"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 aesthetic 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 manoeuvring 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."