"Consider your verdict," said the Clerk of Arraigns, and almost immediately the Jury said: "Guilty of attempt."

"Call upon him," said the Judge: and he was called upon accordingly, but only said "the prosecutrix was a well-known bad woman."

Then the Judge said very solemnly:—

"Prisoner at the bar, you have been convicted upon the clearest possible evidence of this crime: what you say about the character of the prosecutrix the more convinces me that you are a very bad man. You not only assail the virtue of this woman, but, happily prevented in your design, you endeavour to destroy it afterwards in this Court. No one who has heard this case can doubt that you have been guilty of this very grave offence; and in my judgment that offence is aggravated by the fact that you committed it against her will and without her consent. The sentence is that you be sent to prison for eighteen calendar months."

"Rather warm," said Mr. O'Rapley.

"Never heeard such a thing in my life," said Master Bumpkin, "she wur a consentin' party if ever there wur one."

"But that makes no difference now-a-days," said Mr. O'Rapley. "Chancery Judges studies the equity of the thing more. But perhaps, Mr. Bumpkin, you don't know what that means?"

"No," said Bumpkin, "I doan't."

"You must be quiet," said Mr. O'Rapley; "recollect you are in a Court of Justice."

"Be I! It 'ud take moore un thic case to make I believe it; but lookee here: I be hanged if there ain't that Snooks feller down along there."

"Who?" enquired O'Rapley.

"That there feller," said Bumpkin, "be sure to find his way where there's anything gooin on o' this ere natur."

Next an undefended prisoner was placed on trial, and as he was supposed to know all the law of England, he was treated as if he did.

"You can't put that question, you know," said the learned Judge; "and now you are making a statement; it is not time to make your statement yet; you will have ample opportunity by-and-by in your speech to the jury." And afterwards, when the Judge was summing up, the unhappy prisoner called his lordship's attention to a mistake; but he was told that he had had his turn and had made his speech to the jury, and must not now interrupt the Court. So he had to be quite silent until he was convicted. Then the two companions went into another court, where a very stern-looking Common Law Judge was trying a ferocious-looking prisoner. And Mr. O'Rapley was delighted to explain that now his friend would see the difference. They had entered the court just as the learned Judge had begun to address the jury; and very careful his lordship was to explain (not in technical language), but in homely, common-place and common-sense English, the nature of the crime with which the prisoner was charged. He was very careful in explaining this, for fear the jury should improperly come to the conclusion that, because they might believe the prisoner had in fact committed the act, he must necessarily be guilty. And they were told that the act was in that case only one element of the crime, and that they must ascertain whether there was the guilty intent or no. Now this old Mr. Justice Common Sense, I thought, was very well worth listening to, and I heartily wished Mr. Justice Technical from the Old Court had been there to take a lesson; and I take the liberty of setting down what I heard in my dream for the benefit of future Justices Technical.

His lordship directed the jury's attention to the evidence, which he carefully avoided calling facts: not to the verbatim report of it on his note-book as some Recorders do, and think when they are reading it over they are summing it up; but pointing out statements which, if believed, become facts and if facts, lead to certain inferences of guilt or innocence.

It was while the learned Mr. Justice Common Sense was thus engaged, that the warder in the dock suddenly checked the prisoner with these words:

"You mustn't interrupt."

"Why may he not interrupt?" asks Mr. Justice Common Sense. "What do you want to say, prisoner?"

"My lord," answered the prisoner, "I wanted to say as how that there witness as your lordship speaks on didn't say as he seen me there."

"O, didn't he?" said the Judge. "I thought he did—now let us see," turning over his notes. "No, you are quite right, prisoner, he did not see you at the spot but immediately after."

Then his lordship proceeded until there was another interruption of the same character, and the foolish warder again told the prisoner to be quiet. This brought down Mr. Justice Common Sense with a vengeance:

"Warder! how dare you stop the prisoner? he is on his trial and is undefended. Who is to check me if I am misstating the evidence if he does not? If you dare to speak like that to him again I will commit you. Prisoner, interrupt me as often as you think I am not correctly stating the evidence."

"Thankee, my lord."

"That be the sort o' Judge for me," said Bumpkin; "but I've 'ad enough on it, Maister O'Rapley, so if you please, I'll get back t' the 'Goose.' Why didn't that air Judge try t'other case, I wonder?"

"Because," replied the Don, "the new system is to work the 'Round Square'."



CHAPTER XV.

Mr. Bumpkin's experience of London life, enlarged.

On leaving the Old Bailey the two friends proceeded to a neighbouring public-house and partook of some light refreshment at the counter. Now Mr. Bumpkin had never yet examined the viands displayed on a counter. His idea of refreshment, when from home, had always been a huge round of beef smoking at one end of the table and a large leg of mutton smoking at the other, with sundry dishes of similar pretensions between, and an immense quantity of vegetables. When, therefore he saw some stale-looking sandwiches under the ordinary glass cover, he exclaimed: "Wittals must be mighty scarce to clap 'em under a glass case."

"It's to keep the flies off;" said his companion.

"They need well keep un off, for there bean't enough for a couple if they was ony wise ongry like."

However, our friends made the best of what there was, and Mr. O'Rapley, wishing success to his companion, enquired who was to be his counsel.

"I doan't rightly know, but I'll warrant Mr. Prigg'll have a good un—he knows what he be about; and all I hopes is, he'll rattle it into that there Snooks, for if ever there wur a bad un it be him."

"He looks a bad un," replied O'Rapley. "When do you think the case is likely to come on?"

"Well, it is supposed as it ull be on to-morrer; but I bleeve there's no sartinty about thic. Now then, just give us a little moore, will 'ee sir?" (this to the waiter).

"I'll pay for the next," said O'Rapley, feeling in his pocket.

"Noa, noa, I'll pay; and thankee, sir, for comin'."

And then O'Rapley drank his friend's health again, and wished further success to the case, and hoped Mr. Bumpkin would be sure to come to him when he was at Westminster; and expressed himself desirous to assist his friend in every way that lay in his power—declaring that he really must be going for he didn't know what would happen if the Judge should find he was away; and was not at all certain it would not lead to some officious member of the House of Commons asking a question of the Prime Minister about it.

Mr. Bumpkin drank his good health, again and again, declaring he was "mighty proud to have met with un;" and that when the case was over and he had returned to his farm, he should be pleased if Mr. O'Rapley would come down and spend a few days with him. "Nancy," he said, "'ll be rare and pleased to see thee. I got as nice a little farm as any in the county, and as pooty pigs as thee ever clapped eyes on."

Mr. O'Rapley, without being too condescending, expressed himself highly gratified with making Mr. Bumpkin's acquaintance, and observed that the finest pigs ever he saw were those of the Lord Chief Justice.

"Dade, sir, now what sort be they?" Mr. O'Rapley was not learned in pigs, and not knowing the name of any breed whatever, was at a loss how to describe them. Mr. Bumpkin came to his assistance.

"Be they smooth like and slim?"

"Yes," said the Don.

"Hardly any hair?"

"Scarce a bit."

"They be Chichesters then—the werry best breed as a man ever had in his stye."

"I never see anything so pretty," replied Mr. O'Rapley.

"Ah! and they be the smallest-boned pigs as ever could be—they bean't got a bone bigger nor your little finger."

"Ha!" said the Don, finishing his glass, "the smaller the bone the more the meat, that's what I always say; and the Lord Chief Justice don't care for bone, he likes meat."

"An' so do I—the Lud Judge be right, and if he tries my case he'll know the difference betwixt thic pig as Snooks tooked away and one o' them there—"

"Jackass-looking pigs," said O'Rapley, seeing that his friend paused. "I hate them jackass pigs."

"So do I—they never puts on fat."

"I must go, really," said O'Rapley. "What do you make the right time?"

Master Bumpkin pulled out his watch with great effort, and said it was just a quarter past four by Yokelton time.

"Here's your good health again, Mr. Bumpkin."

"And yours, sir; and now I think on it, if it's a fair question Mr. O'Rapley, and I med ax un wirout contempt, when do you think this 'ere case o' mine be likely to come on, for you ought to know summut about un?"

"Ha!" said the Don, partially closing one eye, and looking profoundly into the glass as though he were divining the future, "law, sir, is a mystery and judges is a mystery; masters is a mystery and 'sociates is a mystery; ushers is a mystery and counsel is a mystery;—the whole of life (here he tipped the contents of the glass down his throat) is a mystery."

"So it be," said Mr. Bumpkin, drawing the back of his hand across his mouth. "So it be sir, but do 'ee think—"

"Well, really," answered the Don, "I should say in about a couple of years if you ask me."

"How the h—"

"Excuse me, Master Bumpkin, but contempt follers us like a shadder: if you had said that to a Judge it would have been a year at least: it's three months as it is if I liked to go on with the case; but I'm not a wicious man, I hope."

"I didn't mean no offence," said the farmer.

"No, no, I dare say not; but still there is a way of doing things. Now if you had said to me, 'Mr. O'Rapley, you are a gentleman moving in judicial circles, and are probably acquainted with the windings of the,' &c. &c. &c. 'Can you inform me why my case is being so unduly prolonged?' Now if you had put your question in that form I should in all probability have answered: 'I do not see that it is unduly prolonged, Master Bumpkin—you must have patience. Judges are but human and it's a wonder to me they are as much as that, seein' what they have to go through.'"

"But if there be a Court why can't us get in and try un, Mr. Rapley?"

"Ah, now that is putting it pointedly;" and O'Rapley closed one eye and looked into his tumbler with the other before he answered:

"You see this is how it goes under the continerous sittings—off and on we sits continerously at Nisy Prisy in London three months in the year. Now that ain't bad for London: but it's nothing near so much time as they gives to places like Aylesbury, Bedford, and many others."

Mr. Bumpkin looked like a terrier dog watching a hole out of which he expected a rat: at present he saw no sign of one.

"Take Aylesbury; well now, if a Judge went there once in seven years he'd find about every other assize enough work to last him till lunch. But in course two Judges must go to Aylesbury four times a year, to do nothing but admire the building where the Courts are held; otherwise you'd soon have Aylesbury marching on to London to know the reason why. P'r'aps the Judges have left five hundred cases untried in London to go to this Aylesbury."

"Be it a big plaace, sir?"

"Not so big as a good-sized hotel," said the Don. "Then," he continued, "there's Bedford ditto again—septennel would do for that; then comes Northampton—they don't want no law there at all." (I leave the obvious pun to anyone who likes to make it). "Then Okeham again—did you ever hear of anyone who came from Okeham? I never did."

The Don paused, as though on the answer to this question depended his future course.

"Noa," said Bumpkin, "can't rightly say as ever I did."

"And nobody ever did come from there except the Judges. Well, to Okeham they go four times a year, whereas if they was to go about once in every hundred years it wouldn't pay. Why raly, Mr. Bumpkin, the Judges goes round like travellers arfter orders, and can't get none. I'm not talkin', as you are aware, about great centres like Liverpool, where if they had about fifty-two assizes in the year it wouldn't be one too many; but I'm talking about circumfrences on the confines of civilization."

"Oh dear!" sighed Bumpkin. The hole seemed to him too choked up with "larnin'" for the rat ever to come out—he could glean nothing from this highly wrought and highly polished enthusiasm.

"And, notwithstanding and accordingly," continued the Don, "they do say, goodness knows how true it is, that they're going to have two more assizes in the year. All that I can say is, Mr. Bumpkin—and, mark my words, there'll be no stopping in London at all, but it will be just a reg'ler Judge's merry-go-round." {138}

Mr. Bumpkin dropped a look into his glass, and the two companions came out of the door and proceeded along under the archway until they came to the corner of Bridge Street, Blackfriars. Exactly at that point a young woman with a baby in her arms came in contact with Mr. Bumpkin, and in a very angry tone said,—

"I tell you what it is, don't you take them liberties with me or I'll give you in charge."

And the young woman passed on with her baby. Just at that moment, and while Master Bumpkin was meditating on this strange conduct of the young female, he felt a smart tug at his watch, and, looking down, saw the broken chain hanging from his pocket.

"Zounds!" he exclaimed, "I never zeed anything claner than thic; did thee zee thic feller?"

"There he goes," said O'Rapley.

"There ur gooes," said Mr. Bumpkin, and, as fast as he could, pursued the thief.

"Stop un!" he cried. "Stop thic there thief; he got my watch."

But it was a long time before Master Bumpkin's mandate was obeyed; the value of a policeman, like that of every other commodity, depends upon his rarity. There was no policeman to be found. There was a fire escape in the middle of the street, but that was of no use to Master Bumpkin. Away went thief, and away went Bumpkin, who could "foot it," as he said, "pooty well, old as he wur." Nor did either the thief or himself stop until they got nearly to the bridge, when, to Bumpkin's great astonishment, up came the thief, walking coolly towards him. This was another mystery, in addition to those mentioned by Mr. O'Rapley. But the fact was, that the hue and cry was now raised, and although Master Bumpkin did not perceive it, about a hundred people, men, women, and boys, were in full chase; and when that gentleman was, as Bumpkin thought, coolly coming towards him, he was simply at bay, run down, without hope of escape; and fully determined to face the matter out with all the coolness he could command.

"Take un," said Bumpkin; "take un oop; thee dam scoundrel!"

"Take care what you're saying," said the thief. "I'm a respectable man, and there's law in the land."

"Yes, and thee shall have un, too, thee willin; thee stole my watch, thee knows that."

"You're a liar," said the captive.

"Why thee's got un on, dang if thee bean't, and a wearin' on un. Well, this bates all; take un oop, pleeceman."

At this moment, which is always the nick of time chosen by the force, that is to say, when everything is done except the handcuffs, a policeman with a great deal of authority in his appearance came up, and plunged his hands under his heavy coat-tails, as though he were about to deliver them of the bower anchor of a ship.

"Do you give him in charge?"

"Sure enough do ur," said Mr. Bumpkin.

So the handcuffs were put on, and the stalwart policeman, like a hero with the captive of his bow and spear, marched him along at a great rate, Bumpkin striding out manfully at the side, amid a great crowd of small boys, with all their heads turned towards the prisoner as they ran, in the highest state of delight and excitement. Even Bumpkin looked as if he had made a good thing of it, and seemed as pleased as the boys.

As they came again to the corner of Ludgate Hill, there stood Mr. O'Rapley, looking very pompous and dignified, as became so great a man.

"You've got him then," said he.

"Ay; come on, Master Rapley, come on."

"One moment," said the official; "I must here leave you for the present, Mr. Bumpkin; we are not allowed to give evidence in Criminal Courts any more than Her Majesty's Judges themselves; we are a part of the Court. But, besides all that, I did not see what happened; what was it?"

"Well," said Mr. Bumpkin, "that be rum too, sir; thee see thic feller steal my watch, surely."

"Indeed, Mr. Bumpkin, it was so quickly done that I really did not see it, if you ask me."

"Why, he dragged un out o' thic pocket."

"No doubt, Master Bumpkin; but it does not follow that I see it."

"Thee can come and say I wur with thee, anyhow."

"I can't give evidence, Mr. Bumpkin, as I told you before; and, besides, I must not appear in this matter at all. You know I was absent to oblige you, and it's possible I may be of some further service to you yet; but please don't mention me in this matter. I assure you it will do harm, and perhaps I should lose my place."

"Well, Master Rapley," said Bumpkin, taking his hand, "I won't do thee no harm if I knows it, and there be plenty of evidence."

"Evidence! You say you found the watch upon him?"

"Sartinly."

"The case then is clear. You don't want any evidence besides that."

"Well, sir, you're a man o' larnin'. I bean't much of a scollard, I'll tak' thy advice; but I must get along; they be waitin' for I."

"I will see you at Westminster to-morrow, Mr. Bumpkin."

"All right, zir, all right."

And with that Mr. O'Rapley proceeded on his way down Fleet Street, and Mr. Bumpkin proceeded on his up Ludgate Hill in the midst of an excited crowd.



CHAPTER XVI.

The coarse mode of procedure in Ahab v. Naboth ruthlessly exposed and carefully contrasted with the humane and enlightened form of the present day.

Here I awoke, and my wife said unto me, "Dear, you have been dreaming and talking in your sleep."

Now fearing for what I may have said, although of a tolerably clear conscience, I enquired if she could tell me what words I had uttered. She replied that I had mentioned the names of many eminent men: such as Mr. Justice Common Sense.

"Indeed," quoth I; and then I told my dream. Upon which she observed, that it seemed there must be much exaggeration. To this I made answer that dreams do generally magnify events, and impress them more vividly upon the senses, inasmuch as the imagination was like a microscope: it enabled you to see many things which would escape the naked eye.

"But," said my partner, "if they are distorted?"

"If they are distorted, they are not reliable; but a clear imagination, like a good lens, faithfully presents its objects, although in a larger form, in order that those who have no time for scientific observation, may see what the scientist desires to direct their attention to. There are creatures almost invisible to the naked eye, which, nevertheless, cause great irritation to the nerves. So, also, there are matters affecting the body corporate of these kingdoms which the public are blind to and suffer from, but which, if thoroughly exposed, they may be inclined to take a hand in removing."

"I don't believe that Mr. O'Rapley," said she: "he seems a cantankerous, conceited fellow."

"Why so he is; but cantankerous and conceited fellows sometimes speak the truth. They're like those cobwebbed, unwholesome-looking bottles which have lain a long time in cellars. You would hardly like to come in contact with them, and yet they often contain a clear and beautiful wine. This Mr. O'Rapley is a worthy man who knows a great deal, and although a bit of a toady to his superiors, expresses his opinions pretty freely behind their backs."

"And what of this Master Bumpkin—this worthy Master Bumpkin I hear you speak of so often?"

"A very shrewd man in some respects and a silly one in others."

"Not an unusual combination."

"By no means."

And then I told her what I have already related; to which she observed it was a pity some friend had not interposed and stopped the business. I answered, that friends were no doubt useful, but friends or no friends we must have law, and whether for sixpence or a shilling it ought to be readily attainable: that no one would be satisfied with having no other authority than that of friendship to settle our disputes; and besides that, friends themselves sometimes fell out and were generally the most hard to reconcile without an appeal to our tribunals.

"Well, it does seem a pity," said she, "that judges cannot sit as they did in Moses' time at all seasons so as to decide expeditiously and promptly between the claims of parties."

"Why so they do sit 'continuously,'" quoth I, "but the whole difficulty consists in getting at them. What is called procedure is so circuitous and perplexing, that long before you get to your journey's end you may faint by the way."

"Is there no one with good sense who will take this matter up and help this poor man to come by his rights. It must be very expensive for him to be kept away from his business so long, and his poor wife left all alone to manage the farm."

"Why, so it is, but then going to law, which means seeking to maintain your rights, is a very expensive thing: a luxury fit only for rich men."

"Why then do people in moderate circumstances indulge in it?"

"Because they are obliged to defend themselves against oppressive and unjust demands; although I think, under the present system, if a man had a small estate, say a few acres, and a rich man laid claim to it, it would be far better for the small man to give up the land without any bother."

"But no man of spirit would do that?"

"No, that is exactly where it is, it's the spirit of resistance that comes in."

"Resistance! a man would be a coward to yield without a fight."

"Why so he would, and that is what makes law such a beautiful science, and its administration so costly. Men will fight to the last rather than give in. If Naboth had lived in these times there would have been no need of his death in order to oust him from his vineyard. Ahab could have done a much more sensible thing and walked in by process of law."

"In what way?"

"In the first place he could have laid claim to a right of way, or easement as it is called, of some sort: or could have alleged that Naboth had encroached on his land by means of a fence or drain or ditch."

"Well, but if he hadn't?"

"If he hadn't, so much the better for the Plaintiff, and so much the worse for Naboth."

"I don't understand; if Naboth had done no wrong, surely it would be far better for him than if he had."

"Not in the long run, my dear: and for this reason, if he had encroached it would have taken very little trouble to ascertain the fact, and Naboth being a just and honest man, would only require to have it pointed out to him to remedy the evil. Maps and plans of the estate would doubtless have shown him his mistake, and, like a wise man, he would have avoided going to law."

"I see clearly that the good man would have said, 'Neighbour Ahab, we have been on neighbourly terms for a long lime, and I do not wish in any way to alter that excellent feeling which has always subsisted between us. I see clearly by these maps and plans which worthy Master Metefield hath shown me that my hedge hath encroached some six inches upon thy domain, wherefore, Neighbour Ahab, take, I pray thee, as much of the land as belongeth unto thee, according to just admeasurement."

"Why certainly, so would the honest Naboth have communed with Ahab, and there would have been an end of the business."

"But show me, darling, how being in the wrong was better for good Naboth than being in the right in this business?"

"Most willingly," said I; "you see, my dear, there was quickly an end of the matter by Naboth yielding to the just demands of neighbour Ahab. But now let us suppose honest Naboth in the right concerning his vineyard, and neighbour Ahab to be making an unjust demand. You have already most justly observed that in that case it would be cowardly on the part of Naboth to yield without a struggle?"

"Assuredly."

"Well then, that means a lawsuit."

"But surely," said my wife, "it ought to be soon seen who is in the wrong. Where is Master Metefield who you said just now was so accurate a surveyor, and where are those plans you spoke of which showed the situation of the estates?"

"Ah, my dear, I see you know very little of the intricacies of the law; that good Master Metefield, instead of being a kind of judge to determine quickly as he did for Master Naboth what were the boundaries of the vineyard, hath not now so easy a task of it, because Ahab being in the wrong he is not accepted by him as his judge."

"But if the plans are correct, how can he alter them?"

"He cannot alter them, but the question of correctness of boundary as shown, is matter of disputation, and will have to be discussed by surveyors on both sides, and supported and disputed by witnesses innumerable on both sides: old men coming up with ancient memories, hedgers and ditchers, farmers and bailiffs and people of all sorts and conditions, to prove and disprove where the boundary line really divides Neighbour Naboth's vineyard from Neighbour Ahab's park."

"But surely Naboth will win?"

"All that depends upon a variety of things, such as, first, the witnesses; secondly, the counsel; thirdly, the judge; fourthly, the jury,"

"O," said my wife, "pray don't go on to a fifthly—it seems to me poor Naboth is like to have a sorry time of it before he establish his boundary line."

"Ay, if he ever do so: but he first is got into the hands of his Lawyers, next into the hands of his Counsel, thirdly, into Chancery, fourthly, into debt—"

"Pray, do not let us have a fifthly here either; I like not these thirdlys and fourthlys, for they seem to bring poor Naboth into bad case; but what said you about debt?"

"I say that Naboth, not being a wealthy man, but, as I take it, somewhat in the position of neighbour Bumpkin, will soon be forced to part with a good deal of his little property in order to carry on the action."

"But will not the action be tried in a reasonable time, say a week or two?"

"I perceive," cried I, "that you are yet in the very springtide and babyhood of innocence in these matters. There must be summonses for time and for further time; there must be particulars and interrogatories and discoveries and inspections and strikings out and puttings in and appeals and demurrers and references and—"

"O, please don't. I perceive that poor Naboth is already ruined a long way back. I think when you came to the interrogatories he was in want of funds to carry on the action."

"A Chancery action sometimes takes years," said I.

"Years! then shame to our Parliament."

"I pray you do not take on so," said I. "Naboth, according to the decree of Fate, is to be ruined. Jezebel did it in a wicked, clumsy and brutal manner. Anyone could see she was wrong, and her name has been handed down to us with infamy and execration. I now desire to show how Ahab could have accomplished his purpose in a gentle, manly and scientific manner and saved his wife's reputation. Naboth's action, carried as it would be from Court to Court upon every possible point upon which an appeal can go, under our present system, would effectually ruin him ages before the boundary line could be settled. It would be all swallowed up in costs."

"Poor Naboth!" said my wife.

"And," continued I, "the law reports would hand down the cause celebre of Ahab v. Naboth as a most interesting leading case upon the subject of goodness knows what: perhaps as to whether a man, under certain circumstances, may not alter his neighbour's landmark in spite of the statute law of Moses."

"And so you think poor Naboth would be sold up?"

"That were about the only certain event in his case, except that Ahab would take possession and so put an end for ever to the question as to where the boundary line should run."

Here again I dozed.



CHAPTER XVII.

Shewing that lay tribunals are not exactly Punch and Judy shows where the puppet is moved by the man underneath.

It was particularly fortunate for Mr. Bumpkin that his case was not in the list of causes to be tried on the following day. It may seem a curious circumstance to the general reader that a great case like Bumpkin v. Snooks, involving so much expense of time, trouble, and money should be in the list one day and out the next; should be sometimes in the list of one Court and sometimes in the list of another; flying about like a butterfly from flower to flower and caught by no one on the look-out for it. But this is not a phenomenon in our method of procedure, which startles you from time to time with its miraculous effects. You can calculate upon nothing in the system but its uncertainty. Most gentle and innocent reader, I saw that there was no Nisi Prius Court to sit on the following day, so Bumpkin v. Snooks could not be taken, list or no list. The lucky Plaintiff therefore found himself at liberty to appear before that August Tribunal which sits at the Mansion House in the City of London. A palatial and imposing building it was on the outside, but within, so far as was apparent to me, it was a narrow ill ventilated den, full of all unclean people and unpleasant smells. I say full of unclean people, but I allude merely to that portion of it which was appropriated to the British Public; for, exalted on a high bench and in a huge and ponderous chair or throne sat the Prince of Citizens and the King of the Corporation, proud in his dignity, grand in his commercial position, and highly esteemed in the opinion of the world. There he sat, the representative of the Criminal Law, and impartial, as all will allow, in its administration. Wonderful being is my Lord Mayor, thought I, he must have the Law at his fingers' ends. Yes, there it is sitting under him in the shape and person of his truly respectable clerk. The Common Law resides in the breasts of the Judges, but it is here at my Lord Mayor's fingers' ends. He has to deal with gigantic commercial frauds; with petty swindlers, common thieves; mighty combinations of conspirators; with extradition laws; with elaborate bankruptcy delinquencies; with the niceties of the criminal law in every form and shape. Surely, thought I, he should be one of those tremendous geniuses who can learn the criminal law before breakfast, or at least before dinner! So he was. His lordship seemed to have learned it one morning before he was awake. But it is not for me to criticise tribunals or men: I have the simple duty to perform of relating the story of the renowned Mr. Bumpkin.

After the night charges are disposed of up comes the man through the floor, not Mr. Bumpkin, but Mr. Bumpkin's prisoner. He comes up through the floor like the imp in the pantomime: and then the two tall warders prevent his going any farther.

He was a pale, intelligent looking creature, fairly dressed in frock coat, dark waistcoat and grey trousers, with a glove on his left hand and another in his right; looked meekly and modestly round, and then politely bowed to the Lord Mayor. The charge was then read to him and with a smile he indignantly repudiated the idea of theft.

And I saw in my dream that he was represented by a learned Counsel, who at this moment entered the Court, shook hands with the Lord Mayor, and saying, "I appear, my lord, for the prisoner," took his seat upon the bench, and entered for a minute or so into some private and apparently jocular conversation with his Lordship.

The name of the learned Counsel was Mr. Nimble, whom we have before seen. He was a very goodly-shaped man, with a thin face and brown hair. His eyes were bright, and always seemed to look into a witness rather than at him. His manner was jaunty, good-natured, easy, and gay; not remarkable for courtesy, but at the same time, not unpleasantly rude. I thought the learned Counsel could be disagreeable if he liked, but might be a very pleasant, sociable fellow to spend an hour with—not in the witness-box.

He was certainly a skilful and far-seeing Counsel, if I may make so bold as to judge from this case. And methought that nothing he did or said was said or done without a purpose. Nor could I help thinking that a good many Counsel, young and old, if their minds were free from prejudice, might learn many lessons from this case. It is with this object that, in my waking moments, I record the impressions of this dream. I do not say Mr. Nimble was an example to follow on all points, for he had that common failing of humanity, a want of absolute perfection. But he was as near to perfection in defending a prisoner as any man I ever saw, and the proceedings in this very case, if carefully analysed, will go a long way towards proving that assertion.

After the interchange of courtesies between his Lordship and Mr. Nimble, the learned Counsel looked down from the Bench on to the top of Mr. Keepimstraight's bald head and nodded as if he were patting it. Mr. Keepimstraight was the Lord Mayor's Clerk. He was very stout and seemed puffed up with law: had an immense regard for himself and consequently very little for anybody else: but that, so far as I have been able to ascertain, is a somewhat common failing among official personages. He ordered everybody about except the Lord Mayor, and him he seemed to push about as though he were wheeling him in a legal Bath-chair. His Lordship was indeed a great invalid in respect to matters of law; I think he had overdone it, if I may use the expression; his study must have been tremendous to have acquired a knowledge of the laws of England in so short a time. But being somewhat feeble, and in his modesty much misdoubting his own judgment, he did nothing and said nothing, except it was prescribed by his physician, Dr. Keepimstraight. Even the solicitors stood in awe of Dr. Keepimstraight.

And now we are all going to begin—Walk up!

The intelligent and decent-looking prisoner having been told what the charge against him was, namely, Highway Robbery with violence, declares that he is as "innercent as the unborn babe, your lordship:" and then Mr. Keepimstraight asks, where the Prosecutor is—"Prosecutor!" shout a dozen voices at once—all round, everywhere is the cry of "Prosecutor!" There was no answer, but in the midst of the unsavoury crowd there was seen to be a severe scuffle—whether it was a fight or a man in a fit could not be ascertained for some time; at length Mr. Bumpkin was observed struggling and tearing to escape from the throng.

"Why don't you come when you are called?" asks the Junior Clerk, handing him the Testament, as Mr. Bumpkin stood revealed in the witness-box.

And I saw that he was dressed in a light frock, not unlike a pinafore, which was tastefully wrought with divers patterns of needlework on the front and back thereof; at the openings thus embroidered could be seen a waistcoat of many stripes, that crossed and recrossed one another at various angles and were formed of several colours. He wore a high calico shirt collar, which on either side came close under the ear; and round his neck a red handkerchief with yellow ends. His linen certainly did credit to Mrs. Bumpkin's love of "tidiness," and altogether the prosecutor wore a clean and respectable appearance. His face was broad, round and red, indicating a jovial disposition and a temperament not easily disturbed, except when "whate" was down too low to sell and he wanted to buy stock or pay the rent: a state of circumstances which I believe has sometimes happened of late years. A white short-clipped beard covered his chin, while his cheeks were closely shaven. He had twinkling oval eyes, which I should say, he invariably half-closed when he was making a bargain. If you offered less than his price the first refusal would come from them. His nose was inexpressive and appeared to have been a dormant feature for many a year. It said nothing for or against any thing or any body, and from its tip sprouted a few white hairs. His mouth, without utterance, said plainly enough that he owed "nobody nothink" and was a thousand pound man every morning he rose. It was a mouth of good bore, and not by any means intended for a silver spoon.

Such was the Prosecutor as he stood in the witness-box at the Mansion House on this memorable occasion; and no one could doubt that truth and justice would prevail.

"Name?" said Mr. Keepimstraight.

"Bumpkin."

Down it goes.

"Where?"

After a pause, which Mr. Nimble makes a note of.

"Where?" repeats Keepimstraight.

"Westminister."

"Where there?"

"'Goose' publichouse."

Down it goes.

"Yes?" says Keepimstraight.

Bumpkin stares.

"Yes, go on," says the clerk.

"Go on," says the crier; "go on," say half-a-dozen voices all round.

"Can't you go on?" says the clerk.

"Tell your story," says his Lordship, putting his arms on the elbows of the huge chair. "Tell it in your own way, my man."

"I wur gwine down thic place when—" "my man" began.

"What time was this?" asks the clerk.

"Arf arter four, as near as I can tell."

"How do you know?" asks the clerk.

"I heard—"

"I object," says the Counsel—"can't tell us what he heard."

Then I perceived that the Lord Mayor leant forward towards Mr. Keepimstraight, and the latter gentleman turned his head and leaned towards the Lord Mayor, so that his Lordship could obtain a full view of Mr. Keepimstraight's eyes.

Then I perceived that Mr. Keepimstraight winked his left eye and immediately turned to his work again, and his Lordship said:

"I don't think what you heard, witness, is evidence."

"Can't have that," said Mr. Keepimstraight, as though he took his instructions and the Law from his Lordship.

"You said it was half-past four."

"Heard the clock strike th' arf hour."

Here his Lordship leant again forward and Mr. Keepimstraight turned round so as to bring his eyes into the same position as heretofore. And I perceived that Mr. Keepimstraight winked his right eye, upon which his Lordship said:

"I think that's evidence."

Clerk whispered, behind his hand, "Can hardly exclude that."

"Can hardly exclude that," repeats his Lordship; then—turning to the Learned Counsel—"Can't shut that out, Mr. Nimble."

"You seldom can shut a church clock out, my Lord," replies the Counsel.

At this answer his Lordship smiled and the Court was convulsed with laughter for several minutes.

"Now, then," said Mr. Keepimstraight, "we must have order in Court."

"We must have order in Court," says his Lordship.

"Order in Court," says the Junior Clerk, and "Order!" shouts the Policeman on duty.

Then Mr. Bumpkin stated in clear and intelligible language how the man came up and took his watch and ran away. Foolishly enough he said nothing about the woman with the baby, and wisely enough Mr. Nimble asked nothing about it. But what an opportunity this would have been for an unskilful Counsel to lay the foundation for a conviction. Knowing, as he probably would from the prisoner but from no other possible source about the circumstance, he might have shown by a question or two that it was a conspiracy between the prisoner and the young woman. Not so Mr. Nimble, he knew how to make an investment of this circumstance for future profit: indeed Mr. Bumpkin had invested it for him by not mentioning it. Beautiful is Advocacy if you do not mar it by unskilful handling.

When, after describing the robbery, the prosecutor continued:

"I ses to my companion, ses I—"

"I object," says Mr. Nimble.

And I perceived that his Lordship leant forward once more towards Mr. Keepimstraight, and Mr. Keepimstraight turned as aforetime towards the Lord Mayor, but not quite, I thought, so fully round as heretofore; the motion seemed to be performed with less exactness than usual, and that probably was why the operation miscarried. Mr. Keepimstraight having given the correct signal, as he thought, and the Enginedriver on the Bench having misunderstood it, an accident naturally would have taken place but for the extreme caution and care of his Lordship, who, if he had been a young Enginedriver, would in all probability have dashed on neck or nothing through every obstacle. Not so his Lordship. Not being sure whether he was on the up or down line, he pulled up.

Mr. Keepimstraight sat pen in hand looking at his paper, and waiting for the judicial voice which should convey to his ear the announcement that "I ses, ses I," is evidence or no evidence. Judge then of Mr. Keepimstraight's disappointment when, after waiting in breathless silence for some five minutes, he at last looks up and sees his Lordship in deep anxiety to catch his eye without the public observing it. His Lordship leant forward, blushing with innocence, and whispered something behind his hand to Mr. Keepimstraight. And in my dream I heard his Lordship ask:

"Which eye?"

To which Mr. Keepimstraight as coolly as if nothing had happened, whispered behind his hand:

"Left!" and then coughed.

"O then," exclaimed his Lordship, "it is clearly not evidence."

"It's not evidence," repeated the clerk; and then to the discomfiture of Mr. Nimble, he went on, "You say you had a companion."

This was more than the learned Counsel wanted, seeing as he did that there was another investment to be made if he could only manage it.

Mr. Bumpkin blushed now, but said nothing.

"Would you excuse me," said Mr. Nimble; "I shall not cross-examine this witness."

"O, very good," says Keepimstraight, thinking probably it was to be a plea of guilty hereafter; "very good. Then I think that is all—is that the watch?"

"It be," said the witness; "I ken swear to un."

It certainly would be from no want of metal if Mr. Bumpkin could not identify the timepiece, for it was a ponderous-looking watch, nearly as large as a tea-saucer.

Then said Mr. Nimble:

"You say that is your watch, do you?"

"It spakes for itself."

"I don't think that's evidence," says Mr. Keepimstraight, with a smile.

"That's clearly not evidence," says the Lord Mayor, gravely. Whereupon there was another burst of laughter, in which the clerk seemed to take the lead. The remarkable fact, however, was, that his Lordship was perfectly at a loss to comprehend the joke. He was "as grave as a Judge."

After the laughter had subsided, the learned Keepimstraight leaned backward, and the learned Lord Mayor leaned forward, and it seemed to me they were conversing together about the cause of the laughter; for suddenly a smile illuminated the rubicund face of the cheery Lord Mayor, and at last he had a laugh to himself—a solo, after the band had ceased. And then his Lordship spoke:

"What your watch may say is not evidence, because it has not been sworn."

Then the band struck up again to a lively tune, his Lordship playing the first Fiddle; and the whole scene terminated in the most humorous and satisfactory manner for all parties—except, perhaps, the prisoner—who was duly committed for trial to the next sittings of the Central Criminal Court, which were to take place in a fortnight.

Mr. Bumpkin naturally asked for his watch, but that request was smilingly refused.

"Bin in our famly forty years," exclaimed the prisoner.

"Will you be quiet?" said Mr. Nimble petulantly, for it was a foolish observation for the prisoner to make, inasmuch as, if Mr. Bumpkin had been represented by professional skill, the remark would surely be met at the trial with abundant evidence to disprove it. Mr. Bumpkin at present, however, has no professional skill.

* * * * *

Here something disturbed me, and I awoke. While preparing to enjoy my pipe as was my custom in these intervals, my wife remarked:

"I do not approve of that Master O'Rapley by any means, with his cynicisms and sarcasms and round squares. Did ever anyone hear of such a contradiction?"

"Have patience," quoth I, "and we shall see how worthy Master O'Rapley makes it out. I conjecture that he means the same thing that we hear of under the term, 'putting the round peg into the square hole.'"

"But why should such a thing be done when it is easy surely to find a square peg that would fit?"

"Granted; but the master-hand may be under obligations to the round peg; or the round peg may be a disagreeable peg, or a hundred things: one doesn't know. I am but a humble observer of human nature, and like not these ungracious cavillings at Master O'Rapley. Let us calmly follow this dream, and endeavour to profit by its lessons without finding fault with its actors."

"But I would like to have a better explanation of that Round Square, nevertheless," muttered my wife as she went on with her knitting. So to appease her I discoursed as follows:—

"The round square," said I, "means the inappropriate combination of opposites."

"Now, not too long words," said she, "and not too much philosophy."

"Very well, my dear," I continued; "Don O'Rapley is right, not in his particular instance, but in the general application of his meaning. Look around upon the world, or so much of it as is comprised within our own limited vision, and what do you find?"

"I find everything," said my wife, "beautifully ordered and arranged, from the Archbishop of Canterbury to the Parish Beadle."

"What do you find?" I repeated. "Mark the O'Rapley's knowledge of human nature, you not only find Waterloos won in the Cricket-field of Eton, but Bishopricks and Secretaryships and many other glorious victories; so that you might—"

"Don't be foolish; Trafalgar was not won in the Cricket-field."

"No, but it was fought on the Isis or the Cam, I forget which. But carry the O'Rapley's theory into daily life, and test it by common observation, what do you find? Why, that this round square is by no means a modern invention. It has been worked in all periods of our history. Here is a Vicar with a rich benefice, intended by nature for a Jockey or a Whipper-in—"

"What, the benefice?"

"No, the Vicar! Here is a barrister who ought to have been a curate, and become enthusiastic over worked slippers: there is another thrust into a Government appointment, not out of respect to him, the Minister doesn't know him, but to serve a political friend, or to place an investment in the hands of a political rival, who will return it with interest on a future day. The gentleman thus provided for at the country's expense would, if left to himself, have probably become an excellent billiard-marker or pigeon-shooter. Here is another, who, although a member of Parliament, was elected by no constituency under Heaven or above it; and it is clear he was intended by Nature for a position where obsequiousness and servility meet with their appropriate reward. Another fills the post of some awful Commissioner of something, drawing an immense salary, and doing an immense amount of mischief for it, intended naturally for a secretary to an Autocratic Nobleman, who would trample the rights of the people under foot. Here is another—"

"O pray, my dear, do not let us have another—"

"Only one more," said I; "here is another, thrust into the Cabinet for being so disagreeable a fellow, who ought to have been engaged in making fireworks for Crystal Palace fetes."

"But this is only an opinion of yours; how do you know these gentlemen are not fitted for the posts they occupy? surely if they do the work—"

"The public would have no right to grumble."

"And as for obsequiousness and servility, I am afraid those are epithets too often unjustly applied to those gentlemen whose courteous demeanour wins them the respect of their superiors."

"Quite so," said I; "and I don't see that it matters what is the distinguishing epithet you apply to them: this courteous demeanour or obsequiousness is no doubt the very best gift Nature can bestow upon an individual as an outfit for the voyage of life."

"Dear me, you were complaining but just now of its placing men in positions for which they were not qualified."

"Not complaining, my love; only remarking. I go in for obsequiousness, and trust I shall never be found wanting in that courteous demeanour towards my superiors which shall lead to my future profit."

"But would you have men only courteous?"

"By no means, I would have them talented also."

"But in what proportion would you have the one to the other?"

"I would have the same proportion maintained that exists between the rudder and the ship: you want just enough tact to steer your obsequiousness."

Here again I dozed.



CHAPTER XVIII.

A comfortable evening at the Goose

When Mr. Bumpkin left the Mansion House, he was in a state of great triumph not to say ecstasy: for it seemed to him that he had had everything his own way. He was not cross-examined; no witnesses were called, and it had only been stated by the prisoner himself, not proved, although he said he should prove it at the trial, that the watch had been in the family for upwards of forty years.

"The biggest lie," muttered Master Bumpkin, "that ever wur told." And then he reasoned in this wise: "how could it a bin in his family forty year when he, Bumpkin, only lost it the day afore in the most barefaced manner? He was a pooty feller as couldn't tell a better story than thic."

And then methought in my dream, "Ah, Bumpkin, thou may'st triumph now, but little dreamest thou what is in store for thee at the trial. Wait till all those little insignificant points, hardly visible at present, shall rise, like spear-heads against thee at the Old Bailey and thrust thee through and through and make thee curse the advocate's skill and the thief's impudence and the inertness of the so-called Public Prosecutor: and mayhap, I know not yet, show thee how wrong and robbery may triumph over right and innocence. Thou hast raised thyself, good Bumpkin, from the humblest poverty to comparative wealth and a lawsuit: but boast not overmuch lest thou find Law a taskmaster instead of a Protector!

Thus, moralizing in my dream I perceived that Mr. Bumpkin after talking to some men betook himself to a Bus and proceeded on his way to the "Goose" at Westminster, whither he arrived in due time and in high spirits.

The Goose was a nice cosy public-house, situated, as I before observed, near the river side and commanded a beautiful view of the neighbouring wharves and the passing craft. It was a favourite resort of waterside men, carters, carriers, labourers on the wharf and men out of work. The Military also patronized it:—And many were the jovial tales told around the taproom hearth by members of Her Majesty's troops to admiring and astonished Ignorance.

It was a particularly cold and bleak day, this ninth of March one thousand eight hundred and something. The wind was due East and accompanied ever and anon with mighty thick clouds of sleet and snow. The fireside therefore was particularly comfortable, and the cheery faces around the hearth were pleasant to behold.

Now Mr. Bumpkin, as the reader knows, was not alone in his expedition. He had his witness, named Joseph Wurzel: called in the village "Cocky," inasmuch as it was generally considered that he set much by his wisdom: and was possessed of considerable attainments. For instance, he could snare a hare as well as any man in the county: or whistle down pheasants to partake of a Buckwheat refection which he was in the habit of spreading for their repast.

A good many fellows who were envious of Joe's abilities avowed that "he was a regler cunnin' feller, as ud some day find out his mistake;" meaning thereby that Joe would inevitably be sent to prison. Others affirmed that he was a good deal too cunning for that; that he was a regular artful dodger, and knew how to get round the vicar and all in authority under him. The reader knows that he was a regular attendant at Church, and by that means was in high favour. Nor was his mother behind hand in this respect, especially in the weeks before Christmas; and truly her religion brought its reward even in this world in the shape of Parish Gifts.

No doubt Joe was fond of the chase, but in this respect he but imitated his superiors, except that I believe he occasionally went beyond them in the means he employed.

Assembled in this common room at the Goose on the night in question, were a number of persons of various callings and some of no calling in particular. Most of them were acquainted, and apparently regular customers. One man in particular became a great favourite with Joe, and that was Jacob Wideawake the Birdcatcher; and it was interesting to listen to his conversation on the means of catching and transforming the London Sparrow into an article of Commerce.

Joe's dress no doubt attracted the attention of his companions when he first made his appearance, for it was something out of the ordinary style: and certainly one might say that great care had been bestowed upon him to render his personal appearance attractive in the witness-box. He wore a wideawake hat thrown back on his head, thus displaying his brown country-looking face to full advantage. His coat was a kind of dark velveteen which had probably seen better days in the Squire's family; so had the long drab waistcoat. His corduroy trousers, of a light green colour, were hitched up at the knees with a couple of straps as though he wore his garters outside. His neckerchief was a bright red, tied round his neck in a careless but not unpicturesque manner. Take him for all in all he was as fine a specimen of a country lad as one could wish to meet,—tall, well built, healthy looking, and even handsome.

Now Mr. Bumpkin, being what is called "a close man," and prone to keep his own counsel on all occasions when it was not absolutely necessary to reveal it, had said nothing about his case before the Lord Mayor; not even Mrs. Oldtimes had he taken into his confidence. It is difficult to understand his motive for such secrecy, as it is impossible to trace in nine instances out of ten any particular line of human conduct to its source.

Acting probably on some vague information that he had received, Mr. Bumpkin looked into the room, and told Joe that he thought they should be "on" to-morrow. He had learned the use of that legal term from frequent intercourse with Mr. Prigg. He thought they should be on but "wur not sartin."

"Well," said Joe, "the sooner the better. I hates this ere hangin' about." At this Jack Outofwork, Tom Lazyman, and Bill Saunter laughed; while Dick Devilmecare said, "He hated hanging about too; it was wus than work."

"And that's bad enough, Heaven knows," said Lazyman.

Then I saw that at this moment entered a fine tall handsome soldier, who I afterwards learned was Sergeant Goodtale of the One Hundred and twenty-fourth Hussars. A smarter or more compact looking fellow it would be impossible to find: and he came in with such a genial, good-natured smile, that to look at him would almost make you believe there was no happiness or glory on this side the grave except in Her Majesty's service—especially the Hussars!

I also perceived that fluttering from the side of Sergeant Goodtale's cap, placed carelessly and jauntily on the side of his head, was a bunch of streamers of the most fascinating red white and blue you ever could behold. Altogether, Sergeant Goodtale was a splendid sight. Down went his cane on the table with a crack, as much as to say "The Queen!" and he marched up to the fire and rubbed his hands: apparently taking no heed of any human being in the room.

Mr. Bumpkin's heart leaped when he saw the military sight: his eyes opened as if he were waking from a dream out of which he had been disturbed by a cry of "fire:" and giving Joe a wink and an obviously made-up look, beckoned him out of the room. As they went out they met a young man, shabbily clad and apparently poorly fed. He had an intelligent face, though somewhat emaciated. He might be, and probably was, a clerk out of employment, and he threw himself on the seat in a listless manner that plainly said he was tired of everything.

This was Harry Highlow. He had been brought up with ideas beyond his means. It was through no fault of his that he had not been taught a decent trade: those responsible for his training having been possessed of the notion that manual labour lowers one's respectability: an error and a wickedness which has been responsible for the ruin of many a promising youth before to-day.

Harry was an intelligent, fairly educated youth, and nothing more. What is to be done with raw material so plentiful as that? The cheapest marketable commodity is an average education, especially in a country where even our Universities can supply you with candidates for employment at a cheaper rate than you can obtain the services of a first-class cook. This young man had tried everything that was genteel: he had even aspired to literature: sought employment on the Press, on the Stage, everywhere in fact where gentility seemed to reign. Nor do I think he lacked ability for any of these walks; it was not ability but opportunity that failed him.

"Lookee ere, Joe," said Mr. Bumpkin; "harken to me. Don't thee 'ave nowt to say to that there soger."

"All right, maister," said Joe, laughing; "thee thinks I be gwine for a soger. Now lookee ere, maister, I beant a fool."

"No, thee beant, Joe. I knowed thee a good while, and thee beant no fool."

Joe laughed. It was a big laugh was Joe's, for his mouth was somewhat large, and a grin always seemed to twist it. On this occasion, so great was his surprise that his master should think he would be fool enough to enlist for a "soger," that his mouth assumed the most irregular shape I ever saw, and bore a striking resemblance to a hole such as might be made in the head of a drum by the heel of a boot.

"I be up to un, maister."

"Have no truck wi' un, I tell ee; don't speak to un. Thee be my head witness, and doant dare goo away; no, no more un if—"

"No fear," said Joe. "'Taint likely I be gwine to listen to ee. I knows what he wants; he's arter listin chaps."

"Look ee ere, Joe, if ur speaks to thee, jist say I beant sich a fool as I looks; that'll ave un."

"Right," says Joe; "I beant sich a fool as I looks; that'll ave un straight."

"Now, take heed; I'm gwine into the parlour wi' Landlord."

Accordingly, into the little quiet snuggery of Mr. Oldtimes, Mr. Bumpkin betook himself. And many and many an agreeable evening was passed with Mr. and Mrs. Oldtimes during the period when Mr. Bumpkin was waiting for his trial. For Mr. and Mrs. Oldtimes being Somersetshire people knew many inhabitants of the old days in the village of Yokelton, where Mr. Bumpkin "were bred and born'd."

Meanwhile the "head witness" had returned to the cheerful scene in the taproom, and sat leering out of the corners of his eyes upon the Sergeant, as though he expected every moment that officer would make a spring at him and have him upon the floor. But the Sergeant was not a bullying, blustering sort of man at all; his demeanour was quiet in the extreme. He scarcely looked at anyone. Simply engaged in warming his hands at the cheerful fire, no one had cause to apprehend anything from him.

But a man, Sergeant or no Sergeant, must, out of common civility, exchange a word now and then, if only about the weather; and so he said, carelessly,—

"Sharp weather, lads!"

Now, not even Joe could disagree with this; it was true, and was assented to by all; Joe silently acquiescing. After the Sergeant had warmed his hands and rubbed them sufficiently, he took off his cap and placed it on a little shelf or rack; and then took out a meerschaum pipe, which he exhibited without appearing to do so to the whole company. Then he filled it from his pouch, and rang the bell; and when the buxom young waitress appeared, he said,—

"My dear, I think I'll have a nice rump steak and some onions, if you please."

"Yes, sir," said the maid.

Now I observed that two or three matters were noteworthy at this point. First, Joe's mouth so watered that he actually went to the fireplace and expectorated. Secondly, he was utterly amazed at the familiar manner in which the Sergeant was permitted to address this beautiful young person, who seemed to be quite a lady of quality. Thirdly, he was duly impressed and astounded with the luxurious appetite of this Sergeant of Hussars!

Then the young woman came back and said,—"Would you like to have it in the parlour, sir?"

"O no, my dear," said the Sergeant; "I would rather have it here. I hate being alone."

As he said this, he slightly glanced at Dick Devilmecare. Dick, flattering himself that the observation was addressed particularly to him, observed that he also hated being alone.

Then the Sergeant lighted his pipe; and I suppose there was not one in the company who did not think that tobacco particularly nice.

Next, the Sergeant rang again, and once more the pretty maid appeared.

"Lucy," said he, "while my steak is getting ready, I think I'll have three of whiskey hot, with a little lemon in it."

At this there was an involuntary smacking of lips all round, although no one was conscious he had exhibited any emotion. The Sergeant was perfectly easy and indifferent to everything. He smoked, looked at the fire, sipped his grog, spread out his legs, folded his arms; then rose and turned his back to the fire, everyone thinking how thoroughly he enjoyed himself.

"That smells very nice, Sergeant," said Harry.

"Yes, it's very good," said the Sergeant; "it's some I got down at Yokelton, Somersetshire."

Here Joe looked up; he hadn't been home for a week, and began to feel some interest in the old place, and everything belonging to it.

"I comes from that ere place, Mr. Sergeant," said he.

"Indeed, sir," said the Sergeant, in an off-hand manner.

"Did thee buy un at a shop by the Pond, sir?"

"That's it," replied the Sergeant, pointing with his pipe, "to the right."

"The seame plaace," exclaimed Joe. "Why my sister lives there sarvant wi that ooman as keeps the shop."

"Indeed!" said Sergeant Goodtale; "how very curious!"

And Jack said, "What a rum thing!"

And Bill said, "That is a rum thing!"

And Harry said it was a strange coincidence. In short, they all agreed that it was the most remarkable circumstance that ever was.



CHAPTER XIX.

The subject continued.

As soon as the conversation on the remarkable circumstance recorded in the last chapter had drifted into another subject no less remarkable, and the Sergeant had finished his pipe, the beautiful being appeared with the rump steak and onions, a snowy white cloth having been previously spread at the end of one of the tables. When all was ready, it looked as nice and appetizing as could well be conceived. The most indifferent man there seemed the Sergeant himself, who, instead of rushing to the chair provided for him, walked as coolly up to the table as though he were going into action. Then he took the knife, and seeing it had not quite so sharp an edge as he liked, gave it a touch or two on the stone hearth.

The smell of that tobacco from Yokelton had been sweet; so had the perfume from the whiskey toddy and the lemon; but of all the delicious and soul-refreshing odours that ever titilated human nostrils, nothing surely could equal that which proceeded from the rump steak and onions. The fragrance of new mown hay, which Cowper has so beautifully mentioned, had palled on Joe's senses; but when would the fragrance of that dish pall on the hungry soul?

The Sergeant took no notice of the hungry looks of the company; he was a soldier, and concentrated his mind upon the duties of the moment. Sentimentality was no part of his nature. He was a man, and must eat; he was a soldier, and must perform the work as a duty irrespective of consequences.

"Do you mind my smoke?" asked Harry.

"Oh dear, no," said the Sergeant; "I like it."

Joe stared and watched every bit as the Sergeant cut it. He looked admiringly on the soldier and so lovingly at the steak, that it almost seemed as if he wished he could be cut into such delicious morsels and eaten by so happy a man. What thoughts passed through his mind no one but a dreamer could tell; and this is what I saw passing through the mind of Wurzel.

"O, what a life! what grub! what jollyness! no turmut oeing; no dung-cart; no edgin and ditchin; no five o'clock in the mornin; no master; no bein sweared at; no up afore the magistrates; no ungriness; rump steaks and inguns; whiskey and water and bacca; if I didn't like that air Polly Sweetlove, danged if I wouldn't go for a soger to-morrer!"

Then said Joe, very deferentially and as if he were afraid of being up afore the magistrate, "If you please, sir, med I have a bit o' that there bacca?"

"Of course," said the Sergeant, tossing his pouch; "certainly; help yourself."

Joe's heart was softened more and more towards the military, which he had hitherto regarded, from all he could hear, as a devil's own trap to catch Sabbath breakers and disobedient to parents.

And methought, in my dream, I never saw men who were not partakers of a feast enjoy it more than the onlookers of that military repast.

Then said Harry,—

"Well, Sergeant, I'm well-nigh tired of my life, and I've come here to enlist."

"Just wait a bit," said the Sergeant; "I'm not a man to do things in a hurry. I never allow a man to enlist, if I know it, in Her Majesty's service, honourable and jolly as it is, without asking him to think about it."

"Hear, hear!" said Lazyman; "that's good, I likes that; don't be in a hurry, lad."

"Hear, hear!" says Outofwork, "don't jump into a job too soon, yer medn't like it."

"Hear, hear!" says the Boardman, "walk round a-bit."

"But," said Harry, "I have considered it. I've just had education enough to prevent my getting a living, and not enough to make a man of me: I've tried everything and nobody wants me."

"Then," said Sergeant Goodtale, "do you think the Queen only wants them that nobody else'll have. I can tell you that ain't the Queen of England's way. It might do for Rooshia or Germany, or them countries, but not for Old England. It's a free country. I think, lads, I'm right—"

Here there was tremendous hammering on the table by way of assent and applause; amidst which Joe could be observed thumping his hard fist with as much vehemence as if he had got a County Magistrate's head under it.

"This is a free country, sir," said the Sergeant, "no man here is kidnapped into the Army, which is a profession for men, not slaves."

"I'm going to join," said Harry, "say what you like."

"Wait till the morning;" said the Sergeant, "and meanwhile we'll have a song."

At this moment Mr. Bumpkin put in an appearance; for although he had been enjoying himself with Mr. and Mrs. Oldtimes, he thought it prudent to have a peep and see how "thic Joe wur gettin on."



CHAPTER XX.

Mr. Bumpkin sings a good old song—the Sergeant becomes quite a convivial companion and plays dominoes.

The Sergeant, having finished his repast, again had recourse to his pipe, and was proceeding to light it when Mr. Bumpkin appeared in the room.

"We be gwine to have a song, maister," said Joe.

"Give us a song, governor," said half-a-dozen voices.

"Ay, do, maister," says Joe; "thee sings a good un, I knows, for I ha eerd thee often enough at arvest oames: gie us a song, maister."

Now if there was one thing Mr. Bumpkin thought he was really great at besides ploughing the straightest and levellest furrow, it was singing the longest and levellest song. He had been known to sing one, which, with its choruses, had lasted a full half hour, and then had broken down for lack of memory.

On the present occasion he would have exhibited no reluctance, having had a glass or two in the Bar Parlour had he not possessed those misgivings about the Sergeant. He looked furtively at that officer as though it were better to give him no chance. Seeing, however, that he was smoking quietly, and almost in a forlorn manner by himself, his apprehensions became less oppressive.

Invitations were repeated again and again, and with such friendly vehemence that resistance at last was out of the question.

"I aint sung for a good while," said he, "but I wunt be disagreeable like, so here goes."

But before he could start there was such a thundering on the tables that several minutes elapsed. At length there was sufficient silence to enable him to be heard.

"This is Church and Crown, lads."

"Gie me the man as loves the Squire, The Parson, and the Beak; And labours twelve good hours a day For thirteen bob a week!"

"Hooroar! hooroar! hooroar!" shouted Lazyman. "What d'ye think 'o that?"

"O, my eye," said Outofwork, "aint it jolly?"

"Well done! bravo!" shrieked the Boardman. "I'll carry that ere man through the streets on my shoulders instead o' the boards, that I will. Bravo! he ought to be advertized—this style thirteen bob a week!"

"Thirteen bob a week!" laughed Harry; "who'd go for a soldier with such a prospect. Can you give us a job, governor?"

"Wait a bit, lads," said Mr. Bumpkin, "there be another werse and then a chorus."

"Hooray!" they shouted, "a chorus! let's have the chorus—there ought to be a chorus—thirteen bob a week!"

"Now, gentlemen, the chorus if you please," said Harry; "give it mouth, sir!"

Then sang Bumpkin—

"O 'edgin, ditchin, that's the geaam, All in the open air; The poor man's health is all his wealth, But wealth without a care!

CHORUS.

Then shout hurrah for Church and State Though 'eretics may scoff, The devil is our head Constable, To take the willins off.

Give me the man that's poor and strong, Hard working and content; Who looks on onger as his lot, In Heaven's wise purpose sent. Who looks on riches as a snare To ketch the worldly wise; And good roast mutton as a dodge, To blind rich people's eyes.

CHORUS.

Give me the man that labours hard From mornin' until night, And looks at errins as a treat And bacon a delight. O 'edgin, ditchin, diggin drains, And emptyin pool and dyke, It beats your galloppin to 'ounds, Your ball-rooms and the like.

CHORUS.

Gi' me the man that loves the Squire With all his might and main; And with the taxes and the rates As never racks his brain. Who loves the Parson and the Beak As Heaven born'd and sent, And revels in that blessed balm A hongry sweet content.

CHORUS.

Gie me the good Shaksperan man As wants no other books, But them as he no need to spell, The ever runnin brooks: As feeds the pigs and minds the flocks, And rubs the orses down; And like a regler lyal man, Sticks up for Church and Crown."

CHORUS.

At the termination of this pastoral song there was such a hullabaloo of laughter, such a yelling, thumping, and, I grieve to say, swearing, that Mr. Bumpkin wondered what on earth was the occasion of it. At the Rent dinner at the Squire's he had always sung it with great success; and the Squire himself had done him the honour to say it was the best song he had ever heard, while the Clergyman had assured him that the sentiments were so good that it ought to be played upon the organ when the people were coming out of church. And Farmer Grinddown, who was the largest gentleman farmer for miles around, had declared that if men would only act up to that it would be a happy country, and we should soon be able to defy America itself.

Mr. Bumpkin, hearing such shouts of laughter, thought perhaps he might have a patch of black on his face, and put his hand up to feel. Then he looked about him to see if his dress was disarranged; but finding nothing amiss, he candidly told them he "couldn't zee what there wur to laugh at thic fashion."

They all said it was a capital song, and wondered if he had any more of the same sort, and hoped he'd leave them a lock of his hair—and otherwise manifested tokens of enthusiastic approbation.

Mr. Bumpkin, however, could not quite see their mirth in the same light, so he turned on his heel and, beckoning to Joe, left the room in high dudgeon, not to say disdain.

"Mind Joe—no truck wi un."

"Why, maister, he knows my sister."

"Damn thee sister, Joe; it be a lie."

"Be it? here's some o' the bacca he brought up from Okleton, I tell ee."

"I tell thee, have nowt to do wi un; we shall be on t'morrer, we be tenth in the list."

"Ay," said Joe, "we bin igher in list un thic, we bin as near as eight; I shall be mighty glad when it be over."

"An get back to pigs, aye, Joe?"

"Aye, maister."

"Nothin like oame, Joe, be there?" and Mr. Bumpkin turned away.

"No," said Joe; "no, maister, if so be" (and this was spoken to himself) "if so be you got a oame."

Then I saw that Joe rejoined his companions, amongst whom a conversation was going on as to the merits of the song. Some said one thing and some another, but all condemned it as a regular toading to the Parson and the Squire: and as for the Beak, how any man could praise him whose only duty was to punish the common people, no one could see. The company were getting very comfortable. The Sergeant had called for another glass of that delectable grog whose very perfume seemed to inspire everyone with goodfellowship, and they all appeared to enjoy the Sergeant's liquor without tasting it.

"What do you say to a game of dominoes?" said Harry.

"They won't allow em ere," said Lazyman.

"Won't they," answered Outofwork. "I'll warrant if the Sergeant likes to play there's no landlord'll stop him, ay, Sergeant?"

"Well, I believe," said the Sergeant, "as one of the Queen's servants, I have the privilege of playing when I like."

"Good," said Harry, "and I'll be a Queen's man too, so out with the shilling, Sergeant."

"Wait till the morning," said the Sergeant.

"No," said Harry. "I've had enough waiting. I'm on, give me the shilling."

The Sergeant said, "Well, let me see, what height are you?" and he stood up beside him.

"Ah!" he said, "I think I can get you in," saying which he gave him a shilling; such a bright coin, that it seemed to have come fresh from the Queen's hand.

Then the Sergeant took out some beautiful bright ribbons which he was understood to say (but did not say) the Queen had given him that morning. Then he rang the bell, and the buxom waitress appearing he asked for the favour of a needle and thread, which, the radiant damsel producing, with her own fair fingers she sewed the ribbons on to Harry's cap, smiling with admiration all the while. Even this little incident was not without its effect on the observant "head witness," and he felt an unaccountable fascination to have the same office performed by the same fair hands on his own hat.

Then, without saying more, a box of dominoes was produced, and Joe soon found himself, he did not know how, the Sergeant's partner, while Lazyman and Outofwork were opposed to them.

"Is it pooty good livin in your trade, Mr. Sergeant?" asked Joe.

"Not bad," said the Sergeant; "that is five-one, I think"—referring to the play.

"Rump steaks and ingons aint bad living," said Outofwork.

"No," said the Sergeant, "and there's nothing I like better than a good thick mutton chop for breakfast—let me see, what's the game?"

"Ah!" said Joe, smacking his lips, "mutton chops is the best thing out; I aint had one in my mouth, though, for a doocid long time; I likes em with plenty o' fat an gravy loike."

"You see," said the Sergeant, "when you've been out for a two or three mile ride before breakfast in the fresh country air, a chap wants something good for breakfast, and a mutton chop's none too much for him."

"No," answered Joe, "I could tackle three."

"Yes," said Sergeant Goodtale, "but some are much larger than others."

"So em be," agreed Joe.

"What's the game," enquired the Sergeant.

"Two-one," said Joe.

"One's all," said the soldier.

"I tell ee what," remarked Joe, "if I was going to list, there's no man as I'd liefer list wi than you, Mr. Sergeant."

"Domino!" said the Sergeant, "that's one to us, partner!"

Then they shuffled the dominoes and commenced again. But at this moment the full figure of Mr. Bumpkin again stood in the doorway.

"Joe!" he exclaimed angrily, "I want thee, come ere thirecly, I tell ee!"

"Yes, maister; I be comin."

"You stoopid fool!" said Mr. Bumpkin in a whisper, as Joe went up to him, "thee be playin with thic feller."

"Well, maister, if I be; what then?" Joe said this somewhat angrily, and Mr. Bumpkin replied:—

"He'll ha thee, Joe—he'll ha thee!"

"Nay, nay, maister; I be too old in the tooth for he; but it beant thy business, maister."

"No," said Bumpkin, as he turned away, "it beant."

Then Joe resumed his play. Now it happened that as the Sergeant smacked his lips when he took his occasional sip of the fragrant grog, expressive of the highest relish, it awakened a great curiosity in Wurzel's mind as to its particular flavour. The glass was never far from his nose and he had long enjoyed the extremely tempting odour. At last, as he was not invited to drink by Sergeant Goodtale, he could contain himself no longer, but made so bold as to say:—

"Pardner, med I jist taste this ere? I never did taste sich a thing."

"Certainly, partner," said the Sergeant, pushing the tumbler, which was about three-parts full. "What's the game now?"

"Ten-one," said Outofwork.

"One's all, then," said the Sergeant.

Joe took the tumbler, and after looking into it for a second or two as though he were mentally apostrophizing it, placed the glass to his lips.

"Don't be afraid," said the Sergeant.

No one seemed more courageous than Wurzel, in respect of the act with which he was engaged, and before he took the glass from his lips its contents had disappeared.

"I'm mighty glad thee spoke, Maister Sergeant, for if thee hadn't I should a drunk un all wirout thy leave. I never tasted sich tackle in my life; it's enough to make a man gie up everything for sogering."

"Domino!" said the Sergeant. "I think that's the game!"

* * * * *

"My dear," said my wife, "you have been talking again in your sleep."

"Really," said I, "I hope I have not compromised myself."

"I do not understand you," cried she.

"No more do I, for I am hardly awake."

"You have been talking of Joe Wurzel again."

"O, to be sure. What about him?"

"Then you mentioned Mr. Outofwork and Mr. Lazyman and Mr. Devilmecare, and another whose name I did not catch."

"Ah," I asked, "did they go for soldiers?"

"At present, no, except Harry, for whom I was heartily sorry, he seemed such a nice disappointed lad. But pray who is this Sergeant Goodtale?"

"He is on recruiting service, a very fine, persuasive fellow."

"But he didn't seem to press these people or use any arts to entice them: I like him for that. He rather seemed to me to discourage them from enlisting. He might have been sure poor Harry meant it, because, as I take it, he was half-starved, and yet he desired him to wait till the morning."

"I think," said I, "his conduct was artful if you examine it with reference to its effect on the others; but he is an extraordinary man, this Sergeant Goodtale—was never known to persuade any one to enlist, I believe."

"But he seemed to get along very well."

"Very; I thought he got along very comfortably."

"Then there was one Lucy Prettyface!"

"Ah, I don't remember her," cried I, alarmed lest I might have said anything in my dream for which I was not responsible.

"Why she was the girl who sewed the colours on and somebody called 'my dear.'"

"I assure you," I said, "it was not I: it must have been the Sergeant; but I have no recollection—O yes, to be sure, she was the waitress."

"You remember her now?"

"Well," said I, determined not to yield if I could possibly help it, "I can't say that I do. I know there was a person who sewed colours on and whom the Sergeant called 'my dear,' but further than that I should not like to pledge myself. Yes—yes—to be sure," and here I went on talking, as it were, to myself, for I find it is much better to talk to yourself if you find it difficult to carry on a conversation with other persons.

"She was pretty, wasn't she?" said my wife with an arch look.

I gave her a look just as arch, as I replied,

"Really I hardly looked at her; but I should say not." I make a point of never saying any one is pretty.

"Joe thought her so."

"Did he? Well she may have been, but I never went in for Beauty myself."

"You shocking man," said my wife, "do you perceive what you are saying?"

"Why, of course; but you take me up so sharply: if you had not cut me off in the flower of my speech you would have been gratified at the finish of my sentence. I was going to say, I never went in for Beauty, but once. That, I think, gives the sentence a pretty turn."

"Well, now, I think these dreams and this talking in your sleep indicate that you require a change; what do you say to Bournemouth?"

"You think I shall sleep better there?"

"I think it will do you good."

"Then we'll go to Bournemouth," cried I, "for I understand it's a very dreamy place."

"But I should like to know what becomes of this action of Mr. Bumpkin, and how all his people get on? You may depend upon it that Sergeant will enlist those other men."

"I do not know," I remarked, "what is in the future."

"But surely you know what you intend. You can make your characters do anything."

"Indeed not," I said. "They will have their own way whether I write their history or any one else."

"That Sergeant Goodtale will have every one of them, my dear; you mark my words. He's the most artful man I ever heard of."

Of course I could offer no contradiction to this statement as I was not in the secrets of the future. How the matter will work out depends upon a variety of circumstances over which I have not the least control. For instance, if Bill were to take the shilling, I believe Dick would follow: and if the Sergeant were to sing a good song he might catch the rest. But who can tell?



CHAPTER XXI.

Joe electrifies the company and surprises the reader.

"Suppose we have another song," said Sergeant Goodtale.

"And spoase we has some moore o' that there stuff," answered Joe.

"Aye," said Harry, "we will too. I'll spend my shilling like a man."

Saying which he rang the bell and ordered a glass for himself and one for Joe.

"Now, then," said the latter, "I can't sing, but I'll gie thee summut as I larned."

"Hooray!" said Harry, "summut as he larned!"

"Bravo!" said the Boardman, "summut as he larned?"

"Here's at un," said Joe.

And then with a mighty provincialism he repeated without a break:—



DR. BRIMSTONE'S SERMON, AS PUT INTO VERSE BY GAFFER DITCHER.

I bin to Church, I ha', my boy, And now conwarted be; The last time I wur ever there War eighteen farty-three!

And 'ow I knows it is as this, I didn't goo to pray, Nor 'ear the Word, but went becorse It wur my weddin day!

Zounds! wot a blessed sarmon twur I 'eeard the Sabbath morn; 'Ow I a woful sinner wur Or ever I wur born.

You sees them wilful igorant pigs In mud a wollorin; Well, like them pigs, but ten times wus, We wollers in our sin.

We're coated o'er wi' sinful mud,— A dreadful sight we be; And yet we doant despise ourselves— For why?—We doant zee!

I thinks I had yer there, my boy, For all your sniggerin' jeers; Thee're in t' mud, I tell 'ee, lad, Rightoover 'ed an' ears.

Zounds! what a orful thing it be That love should blind us so! Why, them there bloomin rosy cheeks Be ony masks o' woe!

The reddest on 'em thee could kiss Aint 'ardly wuth the pains; At best it's but the husk o' bliss, It's nuther wuts nor banes.

There aint a pleasure you can name, From coourtin down to skittles, But wot there's mischief in the same, Like pisen in your wittles.

The Reverend Brimstone says, "Beloved, Be allays meek an umble; A saint should never ax for moor, An never larn to grumble."

We ain't to tork o' polleticks An' things as don't consarn us, And wot we wornts to know o' lor The madgistret will larn us.

We ain't to drink wi' Methodists, No, not a friendly soop; We ain't to tork o' genteel folks Onless to praise un oop.

We ain't to 'ear a blessed word Agin our betters said; We're got to lay the butter thick Becorse they're sich 'igh bred!

We got to say "Ha! look at he! A gemman tooth and nail!" You morn't say, "What a harse he'd be If he'd a got a tail!"

For why? becorse these monied gents Ha' got sich birth an' breedin'; An' down we got to 'old our 'eads, Like cattle, when they're feedin'.

The parson put it kindly like— He sed, says he, as 'ow We're bean't so good as them there grubs We turns up wi' the plow.

There's nowt more wretcheder an we, Or worthier an the rich, I praises 'em for bein' born, An' 'eaven for makin' sich.

So wile we be, I daily stares That earthquakes doan't fall, An' swaller up this unconwinced Owdashus earthly ball!

An' wen I thinks of all our sins— Lay down, says I, my boys, We're fittin' only for manoor, So don't let's make a noise.

Let's spred us out upon the ground An' make the turmuts grow, It's all we're good for in this world O' wickedness an' woe!

And yet we're 'llow'd to brethe the air The same as gents from town; And 'llow'd to black their 'appy boots, And rub their 'orses down!

To think o' blessins sich as these, Is like ongrateful lust; It stuffs us oop wi' worldly pride, As if our 'arts would bust!

But no, we're 'umble got to be, Though privileged so 'igh: Why doan't we feed on grass or grains, Or leastways 'umbly die!

We got to keep our wicked tongue From disrespeckful speakin', We han't a got to eat too much, Nor yet goo pleasure seekin'.

Nor kitch a rabbit or a aire, Nor call the Bobby names, Nor stand about, but goo to church, And play no idle games:

To love paroshial orficers, The squire, and all that's his, And never goo wi' idle chaps As wants their wages riz.

So now conwarted I ha' bin From igorance and wice; It's only 'appiness that's sin, And norty things that's nice!

Whereas I called them upstart gents The wust o' low bred snobs, Wi' contrite 'art I hollers out "My heye, wot bloomin' nobs!"

I sees the error o' my ways, So, lads, this warnin' take, The Poor Man's path, the parson says, Winds round the Burnin' Lake.

They've changed it since the days o' yore, Them Gospel preachers, drat un; They used to preach it to the poor, An' now they preach it at un.

Every one was amazed at the astonishing memory of this country lad: and the applause that greeted the reciter might well be calculated to awaken his latent vanity. It was like being called before the curtain after the first act by a young actor on his first appearance. And I believe every one understood the meaning of the verses, which seemed to imply that the hungry prodigal, famishing for food, was fed with husks instead of grain. Contentment with wretchedness is not good preaching, and this was one lesson of Dr. Brimstone's sermon. As soon as Harry could make himself heard amidst the general hubbub, which usually follows a great performance, he said:—

"Now, look here, lads, it's all very well to be converted with such preaching as that; but it's my belie it's more calculated to make hypocrites than Christians."

"Hear! hear!" said Lazyman. "That is right." Anything but conversion for Lazyman.

"Now," continued Harry, "I've heard that kind of preaching a hundred times: it's a regular old-fashioned country sermon; and, as for the poor being so near hell, I put it in these four lines."

"Hear, hear!" cried the company; "order!"

And they prepared themselves for what was to come with as great eagerness as, I venture to say, would always be shown to catch the text, if it came at the end, instead of the beginning, of a sermon.

"Shut up," says Lazyman; "let's 'ear this 'ere. I knows it's summut good by the look an him."

"Don't make a row," retorts the Boardman; "who can hear anything while you keeps on like that?"

And there they stood, actually suspending the operation of smoking as they waited the summing up of this remarkably orthodox "preaching of the word." The sergeant only was a spectator of the scene, and much amused did he seem at the faces that prepared for a grin or a sneer as the forthcoming utterance should demand. Then said Harry solemnly and dramatically:—

"In WANT full many a vice is born, And Virtue in a DINNER; A well-spread board makes many a SAINT, And HUNGER many a sinner."

From the explosion which followed this antidote to Mr. Brimstone's sermon, I should judge that the more part of the company believed that Poverty was almost as ample a virtue as Charity itself. They shook their heads in token of assent; they thumped the table in recognition of the soundness of the teaching; and several uttered an exclamation not to be committed to paper, as an earnest of their admiration for the ability of Mr. Highlow, who, instead of being a private soldier, ought, in their judgment, to be Lord Mayor of London. After this recital every one said he thought Mr. Highlow might oblige them.

"Well, I'm no singer," said Harry.

"Try, Harry!" exclaimed Lazyman: he was a rare one to advise other people to try.

"Trying to sing when you can't," answered Harry, "I should think is a rum sort of business; but I'll tell you what I'll do if you like. When I was down at Hearne Bay I heard an old fisherman tell a story which—"

"That's it!" thumped out Joe, "a story. I likes a good story, specially if there be a goast in it."

"I don't know what there is in it," said Harry, "I'll leave you to make that out; but I tell you what I did when I heard it, I made a ballad of it, and so if you like I'll try and recollect it."

"Bravo!" they said, and Harry gave them the following



SONG OF THE WAVES.

Far away on the pebbly beach That echoes the sound of the surge; As if they were gifted with speech, The breakers will sing you a dirge.

The fishermen list to it oft, And love the sweet charm of its spell, For sometimes it wispers so soft, It seems but the voice of the shell.

It tells of a beautiful child That used to come down there and play, And shout to the surges so wild That burst on the brink of the bay.

She was but a child of the poor, Whose father had perished at sea; 'Twas strange, that sweet psalm of the shore, Whatever the story might be!

Yes, strange, but so true in its tone That no one could listen and doubt; The heart must be calm and alone To search its deep mystery out.

She came with a smaller than she That toddled along at her side; Now ran to and fled from the sea, Now paddled its feet in the tide.

Afar o'er the waters so wild, Grazed Effie with wondering eye; What mystery grew on the child In all that bright circle of sky?

Her father—how sweet was the thought! Was linked with this childish delight; 'Twas strange what a vision it brought— As though he still lingered in sight.

Was it Heaven so near, so remote, Across the blue line of the wave? 'Twas thither he sailed in his boat, 'Twas there he went down in his grave!

So the days and the hours flew along, Like swallows that skim o'er the flood; Like the sound of a beautiful song, That echoes and dies in the wood!

One day as they strayed on the strand, And played with the shingle and shell, A boat that just touched on the land Was playfully rocked by the swell.

O childhood, what joy in a ride! What eagerness beams in their eyes! What bliss as they climb o'er the side And shout as they tumble and rise!

O sea, with thy pitiful dirge, Thou need'st to be mournful and moan! The wrath of thy terrible surge Omnipotence curbs it alone!

The boat bore away from the shore, The laughter of childhood so glad! And the breakers bring back ever more The dirge with its echo so sad!

A widow sits mute on the beach, And ever the tides as they flow, As if they were gifted with speech, Repeat the sad tale of her woe!

"That's werry good," said the Boardman. "I'm afraid them there children was washed away—it's a terrible dangerous coast that ere Ern Bay. I've 'eeard my father speak on it."

"Them there werses is rippin'!" said Joe.

"Stunnin'!" exclaimed Bob.

And so they all agreed that it was a pretty song and "well put together."

"Capital," said the sergeant, "I never heard anything better, and as for Mr. Wurzel, a man with his memory ought to do something better than feed pigs."

"Ay, aye," said the company to a man.

"Why don't you follow my example?" said Harry; "it's the finest life in the world for a young fellow."

"Well," said the sergeant, "that all depends; its very good for some, for others not so good—although there are very few who are not pleased when they once join, especially in such a regiment as ours!"

"And would you mind telling me, sir," asked Outofwork, "what sort of chaps it don't suit?"

"Well, you see, chaps that have been brought up in the country and tied to their mothers' apron strings all their life: they have such soft hearts, they are almost sure to cry—and a crying soldier is a poor affair. I wouldn't enlist a chap of that sort, no, not if he gave me ten pounds. Now, for instance, if Mr. Wurzel was to ask my advice about being a soldier I should say 'don't!'"

"Why not, sir?" asked Joe; "how's that there, then? D'ye think I be afeard?"

"I should say, go home first, my boy, and ask your mother!"

"I be d—-d if I be sich a molly-coddle as that, nuther; and I'll prove un, Mr. Sergeant; gie me thic bright shillin' and I be your man."

"No," said the sergeant, "think it over, and come to me in a month's time, if your mother will let you. I don't want men that will let their masters buy them off the next day."

"No; an lookee here, Maister Sergeant; I bean't to be bought off like thic, nuther. If I goes, I goes for good an' all."

"Well, then," said the sergeant, shaking him by the hand, and pressing into it the bright shilling, "if you insist on joining, you shall not say I prevented you: my business is not to prevent men from entering Her Majesty's service."

Then the ribbons were brought out, and Joe asked if the young woman might sew them on as she had done Harry's; and when she came in, Joe looked at her, and tried to put on a military bearing, in imitation of his great prototype; and actually went so far as to address her as "My dear," for which liberty he almost expected a slap in the face. But Lucy only smiled graciously, and said: "Bravo, Mr. Wurzel! Bravo, sir; I've seen many a man inlisted, and sewed the Queen's colours on for him, but never for a smarter or a finer fellow, there!" and she skipped from the room.

"Well done!" said several voices. And the sergeant said:

"What do you think of that, Mr. Wurzel? I'll back she's never said that to a soldier before."

Joe turned his hat about and drew the ribbons through his fingers, as pleased as a child with a new toy, and as proud as if he had helped to win a great battle.

Here I awoke.



CHAPTER XXII.

The Sergeant makes a loyal speech and sings a song, both of which are well received by the company.

And when I got to Bournemouth I dreamed again; and a singular thing during this history was, that always in my dream I began where I had left off on the previous night. So I saw that there, in the room at "The Goose," were Sergeant Goodtale, and Harry, and Joe, and the rest, just as I had left them when I last awoke. But methought there was an air of swagger on the part of the head witness which I had not observed previously. His hat was placed on one side, in imitation of the sergeant's natty cap, and he seemed already to hold up his head in a highly military manner; and when he stooped down to get a light he tried to stoop in the same graceful and military style as the sergeant himself; and after blowing it out, threw down the spill in the most off-hand manner possible, as though he said, "That's how we chaps do it in the Hussars!" Everyone noticed the difference in the manner and bearing of the young recruit. There was a certain swagger and boldness of demeanour that only comes after you have enlisted. Nor was this change confined to outward appearance alone. What now were pigs in the mind of Joe? Merely the producers of pork chops for breakfast. What was Dobbin that slowly dragged the plough compared to the charger that Joe was destined to bestride? And what about Polly Sweetlove and her saucy looks? Perhaps she'd be rather sorry now that she did not receive with more favour his many attentions. Such were the thoughts that passed through the lad's mind as he gradually awakened to a sense of his new position. One thought, however, strange to say, did not occur to him, and that was as to what his poor old mother would think. Dutiful son as Joe had always been, (though wild in some respects), he had not given her a single thought. But his reflections, no doubt, were transient and confused amid the companions by whom he was surrounded.