, large-boned woman of about forty into the witness-box. This was
the “afflicted widow,” as Makebelieve had called her; and the way she
gave her evidence made a visible impression on the mind of the learned
Judge. His Lordship looked up occasionally from his note-book and fixed
his eyes on the prisoner, whose appearance was that of one trembling with
a consciousness of guilt—that is, to one not versed in human nature
outside an affidavit.
Mr. Nimble, the prisoner’s counsel, asked if the prisoner might sit down
as he was very “infirm.”
“Have you an affidavit of that fact, Mr. Nimble?” asked the Judge.
“No, my lord; it is not usual on such an application to have an
affidavit.”
“It is not usual,” said his lordship, “to take notice of any fact not
upon affidavit; but in this case the prisoner may sit down.”
The prosecutrix gave her evidence very flippantly, and did not seem in
the least concerned that her virtue had had so narrow an escape.
“Now,” asked Mr. Nimble, “what are you?”
The learned Judge said he could not see what that had to do with the
question. Could Mr. Nimble resist the facts?
“Yes, my lord,” answered the learned counsel; “and I intend, in the first
place, to resist them by showing that this woman is entirely unworthy of
credit.”
“Are you really going to suggest perjury, Mr. Nimble?”
“Assuredly, my lord! I am going to show that there is not a word of
truth in this woman’s statement. I have a right to cross-examine as to
her credit. If your lordship will allow me, I will—”
“Cross-examination, Mr. Nimble, cannot be allowed, in order to make a
witness contradict all that she has said in her examination-in-chief; it
would be a strange state of the law, if it could.”
Mr. Nimble looked about the desk, and then under it, and felt in his bag,
and at last exclaimed in a somewhat petulant tone:
“Where’s my Taylor?”
“What do you want your tailor for?” asked the Judge.
“I wish to point out to your lordship that my proposition is correct, and
that I can cross-examine to the credit of a witness.”
Here the clerk of arraigns, who sat just under the learned Judge, and was
always consulted on matters of practice when there was any difficulty,
was seen whispering to his lordship: after which his lordship looked very
blank and red.
“We always consult him, my lord,” said Mr. Nimble, with a smile, “in
suits at Common Law.”
Everybody tried not to laugh, and everybody failed. Even the Judge,
being a very good-tempered man, laughed too, and said:
“O yes, Taylor on Evidence, Mr. Nimble.”
At last the book, about the size of a London Directory, was handed up by
a tall man who was Mr. Nimble’s clerk.
“Now, my lord, at page nineteen hundred and seventy-two your lordship
will find that when the credibility of a witness is attacked—”
Judge: “That will be near the end of the book.”
Mr. Nimble: “No, my lord, near the beginning.”
“I shall not stop you,” said the learned Judge; “your question may be put
for what it is worth: but now, suppose in answer to your question she
says she is an ironer, what then?”
“That’s what I am, my lordship,” said the woman, with an obsequious
curtsey.
“There, now you have it,” said the Judge, “she is an ironer; stop, let me
take that down, ‘I am an ironer.’”
The cross-examination continued, somewhat in an angry tone no doubt, and
amid frequent interruptions; but Mr. Nimble always thumped down the
ponderous Taylor upon any objection of the learned Judge, and crushed it
as though it were a butterfly.
Next the policeman gave his evidence, and was duly cross-examined. Mr.
Nimble called no witnesses; there were none to call: but addressed the
jury in a forcible and eloquent speech, stigmatizing the charge as an
utterly preposterous one, and dealing with every fact in a
straightforward and manly manner. After he had finished, the jury would
undoubtedly have acquitted; but the learned Judge had to sum up, which in
this, as in many cases at Quarter Sessions, was no more a summing up than
counting ten on your fingers is a summing up. It was a desultory speech,
and if made by the counsel for the prosecution, would have been a most
unfair one for the Crown: totally ignoring the fact that human nature was
subject to frailties, and testimony liable to be tainted with perjury.
It made so great an impression upon me in my dream that I transcribed it
when I awoke; and this is the manner in which it dealt with the main
points:—
“GENTLEMEN OF THE JURY,
“This is a case of a very serious character (the nature of the offence
was then read from Roscoe), and I am bound to tell you that the evidence
is all one way: namely, on the side of the prosecution. There is not a
single affidavit to the contrary. Now what are the facts?”
Mr. Nimble: “Would your lordship pardon me—whether they are facts or not
is for the jury.”
“I am coming to that, Mr. Nimble; unless contradicted they are facts, or,
at least, if you believe them, gentlemen. If the evidence is
uncontradicted, what is the inference? The inference is for you, not for
me; I have simply to state the law: it is for you to find the facts. You
must exercise your common sense: if the prisoner could have contradicted
this evidence, is it reasonable to suppose he would not have done so with
so serious a charge hanging over his head?”
“My lord, may I ask how could the prisoner have called evidence? there
was no one present.”
“Mr. Nimble,” said his Lordship solemnly, “he might have shown he was
elsewhere.”
“Yes, my lord; but the prisoner admits being present: he doesn’t set up
an _alibi_.”
“Gentlemen, you hear what the learned counsel says: he admits that the
prisoner was present; that is corroborative of the story told by the
prosecutrix. Now, if you find a witness speaking truthfully about one
part of a transaction, what are you to infer with regard to the rest?
Gentlemen, the case is for you, and not for me: happily I have not to
find the facts: they are for you—and what are they? This woman, who is
an ironer, was going along a lonely lane, proceeding to her home, as she
states—and again I say there is no contradiction—and she meets this man;
he accosts her, and then, according to her account, assaults her, and in
a manner which I think leaves no doubt of his intention—but that is for
you. I say he assaults her, if you believe her story: of course, if you
do not believe her story, then in the absence of corroboration there
would be an end of the case. But is there an absence of corroboration?
What do we find, gentlemen? Now let me read to you the evidence of
Police Constable Swearhard. What does he say? ‘I was coming along the
Lover’s Lane at nine twenty-five, and I saw two persons, whom I
afterwards found to be the prosecutrix and the prisoner.’ ‘You will
mark that, gentlemen, the prisoner himself does not suggest an _alibi_,
that is to say, that he was elsewhere, when this event occurred. Then he
was upon the spot: and the policeman tells you—it is for you to say
whether you believe the policeman or not; there is no suggestion that he
is not a witness of truth—and he says that he heard a scream, and caught
the defendant in the act. Now, from whom did that scream proceed? Not
from the prisoner, for it was the scream of a woman. From whom then
could it proceed but from the prosecutrix? Now, in all cases of this
kind, one very material point has always been relied on by the Judges,
and that point is this: What was the conduct of the woman? Did she go
about her ordinary business as usual, or did she make a complaint? If
she made no complaint, or made it a long time after, it is some
evidence—not conclusive by any means—but it is some evidence against the
truth of her story. Let us test this case by that theory. What is the
evidence of the policeman? I will read his words: ‘The moment I got up,’
he says, now mark that, gentlemen, ‘the woman complained of the conduct
of the prisoner: she screamed and threw herself in my arms and then
nearly fainted.’ Gentlemen, what does all that mean? You will say by
your verdict.”
“Consider your verdict,” said the Clerk of Arraigns, and almost
immediately the Jury said: “Guilty of attempt.”
“Call upon him,” said the Judge: and he was called upon accordingly, but
only said “the prosecutrix was a well-known bad woman.”
Then the Judge said very solemnly:—
“Prisoner at the bar, you have been convicted upon the clearest possible
evidence of this crime: what you say about the character of the
prosecutrix the more convinces me that you are a very bad man. You not
only assail the virtue of this woman, but, happily prevented in your
design, you endeavour to destroy it afterwards in this Court. No one who
has heard this case can doubt that you have been guilty of this very
grave offence; and in my judgment that offence is aggravated by the fact
that you committed it against her will and without her consent. The
sentence is that you be sent to prison for eighteen calendar months.”
“Rather warm,” said Mr. O’Rapley.
“Never heeard such a thing in my life,” said Master Bumpkin, “she wur a
consentin’ party if ever there wur one.”
“But that makes no difference now-a-days,” said Mr. O’Rapley. “Chancery
Judges studies the equity of the thing more. But perhaps, Mr. Bumpkin,
you don’t know what that means?”
“No,” said Bumpkin, “I doan’t.”
“You must be quiet,” said Mr. O’Rapley; “recollect you are in a Court of
Justice.”
“Be I! It ’ud take moore un thic case to make I believe it; but lookee
here: I be hanged if there ain’t that Snooks feller down along there.”
“Who?” enquired O’Rapley.
“That there feller,” said Bumpkin, “be sure to find his way where there’s
anything gooin on o’ this ere natur.”
Next an undefended prisoner was placed on trial, and as he was supposed
to know all the law of England, he was treated as if he did.
“You can’t put that question, you know,” said the learned Judge; “and now
you are making a statement; it is not time to make your statement yet;
you will have ample opportunity by-and-by in your speech to the jury.”
And afterwards, when the Judge was summing up, the unhappy prisoner
called his lordship’s attention to a mistake; but he was told that he had
had his turn and had made his speech to the jury, and must not now
interrupt the Court. So he had to be quite silent until he was
convicted. Then the two companions went into another court, where a very
stern-looking Common Law Judge was trying a ferocious-looking prisoner.
And Mr. O’Rapley was delighted to explain that now his friend would see
the difference. They had entered the court just as the learned Judge had
begun to address the jury; and very careful his lordship was to explain
(not in technical language), but in homely, common-place and common-sense
English, the nature of the crime with which the prisoner was charged. He
was very careful in explaining this, for fear the jury should improperly
come to the conclusion that, because they might believe the prisoner had
in fact committed the act, he must necessarily be guilty. And they were
told that the act was in that case only one element of the crime, and
that they must ascertain whether there was the guilty intent or no. Now
this old Mr. Justice Common Sense, I thought, was very well worth
listening to, and I heartily wished Mr. Justice Technical from the Old
Court had been there to take a lesson; and I take the liberty of setting
down what I heard in my dream for the benefit of future Justices
Technical.
His lordship directed the jury’s attention to the evidence, which he
carefully avoided calling facts: not to the verbatim report of it on his
note-book as some Recorders do, and think when they are reading it over
they are summing it up; but pointing out statements which, if believed,
become facts and if facts, lead to certain _inferences_ of guilt or
innocence.
It was while the learned Mr. Justice Common Sense was thus engaged, that
the warder in the dock suddenly checked the prisoner with these words:
“You mustn’t interrupt.”
“Why may he not interrupt?” asks Mr. Justice Common Sense. “What do you
want to say, prisoner?”
“My lord,” answered the prisoner, “I wanted to say as how that there
witness as your lordship speaks on didn’t say as he seen me there.”
“O, didn’t he?” said the Judge. “I thought he did—now let us see,”
turning over his notes. “No, you are quite right, prisoner, he did not
see you at the spot but immediately after.”
Then his lordship proceeded until there was another interruption of the
same character, and the foolish warder again told the prisoner to be
quiet. This brought down Mr. Justice Common Sense with a vengeance:
“Warder! how dare you stop the prisoner? he is on his trial and is
undefended. Who is to check me if I am misstating the evidence if he
does not? If you dare to speak like that to him again I will commit you.
Prisoner, interrupt me as often as you think I am not correctly stating
the evidence.”
“Thankee, my lord.”
“That be the sort o’ Judge for me,” said Bumpkin; “but I’ve ’ad enough on
it, Maister O’Rapley, so if you please, I’ll get back t’ the ‘Goose.’
Why didn’t that air Judge try t’other case, I wonder?”
“Because,” replied the Don, “the new system is to work the ‘Round
Square’.”
CHAPTER XV.
Mr. Bumpkin’s experience of London life, enlarged.
On leaving the Old Bailey the two friends proceeded to a neighbouring
public-house and partook of some light refreshment at the counter. Now
Mr. Bumpkin had never yet examined the viands displayed on a counter.
His idea of refreshment, when from home, had always been a huge round of
beef smoking at one end of the table and a large leg of mutton smoking at
the other, with sundry dishes of similar pretensions between, and an
immense quantity of vegetables. When, therefore he saw some
stale-looking sandwiches under the ordinary glass cover, he exclaimed:
“Wittals must be mighty scarce to clap ’em under a glass case.”
“It’s to keep the flies off;” said his companion.
“They need well keep un off, for there bean’t enough for a couple if they
was ony wise ongry like.”
However, our friends made the best of what there was, and Mr. O’Rapley,
wishing success to his companion, enquired who was to be his counsel.
“I doan’t rightly know, but I’ll warrant Mr. Prigg’ll have a good un—he
knows what he be about; and all I hopes is, he’ll rattle it into that
there Snooks, for if ever there wur a bad un it be him.”
“He looks a bad un,” replied O’Rapley. “When do you think the case is
likely to come on?”
“Well, it is supposed as it ull be on to-morrer; but I bleeve there’s no
sartinty about thic. Now then, just give us a little moore, will ’ee
sir?” (this to the waiter).
“I’ll pay for the next,” said O’Rapley, feeling in his pocket.
“Noa, noa, I’ll pay; and thankee, sir, for comin’.”
And then O’Rapley drank his friend’s health again, and wished further
success to the case, and hoped Mr. Bumpkin would be sure to come to him
when he was at Westminster; and expressed himself desirous to assist his
friend in every way that lay in his power—declaring that he really must
be going for he didn’t know what would happen if the Judge should find he
was away; and was not at all certain it would not lead to some officious
member of the House of Commons asking a question of the Prime Minister
about it.
Mr. Bumpkin drank his good health, again and again, declaring he was
“mighty proud to have met with un;” and that when the case was over and
he had returned to his farm, he should be pleased if Mr. O’Rapley would
come down and spend a few days with him. “Nancy,” he said, “’ll be rare
and pleased to see thee. I got as nice a little farm as any in the
county, and as pooty pigs as thee ever clapped eyes on.”
Mr. O’Rapley, without being too condescending, expressed himself highly
gratified with making Mr. Bumpkin’s acquaintance, and observed that the
finest pigs ever he saw were those of the Lord Chief Justice.
“Dade, sir, now what sort be they?” Mr. O’Rapley was not learned in
pigs, and not knowing the name of any breed whatever, was at a loss how
to describe them. Mr. Bumpkin came to his assistance.
“Be they smooth like and slim?”
“Yes,” said the Don.
“Hardly any hair?”
“Scarce a bit.”
“They be Chichesters then—the werry best breed as a man ever had in his
stye.”
“I never see anything so pretty,” replied Mr. O’Rapley.
“Ah! and they be the smallest-boned pigs as ever could be—they bean’t got
a bone bigger nor your little finger.”
“Ha!” said the Don, finishing his glass, “the smaller the bone the more
the meat, that’s what I always say; and the Lord Chief Justice don’t care
for bone, he likes meat.”
“An’ so do I—the Lud Judge be right, and if he tries my case he’ll know
the difference betwixt thic pig as Snooks tooked away and one o’ them
there—”
“Jackass-looking pigs,” said O’Rapley, seeing that his friend paused. “I
hate them jackass pigs.”
“So do I—they never puts on fat.”
“I must go, really,” said O’Rapley. “What do you make the right time?”
Master Bumpkin pulled out his watch with great effort, and said it was
just a quarter past four by Yokelton time.
“Here’s your good health again, Mr. Bumpkin.”
“And yours, sir; and now I think on it, if it’s a fair question Mr.
O’Rapley, and I med ax un wirout contempt, when do you think this ’ere
case o’ mine be likely to come on, for you ought to know summut about
un?”
“Ha!” said the Don, partially closing one eye, and looking profoundly
into the glass as though he were divining the future, “law, sir, is a
mystery and judges is a mystery; masters is a mystery and ’sociates is a
mystery; ushers is a mystery and counsel is a mystery;—the whole of life
(here he tipped the contents of the glass down his throat) is a mystery.”
“So it be,” said Mr. Bumpkin, drawing the back of his hand across his
mouth. “So it be sir, but do ’ee think—”
“Well, really,” answered the Don, “I should say in about a couple of
years if you ask me.”
“How the h—”
“Excuse me, Master Bumpkin, but contempt follers us like a shadder: if
you had said that to a Judge it would have been a year at least: it’s
three months as it is if I liked to go on with the case; but I’m not a
wicious man, I hope.”
“I didn’t mean no offence,” said the farmer.
“No, no, I dare say not; but still there is a way of doing things. Now
if you had said to me, ‘Mr. O’Rapley, you are a gentleman moving in
judicial circles, and are probably acquainted with the windings of the,’
&c. &c. &c. ‘Can you inform me why my case is being so unduly
prolonged?’ Now if you had put your question in that form I should in
all probability have answered: ‘I do not see that it is unduly prolonged,
Master Bumpkin—you must have patience. Judges are but human and it’s a
wonder to me they are as much as that, seein’ what they have to go
through.’”
“But if there be a Court why can’t us get in and try un, Mr. Rapley?”
“Ah, now that is putting it pointedly;” and O’Rapley closed one eye and
looked into his tumbler with the other before he answered:
“You see this is how it goes under the continerous sittings—off and on we
sits continerously at Nisy Prisy in London three months in the year. Now
that ain’t bad for London: but it’s nothing near so much time as they
gives to places like Aylesbury, Bedford, and many others.”
Mr. Bumpkin looked like a terrier dog watching a hole out of which he
expected a rat: at present he saw no sign of one.
“Take Aylesbury; well now, if a Judge went there once in seven years he’d
find about every other assize enough work to last him till lunch. But in
course two Judges must go to Aylesbury four times a year, to do nothing
but admire the building where the Courts are held; otherwise you’d soon
have Aylesbury marching on to London to know the reason why. P’r’aps the
Judges have left five hundred cases untried in London to go to this
Aylesbury.”
“Be it a big plaace, sir?”
“Not so big as a good-sized hotel,” said the Don. “Then,” he continued,
“there’s Bedford ditto again—septennel would do for that; then comes
Northampton—they don’t want no law there at all.” (I leave the obvious
pun to anyone who likes to make it). “Then Okeham again—did you ever
hear of anyone who came from Okeham? I never did.”
The Don paused, as though on the answer to this question depended his
future course.
“Noa,” said Bumpkin, “can’t rightly say as ever I did.”
“And nobody ever did come from there except the Judges. Well, to Okeham
they go four times a year, whereas if they was to go about once in every
hundred years it wouldn’t pay. Why raly, Mr. Bumpkin, the Judges goes
round like travellers arfter orders, and can’t get none. I’m not
talkin’, as you are aware, about great centres like Liverpool, where if
they had about fifty-two assizes in the year it wouldn’t be one too many;
but I’m talking about circumfrences on the confines of civilization.”
“Oh dear!” sighed Bumpkin. The hole seemed to him too choked up with
“larnin’” for the rat ever to come out—he could glean nothing from this
highly wrought and highly polished enthusiasm.
“And, notwithstanding and accordingly,” continued the Don, “they do say,
goodness knows how true it is, that they’re going to have two more
assizes in the year. All that I can say is, Mr. Bumpkin—and, mark my
words, there’ll be no stopping in London at all, but it will be just a
reg’ler Judge’s merry-go-round.” {138}
Mr. Bumpkin dropped a look into his glass, and the two companions came
out of the door and proceeded along under the archway until they came to
the corner of Bridge Street, Blackfriars. Exactly at that point a young
woman with a baby in her arms came in contact with Mr. Bumpkin, and in a
very angry tone said,—
“I tell you what it is, don’t you take them liberties with me or I’ll
give you in charge.”
And the young woman passed on with her baby. Just at that moment, and
while Master Bumpkin was meditating on this strange conduct of the young
female, he felt a smart tug at his watch, and, looking down, saw the
broken chain hanging from his pocket.
“Zounds!” he exclaimed, “I never zeed anything claner than thic; did thee
zee thic feller?”
“There he goes,” said O’Rapley.
“There ur gooes,” said Mr. Bumpkin, and, as fast as he could, pursued the
thief.
“Stop un!” he cried. “Stop thic there thief; he got my watch.”
But it was a long time before Master Bumpkin’s mandate was obeyed; the
value of a policeman, like that of every other commodity, depends upon
his rarity. There was no policeman to be found. There was a fire escape
in the middle of the street, but that was of no use to Master Bumpkin.
Away went thief, and away went Bumpkin, who could “foot it,” as he said,
“pooty well, old as he wur.” Nor did either the thief or himself stop
until they got nearly to the bridge, when, to Bumpkin’s great
astonishment, up came the thief, walking coolly towards him. This was
another mystery, in addition to those mentioned by Mr. O’Rapley. But the
fact was, that the hue and cry was now raised, and although Master
Bumpkin did not perceive it, about a hundred people, men, women, and
boys, were in full chase; and when that gentleman was, as Bumpkin
thought, coolly coming towards him, he was simply at bay, run down,
without hope of escape; and fully determined to face the matter out with
all the coolness he could command.
“Take un,” said Bumpkin; “take un oop; thee dam scoundrel!”
“Take care what you’re saying,” said the thief. “I’m a respectable man,
and there’s law in the land.”
“Yes, and thee shall have un, too, thee willin; thee stole my watch, thee
knows that.”
“You’re a liar,” said the captive.
“Why thee’s got un on, dang if thee bean’t, and a wearin’ on un. Well,
this bates all; take un oop, pleeceman.”
At this moment, which is always the nick of time chosen by the force,
that is to say, when everything is done except the handcuffs, a policeman
with a great deal of authority in his appearance came up, and plunged his
hands under his heavy coat-tails, as though he were about to deliver them
of the bower anchor of a ship.
“Do you give him in charge?”
“Sure enough do ur,” said Mr. Bumpkin.
So the handcuffs were put on, and the stalwart policeman, like a hero
with the captive of his bow and spear, marched him along at a great rate,
Bumpkin striding out manfully at the side, amid a great crowd of small
boys, with all their heads turned towards the prisoner as they ran, in
the highest state of delight and excitement. Even Bumpkin looked as if
he had made a good thing of it, and seemed as pleased as the boys.
As they came again to the corner of Ludgate Hill, there stood Mr.
O’Rapley, looking very pompous and dignified, as became so great a man.
“You’ve got him then,” said he.
“Ay; come on, Master Rapley, come on.”
“One moment,” said the official; “I must here leave you for the present,
Mr. Bumpkin; we are not allowed to give evidence in Criminal Courts any
more than Her Majesty’s Judges themselves; we are a part of the Court.
But, besides all that, I did not see what happened; what was it?”
“Well,” said Mr. Bumpkin, “that be rum too, sir; thee see thic feller
steal my watch, surely.”
“Indeed, Mr. Bumpkin, it was so quickly done that I really did _not_ see
it, if you ask me.”
“Why, he dragged un out o’ thic pocket.”
“No doubt, Master Bumpkin; but it does not follow that I see it.”
“Thee can come and say I wur with thee, anyhow.”
“I can’t give evidence, Mr. Bumpkin, as I told you before; and, besides,
I must not appear in this matter at all. You know I was absent to oblige
you, and it’s possible I may be of some further service to you yet; but
please don’t mention me in this matter. I assure you it will do harm,
and perhaps I should lose my place.”
“Well, Master Rapley,” said Bumpkin, taking his hand, “I won’t do thee no
harm if I knows it, and there be plenty of evidence.”
“Evidence! You say you found the watch upon him?”
“Sartinly.”
“The case then is clear. You don’t want any evidence besides that.”
“Well, sir, you’re a man o’ larnin’. I bean’t much of a scollard, I’ll
tak’ thy advice; but I must get along; they be waitin’ for I.”
“I will see you at Westminster to-morrow, Mr. Bumpkin.”
“All right, zir, all right.”
And with that Mr. O’Rapley proceeded on his way down Fleet Street, and
Mr. Bumpkin proceeded on his up Ludgate Hill in the midst of an excited
crowd.
CHAPTER XVI.
The coarse mode of procedure in Ahab _v._ Naboth ruthlessly exposed and
carefully contrasted with the humane and enlightened form of the present
day.
Here I awoke, and my wife said unto me, “Dear, you have been dreaming and
talking in your sleep.”
Now fearing for what I may have said, although of a tolerably clear
conscience, I enquired if she could tell me what words I had uttered.
She replied that I had mentioned the names of many eminent men: such as
Mr. Justice Common Sense.
“Indeed,” quoth I; and then I told my dream. Upon which she observed,
that it seemed there must be much exaggeration. To this I made answer
that dreams do generally magnify events, and impress them more vividly
upon the senses, inasmuch as the imagination was like a microscope: it
enabled you to see many things which would escape the naked eye.
“But,” said my partner, “if they are distorted?”
“If they are distorted, they are not reliable; but a clear imagination,
like a good lens, faithfully presents its objects, although in a larger
form, in order that those who have no time for scientific observation,
may see what the scientist desires to direct their attention to. There
are creatures almost invisible to the naked eye, which, nevertheless,
cause great irritation to the nerves. So, also, there are matters
affecting the body corporate of these kingdoms which the public are blind
to and suffer from, but which, if thoroughly exposed, they may be
inclined to take a hand in removing.”
“I don’t believe that Mr. O’Rapley,” said she: “he seems a cantankerous,
conceited fellow.”
“Why so he is; but cantankerous and conceited fellows sometimes speak the
truth. They’re like those cobwebbed, unwholesome-looking bottles which
have lain a long time in cellars. You would hardly like to come in
contact with them, and yet they often contain a clear and beautiful wine.
This Mr. O’Rapley is a worthy man who knows a great deal, and although a
bit of a toady to his superiors, expresses his opinions pretty freely
behind their backs.”
“And what of this Master Bumpkin—this worthy Master Bumpkin I hear you
speak of so often?”
“A very shrewd man in some respects and a silly one in others.”
“Not an unusual combination.”
“By no means.”
And then I told her what I have already related; to which she observed it
was a pity some friend had not interposed and stopped the business. I
answered, that friends were no doubt useful, but friends or no friends we
must have law, and whether for sixpence or a shilling it ought to be
readily attainable: that no one would be satisfied with having no other
authority than that of friendship to settle our disputes; and besides
that, friends themselves sometimes fell out and were generally the most
hard to reconcile without an appeal to our tribunals.
“Well, it does seem a pity,” said she, “that judges cannot sit as they
did in Moses’ time at all seasons so as to decide expeditiously and
promptly between the claims of parties.”
“Why so they do sit ‘continuously,’” quoth I, “but the whole difficulty
consists in getting at them. What is called procedure is so circuitous
and perplexing, that long before you get to your journey’s end you may
faint by the way.”
“Is there no one with good sense who will take this matter up and help
this poor man to come by his rights. It must be very expensive for him
to be kept away from his business so long, and his poor wife left all
alone to manage the farm.”
“Why, so it is, but then going to law, which means seeking to maintain
your rights, is a very expensive thing: a luxury fit only for rich men.”
“Why then do people in moderate circumstances indulge in it?”
“Because they are obliged to defend themselves against oppressive and
unjust demands; although I think, under the present system, if a man had
a small estate, say a few acres, and a rich man laid claim to it, it
would be far better for the small man to give up the land without any
bother.”
“But no man of spirit would do that?”
“No, that is exactly where it is, it’s the spirit of resistance that
comes in.”
“Resistance! a man would be a coward to yield without a fight.”
“Why so he would, and that is what makes law such a beautiful science,
and its administration so costly. Men will fight to the last rather than
give in. If Naboth had lived in these times there would have been no
need of his death in order to oust him from his vineyard. Ahab could
have done a much more sensible thing and walked in by process of law.”
“In what way?”
“In the first place he could have laid claim to a right of way, or
easement as it is called, of some sort: or could have alleged that Naboth
had encroached on his land by means of a fence or drain or ditch.”
“Well, but if he hadn’t?”
“If he hadn’t, so much the better for the Plaintiff, and so much the
worse for Naboth.”
“I don’t understand; if Naboth had done no wrong, surely it would be far
better for him than if he had.”
“Not in the long run, my dear: and for this reason, if he had encroached
it would have taken very little trouble to ascertain the fact, and Naboth
being a just and honest man, would only require to have it pointed out to
him to remedy the evil. Maps and plans of the estate would doubtless
have shown him his mistake, and, like a wise man, he would have avoided
going to law.”
“I see clearly that the good man would have said, ‘Neighbour Ahab, we
have been on neighbourly terms for a long lime, and I do not wish in any
way to alter that excellent feeling which has always subsisted between
us. I see clearly by these maps and plans which worthy Master Metefield
hath shown me that my hedge hath encroached some six inches upon thy
domain, wherefore, Neighbour Ahab, take, I pray thee, as much of the land
as belongeth unto thee, according to just admeasurement.”
“Why certainly, so would the honest Naboth have communed with Ahab, and
there would have been an end of the business.”
“But show me, darling, how being in the wrong was better for good Naboth
than being in the right in this business?”
“Most willingly,” said I; “you see, my dear, there was quickly an end of
the matter by Naboth yielding to the just demands of neighbour Ahab. But
now let us suppose honest Naboth in the right concerning his vineyard,
and neighbour Ahab to be making an unjust demand. You have already most
justly observed that in that case it would be cowardly on the part of
Naboth to yield without a struggle?”
“Assuredly.”
“Well then, that means a lawsuit.”
“But surely,” said my wife, “it ought to be soon seen who is in the
wrong. Where is Master Metefield who you said just now was so accurate a
surveyor, and where are those plans you spoke of which showed the
situation of the estates?”
“Ah, my dear, I see you know very little of the intricacies of the law;
that good Master Metefield, instead of being a kind of judge to determine
quickly as he did for Master Naboth what were the boundaries of the
vineyard, hath not now so easy a task of it, because Ahab being in the
wrong he is not accepted by him as his judge.”
“But if the plans are correct, how can he alter them?”
“He cannot alter them, but the question of correctness of boundary as
shown, is matter of disputation, and will have to be discussed by
surveyors on both sides, and supported and disputed by witnesses
innumerable on both sides: old men coming up with ancient memories,
hedgers and ditchers, farmers and bailiffs and people of all sorts and
conditions, to prove and disprove where the boundary line really divides
Neighbour Naboth’s vineyard from Neighbour Ahab’s park.”
“But surely Naboth will win?”
“All that depends upon a variety of things, such as, first, the
witnesses; secondly, the counsel; thirdly, the judge; fourthly, the
jury,”
“O,” said my wife, “pray don’t go on to a fifthly—it seems to me poor
Naboth is like to have a sorry time of it before he establish his
boundary line.”
“Ay, if he ever do so: but he first is got into the hands of his Lawyers,
next into the hands of his Counsel, thirdly, into Chancery, fourthly,
into debt—”
“Pray, do not let us have a fifthly here either; I like not these
thirdlys and fourthlys, for they seem to bring poor Naboth into bad case;
but what said you about debt?”
“I say that Naboth, not being a wealthy man, but, as I take it, somewhat
in the position of neighbour Bumpkin, will soon be forced to part with a
good deal of his little property in order to carry on the action.”
“But will not the action be tried in a reasonable time, say a week or
two?”
“I perceive,” cried I, “that you are yet in the very springtide and
babyhood of innocence in these matters. There must be summonses for time
and for further time; there must be particulars and interrogatories and
discoveries and inspections and strikings out and puttings in and appeals
and demurrers and references and—”
“O, please don’t. I perceive that poor Naboth is already ruined a long
way back. I think when you came to the interrogatories he was in want of
funds to carry on the action.”
“A Chancery action sometimes takes years,” said I.
“Years! then shame to our Parliament.”
“I pray you do not take on so,” said I. “Naboth, according to the decree
of Fate, is to be ruined. Jezebel did it in a wicked, clumsy and brutal
manner. Anyone could see she was wrong, and her name has been handed
down to us with infamy and execration. I now desire to show how Ahab
could have accomplished his purpose in a gentle, manly and scientific
manner and saved his wife’s reputation. Naboth’s action, carried as it
would be from Court to Court upon every possible point upon which an
appeal can go, under our present system, would effectually ruin him ages
before the boundary line could be settled. It would be all swallowed up
in costs.”
“Poor Naboth!” said my wife.
“And,” continued I, “the law reports would hand down the _cause celebre_
of _Ahab_ v. _Naboth_ as a most interesting leading case upon the subject
of goodness knows what: perhaps as to whether a man, under certain
circumstances, may not alter his neighbour’s landmark in spite of the
statute law of Moses.”
“And so you think poor Naboth would be sold up?”
“That were about the only certain event in his case, except that Ahab
would take possession and so put an end for ever to the question as to
where the boundary line should run.”
Here again I dozed.
CHAPTER XVII.
Shewing that lay tribunals are not exactly Punch and Judy shows where the
puppet is moved by the man underneath.
It was particularly fortunate for Mr. Bumpkin that his case was not in
the list of causes to be tried on the following day. It may seem a
curious circumstance to the general reader that a great case like
_Bumpkin_ v. _Snooks_, involving so much expense of time, trouble, and
money should be in the list one day and out the next; should be sometimes
in the list of one Court and sometimes in the list of another; flying
about like a butterfly from flower to flower and caught by no one on the
look-out for it. But this is not a phenomenon in our method of
procedure, which startles you from time to time with its miraculous
effects. You can calculate upon nothing in the system but its
uncertainty. Most gentle and innocent reader, I saw that there was no
Nisi Prius Court to sit on the following day, so _Bumpkin_ v. _Snooks_
could not be taken, list or no list. The lucky Plaintiff therefore found
himself at liberty to appear before that August Tribunal which sits at
the Mansion House in the City of London. A palatial and imposing
building it was on the outside, but within, so far as was apparent to me,
it was a narrow ill ventilated den, full of all unclean people and
unpleasant smells. I say full of unclean people, but I allude merely to
that portion of it which was appropriated to the British Public; for,
exalted on a high bench and in a huge and ponderous chair or throne sat
the Prince of Citizens and the King of the Corporation, proud in his
dignity, grand in his commercial position, and highly esteemed in the
opinion of the world. There he sat, the representative of the Criminal
Law, and impartial, as all will allow, in its administration. Wonderful
being is my Lord Mayor, thought I, he must have the Law at his fingers’
ends. Yes, there it is sitting under him in the shape and person of his
truly respectable clerk. The Common Law resides in the breasts of the
Judges, but it is here at my Lord Mayor’s fingers’ ends. He has to deal
with gigantic commercial frauds; with petty swindlers, common thieves;
mighty combinations of conspirators; with extradition laws; with
elaborate bankruptcy delinquencies; with the niceties of the criminal law
in every form and shape. Surely, thought I, he should be one of those
tremendous geniuses who can learn the criminal law before breakfast, or
at least before dinner! So he was. His lordship seemed to have learned
it one morning before he was awake. But it is not for me to criticise
tribunals or men: I have the simple duty to perform of relating the story
of the renowned Mr. Bumpkin.
After the night charges are disposed of up comes the man through the
floor, not Mr. Bumpkin, but Mr. Bumpkin’s prisoner. He comes up through
the floor like the imp in the pantomime: and then the two tall warders
prevent his going any farther.
He was a pale, intelligent looking creature, fairly dressed in frock
coat, dark waistcoat and grey trousers, with a glove on his left hand and
another in his right; looked meekly and modestly round, and then politely
bowed to the Lord Mayor. The charge was then read to him and with a
smile he indignantly repudiated the idea of theft.
And I saw in my dream that he was represented by a learned Counsel, who
at this moment entered the Court, shook hands with the Lord Mayor, and
saying, “I appear, my lord, for the prisoner,” took his seat upon the
bench, and entered for a minute or so into some private and apparently
jocular conversation with his Lordship.
The name of the learned Counsel was Mr. Nimble, whom we have before seen.
He was a very goodly-shaped man, with a thin face and brown hair. His
eyes were bright, and always seemed to look into a witness rather than at
him. His manner was jaunty, good-natured, easy, and gay; not remarkable
for courtesy, but at the same time, not unpleasantly rude. I thought the
learned Counsel could be disagreeable if he liked, but might be a very
pleasant, sociable fellow to spend an hour with—not in the witness-box.
He was certainly a skilful and far-seeing Counsel, if I may make so bold
as to judge from this case. And methought that nothing he did or said
was said or done without a purpose. Nor could I help thinking that a
good many Counsel, young and old, if their minds were free from
prejudice, might learn many lessons from this case. It is with this
object that, in my waking moments, I record the impressions of this
dream. I do not say Mr. Nimble was an example to follow on all points,
for he had that common failing of humanity, a want of absolute
perfection. But he was as near to perfection in defending a prisoner as
any man I ever saw, and the proceedings in this very case, if carefully
analysed, will go a long way towards proving that assertion.
After the interchange of courtesies between his Lordship and Mr. Nimble,
the learned Counsel looked down from the Bench on to the top of Mr.
Keepimstraight’s bald head and nodded as if he were patting it. Mr.
Keepimstraight was the Lord Mayor’s Clerk. He was very stout and seemed
puffed up with law: had an immense regard for himself and consequently
very little for anybody else: but that, so far as I have been able to
ascertain, is a somewhat common failing among official personages. He
ordered everybody about except the Lord Mayor, and him he seemed to push
about as though he were wheeling him in a legal Bath-chair. His Lordship
was indeed a great invalid in respect to matters of law; I think he had
overdone it, if I may use the expression; his study must have been
tremendous to have acquired a knowledge of the laws of England in so
short a time. But being somewhat feeble, and in his modesty much
misdoubting his own judgment, he did nothing and said nothing, except it
was prescribed by his physician, Dr. Keepimstraight. Even the solicitors
stood in awe of Dr. Keepimstraight.
And now we are all going to begin—Walk up!
The intelligent and decent-looking prisoner having been told what the
charge against him was, namely, Highway Robbery with violence, declares
that he is as “innercent as the unborn babe, your lordship:” and then Mr.
Keepimstraight asks, where the Prosecutor is—“Prosecutor!” shout a dozen
voices at once—all round, everywhere is the cry of “Prosecutor!” There
was no answer, but in the midst of the unsavoury crowd there was seen to
be a severe scuffle—whether it was a fight or a man in a fit could not be
ascertained for some time; at length Mr. Bumpkin was observed struggling
and tearing to escape from the throng.
“Why don’t you come when you are called?” asks the Junior Clerk, handing
him the Testament, as Mr. Bumpkin stood revealed in the witness-box.
And I saw that he was dressed in a light frock, not unlike a pinafore,
which was tastefully wrought with divers patterns of needlework on the
front and back thereof; at the openings thus embroidered could be seen a
waistcoat of many stripes, that crossed and recrossed one another at
various angles and were formed of several colours. He wore a high calico
shirt collar, which on either side came close under the ear; and round
his neck a red handkerchief with yellow ends. His linen certainly did
credit to Mrs. Bumpkin’s love of “tidiness,” and altogether the
prosecutor wore a clean and respectable appearance. His face was broad,
round and red, indicating a jovial disposition and a temperament not
easily disturbed, except when “whate” was down too low to sell and he
wanted to buy stock or pay the rent: a state of circumstances which I
believe has sometimes happened of late years. A white short-clipped
beard covered his chin, while his cheeks were closely shaven. He had
twinkling oval eyes, which I should say, he invariably half-closed when
he was making a bargain. If you offered less than his price the first
refusal would come from them. His nose was inexpressive and appeared to
have been a dormant feature for many a year. It said nothing for or
against any thing or any body, and from its tip sprouted a few white
hairs. His mouth, without utterance, said plainly enough that he owed
“nobody nothink” and was a thousand pound man every morning he rose. It
was a mouth of good bore, and not by any means intended for a silver
spoon.
Such was the Prosecutor as he stood in the witness-box at the Mansion
House on this memorable occasion; and no one could doubt that truth and
justice would prevail.
“Name?” said Mr. Keepimstraight.
“Bumpkin.”
Down it goes.
“Where?”
After a pause, which Mr. Nimble makes a note of.
“Where?” repeats Keepimstraight.
“Westminister.”
“Where there?”
“‘Goose’ publichouse.”
Down it goes.
“Yes?” says Keepimstraight.
Bumpkin stares.
“Yes, go on,” says the clerk.
“Go on,” says the crier; “go on,” say half-a-dozen voices all round.
“Can’t you go on?” says the clerk.
“Tell your story,” says his Lordship, putting his arms on the elbows of
the huge chair. “Tell it in your own way, my man.”
“I wur gwine down thic place when—” “my man” began.
“What time was this?” asks the clerk.
“Arf arter four, as near as I can tell.”
“How do you know?” asks the clerk.
“I heard—”
“I object,” says the Counsel—“can’t tell us what he heard.”
Then I perceived that the Lord Mayor leant forward towards Mr.
Keepimstraight, and the latter gentleman turned his head and leaned
towards the Lord Mayor, so that his Lordship could obtain a full view of
Mr. Keepimstraight’s eyes.
Then I perceived that Mr. Keepimstraight winked his left eye and
immediately turned to his work again, and his Lordship said:
“I don’t think what you heard, witness, is evidence.”
“Can’t have that,” said Mr. Keepimstraight, as though he took his
instructions and the Law from his Lordship.
“You said it was half-past four.”
“Heard the clock strike th’ arf hour.”
Here his Lordship leant again forward and Mr. Keepimstraight turned round
so as to bring his eyes into the same position as heretofore. And I
perceived that Mr. Keepimstraight winked his right eye, upon which his
Lordship said:
“I think that’s evidence.”
Clerk whispered, behind his hand, “Can hardly exclude that.”
“Can hardly exclude that,” repeats his Lordship; then—turning to the
Learned Counsel—“Can’t shut that out, Mr. Nimble.”
“You seldom can shut a church clock out, my Lord,” replies the Counsel.
At this answer his Lordship smiled and the Court was convulsed with
laughter for several minutes.
“Now, then,” said Mr. Keepimstraight, “we must have order in Court.”
“We must have order in Court,” says his Lordship.
“Order in Court,” says the Junior Clerk, and “Order!” shouts the
Policeman on duty.
Then Mr. Bumpkin stated in clear and intelligible language how the man
came up and took his watch and ran away. Foolishly enough he said
nothing about the woman with the baby, and wisely enough Mr. Nimble asked
nothing about it. But what an opportunity this would have been for an
unskilful Counsel to lay the foundation for a conviction. Knowing, as he
probably would from the prisoner but from no other possible source about
the circumstance, he might have shown by a question or two that it was a
conspiracy between the prisoner and the young woman. Not so Mr. Nimble,
he knew how to make an investment of this circumstance for future profit:
indeed Mr. Bumpkin had invested it for him by not mentioning it.
Beautiful is Advocacy if you do not mar it by unskilful handling.
When, after describing the robbery, the prosecutor continued:
“I ses to my companion, ses I—”
“I object,” says Mr. Nimble.
And I perceived that his Lordship leant forward once more towards Mr.
Keepimstraight, and Mr. Keepimstraight turned as aforetime towards the
Lord Mayor, but not quite, I thought, so fully round as heretofore; the
motion seemed to be performed with less exactness than usual, and that
probably was why the operation miscarried. Mr. Keepimstraight having
given the correct signal, as he thought, and the Enginedriver on the
Bench having misunderstood it, an accident naturally would have taken
place but for the extreme caution and care of his Lordship, who, if he
had been a young Enginedriver, would in all probability have dashed on
neck or nothing through every obstacle. Not so his Lordship. Not being
sure whether he was on the up or down line, he pulled up.
Mr. Keepimstraight sat pen in hand looking at his paper, and waiting for
the judicial voice which should convey to his ear the announcement that
“I ses, ses I,” is evidence or no evidence. Judge then of Mr.
Keepimstraight’s disappointment when, after waiting in breathless silence
for some five minutes, he at last looks up and sees his Lordship in deep
anxiety to catch his eye without the public observing it. His Lordship
leant forward, blushing with innocence, and whispered something behind
his hand to Mr. Keepimstraight. And in my dream I heard his Lordship
ask:
“_Which eye_?”
To which Mr. Keepimstraight as coolly as if nothing had happened,
whispered behind his hand:
“_Left_!” and then coughed.
“O then,” exclaimed his Lordship, “it is clearly not evidence.”
“It’s not evidence,” repeated the clerk; and then to the discomfiture of
Mr. Nimble, he went on, “You say you had a companion.”
This was more than the learned Counsel wanted, seeing as he did that
there was another investment to be made if he could only manage it.
Mr. Bumpkin blushed now, but said nothing.
“Would you excuse me,” said Mr. Nimble; “I shall not cross-examine this
witness.”
“O, very good,” says Keepimstraight, thinking probably it was to be a
plea of guilty hereafter; “very good. Then I think that is all—is that
the watch?”
“It be,” said the witness; “I ken swear to un.”
It certainly would be from no want of metal if Mr. Bumpkin could not
identify the timepiece, for it was a ponderous-looking watch, nearly as
large as a tea-saucer.
Then said Mr. Nimble:
“You say that is your watch, do you?”
“It spakes for itself.”
“I don’t think that’s evidence,” says Mr. Keepimstraight, with a smile.
“That’s clearly not evidence,” says the Lord Mayor, gravely. Whereupon
there was another burst of laughter, in which the clerk seemed to take
the lead. The remarkable fact, however, was, that his Lordship was
perfectly at a loss to comprehend the joke. He was “as grave as a
Judge.”
After the laughter had subsided, the learned Keepimstraight leaned
backward, and the learned Lord Mayor leaned forward, and it seemed to me
they were conversing together about the cause of the laughter; for
suddenly a smile illuminated the rubicund face of the cheery Lord Mayor,
and at last he had a laugh to himself—a solo, after the band had ceased.
And then his Lordship spoke:
“What your watch may say is not evidence, because it has not been sworn.”
Then the band struck up again to a lively tune, his Lordship playing the
first Fiddle; and the whole scene terminated in the most humorous and
satisfactory manner for all parties—_except_, perhaps, the prisoner—who
was duly committed for trial to the next sittings of the Central Criminal
Court, which were to take place in a fortnight.
Mr. Bumpkin naturally asked for his watch, but that request was smilingly
refused.
“Bin in our famly forty years,” exclaimed the prisoner.
“Will you be quiet?” said Mr. Nimble petulantly, for it was a foolish
observation for the prisoner to make, inasmuch as, if Mr. Bumpkin had
been represented by professional skill, the remark would surely be met at
the trial with abundant evidence to disprove it. Mr. Bumpkin at present,
however, has no professional skill.
* * * * *
Here something disturbed me, and I awoke. While preparing to enjoy my
pipe as was my custom in these intervals, my wife remarked:
“I do not approve of that Master O’Rapley by any means, with his
cynicisms and sarcasms and round squares. Did ever anyone hear of such a
contradiction?”
“Have patience,” quoth I, “and we shall see how worthy Master O’Rapley
makes it out. I conjecture that he means the same thing that we hear of
under the term, ‘putting the round peg into the square hole.’”
“But why should such a thing be done when it is easy surely to find a
square peg that would fit?”
“Granted; but the master-hand may be under obligations to the round peg;
or the round peg may be a disagreeable peg, or a hundred things: one
doesn’t know. I am but a humble observer of human nature, and like not
these ungracious cavillings at Master O’Rapley. Let us calmly follow
this dream, and endeavour to profit by its lessons without finding fault
with its actors.”
“But I would like to have a better explanation of that Round Square,
nevertheless,” muttered my wife as she went on with her knitting. So to
appease her I discoursed as follows:—
“The round square,” said I, “means the inappropriate combination of
opposites.”
“Now, not too long words,” said she, “and not too much philosophy.”
“Very well, my dear,” I continued; “Don O’Rapley is right, not in his
particular instance, but in the general application of his meaning. Look
around upon the world, or so much of it as is comprised within our own
limited vision, and what do you find?”
“I find everything,” said my wife, “beautifully ordered and arranged,
from the Archbishop of Canterbury to the Parish Beadle.”
“What do you find?” I repeated. “Mark the O’Rapley’s knowledge of human
nature, you not only find Waterloos won in the Cricket-field of Eton, but
Bishopricks and Secretaryships and many other glorious victories; so that
you might—”
“Don’t be foolish; Trafalgar was not won in the Cricket-field.”
“No, but it was fought on the Isis or the Cam, I forget which. But carry
the O’Rapley’s theory into daily life, and test it by common observation,
what do you find? Why, that this round square is by no means a modern
invention. It has been worked in all periods of our history. Here is a
Vicar with a rich benefice, intended by nature for a Jockey or a
Whipper-in—”
“What, the benefice?”
“No, the Vicar! Here is a barrister who ought to have been a curate, and
become enthusiastic over worked slippers: there is another thrust into a
Government appointment, not out of respect to him, the Minister doesn’t
know him, but to serve a political friend, or to place an investment in
the hands of a political rival, who will return it with interest on a
future day. The gentleman thus provided for at the country’s expense
would, if left to himself, have probably become an excellent
billiard-marker or pigeon-shooter. Here is another, who, although a
member of Parliament, was elected by no constituency under Heaven or
above it; and it is clear he was intended by Nature for a position where
obsequiousness and servility meet with their appropriate reward. Another
fills the post of some awful Commissioner of something, drawing an
immense salary, and doing an immense amount of mischief for it, intended
naturally for a secretary to an Autocratic Nobleman, who would trample
the rights of the people under foot. Here is another—”
“O pray, my dear, do not let us have another—”
“Only one more,” said I; “here is another, thrust into the Cabinet for
being so disagreeable a fellow, who ought to have been engaged in making
fireworks for Crystal Palace fêtes.”
“But this is only an opinion of yours; how do you know these gentlemen
are not fitted for the posts they occupy? surely if they do the work—”
“The public would have no right to grumble.”
“And as for obsequiousness and servility, I am afraid those are epithets
too often unjustly applied to those gentlemen whose courteous demeanour
wins them the respect of their superiors.”
“Quite so,” said I; “and I don’t see that it matters what is the
distinguishing epithet you apply to them: this courteous demeanour or
obsequiousness is no doubt the very best gift Nature can bestow upon an
individual as an outfit for the voyage of life.”
“Dear me, you were complaining but just now of its placing men in
positions for which they were not qualified.”
“Not complaining, my love; only remarking. I go in for obsequiousness,
and trust I shall never be found wanting in that courteous demeanour
towards my superiors which shall lead to my future profit.”
“But would you have men only courteous?”
“By no means, I would have them talented also.”
“But in what proportion would you have the one to the other?”
“I would have the same proportion maintained that exists between the
rudder and the ship: you want just enough tact to steer your
obsequiousness.”
Here again I dozed.
CHAPTER XVIII.
A comfortable evening at the Goose
When Mr. Bumpkin left the Mansion House, he was in a state of great
triumph not to say ecstasy: for it seemed to him that he had had
everything his own way. He was not cross-examined; no witnesses were
called, and it had only been stated by the prisoner himself, not proved,
although he said he should prove it at the trial, that the watch had been
in the family for upwards of forty years.
“The biggest lie,” muttered Master Bumpkin, “that ever wur told.” And
then he reasoned in this wise: “how could it a bin in his family forty
year when he, Bumpkin, only lost it the day afore in the most barefaced
manner? He was a pooty feller as couldn’t tell a better story than
thic.”
And then methought in my dream, “Ah, Bumpkin, thou may’st triumph now,
but little dreamest thou what is in store for thee at the trial. Wait
till all those little insignificant points, hardly visible at present,
shall rise, like spear-heads against thee at the Old Bailey and thrust
thee through and through and make thee curse the advocate’s skill and the
thief’s impudence and the inertness of the so-called Public Prosecutor:
and mayhap, I know not yet, show thee how wrong and robbery may triumph
over right and innocence. Thou hast raised thyself, good Bumpkin, from
the humblest poverty to comparative wealth and a lawsuit: but boast not
overmuch lest thou find Law a taskmaster instead of a Protector!
Thus, moralizing in my dream I perceived that Mr. Bumpkin after talking
to some men betook himself to a Bus and proceeded on his way to the
“Goose” at Westminster, whither he arrived in due time and in high
spirits.
The Goose was a nice cosy public-house, situated, as I before observed,
near the river side and commanded a beautiful view of the neighbouring
wharves and the passing craft. It was a favourite resort of waterside
men, carters, carriers, labourers on the wharf and men out of work. The
Military also patronized it:—And many were the jovial tales told around
the taproom hearth by members of Her Majesty’s troops to admiring and
astonished Ignorance.
It was a particularly cold and bleak day, this ninth of March one
thousand eight hundred and something. The wind was due East and
accompanied ever and anon with mighty thick clouds of sleet and snow.
The fireside therefore was particularly comfortable, and the cheery faces
around the hearth were pleasant to behold.
Now Mr. Bumpkin, as the reader knows, was not alone in his expedition.
He had his witness, named Joseph Wurzel: called in the village “Cocky,”
inasmuch as it was generally considered that he set much by his wisdom:
and was possessed of considerable attainments. For instance, he could
snare a hare as well as any man in the county: or whistle down pheasants
to partake of a Buckwheat refection which he was in the habit of
spreading for their repast.
A good many fellows who were envious of Joe’s abilities avowed that “he
was a regler cunnin’ feller, as ud some day find out his mistake;”
meaning thereby that Joe would inevitably be sent to prison. Others
affirmed that he was a good deal too cunning for that; that he was a
regular artful dodger, and knew how to get round the vicar and all in
authority under him. The reader knows that he was a regular attendant at
Church, and by that means was in high favour. Nor was his mother behind
hand in this respect, especially in the weeks before Christmas; and truly
her religion brought its reward even in this world in the shape of Parish
Gifts.
No doubt Joe was fond of the chase, but in this respect he but imitated
his superiors, except that I believe he occasionally went beyond them in
the means he employed.
Assembled in this common room at the Goose on the night in question, were
a number of persons of various callings and some of no calling in
particular. Most of them were acquainted, and apparently regular
customers. One man in particular became a great favourite with Joe, and
that was Jacob Wideawake the Birdcatcher; and it was interesting to
listen to his conversation on the means of catching and transforming the
London Sparrow into an article of Commerce.
Joe’s dress no doubt attracted the attention of his companions when he
first made his appearance, for it was something out of the ordinary
style: and certainly one might say that great care had been bestowed upon
him to render his personal appearance attractive in the witness-box. He
wore a wideawake hat thrown back on his head, thus displaying his brown
country-looking face to full advantage. His coat was a kind of dark
velveteen which had probably seen better days in the Squire’s family; so
had the long drab waistcoat. His corduroy trousers, of a light green
colour, were hitched up at the knees with a couple of straps as though he
wore his garters outside. His neckerchief was a bright red, tied round
his neck in a careless but not unpicturesque manner. Take him for all in
all he was as fine a specimen of a country lad as one could wish to
meet,—tall, well built, healthy looking, and even handsome.
Now Mr. Bumpkin, being what is called “a close man,” and prone to keep
his own counsel on all occasions when it was not absolutely necessary to
reveal it, had said nothing about his case before the Lord Mayor; not
even Mrs. Oldtimes had he taken into his confidence. It is difficult to
understand his motive for such secrecy, as it is impossible to trace in
nine instances out of ten any particular line of human conduct to its
source.
Acting probably on some vague information that he had received, Mr.
Bumpkin looked into the room, and told Joe that he thought they should be
“on” to-morrow. He had learned the use of that legal term from frequent
intercourse with Mr. Prigg. He thought they should be on but “wur not
sartin.”
“Well,” said Joe, “the sooner the better. I hates this ere hangin’
about.” At this Jack Outofwork, Tom Lazyman, and Bill Saunter laughed;
while Dick Devilmecare said, “He hated hanging about too; it was wus than
work.”
“And that’s bad enough, Heaven knows,” said Lazyman.
Then I saw that at this moment entered a fine tall handsome soldier, who
I afterwards learned was Sergeant Goodtale of the One Hundred and
twenty-fourth Hussars. A smarter or more compact looking fellow it would
be impossible to find: and he came in with such a genial, good-natured
smile, that to look at him would almost make you believe there was no
happiness or glory on this side the grave except in Her Majesty’s
service—especially the Hussars!
I also perceived that fluttering from the side of Sergeant Goodtale’s
cap, placed carelessly and jauntily on the side of his head, was a bunch
of streamers of the most fascinating red white and blue you ever could
behold. Altogether, Sergeant Goodtale was a splendid sight. Down went
his cane on the table with a crack, as much as to say “The Queen!” and he
marched up to the fire and rubbed his hands: apparently taking no heed of
any human being in the room.
Mr. Bumpkin’s heart leaped when he saw the military sight: his eyes
opened as if he were waking from a dream out of which he had been
disturbed by a cry of “fire:” and giving Joe a wink and an obviously
made-up look, beckoned him out of the room. As they went out they met a
young man, shabbily clad and apparently poorly fed. He had an
intelligent face, though somewhat emaciated. He might be, and probably
was, a clerk out of employment, and he threw himself on the seat in a
listless manner that plainly said he was tired of everything.
This was Harry Highlow. He had been brought up with ideas beyond his
means. It was through no fault of his that he had not been taught a
decent trade: those responsible for his training having been possessed of
the notion that manual labour lowers one’s respectability: an error and a
wickedness which has been responsible for the ruin of many a promising
youth before to-day.
Harry was an intelligent, fairly educated youth, and nothing more. What
is to be done with raw material so plentiful as that? The cheapest
marketable commodity is an average education, especially in a country
where even our Universities can supply you with candidates for employment
at a cheaper rate than you can obtain the services of a first-class cook.
This young man had tried everything that was genteel: he had even aspired
to literature: sought employment on the Press, on the Stage, everywhere
in fact where gentility seemed to reign. Nor do I think he lacked
ability for any of these walks; it was not ability but opportunity that
failed him.
“Lookee ere, Joe,” said Mr. Bumpkin; “harken to me. Don’t thee ’ave nowt
to say to that there soger.”
“All right, maister,” said Joe, laughing; “thee thinks I be gwine for a
soger. Now lookee ere, maister, I beant a fool.”
“No, thee beant, Joe. I knowed thee a good while, and thee beant no
fool.”
Joe laughed. It was a big laugh was Joe’s, for his mouth was somewhat
large, and a grin always seemed to twist it. On this occasion, so great
was his surprise that his master should think he would be fool enough to
enlist for a “soger,” that his mouth assumed the most irregular shape I
ever saw, and bore a striking resemblance to a hole such as might be made
in the head of a drum by the heel of a boot.
“I be up to un, maister.”
“Have no truck wi’ un, I tell ee; don’t speak to un. Thee be my head
witness, and doant dare goo away; no, no more un if—”
“No fear,” said Joe. “’Taint likely I be gwine to listen to ee. I knows
what he wants; he’s arter listin chaps.”
“Look ee ere, Joe, if ur speaks to thee, jist say I beant sich a fool as
I looks; that’ll ave un.”
“Right,” says Joe; “I beant sich a fool as I looks; that’ll ave un
straight.”
“Now, take heed; I’m gwine into the parlour wi’ Landlord.”
Accordingly, into the little quiet snuggery of Mr. Oldtimes, Mr. Bumpkin
betook himself. And many and many an agreeable evening was passed with
Mr. and Mrs. Oldtimes during the period when Mr. Bumpkin was waiting for
his trial. For Mr. and Mrs. Oldtimes being Somersetshire people knew
many inhabitants of the old days in the village of Yokelton, where Mr.
Bumpkin “were bred and born’d.”
Meanwhile the “head witness” had returned to the cheerful scene in the
taproom, and sat leering out of the corners of his eyes upon the
Sergeant, as though he expected every moment that officer would make a
spring at him and have him upon the floor. But the Sergeant was not a
bullying, blustering sort of man at all; his demeanour was quiet in the
extreme. He scarcely looked at anyone. Simply engaged in warming his
hands at the cheerful fire, no one had cause to apprehend anything from
him.
But a man, Sergeant or no Sergeant, must, out of common civility,
exchange a word now and then, if only about the weather; and so he said,
carelessly,—
“Sharp weather, lads!”
Now, not even Joe could disagree with this; it was true, and was assented
to by all; Joe silently acquiescing. After the Sergeant had warmed his
hands and rubbed them sufficiently, he took off his cap and placed it on
a little shelf or rack; and then took out a meerschaum pipe, which he
exhibited without appearing to do so to the whole company. Then he
filled it from his pouch, and rang the bell; and when the buxom young
waitress appeared, he said,—
“My dear, I think I’ll have a nice rump steak and some onions, if you
please.”
“Yes, sir,” said the maid.
Now I observed that two or three matters were noteworthy at this point.
First, Joe’s mouth so watered that he actually went to the fireplace and
expectorated. Secondly, he was utterly amazed at the familiar manner in
which the Sergeant was permitted to address this beautiful young person,
who seemed to be quite a lady of quality. Thirdly, he was duly impressed
and astounded with the luxurious appetite of this Sergeant of Hussars!
Then the young woman came back and said,—“Would you like to have it in
the parlour, sir?”
“O no, my dear,” said the Sergeant; “I would rather have it here. I hate
being alone.”
As he said this, he slightly glanced at Dick Devilmecare. Dick,
flattering himself that the observation was addressed particularly to
him, observed that he also hated being alone.
Then the Sergeant lighted his pipe; and I suppose there was not one in
the company who did not think that tobacco particularly nice.
Next, the Sergeant rang again, and once more the pretty maid appeared.
“Lucy,” said he, “while my steak is getting ready, I think I’ll have
three of whiskey hot, with a little lemon in it.”
At this there was an involuntary smacking of lips all round, although no
one was conscious he had exhibited any emotion. The Sergeant was
perfectly easy and indifferent to everything. He smoked, looked at the
fire, sipped his grog, spread out his legs, folded his arms; then rose
and turned his back to the fire, everyone thinking how thoroughly he
enjoyed himself.
“That smells very nice, Sergeant,” said Harry.
“Yes, it’s very good,” said the Sergeant; “it’s some I got down at
Yokelton, Somersetshire.”
Here Joe looked up; he hadn’t been home for a week, and began to feel
some interest in the old place, and everything belonging to it.
“I comes from that ere place, Mr. Sergeant,” said he.
“Indeed, sir,” said the Sergeant, in an off-hand manner.
“Did thee buy un at a shop by the Pond, sir?”
“That’s it,” replied the Sergeant, pointing with his pipe, “to the
right.”
“The seame plaace,” exclaimed Joe. “Why my sister lives there sarvant wi
that ooman as keeps the shop.”
“Indeed!” said Sergeant Goodtale; “how very curious!”
And Jack said, “What a rum thing!”
And Bill said, “That is a rum thing!”
And Harry said it was a strange coincidence. In short, they all agreed
that it was the most remarkable circumstance that ever was.
CHAPTER XIX.
The subject continued.
As soon as the conversation on the remarkable circumstance recorded in
the last chapter had drifted into another subject no less remarkable, and
the Sergeant had finished his pipe, the beautiful being appeared with the
rump steak and onions, a snowy white cloth having been previously spread
at the end of one of the tables. When all was ready, it looked as nice
and appetizing as could well be conceived. The most indifferent man
there seemed the Sergeant himself, who, instead of rushing to the chair
provided for him, walked as coolly up to the table as though he were
going into action. Then he took the knife, and seeing it had not quite
so sharp an edge as he liked, gave it a touch or two on the stone hearth.
The smell of that tobacco from Yokelton had been sweet; so had the
perfume from the whiskey toddy and the lemon; but of all the delicious
and soul-refreshing odours that ever titilated human nostrils, nothing
surely could equal that which proceeded from the rump steak and onions.
The fragrance of new mown hay, which Cowper has so beautifully mentioned,
had palled on Joe’s senses; but when would the fragrance of that dish
pall on the hungry soul?
The Sergeant took no notice of the hungry looks of the company; he was a
soldier, and concentrated his mind upon the duties of the moment.
Sentimentality was no part of his nature. He was a man, and must eat; he
was a soldier, and must perform the work as a duty irrespective of
consequences.
“Do you mind my smoke?” asked Harry.
“Oh dear, no,” said the Sergeant; “I like it.”
Joe stared and watched every bit as the Sergeant cut it. He looked
admiringly on the soldier and so lovingly at the steak, that it almost
seemed as if he wished he could be cut into such delicious morsels and
eaten by so happy a man. What thoughts passed through his mind no one
but a dreamer could tell; and this is what I saw passing through the mind
of Wurzel.
“O, what a life! what grub! what jollyness! no turmut oeing; no
dung-cart; no edgin and ditchin; no five o’clock in the mornin; no
master; no bein sweared at; no up afore the magistrates; no ungriness;
rump steaks and inguns; whiskey and water and bacca; if I didn’t like
that air Polly Sweetlove, danged if I wouldn’t go for a soger to-morrer!”
Then said Joe, very deferentially and as if he were afraid of being up
afore the magistrate, “If you please, sir, med I have a bit o’ that there
bacca?”
“Of course,” said the Sergeant, tossing his pouch; “certainly; help
yourself.”
Joe’s heart was softened more and more towards the military, which he had
hitherto regarded, from all he could hear, as a devil’s own trap to catch
Sabbath breakers and disobedient to parents.
And methought, in my dream, I never saw men who were not partakers of a
feast enjoy it more than the onlookers of that military repast.
Then said Harry,—
“Well, Sergeant, I’m well-nigh tired of my life, and I’ve come here to
enlist.”
“Just wait a bit,” said the Sergeant; “I’m not a man to do things in a
hurry. I never allow a man to enlist, if I know it, in Her Majesty’s
service, honourable and jolly as it is, without asking him to think about
it.”
“Hear, hear!” said Lazyman; “that’s good, I likes that; don’t be in a
hurry, lad.”
“Hear, hear!” says Outofwork, “don’t jump into a job too soon, yer medn’t
like it.”
“Hear, hear!” says the Boardman, “walk round a-bit.”
“But,” said Harry, “I have considered it. I’ve just had education enough
to prevent my getting a living, and not enough to make a man of me: I’ve
tried everything and nobody wants me.”
“Then,” said Sergeant Goodtale, “do you think the Queen only wants them
that nobody else’ll have. I can tell you that ain’t the Queen of
England’s way. It might do for Rooshia or Germany, or them countries,
but not for Old England. It’s a free country. I think, lads, I’m
right—”
Here there was tremendous hammering on the table by way of assent and
applause; amidst which Joe could be observed thumping his hard fist with
as much vehemence as if he had got a County Magistrate’s head under it.
“This is a free country, sir,” said the Sergeant, “no man here is
kidnapped into the Army, which is a profession for men, not slaves.”
“I’m going to join,” said Harry, “say what you like.”
“Wait till the morning;” said the Sergeant, “and meanwhile we’ll have a
song.”
At this moment Mr. Bumpkin put in an appearance; for although he had been
enjoying himself with Mr. and Mrs. Oldtimes, he thought it prudent to
have a peep and see how “thic Joe wur gettin on.”
CHAPTER XX.
Mr. Bumpkin sings a good old song—the Sergeant becomes quite a convivial
companion and plays dominoes.
The Sergeant, having finished his repast, again had recourse to his pipe,
and was proceeding to light it when Mr. Bumpkin appeared in the room.
“We be gwine to have a song, maister,” said Joe.
“Give us a song, governor,” said half-a-dozen voices.
“Ay, do, maister,” says Joe; “thee sings a good un, I knows, for I ha
eerd thee often enough at arvest oames: gie us a song, maister.”
Now if there was one thing Mr. Bumpkin thought he was really great at
besides ploughing the straightest and levellest furrow, it was singing
the longest and levellest song. He had been known to sing one, which,
with its choruses, had lasted a full half hour, and then had broken down
for lack of memory.
On the present occasion he would have exhibited no reluctance, having had
a glass or two in the Bar Parlour had he not possessed those misgivings
about the Sergeant. He looked furtively at that officer as though it
were better to give him no chance. Seeing, however, that he was smoking
quietly, and almost in a forlorn manner by himself, his apprehensions
became less oppressive.
Invitations were repeated again and again, and with such friendly
vehemence that resistance at last was out of the question.
“I aint sung for a good while,” said he, “but I wunt be disagreeable
like, so here goes.”
But before he could start there was such a thundering on the tables that
several minutes elapsed. At length there was sufficient silence to
enable him to be heard.
“This is Church and Crown, lads.”
“Gie me the man as loves the Squire,
The Parson, and the Beak;
And labours twelve good hours a day
For thirteen bob a week!”
“Hooroar! hooroar! hooroar!” shouted Lazyman. “What d’ye think ’o that?”
“O, my eye,” said Outofwork, “aint it jolly?”
“Well done! bravo!” shrieked the Boardman. “I’ll carry that ere man
through the streets on my shoulders instead o’ the boards, that I will.
Bravo! he ought to be advertized—this style thirteen bob a week!”
“Thirteen bob a week!” laughed Harry; “who’d go for a soldier with such a
prospect. Can you give us a job, governor?”
“Wait a bit, lads,” said Mr. Bumpkin, “there be another werse and then a
chorus.”
“Hooray!” they shouted, “a chorus! let’s have the chorus—there ought to
be a chorus—thirteen bob a week!”
“Now, gentlemen, the chorus if you please,” said Harry; “give it mouth,
sir!”
Then sang Bumpkin—
“O ’edgin, ditchin, that’s the geaam,
All in the open air;
The poor man’s health is all his wealth,
But wealth without a care!
CHORUS.
Then shout hurrah for Church and State
Though ’eretics may scoff,
The devil is our head Constable,
To take the willins off.
Give me the man that’s poor and strong,
Hard working and content;
Who looks on onger as his lot,
In Heaven’s wise purpose sent.
Who looks on riches as a snare
To ketch the worldly wise;
And good roast mutton as a dodge,
To blind rich people’s eyes.
CHORUS.
Give me the man that labours hard
From mornin’ until night,
And looks at errins as a treat
And bacon a delight.
O ’edgin, ditchin, diggin drains,
And emptyin pool and dyke,
It beats your galloppin to ’ounds,
Your ball-rooms and the like.
CHORUS.
Gi’ me the man that loves the Squire
With all his might and main;
And with the taxes and the rates
As never racks his brain.
Who loves the Parson and the Beak
As Heaven born’d and sent,
And revels in that blessed balm
A hongry sweet content.
CHORUS.
Gie me the good Shaksperan man
As wants no other books,
But them as he no need to spell,
The ever runnin brooks:
As feeds the pigs and minds the flocks,
And rubs the orses down;
And like a regler lyal man,
Sticks up for Church and Crown.”
CHORUS.
At the termination of this pastoral song there was such a hullabaloo of
laughter, such a yelling, thumping, and, I grieve to say, swearing, that
Mr. Bumpkin wondered what on earth was the occasion of it. At the Rent
dinner at the Squire’s he had always sung it with great success; and the
Squire himself had done him the honour to say it was the best song he had
ever heard, while the Clergyman had assured him that the sentiments were
so good that it ought to be played upon the organ when the people were
coming out of church. And Farmer Grinddown, who was the largest
gentleman farmer for miles around, had declared that if men would only
act up to that it would be a happy country, and we should soon be able to
defy America itself.
Mr. Bumpkin, hearing such shouts of laughter, thought perhaps he might
have a patch of black on his face, and put his hand up to feel. Then he
looked about him to see if his dress was disarranged; but finding nothing
amiss, he candidly told them he “couldn’t zee what there wur to laugh at
thic fashion.”
They all said it was a capital song, and wondered if he had any more of
the same sort, and hoped he’d leave them a lock of his hair—and otherwise
manifested tokens of enthusiastic approbation.
Mr. Bumpkin, however, could not quite see their mirth in the same light,
so he turned on his heel and, beckoning to Joe, left the room in high
dudgeon, not to say disdain.
“Mind Joe—no truck wi un.”
“Why, maister, he knows my sister.”
“Damn thee sister, Joe; it be a lie.”
“Be it? here’s some o’ the bacca he brought up from Okleton, I tell ee.”
“I tell thee, have nowt to do wi un; we shall be on t’morrer, we be tenth
in the list.”
“Ay,” said Joe, “we bin igher in list un thic, we bin as near as eight; I
shall be mighty glad when it be over.”
“An get back to pigs, aye, Joe?”
“Aye, maister.”
“Nothin like oame, Joe, be there?” and Mr. Bumpkin turned away.
“No,” said Joe; “no, maister, if so be” (and this was spoken to himself)
“if so be you got a oame.”
Then I saw that Joe rejoined his companions, amongst whom a conversation
was going on as to the merits of the song. Some said one thing and some
another, but all condemned it as a regular toading to the Parson and the
Squire: and as for the Beak, how any man could praise him whose only duty
was to punish the common people, no one could see. The company were
getting very comfortable. The Sergeant had called for another glass of
that delectable grog whose very perfume seemed to inspire everyone with
goodfellowship, and they all appeared to enjoy the Sergeant’s liquor
without tasting it.
“What do you say to a game of dominoes?” said Harry.
“They won’t allow em ere,” said Lazyman.
“Won’t they,” answered Outofwork. “I’ll warrant if the Sergeant likes to
play there’s no landlord’ll stop him, ay, Sergeant?”
“Well, I believe,” said the Sergeant, “as one of the Queen’s servants, I
have the privilege of playing when I like.”
“Good,” said Harry, “and I’ll be a Queen’s man too, so out with the
shilling, Sergeant.”
“Wait till the morning,” said the Sergeant.
“No,” said Harry. “I’ve had enough waiting. I’m on, give me the
shilling.”
The Sergeant said, “Well, let me see, what height are you?” and he stood
up beside him.
“Ah!” he said, “I think I can get you in,” saying which he gave him a
shilling; such a bright coin, that it seemed to have come fresh from the
Queen’s hand.
Then the Sergeant took out some beautiful bright ribbons which he was
understood to say (but did _not_ say) the Queen had given him that
morning. Then he rang the bell, and the buxom waitress appearing he
asked for the favour of a needle and thread, which, the radiant damsel
producing, with her own fair fingers she sewed the ribbons on to Harry’s
cap, smiling with admiration all the while. Even this little incident
was not without its effect on the observant “head witness,” and he felt
an unaccountable fascination to have the same office performed by the
same fair hands on his own hat.
Then, without saying more, a box of dominoes was produced, and Joe soon
found himself, he did not know how, the Sergeant’s partner, while Lazyman
and Outofwork were opposed to them.
“Is it pooty good livin in your trade, Mr. Sergeant?” asked Joe.
“Not bad,” said the Sergeant; “that is five-one, I think”—referring to
the play.
“Rump steaks and ingons aint bad living,” said Outofwork.
“No,” said the Sergeant, “and there’s nothing I like better than a good
thick mutton chop for breakfast—let me see, what’s the game?”
“Ah!” said Joe, smacking his lips, “mutton chops is the best thing out; I
aint had one in my mouth, though, for a doocid long time; I likes em with
plenty o’ fat an gravy loike.”
“You see,” said the Sergeant, “when you’ve been out for a two or three
mile ride before breakfast in the fresh country air, a chap wants
something good for breakfast, and a mutton chop’s none too much for him.”
“No,” answered Joe, “I could tackle three.”
“Yes,” said Sergeant Goodtale, “but some are much larger than others.”
“So em be,” agreed Joe.
“What’s the game,” enquired the Sergeant.
“Two-one,” said Joe.
“One’s all,” said the soldier.
“I tell ee what,” remarked Joe, “if I was going to list, there’s no man
as I’d liefer list wi than you, Mr. Sergeant.”
“Domino!” said the Sergeant, “that’s one to us, partner!”
Then they shuffled the dominoes and commenced again. But at this moment
the full figure of Mr. Bumpkin again stood in the doorway.
“Joe!” he exclaimed angrily, “I want thee, come ere thirecly, I tell ee!”
“Yes, maister; I be comin.”
“You stoopid fool!” said Mr. Bumpkin in a whisper, as Joe went up to him,
“thee be playin with thic feller.”
“Well, maister, if I be; what then?” Joe said this somewhat angrily, and
Mr. Bumpkin replied:—
“He’ll ha thee, Joe—he’ll ha thee!”
“Nay, nay, maister; I be too old in the tooth for he; but it beant thy
business, maister.”
“No,” said Bumpkin, as he turned away, “it beant.”
Then Joe resumed his play. Now it happened that as the Sergeant smacked
his lips when he took his occasional sip of the fragrant grog, expressive
of the highest relish, it awakened a great curiosity in Wurzel’s mind as
to its particular flavour. The glass was never far from his nose and he
had long enjoyed the extremely tempting odour. At last, as he was not
invited to drink by Sergeant Goodtale, he could contain himself no
longer, but made so bold as to say:—
“Pardner, med I jist taste this ere? I never did taste sich a thing.”
“Certainly, partner,” said the Sergeant, pushing the tumbler, which was
about three-parts full. “What’s the game now?”
“Ten-one,” said Outofwork.
“One’s all, then,” said the Sergeant.
Joe took the tumbler, and after looking into it for a second or two as
though he were mentally apostrophizing it, placed the glass to his lips.
“Don’t be afraid,” said the Sergeant.
No one seemed more courageous than Wurzel, in respect of the act with
which he was engaged, and before he took the glass from his lips its
contents had disappeared.
“I’m mighty glad thee spoke, Maister Sergeant, for if thee hadn’t I
should a drunk un all wirout thy leave. I never tasted sich tackle in my
life; it’s enough to make a man gie up everything for sogering.”
“Domino!” said the Sergeant. “I think that’s the game!”
* * * * *
“My dear,” said my wife, “you have been talking again in your sleep.”
“Really,” said I, “I hope I have not compromised myself.”
“I do not understand you,” cried she.
“No more do I, for I am hardly awake.”
“You have been talking of Joe Wurzel again.”
“O, to be sure. What about him?”
“Then you mentioned Mr. Outofwork and Mr. Lazyman and Mr. Devilmecare,
and another whose name I did not catch.”
“Ah,” I asked, “did they go for soldiers?”
“At present, no, except Harry, for whom I was heartily sorry, he seemed
such a nice disappointed lad. But pray who is this Sergeant Goodtale?”
“He is on recruiting service, a very fine, persuasive fellow.”
“But he didn’t seem to press these people or use any arts to entice them:
I like him for that. He rather seemed to me to discourage them from
enlisting. He might have been sure poor Harry meant it, because, as I
take it, he was half-starved, and yet he desired him to wait till the
morning.”
“I think,” said I, “his conduct was artful if you examine it with
reference to its effect on the others; but he is an extraordinary man,
this Sergeant Goodtale—was never known to persuade any one to enlist, I
believe.”
“But he seemed to get along very well.”
“Very; I thought he got along very comfortably.”
“Then there was one Lucy Prettyface!”
“Ah, I don’t remember her,” cried I, alarmed lest I might have said
anything in my dream for which I was not responsible.
“Why she was the girl who sewed the colours on and somebody called ‘my
dear.’”
“I assure you,” I said, “it was not I: it must have been the Sergeant;
but I have no recollection—O yes, to be sure, she was the waitress.”
“You remember her now?”
“Well,” said I, determined not to yield if I could possibly help it, “I
can’t say that I do. I know there was a person who sewed colours on and
whom the Sergeant called ‘my dear,’ but further than that I should not
like to pledge myself. Yes—yes—to be sure,” and here I went on talking,
as it were, to myself, for I find it is much better to talk to yourself
if you find it difficult to carry on a conversation with other persons.
“She was pretty, wasn’t she?” said my wife with an arch look.
I gave her a look just as arch, as I replied,
“Really I hardly looked at her; but I should say _not_.” I make a point
of never saying any one is pretty.
“Joe thought her so.”
“Did he? Well she may have been, but I never went in for Beauty myself.”
“You shocking man,” said my wife, “do you perceive what you are saying?”
“Why, of course; but you take me up so sharply: if you had not cut me off
in the flower of my speech you would have been gratified at the finish of
my sentence. I was going to say, I never went in for Beauty, but once.
That, I think, gives the sentence a pretty turn.”
“Well, now, I think these dreams and this talking in your sleep indicate
that you require a change; what do you say to Bournemouth?”
“You think I shall sleep better there?”
“I think it will do you good.”
“Then we’ll go to Bournemouth,” cried I, “for I understand it’s a very
dreamy place.”
“But I should like to know what becomes of this action of Mr. Bumpkin,
and how all his people get on? You may depend upon it that Sergeant will
enlist those other men.”
“I do not know,” I remarked, “what is in the future.”
“But surely you know what you intend. You can make your characters do
anything.”
“Indeed not,” I said. “They will have their own way whether I write
their history or any one else.”
“That Sergeant Goodtale will have every one of them, my dear; you mark my
words. He’s the most artful man I ever heard of.”
Of course I could offer no contradiction to this statement as I was not
in the secrets of the future. How the matter will work out depends upon
a variety of circumstances over which I have not the least control. For
instance, if Bill were to take the shilling, I believe Dick would follow:
and if the Sergeant were to sing a good song he might catch the rest.
But who can tell?
CHAPTER XXI.
Joe electrifies the company and surprises the reader.
“Suppose we have another song,” said Sergeant Goodtale.
“And spoase we has some moore o’ that there stuff,” answered Joe.
“Aye,” said Harry, “we will too. I’ll spend my shilling like a man.”
Saying which he rang the bell and ordered a glass for himself and one for
Joe.
“Now, then,” said the latter, “I can’t sing, but I’ll gie thee summut as
I larned.”
“Hooray!” said Harry, “summut as he larned!”
“Bravo!” said the Boardman, “summut as he larned?”
“Here’s at un,” said Joe.
And then with a mighty provincialism he repeated without a break:—
DR. BRIMSTONE’S SERMON,
AS PUT INTO VERSE BY GAFFER DITCHER.
I bin to Church, I ha’, my boy,
And now conwarted be;
The last time I wur ever there
War eighteen farty-three!
And ’ow I knows it is as this,
I didn’t goo to pray,
Nor ’ear the Word, but went becorse
It wur my weddin day!
Zounds! wot a blessed sarmon twur
I ’eeard the Sabbath morn;
’Ow I a woful sinner wur
Or ever I wur born.
You sees them wilful igorant pigs
In mud a wollorin;
Well, like them pigs, but ten times wus,
We wollers in our sin.
We’re coated o’er wi’ sinful mud,—
A dreadful sight we be;
And yet we doant despise ourselves—
For why?—We doant zee!
I thinks I had yer there, my boy,
For all your sniggerin’ jeers;
Thee’re in t’ mud, I tell ’ee, lad,
Rightoover ’ed an’ ears.
Zounds! what a orful thing it be
That love should blind us so!
Why, them there bloomin rosy cheeks
Be ony masks o’ woe!
The reddest on ’em thee could kiss
Aint ’ardly wuth the pains;
At best it’s but the husk o’ bliss,
It’s nuther wuts nor banes.
There aint a pleasure you can name,
From coourtin down to skittles,
But wot there’s mischief in the same,
Like pisen in your wittles.
The Reverend Brimstone says, “Beloved,
Be allays meek an umble;
A saint should never ax for moor,
An never larn to grumble.”
We ain’t to tork o’ polleticks
An’ things as don’t consarn us,
And wot we wornts to know o’ lor
The madgistret will larn us.
We ain’t to drink wi’ Methodists,
No, not a friendly soop;
We ain’t to tork o’ genteel folks
Onless to praise un oop.
We ain’t to ’ear a blessed word
Agin our betters said;
We’re got to lay the butter thick
Becorse they’re sich ’igh bred!
We got to say “Ha! look at he!
A gemman tooth and nail!”
You morn’t say, “What a harse he’d be
If he’d a got a tail!”
For why? becorse these monied gents
Ha’ got sich birth an’ breedin’;
An’ down we got to ’old our ’eads,
Like cattle, when they’re feedin’.
The parson put it kindly like—
He sed, says he, as ’ow
We’re bean’t so good as them there grubs
We turns up wi’ the plow.
There’s nowt more wretcheder an we,
Or worthier an the rich,
I praises ’em for bein’ born,
An’ ’eaven for makin’ sich.
So wile we be, I daily stares
That earthquakes doan’t fall,
An’ swaller up this unconwinced
Owdashus earthly ball!
An’ wen I thinks of all our sins—
Lay down, says I, my boys,
We’re fittin’ only for manoor,
So don’t let’s make a noise.
Let’s spred us out upon the ground
An’ make the turmuts grow,
It’s all we’re good for in this world
O’ wickedness an’ woe!
And yet we’re ’llow’d to brethe the air
The same as gents from town;
And ’llow’d to black their ’appy boots,
And rub their ’orses down!
To think o’ blessins sich as these,
Is like ongrateful lust;
It stuffs us oop wi’ worldly pride,
As if our ’arts would bust!
But no, we’re ’umble got to be,
Though privileged so ’igh:
Why doan’t we feed on grass or grains,
Or leastways ’umbly die!
We got to keep our wicked tongue
From disrespeckful speakin’,
We han’t a got to eat too much,
Nor yet goo pleasure seekin’.
Nor kitch a rabbit or a aire,
Nor call the Bobby names,
Nor stand about, but goo to church,
And play no idle games:
To love paroshial orficers,
The squire, and all that’s his,
And never goo wi’ idle chaps
As wants their wages riz.
So now conwarted I ha’ bin
From igorance and wice;
It’s only ’appiness that’s sin,
And norty things that’s nice!
Whereas I called them upstart gents
The wust o’ low bred snobs,
Wi’ contrite ’art I hollers out
“My heye, wot bloomin’ nobs!”
I sees the error o’ my ways,
So, lads, this warnin’ take,
The Poor Man’s path, the parson says,
Winds round the Burnin’ Lake.
They’ve changed it since the days o’ yore,
Them Gospel preachers, drat un;
They used to preach it to the poor,
An’ now they preach it _at_ un.
Every one was amazed at the astonishing memory of this country lad: and
the applause that greeted the reciter might well be calculated to awaken
his latent vanity. It was like being called before the curtain after the
first act by a young actor on his first appearance. And I believe every
one understood the meaning of the verses, which seemed to imply that the
hungry prodigal, famishing for food, was fed with husks instead of grain.
Contentment with wretchedness is not good preaching, and this was one
lesson of Dr. Brimstone’s sermon. As soon as Harry could make himself
heard amidst the general hubbub, which usually follows a great
performance, he said:—
“Now, look here, lads, it’s all very well to be converted with such
preaching as that; but it’s my belie it’s more calculated to make
hypocrites than Christians.”
“Hear! hear!” said Lazyman. “That _is_ right.” Anything but conversion
for Lazyman.
“Now,” continued Harry, “I’ve heard that kind of preaching a hundred
times: it’s a regular old-fashioned country sermon; and, as for the poor
being so near hell, I put it in these four lines.”
“Hear, hear!” cried the company; “order!”
And they prepared themselves for what was to come with as great eagerness
as, I venture to say, would always be shown to catch the text, if it came
at the end, instead of the beginning, of a sermon.
“Shut up,” says Lazyman; “let’s ’ear this ’ere. I knows it’s summut good
by the look an him.”
“Don’t make a row,” retorts the Boardman; “who can hear anything while
you keeps on like that?”
And there they stood, actually suspending the operation of smoking as
they waited the summing up of this remarkably orthodox “preaching of the
word.” The sergeant only was a spectator of the scene, and much amused
did he seem at the faces that prepared for a grin or a sneer as the
forthcoming utterance should demand. Then said Harry solemnly and
dramatically:—
“In WANT full many a vice is born,
And Virtue in a DINNER;
A well-spread board makes many a SAINT,
And HUNGER many a sinner.”
From the explosion which followed this antidote to Mr. Brimstone’s
sermon, I should judge that the more part of the company believed that
Poverty was almost as ample a virtue as Charity itself. They shook their
heads in token of assent; they thumped the table in recognition of the
soundness of the teaching; and several uttered an exclamation not to be
committed to paper, as an earnest of their admiration for the ability of
Mr. Highlow, who, instead of being a private soldier, ought, in their
judgment, to be Lord Mayor of London. After this recital every one said
he thought Mr. Highlow might oblige them.
“Well, I’m no singer,” said Harry.
“Try, Harry!” exclaimed Lazyman: he was a rare one to advise other people
to try.
“Trying to sing when you can’t,” answered Harry, “I should think is a rum
sort of business; but I’ll tell you what I’ll do if you like. When I was
down at Hearne Bay I heard an old fisherman tell a story which—”
“That’s it!” thumped out Joe, “a story. I likes a good story, specially
if there be a goast in it.”
“I don’t know what there is in it,” said Harry, “I’ll leave you to make
that out; but I tell you what I did when I heard it, I made a ballad of
it, and so if you like I’ll try and recollect it.”
“Bravo!” they said, and Harry gave them the following
SONG OF THE WAVES.
Far away on the pebbly beach
That echoes the sound of the surge;
As if they were gifted with speech,
The breakers will sing you a dirge.
The fishermen list to it oft,
And love the sweet charm of its spell,
For sometimes it wispers so soft,
It seems but the voice of the shell.
It tells of a beautiful child
That used to come down there and play,
And shout to the surges so wild
That burst on the brink of the bay.
She was but a child of the poor,
Whose father had perished at sea;
’Twas strange, that sweet psalm of the shore,
Whatever the story might be!
Yes, strange, but so true in its tone
That no one could listen and doubt;
The heart must be calm and alone
To search its deep mystery out.
She came with a smaller than she
That toddled along at her side;
Now ran to and fled from the sea,
Now paddled its feet in the tide.
Afar o’er the waters so wild,
Grazed Effie with wondering eye;
What mystery grew on the child
In all that bright circle of sky?
Her father—how sweet was the thought!
Was linked with this childish delight;
’Twas strange what a vision it brought—
As though he still lingered in sight.
Was it Heaven so near, so remote,
Across the blue line of the wave?
’Twas thither he sailed in his boat,
’Twas there he went down in his grave!
So the days and the hours flew along,
Like swallows that skim o’er the flood;
Like the sound of a beautiful song,
That echoes and dies in the wood!
One day as they strayed on the strand,
And played with the shingle and shell,
A boat that just touched on the land
Was playfully rocked by the swell.
O childhood, what joy in a ride!
What eagerness beams in their eyes!
What bliss as they climb o’er the side
And shout as they tumble and rise!
O sea, with thy pitiful dirge,
Thou need’st to be mournful and moan!
The wrath of thy terrible surge
Omnipotence curbs it alone!
The boat bore away from the shore,
The laughter of childhood so glad!
And the breakers bring back ever more
The dirge with its echo so sad!
A widow sits mute on the beach,
And ever the tides as they flow,
As if they were gifted with speech,
Repeat the sad tale of her woe!
“That’s werry good,” said the Boardman. “I’m afraid them there children
was washed away—it’s a terrible dangerous coast that ere Ern Bay. I’ve
’eeard my father speak on it.”
“Them there werses is rippin’!” said Joe.
“Stunnin’!” exclaimed Bob.
And so they all agreed that it was a pretty song and “well put together.”
“Capital,” said the sergeant, “I never heard anything better, and as for
Mr. Wurzel, a man with his memory ought to do something better than feed
pigs.”
“Ay, aye,” said the company to a man.
“Why don’t you follow my example?” said Harry; “it’s the finest life in
the world for a young fellow.”
“Well,” said the sergeant, “that all depends; its very good for some, for
others not so good—although there are very few who are not pleased when
they once join, especially in such a regiment as ours!”
“And would you mind telling me, sir,” asked Outofwork, “what sort of
chaps it don’t suit?”
“Well, you see, chaps that have been brought up in the country and tied
to their mothers’ apron strings all their life: they have such soft
hearts, they are almost sure to cry—and a crying soldier is a poor
affair. I wouldn’t enlist a chap of that sort, no, not if he gave me ten
pounds. Now, for instance, if Mr. Wurzel was to ask my advice about
being a soldier I should say ‘don’t!’”
“Why not, sir?” asked Joe; “how’s that there, then? D’ye think I be
afeard?”
“I should say, go home first, my boy, and ask your mother!”
“I be d---d if I be sich a molly-coddle as that, nuther; and I’ll prove
un, Mr. Sergeant; gie me thic bright shillin’ and I be your man.”
“No,” said the sergeant, “think it over, and come to me in a month’s
time, if your mother will let you. I don’t want men that will let their
masters buy them off the next day.”
“No; an lookee here, Maister Sergeant; I bean’t to be bought off like
thic, nuther. If I goes, I goes for good an’ all.”
“Well, then,” said the sergeant, shaking him by the hand, and pressing
into it the bright shilling, “if you insist on joining, you shall not say
I prevented you: my business is not to prevent men from entering Her
Majesty’s service.”
Then the ribbons were brought out, and Joe asked if the young woman might
sew them on as she had done Harry’s; and when she came in, Joe looked at
her, and tried to put on a military bearing, in imitation of his great
prototype; and actually went so far as to address her as “My dear,” for
which liberty he almost expected a slap in the face. But Lucy only
smiled graciously, and said: “Bravo, Mr. Wurzel! Bravo, sir; I’ve seen
many a man inlisted, and sewed the Queen’s colours on for him, but never
for a smarter or a finer fellow, there!” and she skipped from the room.
“Well done!” said several voices. And the sergeant said:
“What do you think of that, Mr. Wurzel? I’ll back she’s never said that
to a soldier before.”
Joe turned his hat about and drew the ribbons through his fingers, as
pleased as a child with a new toy, and as proud as if he had helped to
win a great battle.
Here I awoke.
CHAPTER XXII.
The Sergeant makes a loyal speech and sings a song, both of which are
well received by the company.
And when I got to Bournemouth I dreamed again; and a singular thing
during this history was, that always in my dream I began where I had left
off on the previous night. So I saw that there, in the room at “The
Goose,” were Sergeant Goodtale, and Harry, and Joe, and the rest, just as
I had left them when I last awoke. But methought there was an air of
swagger on the part of the head witness which I had not observed
previously. His hat was placed on one side, in imitation of the
sergeant’s natty cap, and he seemed already to hold up his head in a
highly military manner; and when he stooped down to get a light he tried
to stoop in the same graceful and military style as the sergeant himself;
and after blowing it out, threw down the spill in the most off-hand
manner possible, as though he said, “That’s how we chaps do it in the
Hussars!” Everyone noticed the difference in the manner and bearing of
the young recruit. There was a certain swagger and boldness of demeanour
that only comes after you have enlisted. Nor was this change confined to
outward appearance alone. What now were pigs in the mind of Joe? Merely
the producers of pork chops for breakfast. What was Dobbin that slowly
dragged the plough compared to the charger that Joe was destined to
bestride? And what about Polly Sweetlove and her saucy looks? Perhaps
she’d be rather sorry now that she did not receive with more favour his
many attentions. Such were the thoughts that passed through the lad’s
mind as he gradually awakened to a sense of his new position. One
thought, however, strange to say, did not occur to him, and that was as
to what his poor old mother would think. Dutiful son as Joe had always
been, (though wild in some respects), he had not given her a single
thought. But his reflections, no doubt, were transient and confused amid
the companions by whom he was surrounded.
“You’ll make a fine soldier,” said the Boardman, as he saw him swagger
across to his seat.
“Yes,” said the sergeant, “any man that has got it in him, and is steady,
and doesn’t eat too much and drink too much, may get on in the army. It
isn’t like it used to be.”
“I believe that,” said Bob Lazyman.
“The only thing,” continued the sergeant, “is, there is really so little
to do—there’s not work enough.”
“That ud suit me,” said Bob.
“Ah! but stop,” added the sergeant, “the temptations are great—what with
the girls—.”
“Hooray!” exclaimed Dick; “that beats all—I likes them better than mutton
chops.”
“Yes,” replied the sergeant; “they are all very well in their way; but
you know, if a man wants to rise in the army, he must be steady.”
“Steady, boys! stea—dy!” shouted Dick
I don’t know how far the sergeant was justified, morally, in thus holding
out the prospect of riotous living to these hungry men, but I think, all
things considered, it was an improvement on the old system of the
pressgang, which forced men into the navy. These lads were not bound to
believe the recruiting sergeant, and were not obliged to enter into a
contract with Her Majesty. At the same time, the alluring prospects were
such that if they had been represented as facts in the commercial
transactions of life, such is the purity of the law that they would have
given rise to much pleading, multifarious points reserved, innumerable
summonses at Chambers, and, at least, one new trial.
“Now,” said Jack Outofwork, “I tell yer what it is—I don’t take no
Queen’s shilling, for why? it ain’t the Queen’s—it belongs to the
people—I’m for a republic.”
‘“Well,” said the sergeant, “I always like to meet a chap that calls
himself a republican, and I’ll tell you why. This country is a republic,
say what you like, and is presided over by our gracious Queen. And I
should like to ask any man in this country—now, just listen, lads, for
this is the real question, whether—”
“Now, order,” said Lazyman, “I never ’eerd nothing put better.”
“Let’s have order, gentlemen,” said Harry; “chair! chair!”
“All ’tention, sergeant,” said Dick.
“I say,” continued the sergeant; “let us suppose we got a republic
to-morrow; well, we should want a head, or as they say, a president.”
“That’s good,” said half-a-dozen voices.
“Well, what then?” said the sergeant; “Who would you choose? Why, the
Queen, to be sure.”
Everybody said “The Queen!” And there was such a thumping on the table
that all further discourse was prevented for several minutes. At last
everyone said it was good, and the sergeant had put it straight.
“Well, look’ee ’ere, lads—I was born among the poor and I don’t owe
nothing to the upper classes, not even a grudge!”
“Hear! hear! Bravo, Mr. Sergeant!” cried all.
“Well, then; I’ve got on so far as well as I can, and I’m satisfied; but
I’ll tell you what I believe our Queen to be—a thorough woman, and loves
her people, especially the poor, so much that d---d if I wouldn’t die for
her any day—now what d’ye think o’ that?”
Everybody thought he was a capital fellow.
“Look, here,” he continued, “it isn’t because she wears a gold crown, or
anything of that sort, nor because a word of her’s could make me a field
marshal, or a duke, or anything o’ that sort, nor because she’s rich, but
I’ll tell you why it is—and it’s this—when we’re fighting we don’t fight
for her except as the Queen, and the Queen means the country.”
“Hear! hear! hear! hear!”
“Well, we fight for the country—but she loves the soldiers as though they
were not the country’s but her own flesh and blood, and comes to see ’em
in the hospital like a mother, and talks to ’em the same as I do to you,
and comforts ’em, and prays for ’em, and acts like the real mother of her
people—that’s why I’d die for her, and not because she’s the Queen of
England only.”
“Bravo!” said Joe. “Hope I shall soon see her in th’ ’orsepittal. It be
out ’ere: beant it St. Thomas’s.”
“I hope you won’t, my brave lad,” said the sergeant; “but don’t tell me
about republicanism when we’ve got such a good Queen; it’s a shame and a
disgrace to mention it.”
“So it be,” said Joe; “I’m darned if I wouldn’t knock a feller into the
middle o’ next week as talked like thic. Hooroar for the Queen!”
“And now I’m going to say another thing,” continued the sergeant, who
really waxed warm with his subject, and struck admiration into his
audience by his manner of delivery: may I say that to my mind he was even
eloquent, and ought to have been a sergeant-at-law, only that the country
would have been the loser by it: and the country, to my mind, has the
first right to the services of every citizen. “Just look,” said the
sergeant, “at the kindness of that—what shall I call her? blessed!—yes,
blessed Princess of Wales! Was there ever such a woman? Talk about Jael
in the Bible being blessed above women—why I don’t set no value upon her;
she put a spike through a feller it’s true, but it was precious cowardly;
but the Princess, she goes here and goes there visiting the sick and poor
and homeless, not like a princess, but like a real woman, and that’s why
the people love her. No man despises a toady more than I do—I’d give him
up to the tender mercies of that wife of Heber the Keenite any day; but
if the Princess was to say to me, ‘Look ’ere, Sergeant, I feel a little
low, and should like some nice little excitement just to keep up my
spirits and cheer me up a bit’” (several of them thought this style of
conversation was a familiar habit with the Princess and Sergeant
Goodtale, and that he must be immensely popular with the Royal Family),
“well, if she was to say, ‘Look here, Sergeant Goodtale, here’s a
precipice, it ud do me good to see you leap off that,’ I should just take
off my coat and tuck up my shirt sleeves, and away I should go.”
At such unheard of heroism and loyalty there was a general exclamation of
enthusiasm, and no one in that company could tell whom he at that moment
most admired, the Princess or the Sergeant.
“That’s a stunner!” said Joe.
“Princess by name and Princess by nature,” replied the sergeant; “and now
look’ee here, in proof of what I say, I’m going to give you a toast.”
“Hear, hear,” said everybody.
“But stop a minute,” said the sergeant, “I’m not a man of words without
deeds. Have we got anything to drink to the toast?”
All looked in their respective cups and every one said, “No, not a drop!”
Then said the sergeant “We’ll have one all rounded for the last. You’ll
find me as good as my word. What’s it to be before we part?”
“Can’t beat this ’ere,” said Joe, looking into the sergeant’s empty
glass.
“So say all of us,” exclaimed Harry.
“That’s it,” said all.
“And a song from the sergeant,” added Devilmecare.
“Ay, lads, I’ll give you a song.”
Then came in the pretty maid whom Joe leered at, and the sergeant winked
at; and then came in tumblers of the military beverage, and then the
sergeant said:
“In all companies this is drunk upstanding, and with hats off, except
soldiers, whose privilege it is to keep them on. You need not take yours
off, Mr. Wurzel; you are one of Her Majesty’s Hussars. Now then all say
after me: ‘Our gracious Queen; long may she live and blessed be her
reign—the mother and friend of her people!’”
The enthusiasm was loud and general, and the toast was drunk with as
hearty a relish as ever it was at Lord Mayor’s Banquet.
“And now,” said the sergeant, “once more before we part—”
“Ah! but the song?” said the Boardman.
“Oh yes, I keep my word. A man, unless he’s a man of his word, ought
never to wear Her Majesty’s uniform!” And then he said:
“The Prince and Princess of Wales and the rest of the Royal Family.”
This also was responded to in the same unequivocal manner; and then amid
calls of “the sergeant,” that officer, after getting his voice in tune,
sang the following song:
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 6_s._ 0_d._”).
“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.
BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.
Footnotes
{0a} Since the First Edition, “a bulky volume” of new rules has
appeared. No independent existence at present, and therefore anatomy
uncertain. I have peeped at it, and think if it reaches maturity it will
help the rich litigant very much; and, if it abolishes trial by jury, as
it threatens, we shall be, in time to come, a Judge-ridden people, which
God forbid. I am not afraid of a Judge now, but I should be then. The
choice in the future _might_ be between servility and a prison; and I
sincerely believe that if trial by jury should be abolished, this country
would not be safe to live in. Much _mending_, therefore, and
consequently the more holes. I wonder what the Liberalism of the future
will say when it learns that the Liberalism of Mr. Gladstone’s Government
struck the first blow at _Trial by Jury_? Truly “the axe to laid to the
root of the tree,” and, reversing the Divine order, “every tree that
_bringeth forth good fruit is_” in danger of being “hewn down.”
R. H.
{22} This inscription, with the exception of the names, is a literal
copy.
{52} Modern pleaders would say the Court would take judicial notice of
the existence of Egypt: I am aware of this, but at the time I write of
the Courts were too young to take notice.
{138} The correctness of Mr. O’Rapley’s views may be vouched for by a
newspaper report in the _Evening Standard_ of April 17th, 1883, which was
as follows:—“Mr. Justice Day in charging the Grand Jury at the Manchester
Spring Assizes yesterday, expressed his disagreement with the opinion of
other Judges in favour of the Commission being so altered that the Judge
would have to ‘deliver all the prisoners detained in gaol,’ and regarded
it as a waste of the Judge’s time that he should have to try a case in
which a woman was indicted for stealing a shawl worth
three-and-ninepence, or a prisoner charged with stealing two mutton pies
and two ounces of bacon.”
*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Humourous Story of Farmer Bumpkin's Lawsuit" ***
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