"You'll make a fine soldier," said the Boardman, as he saw him swagger across to his seat.

"Yes," said the sergeant, "any man that has got it in him, and is steady, and doesn't eat too much and drink too much, may get on in the army. It isn't like it used to be."

"I believe that," said Bob Lazyman.

"The only thing," continued the sergeant, "is, there is really so little to do—there's not work enough."

"That ud suit me," said Bob.

"Ah! but stop," added the sergeant, "the temptations are great—what with the girls—."

"Hooray!" exclaimed Dick; "that beats all—I likes them better than mutton chops."

"Yes," replied the sergeant; "they are all very well in their way; but you know, if a man wants to rise in the army, he must be steady."

"Steady, boys! stea—dy!" shouted Dick

I don't know how far the sergeant was justified, morally, in thus holding out the prospect of riotous living to these hungry men, but I think, all things considered, it was an improvement on the old system of the pressgang, which forced men into the navy. These lads were not bound to believe the recruiting sergeant, and were not obliged to enter into a contract with Her Majesty. At the same time, the alluring prospects were such that if they had been represented as facts in the commercial transactions of life, such is the purity of the law that they would have given rise to much pleading, multifarious points reserved, innumerable summonses at Chambers, and, at least, one new trial.

"Now," said Jack Outofwork, "I tell yer what it is—I don't take no Queen's shilling, for why? it ain't the Queen's—it belongs to the people—I'm for a republic."

'"Well," said the sergeant, "I always like to meet a chap that calls himself a republican, and I'll tell you why. This country is a republic, say what you like, and is presided over by our gracious Queen. And I should like to ask any man in this country—now, just listen, lads, for this is the real question, whether—"

"Now, order," said Lazyman, "I never 'eerd nothing put better."

"Let's have order, gentlemen," said Harry; "chair! chair!"

"All 'tention, sergeant," said Dick.

"I say," continued the sergeant; "let us suppose we got a republic to-morrow; well, we should want a head, or as they say, a president."

"That's good," said half-a-dozen voices.

"Well, what then?" said the sergeant; "Who would you choose? Why, the Queen, to be sure."

Everybody said "The Queen!" And there was such a thumping on the table that all further discourse was prevented for several minutes. At last everyone said it was good, and the sergeant had put it straight.

"Well, look'ee 'ere, lads—I was born among the poor and I don't owe nothing to the upper classes, not even a grudge!"

"Hear! hear! Bravo, Mr. Sergeant!" cried all.

"Well, then; I've got on so far as well as I can, and I'm satisfied; but I'll tell you what I believe our Queen to be—a thorough woman, and loves her people, especially the poor, so much that d—-d if I wouldn't die for her any day—now what d'ye think o' that?"

Everybody thought he was a capital fellow.

"Look, here," he continued, "it isn't because she wears a gold crown, or anything of that sort, nor because a word of her's could make me a field marshal, or a duke, or anything o' that sort, nor because she's rich, but I'll tell you why it is—and it's this—when we're fighting we don't fight for her except as the Queen, and the Queen means the country."

"Hear! hear! hear! hear!"

"Well, we fight for the country—but she loves the soldiers as though they were not the country's but her own flesh and blood, and comes to see 'em in the hospital like a mother, and talks to 'em the same as I do to you, and comforts 'em, and prays for 'em, and acts like the real mother of her people—that's why I'd die for her, and not because she's the Queen of England only."

"Bravo!" said Joe. "Hope I shall soon see her in th' 'orsepittal. It be out 'ere: beant it St. Thomas's."

"I hope you won't, my brave lad," said the sergeant; "but don't tell me about republicanism when we've got such a good Queen; it's a shame and a disgrace to mention it."

"So it be," said Joe; "I'm darned if I wouldn't knock a feller into the middle o' next week as talked like thic. Hooroar for the Queen!"

"And now I'm going to say another thing," continued the sergeant, who really waxed warm with his subject, and struck admiration into his audience by his manner of delivery: may I say that to my mind he was even eloquent, and ought to have been a sergeant-at-law, only that the country would have been the loser by it: and the country, to my mind, has the first right to the services of every citizen. "Just look," said the sergeant, "at the kindness of that—what shall I call her? blessed!—yes, blessed Princess of Wales! Was there ever such a woman? Talk about Jael in the Bible being blessed above women—why I don't set no value upon her; she put a spike through a feller it's true, but it was precious cowardly; but the Princess, she goes here and goes there visiting the sick and poor and homeless, not like a princess, but like a real woman, and that's why the people love her. No man despises a toady more than I do—I'd give him up to the tender mercies of that wife of Heber the Keenite any day; but if the Princess was to say to me, 'Look 'ere, Sergeant, I feel a little low, and should like some nice little excitement just to keep up my spirits and cheer me up a bit'" (several of them thought this style of conversation was a familiar habit with the Princess and Sergeant Goodtale, and that he must be immensely popular with the Royal Family), "well, if she was to say, 'Look here, Sergeant Goodtale, here's a precipice, it ud do me good to see you leap off that,' I should just take off my coat and tuck up my shirt sleeves, and away I should go."

At such unheard of heroism and loyalty there was a general exclamation of enthusiasm, and no one in that company could tell whom he at that moment most admired, the Princess or the Sergeant.

"That's a stunner!" said Joe.

"Princess by name and Princess by nature," replied the sergeant; "and now look'ee here, in proof of what I say, I'm going to give you a toast."

"Hear, hear," said everybody.

"But stop a minute," said the sergeant, "I'm not a man of words without deeds. Have we got anything to drink to the toast?"

All looked in their respective cups and every one said, "No, not a drop!"

Then said the sergeant "We'll have one all rounded for the last. You'll find me as good as my word. What's it to be before we part?"

"Can't beat this 'ere," said Joe, looking into the sergeant's empty glass.

"So say all of us," exclaimed Harry.

"That's it," said all.

"And a song from the sergeant," added Devilmecare.

"Ay, lads, I'll give you a song."

Then came in the pretty maid whom Joe leered at, and the sergeant winked at; and then came in tumblers of the military beverage, and then the sergeant said:

"In all companies this is drunk upstanding, and with hats off, except soldiers, whose privilege it is to keep them on. You need not take yours off, Mr. Wurzel; you are one of Her Majesty's Hussars. Now then all say after me: 'Our gracious Queen; long may she live and blessed be her reign—the mother and friend of her people!'"

The enthusiasm was loud and general, and the toast was drunk with as hearty a relish as ever it was at Lord Mayor's Banquet.

"And now," said the sergeant, "once more before we part—"

"Ah! but the song?" said the Boardman.

"Oh yes, I keep my word. A man, unless he's a man of his word, ought never to wear Her Majesty's uniform!" And then he said:

"The Prince and Princess of Wales and the rest of the Royal Family."

This also was responded to in the same unequivocal manner; and then amid calls of "the sergeant," that officer, after getting his voice in tune, sang the following song:



GOD BLESS OUR DEAR PRINCESS.

There's not a grief the heart can bear But love can soothe its pain; There's not a sorrow or a care It smiles upon in vain. And She sends forth its brightest rays Where darkest woes depress, Where long wept Suffering silent prays— God save our dear Princess!

CHORUS.

She soothes the breaking heart, She comforts in distress; She acts true woman's noblest part. God save our dear Princess She bringeth hope to weary lives So worn by hopeless toil; E'en Sorrow's drooping form revives Beneath her loving smile. Where helpless Age reluctant seeks Its refuge from distress, E'en there Her name the prayer bespeaks God save our dear Princess!

It's not in rank or princely show True Manhood's heart to win; 'Tis Love's sweet sympathetic glow That makes all hearts akin. Though frequent storms the State must stir While Freedom we possess, Our hearts may all beat true to Her, Our own beloved Princess.

The violet gives its sweet perfume Unconscious of its worth; So Love unfolds her sacred bloom And hallows sinful earth; May God her gentle life prolong And all her pathway bless; Be this the nation's fervent song— God save our dear Princess!

Although the language of a song may not always be intelligible to the unlettered hearer, the spirit and sentiment are; especially when it appeals to the emotions through the charms of music. The sergeant had a musical voice capable of deep pathos; and as the note of a bird or the cry of an animal in distress is always distinguishable from every other sound, so the pathos of poetry finds its way where its words are not always accurately understood. It was very observable, and much I thought to the sergeant's great power as a singer, that the first chorus was sung with a tone which seemed to imply that the audience was feeling its way: the second was given with more enthusiasm and vehemence: the third was thumped upon the table as though a drum were required to give full effect to the feelings of the company; while the fourth was shouted with such heartiness that mere singing seemed useless, and it developed into loud hurrahs, repeated again and again; and emphasized by the twirling of hats, the clapping of hands, and stamping of feet.

"What d'ye think o' that?" says the Boardman.

"I'm on," said Lazyman; "give me the shilling, sergeant, if you please?"

"So'm I," said Saunter.

"Hooroar!" shouted the stentorian voice that had erstwhile charmed the audience with Brimstone's sermon.

"Bravo!" said Harry.

"Look'ee here," said Jack Outofwork, "we've had a werry pleasant evenin' together, and I ain't goin' to part like this 'ere; no more walkin' about looking arter jobs for me, I'm your man, sergeant."

"Well," said the sergeant, eyeing his company, "I didn't expect this; a pluckier lot o' chaps I never see; and I'm sure when the Queen sees you it'll be the proudest moment of her life. Why, how tall do you stand, Mr. Lazyman?"

"Six foot one," said he.

"Ha," said the Sergeant, "I thought so. And you, Mr. Outofwork?"

"I don't rightly know," said Jack.

"Well," said the sergeant, "just stand up by the side of me—ha, that will do," he added, pretending to take an accurate survey, "I think I can squeeze you in—it will be a tight fit though."

"I hope you can, Mr. Sergeant," said he.

"Look 'ere," laughed Joe; "We'll kitch 'old of his legs and give him a stretch, won't us, Sergeant?"

And so the bright shillings were given, and the pretty maid's services were again called in; and she said "she never see sich a lot o' plucky fellows in her born days;" and all were about to depart when, as the sergeant was shaking hands with Dick Devilmecare in the most pathetic and friendly manner, as though he were parting from a brother whom he had not met for years, Devilmecare's eyes filled with tears, and he exclaimed,

"Danged if I'll be left out of it, sergeant; give me the shillin'?"

At this moment the portly figure of Mr. Bumpkin again appeared in the doorway!



CHAPTER XXIII.

The famous Don O'Rapley and Mr. Bumpkin spend a social evening at the "Goose."

When Mr. Bumpkin, on this memorable evening, went into Mrs. Oldtimes' parlour to console himself after the fatigues and troubles of the day there were a cheerful fire and a comfortable meal prepared for him. Mr. O'Rapley had promised to spend the evening with him, so that they might talk over the business of the day and the prospects of the coming trial. It was a very singular coincidence, and one that tended to cement the friendship of these two gentlemen, that their tastes both inclined to gin-and-water. And this very house, as appeared from a notice on the outside, was the "noted house for Foolman's celebrated gin."

But as yet Mr. O'Rapley had not arrived; so after his meal Mr. Bumpkin looked into the other room to see how Joe was getting on, for he was extremely anxious to keep his "head witness" straight. "Joe was his mainstay."

I have already related what took place, and the song that Bumpkin sang. The statement of the head witness that he was all right, and that he was up to Mr. Sergeant, to a great extent reassured Mr. Bumpkin: although he felt, keen man that he was, that that soldier was there for the purpose of "ketchin what young men he could to make sogers on 'em; he had 'eerd o' sich things afore:" such were his thoughts as Mr. O'Rapley entered the apartment.

"Dear me, Mr. Bumpkin," said that official, "how very cold it is! how are you, Mrs. Oldtimes? I haven't seen you for an age."

The Don always made that observation when strangers were present.

"Hope you're quite well, sir," said the landlady, with much humility.

"What'll thee please to take, sir?" asked Bumpkin.

"Well, now, I daresay you'll think me remarkable strange, Mr. Bumpkin, but I'm going to say something which I very very seldom indulge in, but it's good, I believe, for indigestion. I will take a little—just a very small quantity—of gin, with some hot water, and a large lump of sugar, to destroy the alcohol."

"Ha!" said the knowing Bumpkin; "that's wot we call gin-and-water in our part of the country. So'll I, Mrs. Oldtimes, but not too much hot water for I. What'll thee smoke, sir?"

"Thank you, one of those cheroots that my lord praised so much the last time we was 'ere."

"If you please, sir," said the landlady, with a very good-natured smile.

"Well," said the O'Rapley, in his patronizing manner; "and how have we got on to-day? let us hear all about it. Come, your good health, Mr. Bumkin, and success to our lawsuit. I call it ours now, for I really feel as interested in it as you do yourself; by-the-bye, what's it all about, Mr. Bumpkin?"

"Well, sir, you see," replied the astute man, "I hardly knows; it beginnd about a pig, but what it's about now, be more un I can tell thee. I think it be salt and trespass."

"You have not enquired?"

"No, I beant; I left un all in the hands o' my lawyer, and I believe he's a goodun, bean't he?"

"Let me see; O dear, yes, a capital man—a very good man indeed, a close shaver."

"Is ur? and that's what I want. I wants thic feller shaved as close to his chin as may be."

"Ah!" said O'Rapley, "and Prigg will shave him, and no mistake. Well, and how did we get on at the Mansion House? First of all, who was against you?—Mrs. Oldtimes, I think I'll just take a very small quantity more, it has quite removed my indigestion—who was against you, sir?"

"Mr. Nimble; but, lor, he worn't nowhere; I had un to rights,—jest gi'e me a leetle more, missus,—he couldn't axe I a question I couldn't answer; and I believe he said as good, for I zeed un talking to the Lord Mayor; it worn't no use to question I."

"You didn't say anything about me?"

"No," answered Bumpkin, in a loud whisper; "I din't; but I did say afore I could stop the word from comin' out o' my mouth as I had a companion, but they didn't ketch it, except that the gentleman under the lord mayor were gwine to ax about thee, and blowed if the counsellor didn't stop un; so that be all right."

"Capital!" exclaimed the great bowler, waving his arm as if in the act of delivery; then, in a whisper, "Did they ask about the woman?"

"Noa—they doan't know nowt about thic—not a word; I was mighty plased at un, for although, as thee be aware, it be the biggest lie as ever wur heard, I wouldn't have my wife hear o' sich to save my life. She be a good wife to I an' allays have a bin; but there I thee could clear me in a minute, if need be, sir."

"Yes, but you see," said the artful Don, "if I was to appear, it would make a sensational case of it in a minute and fill all the papers."

"Would ur now? Morn't do that nuther; but, wot d'ye think, sir? As I wur leavin' the Cooart, a gemman comes up and he says, says he, 'I spoase, sir, you don't want this thing put in the papers?' How the dooce he knowed that, I can't make out, onless that I wouldn't say where I lived, for the sake o' Nancy; no, nor thee couldn't ha' dragged un out o' me wi' horses."

"Yes?" said the Don, interrogatively.

"'Well,' says I, 'no, I don't partickler want it in.' I thought I'd say that, don't thee zee (with a wink), 'cos he shouldn't think I were eager like."

"Exactly,"

"Well, this 'ere gemman says, says he, 'It don't matter to me, sir, whether it's in or not, but if thee don't want it in, I'll keep it out, that's all. It will pay I better p'raps to put un in.'

"'And who med thee be, sir?' I axed.

"'Only the Times', said the gemman, 'that's all.' Then, turning to his friend, he said, 'Come on, Jack, the gemman wants it in, so we'll have it in, every word, and where he comes from too, and all about the gal; we know all about it, don't us, Jack?'"

"Ha!" said the O'Rapley, blowing out a large cloud, and fixing his eye on the middle stump.

"Well," continued Bumpkin, "thee could ha' knocked I down wi' a feather. How the doose they knowed where I comed from I can't make out; but here wur I as cloase to the man as writes the Times as I be to thee."

The O'Rapley nodded his head knowingly several times.

"'Well, and how much do thee charge to keep un out?' seys I. 'Don't be too hard upon me, I be only a poor man.'

"'We have only one charge,' says the Times, 'and that is half a guinea.'

"'Spoase we say seven and six,' sess I.

"'That,' seys the Times, 'wouldn't keep your name out, and I suppose you don't want that in?' 'Very well,' I sess, takin' out my leather bag and handin' him the money; 'this'll keep un out, wool ur?'

"'Sartainly,' says he; and then his friend Jack says, 'My fee be five shillings, sir.' 'And who be thee?' says I. 'I'm the Telegrarf,' seys he. 'The devil thee be?' I sess, 'I've eerd tell on ee.' 'Largest calculation in the world,' he says; 'and, if thee like,' he says, 'I can take the Daily Noos and Stanard money, for I don't see 'em here jist now; it'll be five shillings apiece.'

"'Well,' I sess, 'this be rum business, this; if I takes a quantity like this, can't it be done a little cheaper?'

"'No,' he says; 'we stands too high for anything o' that sort. Thee can 'ave it or leave it.'

"'Very well,' I sess; 'then, if there's no option, there's the money.' And with that I handed un the fifteen shillings.

"'Then,' says the Times, 'we'd better look sharp, Jack, or else we shan't be in time to keep it out.' And wi' that they hurried off as fast as they could. I will say't they didn't let the grass grow under their feet."

"And why," enquired the Don, with an amused smile, "were you so anxious to keep it out of the Times? Mrs. Bumpkin doesn't read the Times, does she?"

"Why, no; but then the Squoire tak it in, and when eve done wi un he lends un to the Doctor, Mr. Gossip; and when he gets hold o' anything, away it goes to the Parish Clerk, Mr. Jeerum, and then thee med as well hire the town crier at once."

"I see; but if you'll excuse me, Mr. Bumpkin, I will give you a bit of information that may be of service."

"Thankee, sir; will thee jist tak a little more to wet the tother eye like."

"Well, really," replied O'Rapley, "it is long past my hour of nocturnal repose."

"What, sir? I doant ondustand."

"I mean to say that I generally hook it off to bed before this."

"Zackly; but we'll 'ave another. Your leave, sir, thee was going to tell I zummat."

"O yes," said Mr. O'Rapley, with a wave of the hand in imitation of the Lord Chief Justice. "I was going to say that those two men were a couple of rogues."

Mr. Bumpkin paused in the act of passing the tumbler to his lips, like one who feels he has been artfully taken in.

"You've been done, sir!" said Mr. O'Rapley emphatically, "that man who said he was the Times was no more the Times than you're Punch."

"Nor thic Telegrarf feller!"

"No. And you could prosecute them. And I'll tell you what you could prosecute them for." Mr. Bumpkin looked almost stupified.

"I'll tell you what these villains have been guilty of; they've been guilty of obtaining money by false pretences, and conspiring to obtain money by false pretences."

"Have um?" said Bumpkin.

"And you can prosecute them. You've only got to go and put the matter in the hands of the police, and then go to some first-rate solicitor who attends police courts; now I can recommend you one that will do you justice. I should like to see these rascals well punished."

"And will this fust-rate attorney do un for nothin'?"

"Why, hardly; any more than you would sell him a pig for nothing."

"Then I shan't prosekit," said Mr. Bumpkin; "the devil's in't, I be no sooner out o' one thing than I be into another—why I beant out o' thic watch job yet, for I got to 'pear at the Old Bailey on the twenty-fourth."

"O, committed for trial, was he?" exclaimed the Don.

"Sure wur ur," said Mr. Bumpkin triumphantly—"guilty!"

Now I perceived that the wily Mr. O'Rapley did not recommend Bumpkin to obtain the services of a solicitor to conduct his prosecution in this case; and I apprehend for this reason, that the said solicitor being conscientious, would unquestionably recommend and insist that Mr. Bumpkin's evidence at the Old Bailey should be supported by that of the Don himself. So Mr. Bumpkin was left to the tender mercies of the Public Prosecutor or a criminal tout, or the most inexperienced of "soup" instructed counsel, as the case might be, but of which matters at present I have no knowledge as I have no dreams of the future.

Then Mr. Bumpkin said, "By thy leave, worthy Mr. O'Rapley, I will just see what my head witness be about: he be a sharp lad enow, but wants a dale o' lookin arter."



CHAPTER XXIV.

Don O'Rapley expresses his views of the policy of the legislature in not permitting dominoes to be played in public houses.

When Mr. Bumpkin returned to the cosy parlour, his face was red and his teeth were set. He was so much agitated indeed, that instead of addressing Mr. O'Rapley, he spoke to Mrs. Oldtimes, as though in her female tenderness he might find a more sincere and sympathetic adviser.

Mr. Bumpkin was never what you would call an eloquent or fluent speaker: his Somersetshire brogue was at times difficult of comprehension. He certainly was not fluent when he said to Mrs. Oldtimes: "Why thic—there—damn un Mrs. Oldtimes if he beant gwine and never zeed zich a thing in my bornd days—"

"Why what ever in the name of goodness gracious is the matter?" asked the landlady.

"Why thic there head witness o' mine: a silly-brained—Gor forgive me that iver I should spake so o' un, for he wor allays a good chap; and I do b'leeve he've got moore sense than do any thing o' that kind."

"What's the matter? what's the matter?" again enquired Mrs. Oldtimes.

"Why he be playin' dominoes wi thic Sergeant."

"O," said the landlady, "I was afraid something had happened. We're not allowed to know anything about dominoes or card-playing in our house—the Law forbids our knowing it, Mr. Bumpkin; so, if you please, we will not talk about it—I wish to conduct my house as it always has been for the last five-and-twenty years, in peace and quietness and respectability, Mr. Bumpkin, which nobody can never say to the contrairy. It was only the last licensing day Mr. Twiddletwaddle, the chairman of the Bench, said as it were the best conducted house in Westminster."

Now whether it was that the report of this domino playing was made in the presence of so high a dignitary of the law as Mr. O'Rapley, or from any other cause, I cannot say, but Mrs. Oldtimes was really indignant, and positively refused to accept any statement which involved the character of her establishment.

"I think," she continued, addressing Mr. O'Rapley, "you have known this house for some time, sir."

"I have," said O'Rapley. "I have passed it every evening for the last ten years."

"Ah now, to be sure—you hear that, Mr. Bumpkin. What do you think of that?"

"Never saw anything wrong, I will say that."

"Never a game in my house, if I knows it; and what's more, I won't believe it until I sees it."

"Ockelar demonstration, that's the law," said the Don.

Mr. Bumpkin's excitement was absolutely merged in that of the landlady, whom he had so innocently provoked. He stared as the parties continued their wordy justification of this well-ruled household like one dreaming with his eyes open. No woman could have made more ado about her own character than Mrs. Oldtimes did respecting that of her house. But then, the one could be estimated in money, while the other possessed but an abstract value.

"I believe," she repeated, "that cards or dominoes has never been played in my house since here I've been, or since the law has been what it is."

"I be wery sorry," said the penitent Bumpkin; "I warn't aweare I wur doing anythin' wrong."

"It's unlawful, you see, to play," said the Don; "and consequently they dursn't play. Now, why is it unlawful? Because Public Houses is for drinking, not for amusement. Now, sir, Drink is the largest tax-payer we've got—therefore Drink's an important Industry. Set people to work drinking and you get a good Rewenue, which keeps up the Army and Navy—the Navy swims in liquor, sir—but let these here Perducers of the Rewenue pause for the sake o' playing dominoes, or what not, and what's the consequence? You check this important industry—therefore don't by any manner of means interrupt drinking. It's an agreeable ockepation and a paying one."

"Well done, sir," said Oldtimes, from the corner of the fireplace, where he was doing his best with only one mouth and one constitution to keep up the Army and Navy. A patriotic man was Oldtimes.

"Drink," continued O'Rapley, "is the most powerful horgsilery the Government has."

"Ah!" said Mr. Bumpkin, not knowing what a horgsilery was; "now thee've gone a-head o' me, sir. Thee're a larned man, Mr. O'Rapley, and I beant much of a schollard; will thee please to tell I what a horgs—what wur it?"

"Horgsilery," said Mr. O'Rapley.

"Horsgilly—ah! so twur. Well, by thy leave, worthy sir, will thee be so kind as to tell I be it anything like a hogshead?"

"Well," said Mr. O'Rapley, "its more like a corkscrew: the taxes of the country would be bottled up as tight as champagne and you couldn't get 'em out without this corkscrew."

"But I worn't spakin' about taxes when I spak of dominoes; what I wur alludin' to wur thic Joe been drawed in to goo for a soger."

"Lor, bless you," said Mrs. Oldtimes, "many a man as good as Joe have listed before now and will again."

"Mayhap," said Bumpkin; "but he wurn't my 'ead witness and didn't work for I. Joe be my right hand man, although I keeps un down and tells un he beant fit for nothin'."

"Ha," said the Don, "he's not likely to go for a soldier, I think, if it's that good-looking young chap I saw with the kicking-straps on."

"Kickin'-straps," said Bumpkin; "haw! haw! haw! That be a good un. Well he told I he wur up to un and I think ur be: he'll be a clever feller if ur gets our Joe. Why Nancy ud goo amost out o' her mind. And now, sir, will thee 'ave any moore?"

Mr. O'Rapley, in the most decisive but polite manner, refused. He had quite gone out of his way as it was in the hope of serving Mr. Bumpkin. He was sure that the thief would be convicted, and as he rose to depart seized his friend's hand in the most affectionate manner. Anything he could do for him he was sure he would do cheerfully, at any amount of self-sacrifice—he would get up in the night to serve him.

"Thankee," said Bumpkin; but he had hardly spoken when he was startled by the most uproarious cheers from the taproom. And then he began again about the folly of young men getting into the company of recruiting sergeants.

"Look here," said the Don, confidentially, "take my advice—say nothing—a still tongue makes a wise head; to persuade a man not to enter the army is tantamount to advising him to desert. If you don't mind, you may lay yourself open to a prosecution."

"Zounds!" exclaimed Mr. Bumpkin, "it seem to me a man in Lunnon be every minit liable to a prosecution for zummat. I hope sayin' that beant contempt o' Coourt, sir."

Mr. O'Rapley was silent—his head drooped towards Mr. Bumpkin in a semi-conscious manner, and he nodded three consecutive times: called for another "seroot," lit it after many efforts, and again assuring Mr. Bumpkin that he would do all he could towards facilitating his triumph over Snooks, was about to depart, when his friend asked him, confidentially, whether he had not better be at the Old Bailey when the trial came on, in case of its being necessary to call him.

"Shurel not!" hiccupped the Don. Then he pointed his finger, and leering at Bumpkin, repeated, "Shurel not;—jus swell cll Ch. Jussiself"—which being interpreted meant, "Certainly not, you might just as well call the Chief Justice himself."

"Pr'aps he'll try un?" said Bumpkin.

"Noer won't—noer won't: Chansy Juge mos likel Massr Rolls."



CHAPTER XXV.

In spite of all warnings, Joe takes his own part, not to be persuaded on one side or the other—affecting scene between Mr. Bumpkin and his old servant.

"Whatever can that there shoutin' be for, Mrs. Oldtimes—they be terrible noisy."

"O," said the landlady, "somebody else has listed."

"I hope it beant that silly Joe. I warned un two or three times agin thic feller."

"There have been several to-night," said the landlady, who had scarcely yet recovered from the insinuations against the character of her house.

"How does thee know thic, my dear lady?"

"O, because Miss Prettyface have been in and out sewin' the colours on all the evening, that's all. Sergeant Goodtale be the best recrootin' sergeant ever come into a town—he'd list his own father!"

"Would ur, now?" said Bumpkin. "Beant thee afeard o' thy husband bein' took?"

Mrs. Oldtimes shrieked with laughter, and said she wished he would list Tom, for he wasn't any good except to sit in the chimney corner and smoke and drink from morning to night.

"And keep up th' Army," growled the husband

"Ha, keep up the Army, indeed," said Mrs. Oldtimes; "you do your share in that way, I grant."

Now it was quite manifest that that last cheer from the taproom was the herald of the company's departure. There was a great scuffling and stamping of feet as of a general clearing out, and many "good nights." Then the big manly voice of the Sergeant said: "Nine o'clock, lads; nine o'clock; don't oversleep yourselves; we shall have chops at eight. What d'ye say to that, Mrs. Oldtimes?"

"As you please, Sergeant; but there's a nice piece of ham, if any would like that."

"Ha!" said the Sergeant; "now, how many would like ham?"

"I'se for a chop," said Joe, working his mouth as if he would get it in training.

"Right," said the Sergeant, "we'll see about breakfast in the morning. But you know, Mrs. Oldtimes, we like to start with a good foundation."

And with three cheers for the Sergeant the recruits left the house: all except Joe, who occupied his old room.

After they were gone, and while Mr. Bumpkin was confidentially conversing with the landlord in the chimney corner, he was suddenly aroused by the indomitable Joe bursting into the room and performing a kind of dance or jig, the streamers, meanwhile, in his hat, flowing and flaunting in the most audaciously military manner.

"Halloa! halloa! zounds! What be th' meaning o' all this? Why, Joe! Joe! thee's never done it, lad! O dear! dear!"

There were the colours as plain as possible in Joe's hat, and there was a wild unmeaning look in his eyes. It seemed already as if the old intimacy between him and his master were at an end. His memory was more a thing of the future than the past: he recollected the mutton chops that were to come. And I verily believe it was brightened by the dawn of new hopes and aspirations. There was an awakening sense of individuality. Hitherto he had been the property of another: he had now exercised the right of ownership over himself; and although that act had transferred him to another master, it had seemed to give him temporary freedom, and to have conferred upon him a new existence.

Man is, I suppose, what his mind is, and Joe's mind was as completely changed as if he had been born into a different sphere. The moth comes out of the grub, the gay Hussar out of the dull ploughman.

"Why, Joe, Joe," said his old master. "Thee's never gone an' listed, has thee, Joe?"

"Lookee 'ere, maister," said the recruit, taking off his hat and spreading out the colours—"Thee sees these here, maister?"

"Thee beant such a fool, Joe, I knows thee beant—thee's been well brought oop—and I knows thee beant gwine to leave I and goo for a soger!"

"I be listed, maister."

"Never!" exclaimed Mr. Bumpkin. "I wunt b'lieve it, Joe."

"Then thee must do tother thing, maister. I tellee I be listed; now, what's thee think o' that?"

"That thee be a fool," said Mr. Bumpkin, angrily; "thee be a silly-brained—."

"Stop a bit, maister, no moore o' that. I beant thy sarvant now. I be a Queen's man—I be in the Queen's sarvice."

"A pooty Queen's man thee be, surely. Why look at thic hair all down over thy face, and thee be as red as a poppy."

Now I perceived that although neither master nor man was in such a state as could be described as "intoxicated," yet both were in that semi-beatific condition which may be called sentimental.

"Lookee 'ere, maister," continued Joe.

"And lookee here," said Mr. Bumpkin, "didn't I come out to thee two or three times, and call thee out and tell 'ee to tak' heed to thic soger feller, for he wur up to no good? Did I Joe, or did I not?"

"Thee did, maister."

"Well, an' now look where thee be; he've regler took thee in, thee silly fool."

"No, he beant; for he wouldn't 'ave I at fust, and told I to goo and ax my mither. No ses I, I'll goo to the divil afore I be gwine to ax mither. I beant a child, I ses."

"But thee's fond o' thy poor old mither, Joe; I knows thee be, and sends her a shillin' a week out o' thy wages; don't thee, Joe?"

This was an awkward thrust, and pricked the lad in his most sensitive part. His under-lip drooped, his mouth twitched, and his eyes glistened. He was silent.

"Where'll thy poor old mither get a shilling a week from noo, Joe? That's what I wants to know."

Joe drew his sleeve over his face, but bore up bravely withal. He wasn't going to cry, not he.

"Thee beest a silly feller to leave a good ooame and nine shillin' a week to goo a sogerin; and when thee was out o' work, there were allays a place for thee, Joe, at the fireside: now, warnt there, Joe?"

"Lookee 'ere, maister, I be for betterin' myself."

"Betterin' thyself? who put that into thy silly pate? thic sergeant, I bleeve."

"So ur did; not by anything ur said, but to see un wi beef steaks and ingons for supper, while I doan't 'ave a mouthful o' mate once a week, and work like a oarse."

"Poor silly feller—O dear, dear! whatever wool I tell Nancy and thy poor mither. What redgimen be thee in, Joe?"

"Hooroars!"

"Hooroars! hoo-devils!" and I perceived that Mr. Bumpkin's eyes began to glisten as he more and more realized the fact that Joe was no more to him—"thee manest the oosors, thee silly feller; a pooty oosor thee'll make!"

"I tellee what," said Joe, whose pride was now touched, "Maister Sergeant said I wur the finest made chap he ever see."

"That's ow ur gulled thee, Joe."

"Noa didn't; I went o' my own free will. No man should persuade I—trust Joe for thic: couldn't persuade I to goo, nor yet not to goo."

"That's right," chimed in Miss Prettyface, with her sweet little voice.

"And thee sewed the colours on; didn't thee, Miss?"

"I did," answered the young lady.

"Joe," said Mr. Bumpkin, "I be mortal sorry for thee; what'll I do wirout thy evidence? Lawyer Prigg say thee's the most wallible witness for I."

"Lookee 'ere, maister, ere we bin 'anging about for weeks and weeks and no forrerder so far as I can see. When thy case'll come on I don't bleeve no man can tell; but whensomdever thee wants Joe, all thee've got to do is to write to the Queen, and she'll gie I leave."

"O thee silly, igerant ass!" said Mr. Bumpkin; "I can't help saying it, Joe—the Queen doan't gie leave, it be the kernel. I know zummut o' sogerin, thee see; I were in th' militia farty year agoo: but spoase thee be away—abraird? How be I to get at thee then?"

"Ha! if I be away in furren parts, and thy case be in the list, I doant zee—"

"Thee silly feller, thee'll ha to goo fightin' may be."

"Well," said Joe, "I loikes fightin'."

"Thee loikes fightin'! what's thee know about fightin'? never fit anything in thy life but thic boar-pig, when he got I down in the yard. O, Joe, I can't bear the thought o thee goin'."

"Noa, but Maister Sergeant says thee jist snicks off the 'eads of the enemy like snickin' off the tops o' beans."

"Yes, but ow if thee gets thine snicked off?"

"Well, if mine be snicked off, it wunt be no use to I, and I doan't care who has un when I ha' done wi un: anybody's welcome as thinks he can do better with un than I, or 'as moore right to un."

"Joe, Joe, whatever'll them there pigs do wirout thee, and thic there bull 'll goo out of his mind—he wur mighty fond o' thee, Joe—thee couldst do anything wi un: couldn't ur, Joe?"

"Ha!" said the recruit; "that there bull ud foller I about anywhere, and so ur would Missis."

"Then there be Polly!"

"Ha, that there Polly, she cocked her noase at I, maister, becos she thought I worn't good enough; but wait till she sees me in my cloase; she wunt cock her noase at I then, I'll warrant."

"Well, Joe, as thee maks thy bed so thee must lie on un, lad. I wish thee well, Joe."

"Never wronged thee, did I, maister?"

"Never; no, never." And at this point master and man shook hands affectionately.

"Gie my love to thic bull," said Joe. "I shall come down as soon as evir I can: I wish they'd let me bring my oarse."

"Joe, thee ha' had too much to drink, I know thee has; and didn't I warn thee, Joe? Thee can't say I didn't warn thee."

"Thee did, maister, I'll allays say it; thee warned I well—but lor that there stuff as the Sergeant had, it jist shoots through thee and livins thee oop for all the world as if thee got a young ooman in thee arms in a dancin' booth at the fair."

"Ha, Joe, it were drink done it."

"Noa, noa, never!—good-night, maister, and God bless thee—thee been a good maister, and I been a good sarvant. I shall allays think o' thee and Missis, too."

Here I saw that Mr. Bumpkin, what with his feelings and what with his gin-and-water, was well nigh overcome with emotion. Nor was it to be wondered at; he was in London a stranger, waiting for a trial with a neighbour, with whom for years he had been on friendly terms; his hard savings were fast disappearing; his stock and furniture were mortgaged; some of it had been sold, and his principal witness and faithful servant was now gone for a soldier. In addition to all this, poor Mr. Bumpkin could not help recalling the happiness of his past life, his early struggles, his rigid self-denial, his pleasure as the modest savings accumulated—not so much occasioned by the sordid desire of wealth, as the nobler wish to be independent. Then there was Mrs. Bumpkin, who naturally crossed his mind at this miserable moment in his existence—at home by herself—faithful, hardworking woman, who believed not only in her husband's wisdom, but in his luck. She had never liked this going to law, and would much rather have given Snooks the pig than it should have come about; yet she could not help believing that her husband must be right come what may. What would she think of Joe's leaving them in this way? All this passed through the shallow mind of the farmer as he prepared for bed. And there was no getting away from his thoughts, try as he would. As he lay on his bed there passed before his mind the old farm-house, with its elm tree; and the barnyard, newly littered down with the sweet smelling fodder; the orchard blossoms smiling in the morning sunshine; the pigs routing through the straw; the excited ducks and the swifter fowls rushing towards Mrs. Bumpkin as she came out to shake the tablecloth; the sleek and shining cows; the meadows dotted all over with yellow buttercups; the stately bull feeding in the distance by himself; the lazy stream that pursued its even course without a quarrel or a lawsuit; all these, and a thousand other remembrances of home, passed before the excited and somewhat distempered vision of the farmer on this unhappy night. Had he been a criminal waiting his trial he could not have been more wretched. At length he endeavoured to console himself by thinking of Snooks: tried to believe that victory over that ill-disposed person would repay the trouble and anxiety it cost him to achieve. But no, not even revenge was sweet under his present circumstances. It is always an apple of ashes at the best; but, weighed now against the comforts and happiness of a peaceful life, it was worse than ashes—it was poison.

* * * * *

Here I awoke.

"Now," said my wife, "is it not just as I told you? I knew that artful Sergeant would enlist poor stupid Joe?"

"O," quoth I, "have I been talking again?"

"More than ever; and I am very sorry Joe has deserted his kind master. I am afraid now he will lose his case."

"I am not concerned about that at present; my work is but to dream, not to prophesy events. I hope Mr. Bumpkin will win, but nothing is so uncertain as the Law."

"And why should that be? Law should be as certain as the Multiplication Table."

"Ah," sighed I, "but—"

"A man who brings an action must be right or wrong," interrupted my wife.

"Yes," said I, "and sometimes he's both; and one judge will take one view of his case—his conduct out of Court, and his demeanour in—while another judge will take another; why, I have known a man lose his case through having a wart upon his nose."

"Gracious!" exclaimed my wife, "is it possible?"

"Yes," quoth I; "and another through having a twitch in his eye. Then you may have a foolish jury, who take a prejudice against a man. For instance, if a lawyer brings an action, he can seldom get justice before a common jury; and so if he be sued. A blue ribbon man on the jury will be almost sure to carry his extreme virtue to the border of injustice against a publican. Masters decide against workmen, and so on."

"Well, Mr. Bumpkin is not a lawyer, or a publican, or a blue ribbon man, so I hope he'll win."

"I don't hope anything about it," I replied. "I shall note down what takes place; I don't care who wins."

"When will his case at the Old Bailey come on? I think that's the term you use."

"It will be tried next week."

"He is sure to punish that wicked thief who stole his watch."

"One would think so: much will depend upon the way Mr. Bumpkin gives his evidence; much on the way in which the thief is defended; a good deal on the ability of the Counsel for the Prosecution; and very much on the class of man they get in the jury box."

"But the case is so clear."

"Yes, to us who know all about it; but you have to make it clear to the jury."

"There's the watch found upon the man. Why, dear me, what can be clearer or plainer than that?"

"True; that's Mr. Bumpkin's evidence."

"And Mr. Bumpkin saw him take it."

"That's Bumpkin again."

"Then Mr. O'Rapley was with him."

"Did you not hear that he is not to be called; the Don doesn't want to be seen in the affair."

"Well, I feel certain he will win. I shall not believe in trial by jury if they let that man off."

"You don't know what a trial at the Old Bailey or Quarter Sessions is. I don't mean at the Old Bailey before a real Common Law judge, but a Chancery judge. I once heard a counsel, who was prosecuting a man for passing bad money, interrupt a recorder in his summing up, and ask him to tell the jury there was evidence of seven bad florins having been found in the prisoner's boot. As guilty knowledge was the gist of the offence, this seemed somewhat important. The learned young judge, turning to the jury, said, in a hesitating manner, 'Well, really, gentlemen, I don't know whether that will affect your judgment in any way; there is the evidence, and you may consider it if you please.'"

"One more thing I should like to ask."

"By all means."

"Why can't they get Mr. Bumpkin's case tried?"

"Because there is no system. In the County Court, where a judge tries three times as many cases in a day as any Superior judge, cases are tried nearly always on the day they are set down for. At the Criminal Courts, where every case is at least as important as any Civil case, everyone gets tried without unnecessary delay. In the Common Law Courts it's very much like hunt the slipper—you hardly ever know which Court the case is in for five minutes together. Then they sit one day and not another, to the incalculable expense of the suitors, who may come up from Devonshire to-night, and, after waiting a week, go back and return again to town at the end of the following month."

"But, now that O'Rapley has taken the matter up, is there not some hope?"

"Well, he seems to have as much power as anyone."

"Then I hope he'll exert it; for it's a shame that this poor man should be kept waiting about so long. I quite feel for him: there really ought not to be so much delay in the administration of justice."

"A dilatory administration of justice amounts too often to a denial of it altogether. It always increases the expense, and often results in absolute ruin."

"I wonder men don't appoint someone when they fell out to arbitrate between them."

"They often do, and too frequently, after all the expense of getting ready for trial has been incurred, the case is at last sent to the still more costly tribunal called a reference. Many matters cannot be tried by a jury, but many can be that are not; one side clamouring for a reference in order to postpone the inevitable result; the other often obliged to submit and be defeated by mere lapse of time."

"It seems an endless sort of business."

"Not quite; the measure of it is too frequently the length of the purse on the one side or the other. A Railway Company, who has been cast in damages for 1,000 pounds, can soon wear out a poor plaintiff. One of the greatest evils of modern litigation is the frequency with which new trials are granted."

"Lawyers," said my wife, "are not apparently good men of business."

"They are not organizers."

"It wants such a man as General Wolseley."

"Precisely." And here I felt the usual drowsiness which the subject invariably produces. So I dreamed again.



CHAPTER XXVI.

Morning reflections—Mrs. Oldtimes proves herself to be a great philosopher—the departure of the recruits to be sworn in.

And as I dreamed, methought what a strange paradox is human nature. How often the night's convivialities are followed by despondent morning reflections! In the evening we grow valiant over the inspiriting converse and the inspiring glass; in the morning we are tame and calculating. The artificial gaslight disappears, and the sober, grey morning breaks in upon our reason. If the sunshine only ripened one-half the good resolves and high purposes formed at night over the social glass, what a harvest of good deeds there would be! Yes, and if the evening dissipations did not obliterate the good resolves of the morning, which we so often form as a protection against sin and sorrow, what happy creatures we should be!

Methought I looked into a piece of three-cornered glass, which was resting on a ledge of the old wall in the room where Joe was sleeping, and that I read therein the innermost thoughts of this country lad. And I saw that he awoke to a very dreadful sense of the realities of his new position; that, one after another, visions of other days passed before his mind's eye as he lay gazing at the dormer window of his narrow chamber. What a profound stillness there was! How different from the roystering glee of the previous night! It was a stillness that seemed to whisper of home; of his poor old mother; of the green sward lane that led to the old farm; of the old oak tree, where the owls lived, and ghosts were said to take up their quarters; of the stile where, of a Sunday morning, he used to smoke his pipe with Jack, and Ned, and Charley; where he had often stood to see Polly go by to church; and he knew that, notwithstanding she would not so much as look at him, he loved her down to the very sole of her boot; and would stand and contemplate the print of her foot after she had passed; he didn't know why, for there was nothing in it, after all. No, Joe, nothing in it—it was in you; that makes all the difference. And the voice whispered to him of sunny days in the bright fields, when he held the plough, and the sly old rook would come bobbing and pecking behind him; and the little field-mouse would flit away from its turned up nest, frightened to death, as if it were smitten with an earthquake; and the skylark would dart up over his head, letting fall a song upon him, as though it were Heaven's blessing. Then the voice spoke of the noontide meal under the hedge in the warm sunshine, or in the shade of the cool spreading tree; of the horses feeding close up alongside the hedge; of the going home in the evening, and the warm fireside, and the rustic song, and of the thousand and one beloved associations that he was leaving and casting behind him for ever. But then, again, he thought of "bettering his condition," of getting on in the world, of the smart figure he should look in the eyes of Polly, who would be sure now to like him better than she liked the baker. He never could see what there was in the baker that any girl should care for; and he thought of what the Sergeant had said about asking his mother's leave. And then he pondered on the beef steaks and onions and mutton chops, and other glories of a soldier's life; so he got up with a brave, resolute heart to face the world like a man, although it was plainly visible that sorrow struggled in his eyes.

There was just one tear for old times, the one tear that showed how very human Joe was beneath all the rough incrustations with which ignorance and poverty had enveloped him.

As he was sousing his head and neck in a pail of cold water in the little backyard of the Inn, the thought occurred to him,—

"I wonder whether or no we 'gins these 'ere mutton chops for brakfast to-day or arter we're sweared in. I expects not till arter we're sweared in."

Then his head went into the pail with a dash, as if that was part of the swearing-in process. As it came out he was conscious of a twofold sensation, which it may not be out of place to describe: the sensation produced by the water, which was refreshing in the highest degree, and the sensation produced by what is called wind, which was also deliciously refreshing; and it was in this wise. Borne along upon the current of air which passed through the kitchen, there was the most odoriferous savour of fried bacon that the most luxurious appetite could enjoy. It was so beautifully and voluptuously fragrant that Joe actually stopped while in the act of soaping his face that he might enjoy it. No one, I think, will deny that it must have been an agreeable odour that kept a man waiting with his eyes fall of soap for half a minute.

"That beant amiss," thought Joe; "I wonder whether it be for I."

The problem was soon solved, for as he entered the kitchen with a face as bright and ruddy almost as the sun when he comes up through a mist, he saw the table was laid out for five, and all the other recruits had already assembled. There was not one who did not look well up to his resolution, and I must say a better looking lot of recruits were never seen: they were tall, well made, healthy, good-looking fellows.

Now Mrs. Oldtimes was busy at the kitchen fire; the frying-pan was doing its best to show what could be done for Her Majesty's recruits. He was hissing bravely, and seemed every now and then to give a louder and heartier welcome to the company. As Joe came in I believe it fairly gave a shout of enthusiasm, a kind of hooray. In addition to the rashers that were frying, there was a large dish heaped up in front of the fire, so that it was quite clear there would be no lack, however hungry the company might be.

Then they sat down and every one was helped. Mrs. Oldtimes was a woman of the world; let me also state she had a deep insight into human nature. She knew the feelings of her guests at this supreme moment, and how cheaply they could be bought off at their present state of soldiering. She was also aware that courage, fortitude, firmness, and the higher qualities of the soul depend so much upon a contented stomach, that she gave every one of her guests some nice gravy from the pan.

It was a treat to see them eat. The Boardman was terrific, so was Jack. Harry seemed to have a little more on his mind than the others, but this did not interfere with his appetite; it simply affected his manner of appeasing it. He seemed to be in love, for his manner was somewhat reserved. At length the Sergeant came in, looking so cheerful and radiant that one could hardly see him and not wish to be a soldier. Then his cheery "Well, lads; good morning, lads," was so home-like that you almost fancied soldiering consisted in sitting by a blazing kitchen fire on a frosty morning and eating fried bacon. What a spirit his presence infused into the company! He detected at a glance the down-heartedness of Harry, and began a story about his own enlistment years ago, when the chances for a young man of education were nothing to what they are now. The story seemed exactly to fit the circumstances of the case and cheered Harry up wonderfully. Breakfast was nearly finished when the Sergeant, after filling his pipe, said:

"Comrades, what do you say; shall I wait till you've quite finished?"

"No, no, Sergeant; no, no," said all.

Oh! the fragrance of that pipe! And the multiplied fragrance of all the pipes! Then came smiling Miss Prettyface to see if their ribbons were all right; and the longing look of all the recruits was quite an affecting sight; and the genial motherly good-natured best wishes of Mrs. Oldtimes were very welcome. All these things were pleasant, and proved Mrs. Oldtimes' philosophy to be correct—if you want to develop the higher virtues in a man, feed him.

Then came the word of command in the tone of an invitation to a pleasure party: "Now, lads, what do you say?" And off went Harry, upright as if he had been drilled; off went Bill, trying to shake off the deal boards in which he had been sandwiched for a year and a half; off went Bob as though he had found an agreeable occupation at last; off went Devilmecare as though the war was only just the other side of the road; off went Jack as though it mattered nothing to him whether it was the Army or the Church; and, just as Mr. Bumpkin looked out of the parlour window, off went his "head witness," swaggering along in imitation of the Sergeant, with the colours streaming from his hat as though any honest employment was better than hanging about London for a case to "come on."



CHAPTER XXVII.

A letter from home.

"I wonder," said Mrs. Oldtimes, "who this letter be for; it have been 'ere now nigh upon a week, and I'm tired o' seein' it."

Miss Prettyface took the letter in her hand and began, as best she could, for the twentieth time to endeavour to decipher the address. It was very much blotted and besmeared, and presented a very remarkable specimen of caligraphy. The most legible word on it seemed "Gouse."

"There's nobody here of that name," said the young lady. "Do you know anybody, Mr. Bumpkin, of the name of Gouse?"

"Devil a bit," said he, taking the letter in his hands, and turning it over as if it had been a skittle-ball.

"The postman said it belonged here," said Mrs. Oldtimes, "but I can't make un out."

"I can't read the postmark," said Miss Prettyface.

Mr. Bumpkin put on a large pair of glasses and examined the envelope with great care.

"I think you've got un upside down," said Mrs. Oldtimes.

"Ah! so ur be," replied the farmer, turning it over several times. "Why," he continued, "here be a b—and a u, beant it? See if that beant a u, Miss, your eyes be better un mine; they be younger."

"O yes, that's a u," said Miss Prettyface, "and an m."

"And that spell bum."

"But stop," said Miss Prettyface, "here's a p."

"That's bump," said Mrs. Oldtimes; "we shall get at something presently."

"Why," exclaimed Bumpkin, "I be danged if I doant think it be my old 'ooman's writin': but I beant sure. That be the way ur twists the tail of ur y's and g's, I'll swear; and lookee 'ere, beant this k i n?"

"I think it is," said the maid.

"Ah, then, thee med be sure that be Bumpkin, and the letter be for I."

"Yes," said the young lady, "and that other word which looks more like Grouse is meant for Goose, the sign of the house."

"Sure be un," exclaimed Mr. Bumpkin, "and Nancy ha put Bumpkin and Goose all in one line, when ur ought to ha made two lines ov un. Now look at that, that letter might ha been partickler."

"So it may be as it is," said Mrs. Oldtimes; "it's from Mrs. Bumpkin, no doubt. Aren't you going to open it?"

"I think I wool," said Bumpkin, turning the letter round and round, and over and over, as though there was some special private entrance which could only be discovered by the closest search. At length Mrs. Oldtimes' curiosity was gratified, for he found a way in, and drew out the many folded letter of the most difficult penmanship that ever was subjected to mortal gaze. It was not that the writing was illegible, but that the spelling was so extraordinary, and the terms of expression so varied. Had I to interpret this letter without the aid of a dream I should have a long and difficult task before me. But it is the privilege of dreamers to see things clearly and in a moment: to live a lifetime in a few seconds, and to traverse oceans in the space of a single respiration. So, in the present instance, that which took Mr. Bumpkin, with the help of Mrs. Oldtimes and the occasional assistance of Lucy an hour to decipher, flashed before me in a single second. I ought perhaps to translate it into a more civilized language, but that would be impossible without spoiling the effect and disturbing the continuity of character which is so essential in a work made up of various actors. Mr. Bumpkin himself in his ordinary costume would be no more out of place in my Lord Mayor's state carriage than Mrs. Bumpkin wielding the Queen's English in its statelier and more fashionable adornment. So I give it as it was written. It began in a bold but irregular hand, and clearly indicated a certain agitation of mind not altogether in keeping with the even temperament of the writer's daily life.

"Deer Tom" (the letter began), "I ope thee be well for it be a long time agoo since thee left ere I cant mak un out wot be all this bother about a pig but Tom thee'll be glad to ear as I be doin weel the lamin be over and we got semteen as pooty lams as ever thee clapped eyes on The weet be lookin well and so be the barly an wuts thee'll be glad Tom to ear wot good luck I been avin wi sellin Mister Prigg have the kolt for twenty pun a pun more an the Squoire ofered Sam broked er in and ur do look well in Mrs. Prigg faten I met un the tother day Mr. Prigg wur drivin un an he tooked off his at jist th' sam as if I'd been a lady Missis Prigg din't see me as her edd wur turned th' tother way I be glad to tell ee we sold the wuts ten quorter these was bort by Mister Prigg and so wur the stror ten load as clane and brite as ever thee seed Mr. Prigg be a rale good custumer an a nice man I wish there was moore like im it ud be the makin o' th' Parish we shal ave a nice lot o monie to dror from un at Miklemes he be the best customer we ever ad an I toold th' Squoire wen ur corled about the wuts as Mister Prigg ad orfered ten shillin a quorter for un more un ee Ur dint seem to like un an rod away but we dooant o un anythink Tom so I dont mind we must sell ware we ken mak moast monie I spose Sampson be stronger an grander than ever it's my belief an I thinks we shal do well wi un this Spring tell t' Joe not to stop out o' nites or keep bad kumpany and to read evere nite wat the Wicker told un the fust sarm an do thee read un Tom for its my bleef ur cant 'urt thee nuther."

"Humph!" said Bumpkin, "fust sarms indade. I got a lot o' time for sarms, an' as for thic Joe—lor, lor, Nancy, whatever will thee say, I wonder, when thee knows he's gone for a soger—a sarm beant much good to un now; he be done for."

And then Mr. Bumpkin went and looked out of the window, and thought over all the good news of Mrs. Bumpkin's letter, and mentally calculated that even up to this time Mr. Prigg's account would come to enough to pay the year's rent.

Going to law seemed truly a most advantageous business. Here he had got two shillings a quarter more for the oats than the Squire had offered, and a pound more for the colt. Prigg was a famous customer, and no doubt would buy the hay. And, strange to say, just as Mr. Bumpkin thought this, he happened to turn over the last page of the letter, and there he saw what was really a Postscript.

"Halloo!" says he, "my dear, here be moore on't; lookee 'ere."

"So there is," answered Lucy; "let's have a look." And thus she read:—

"The klover cut out well it made six lode the little rik an four pun nineteen The Squoire ony offered four pun ten so in corse I let Mister Prigg ave un."

"Well done, Nancy, thee be famous. Now, thic big rik'll fetch moore'n thic."

Such cheering intelligence put Mr. Bumpkin in good heart in spite of his witness's desertion. Joe was a good deal, but he wasn't money, and if he liked to go for a soger, he must go; but, in Mr. Bumpkin's judgment, he would very soon be tired of it, and wish himself back at his fireside.

"Now, you must write to Mrs. Bumpkin," said Lucy.

"Thee'll write for I, my dear; won't thee?"

"If you like," said Lucy. And so, after dinner, when she had changed her dress, she proceeded to write an epistle for Mrs. Bumpkin's edification. She had carte blanche to put in what she liked, except that the main facts were to be that Joe had gone for a horse soger; that he expected "the case would come on every day;" and that he had the highest opinion of the unquestioned ability of honest Lawyer Prigg.

And now another surprise awaited the patient Bumpkin. As he sat, later in the day, smoking his pipe, in company with Mrs. Oldtimes, two men, somewhat shabbily dressed, walked into the parlour and ordered refreshment.

"A fine day, sir," said the elder of the two, a man about thirty-five. This observation was addressed to Mr. Bumpkin.

"It be," said the farmer.

The other individual had seated himself near the fire, and was apparently immersed in the study of the Daily Telegraph. Suddenly he observed to his companion, as though he had never seen it before,—

"Hallo! Ned, have you seen this?"

"What's that?" asked the gentleman called Ned.

"Never read such a thing in my life. Just listen."

"'A YOUNG MAN FROM THE COUNTRY.' "EXTRAORDINARY STORY.

"A man, apparently about sixty-eight, who gave the name of Bumpkin, appeared as the prosecutor in a case under the following extraordinary circumstances. He said he was from the country, but declined to give any more particular address, and had been taken by a friend to see the Old Bailey and to hear the trials at that Court. After leaving the Central Criminal Court, he deposed, that, walking with his friend, he was accosted in the Street in the open daylight and robbed of his watch; that he pursued the thief, and when near Blackfriars Bridge met a man coming towards him; that he seized the supposed thief, and found him wearing the watch which he affirmed had been stolen. The manner and appearance of 'the young man from the country' excited great laughter in Court, and the Lord Mayor, in the absence of any evidence to the contrary, thought there was a prima facie case under the circumstances, and committed the accused for trial to the Central Criminal Court. The prisoner, who was respectably dressed, and against whom nothing appeared to be known, was most ably defended by Mr. Nimble, who declined to put any questions in cross-examination, and did not address his Lordship. The case created great sensation, and it is expected that at the trial some remarkable and astounding disclosures will be made. 'The young man from the country' was very remarkably dressed: he twirled in his hand a large old-fashioned white-beaver hat with a black band round it; wore a very peculiar frock, elaborately ornamented with needlework in front and behind, while a yellow kerchief with red ends was twisted round his neck. The countryman declined to give his town address; but a remarkable incident occurred during the hearing, which did not seem to strike either the Lord Mayor or the counsel for the defence, and that was that no appearance of the countryman's companion was put in. Who he is and to what region he belongs will probably transpire at the ensuing trial, which is expected to be taken on the second day of the next Sessions. It is obvious that while the case is sub judice no comments can properly be made thereon, but we are not prevented from saying that the evidence of this extraordinary 'young man from the country' will be subjected to the most searching cross-examination of one of the ablest counsel of the English Bar."

The two men looked at Mr. Bumpkin; while the latter coloured until his complexion resembled beetroot. Miss Prettyface giggled; and Mrs. Oldtimes winked at Mr. Bumpkin, and shook her head in the most significant manner.

"That's a rum case, sir," said Ned.

Silence.

"I don't believe a word of the story," said his companion.

Silence.

"Do you believe," he continued, "that that man could have been wearing that watch if he'd stole it?"

"Not I."

"Lor! won't Jemmy Nimble make mincemeat of 'im!"

Mrs. Oldtimes looked frequently towards Mr. Bumpkin as she continued her sewing, making the most unmistakeable signals that under no circumstances was he to answer. It was apparent to everyone, from Mr. Bumpkin's manner, that the paragraph referred to him.

"The best thing that chap can do," said Ned, "is not to appear at the trial. He can easily keep away."

"He won't, you're sure," answered the other man; "he knows a trick worth two of that. They say the old chap deserted his poor old wife, after beating her black and blue, and leaving her for dead."

"It be a lie!" exclaimed Bumpkin, thumping his fist on the table.

"Oh!" said Ned, "do you know anything about it, sir? It's no odds to me, only a man can't shut his ears."

"P'r'aps I do and p'r'aps I doant; but it beant no bi'niss o' thine."

"I didn't mean no offence, but anybody can read the paper, surely; it's a free country. P'r'aps you're the man himself; I didn't think o' that."

"P'r'aps I be, and p'r'aps I beant."

"And p'r'aps your name is Bumpkin?"

"And p'r'aps it beant, and what then?"

"Why, you've nothing to do with it, that's all; and I don't see why you should interfere."

"I can't have no quarrelling in my house," said the landlady. "This gentleman's nothing to do with it; he knows nothing at all about it; so, if you please, gentlemen, we needn't say any more."

"Oh! I don't want to talk about it," said Ned.

"No more do I," chimed in his companion; "but it's a pity that he should take up our conversation when he hasn't anything to do with it, and his name isn't Bumpkin, and he hasn't lost his watch. It's no odds to me; I don't care, do you, Ned?"

"Not I," said Ned; "let's be off; I don't want no row; anybody mustn't open his mouth now. Good day, sir."

And the two young men went away.



CHAPTER XXVIII.

Mr. Bumpkin determines to maintain a discreet silence about his case at the Old Bailey—Mr. Prigg confers with him thereon.

And I saw that Mr. Bumpkin's case did not come on. Day by day passed away, and still it was not in the paper. The reason, however, is simple, and need not be told to any except those of my readers who are under the impression that the expeditious administration of justice is of any consequence. It was obvious to the most simple-minded that the case could not be taken for a day or two, because there was a block in every one of the three Courts devoted to the trial of Nisi Prius actions. And you know as well as anyone, Mr. Bumpkin, that when you get a load of turnips, or what not, in the market town blocked by innumerable other turnip carts, you must wait. Patience, therefore, good Bumpkin. Justice may be slow-footed, but she is sure handed; she may be blind and deaf, but she is not dumb; as you shall see if you look into one of the "blocked Courts" where a trial has been going on for the last sixteen days. A case involving a dispute of no consequence to any person in the world, and in which there is absolutely nothing except—O rare phenomenon!—plenty of money. It was interesting only on account of the bickerings between the learned counsel, and the occasionally friendly altercations between the Bench and the Bar. But the papers had written it into a cause celebre, and made it a dramatic entertainment for the beauty and the chivalry of England. So Mr. Bumpkin had still to wait; but it enabled him to attend comfortably the February sittings of the Old Bailey, where his other case was to be tried.

When Mr. Prigg read the account of the proceedings before the Lord Mayor, he was very much concerned, not to say annoyed, because he was under the impression that he ought to have been consulted. Not knowing what to do under the circumstances, he resolved, after due consideration, to get into a hansom and drive down to the "Goose." Mr. Prigg, as I have before observed, was swift in decision and prompt in action. He had no sooner resolved to see Bumpkin than to Bumpkin he went. But his client was out; it was uncertain when he would be in. Judge of Mr. Prigg's disappointment! He left word that he would call again; he did call again, and, after much dodging on the part of the wily Bumpkin, he was obliged to surrender himself a captive to honest Prigg.

"My dear Mr. Bumpkin," exclaimed he, taking both the hands of his client into his own and yielding him a double measure of friendship; "is it possible—have you been robbed? Is it you in the paper this morning in this very extraordinary case?"

Bumpkin looked and blushed. He was not a liar, but truth is not always the most convenient thing, say what you will.

"I see," said Mr. Prigg; "quite so—quite so! Now how did this happen?"

Bumpkin still looked and blushed.

"Ah!" said Mr. Prigg; "just so. But who was this companion?"

Bumpkin muttered "A friend!"

"O! O! O!" said Mr. Prigg, drawing a long face and placing the fore-finger of his left hand perpendicularly from the tip of his nose to the top of his forehead.

"Noa," said Bumpkin, "'taint none o' that nuther; I beant a man o' that sort."

"Well, well," said Mr. Prigg, "I only thought I'd call, you know, in case there should be anything which might in any way affect our action."

Mr. Bumpkin, conscious of his moral rectitude, like all good men, was fearless: he knew that nothing which he had done would affect the merits of his case, and, therefore, instead of replying to the subtle question of his adviser, he merely enquired of that gentleman when he thought the case would be on. The usual question.

Mr. Prigg rubbed his hands and glanced his eyes as though just under his left elbow was a very deep well, at the bottom of which lay that inestimable jewel, truth. "Really," Mr. Bumpkin, "I expect every hour to see us in the paper. It's very extraordinary; they have no less than three Courts sitting, as I daresay you are aware. No less than—let me see, my mind's so full of business, I have seven cases ready to come on. Where was I? O, I know; I say there are no less than three Courts, under the continuous sittings system, and yet we seem to make no progress in the diminution of the tremendous and overwhelming mass of business that pours in upon us."

Mr. Bumpkin said "Hem!"

"You see," continued Mr. Prigg, "there's one thing, we shall not last long when we do come on."

"Shan't ur?"

"You see there's only one witness, besides yourself, on our side."

"And 'eve gone for a soger," said Mr. Bumpkin.

"A soldier!" exclaimed Prigg. "A soldier, my dear Bumpkin. No—no—you don't say so, really!"

"Ay, sure 'ave ur; and wot the devil I be to do agin that there Snooks, as 'll lie through a brick wall, I beant able to say. I be pooty nigh off my chump wot wi' one thing and another."

"Off what, sir?" enquired Mr. Prigg.

"Chump," shouted Bumpkin.

"O, indeed, yes; dear me, you don't say so. Well, now I'm glad I called. I must see about this. What regiment did you say he'd joined?"

"Hoosors!"

"Ha! dear me, has he, indeed?" said Mr. Prigg, noting it down in his pocket-book. "What a pity for a young man like that to throw himself away—such an intelligent young fellow, too, and might have done so well; dear me!"

"Ha," answered Bumpkin, "there worn't a better feller at plough nor thic there; and he could mend a barrer or a 'arrer, and turn his 'and to pooty nigh anything about t' farm."

"And is there any reason that can be assigned for this extraordinary conduct? Wasn't in debt, I suppose?"

Mr. Bumpkin laughed one of his old big fireside laughs such as he had not indulged in lately.

"Debt! why they wouldn't trust un a shoe-string. Where the devil wur such a chap as thic to get money to get into debt wi'?"

"My dear sir, we don't want money to get into debt with; we get into debt when we have none."

"Do ur, sir. Then if I hadn't 'ad any money I'd like to know 'ow fur thee'd ha' trusted I."

"Dear me," said Mr. Prigg, "what a very curious way of putting it! But, however, soldier or no soldier, we must have his evidence. I must see about it: I must go to the depot. Now, with regard to your case at the Old Bailey."

"Well," said Mr. Bumpkin, rather testily; "I be bound over to proserkit, and that be all I knows about un. I got to give seam evidence as I guv afore the Lord Mayor, and the Lord Mayor said as the case wur clear, and away it went for trial."

"Indeed! dear me!"

"And I got to tak no trouble at all about un, but to keep my mouth shut till the case comes on, that's what the pleeceman told I. I bean't to talk about un, or to tak any money not to proserkit."

"O dear, no," said Mr. Prigg. "O dear, dear, no; you would be compounding a felony." (Here Mr. Prigg made a note in his diary to this effect:—"Attending you at 'The Goose' at Westminster, when you informed me that you were the prosecutor in a case at the Old Bailey, and in which I advised you not, under any circumstances, to accept a compromise or money for the purpose of withdrawing from the prosecution, and strongly impressed upon you that such conduct would amount in law to a misdemeanor. Long conference with you thereon, when you promised to abide by my advice, 1 pound 6s. 0d.").

"Now," said Bumpkin, "it seem to me that turn which way I wool, there be too much law, too many pitfalls; I be gettin' sick on't."

"Well," said Mr. Prigg, "we have only to do our duty in that station of life in which we are called, and we have no cause to fear. Now you know you would not have liked that unprincipled man, Snooks, to have the laugh of you, would you now?"

Mr. Bumpkin clenched his fist as he said, "Noa, I'd sooner lose every penny I got than thic there feller should ha' the grin o' me."

"Quite so," said the straightforward moralist. "Quite so! dear me! Well, well, I must wish you good morning, for really I am so overwhelmed with work that I hardly know which way to turn—bye, bye. I will take care to keep you posted up in—." Here Mr. Prigg's cab drove off, and I could not ascertain whether the posting up was to be in the state of the list or in the lawyer's ledger.

"What a nice man!" said the landlady.

Yes, that was Mr. Prigg's character, go where he would: "A nice man!"



CHAPTER XXIX.

The trial at the Old Bailey of Mr. Simple Simonman for highway robbery with violence—Mr. Alibi introduces himself to Mr. Bumpkin.

I next saw Mr. Bumpkin wandering about the precincts of that Grand Institution, the Old Bailey, on a drizzly morning about the middle of February, 187—, waiting to go before the Grand Jury. As the famous prison in Scotland was called the "Heart of Midlothian" so the Old Bailey may be considered the Heart of Civilization. Its commanding situation, in the very centre of a commercial population, entitles it to this distinction; for nothing is supposed to have so civilizing an influence as Commerce. I was always impressed with its beautiful and picturesque appearance, especially on a fine summer morning, during its sittings, when the sun was pouring its brightest beams on its lively portals. What a charming picture was presented to your view, when the gates being open, the range of sheds on the left met the eye, especially the centre one where the gallows is kept packed up for future use. The gallows on the one side might be seen and the stately carriages of my Lord Mayor and Sheriffs on the other! Gorgeous coachmen and footmen in resplendent liveries; magnificent civic dignitaries in elaborate liveries too, rich with gold and bright with colour, stepping forth from their carriages, amid loud cries of "Make way!" holding in their white-gloved hands large bouquets of the loveliest flowers, emblems of—what?

Crime truly has its magnificent accompaniments, and if it does not dress itself, as of old, in the rich costumes of a Turpin or a Duval, it is not without its beautiful surroundings. Here, where the channels and gutters of crime converge, is built, in the centre of the greatest commercial city in the world, the Bailey. Mr. Bumpkin wandered about for hours through a reeking unsavoury crowd of thieves and thieves' companions, idlers of every type of blackguardism, ruffians of every degree of criminality; boys and girls receiving their finishing lessons in crime under the dock, as they used to do only a few years ago under the gallows. The public street is given over to the enemies of Society; and Civilisation looks on without a shudder or regret, as though crime were a necessity, and the Old Bailey, in the heart of London, no disgrace.

And a little dirty, greasy hatted, black whiskered man, after pushing hither and thither through this pestiferous crowd as though he had business with everybody, but did not exactly know what it was, at length approached Mr. Bumpkin; and after standing a few minutes by his side eyeing him with keen hungry looks, began that interesting conversation about the weather which seems always so universally acceptable. Mr. Bumpkin was tired. He had been wandering for hours in the street, and was wondering when he should be called before the Grand Jury. Mr. Alibi, that was the dark gentleman's name, knew all about Mr. Bumpkin's case, his condition of mind, and his impatience; and he said deferentially:

"You are waiting to go before the Grand Jury, I suppose, sir?"

"I be," answered Bumpkin.

"Where's your policeman?" enquired Alibi.

"I doant know," said Bumpkin.

"What's his number?"

"Sev'n hunderd and sev'nty."

"O, I know," said Alibi; "why not let me get you before the Grand Jury at once, instead of waiting about here all day, and perhaps to-morrow and the next day, and the day after that; besides, the sooner you go before the Grand Jury, the sooner your case will come on; that stands to common sense, I think."

"So ur do," answered the farmer.

"You will be here a month if you don't look out. Have you got any counsel or solicitor?"

"Noa, I beant; my case be that plaain, it spaks for itself."

"Ah!" said Mr. Alibi; "they won't always let a case speak for itself—they very often stop it—but if you can get a counsel for nothing, why not have one; that stands to reason, I think?"

"For nothing? well that be the fust time I ever eeard o' a loryer as chape as thic."

How it could pay was the wonder to Mr. Bumpkin. And what a strange delusion it must seem to the mind of the general reader! But wait, gentle peruser of this history, you shall see this strange sight.

"If you like to have a counsel and a lawyer to conduct your case, sir, it shall not cost you a farthing, I give you my word of honour! What do you think of that?"

What could Mr. Bumpkin think of that? What a pity that he had not met this gentleman before! Probably he would have brought several actions if he had; for if you could work the machinery of the law for nothing, you would always stand to win.

"O," said Mr. Alibi, "here is seven hundred and seventy! This gentleman wants a counsel, and I've been telling him he can have one, and it won't cost him anything."

"That's right enough," said the Policeman; "but it ain't nothin' to do with me!"

"Just step this way, sir, we'll soon have this case on," said Alibi; and he led the way to the back room of a public-house, which seemed to be used as a "hedge" lawyer's office.

"Med I mak so bold, sir; be thee a loryer?"

"No," answered Alibi, "I am clerk to Mr. Deadandgone."

"And don't Mr. Deadandam charge nothin'?"

"O dear, no!"

What a very nice man Mr. Deadandam must be!

"You see," said Alibi, "the Crown pays us!"

"The Crown!"

And here Mr. Alibi slipped a crown-piece into the artfully extended palm of the policeman, who said:

"It ain't nothin' to do wi' me; but the gentleman's quite right, the Crown pays." And he dropped the money into his leather purse, which he rolled up carefully and placed in his pocket.

"You see," said Alibi, "I act as the Public Prosecutor, who can't be expected to do everything—you can't grind all the wheat in the country in one mill, that stands to common sense."

"That be right, that's werry good,"

"And," continued Mr. Alibi, "the Government allows two guineas for counsel, a guinea for the solicitor, and so on, and the witnesses, don't you see?"

"Zactly!" said Bumpkin.

"And that's quite enough," continued Alibi; "we don't want anything from the prosecutor—that's right, policeman!"

"It ain't nothink to do wi' me," said the policeman; "but what this 'ere gentleman says is the law."

"There," said Alibi, "I told you so."

"I spose," said the policeman, "you don't want me, gentlemen; it ain't nothink to do with me?"

"Oh, no, Leary," replied Alibi; "we don't want you; the case is pretty straight, I suppose."

"Oh, yes, sir; I expects it'll be a plea of guilty. There ain't no defence, not as I'm aware of."

"Oh," said Alibi, "that's all right—keep your witnesses together, Leary—don't be out of the way."

"No, sir," says Leary; "I thinks I knows my dooty."

And with this he slouched out of the room, and went and refreshed himself at the bar.

In two or three minutes the policeman returned, and was in the act of drawing the back of his hand across his mouth, when Alibi said:

"Yes?"

"Beg pardin, sir; but there's another gentleman wants to see you—I thinks he wants you to defend —-; but it ain't nothink to do wi' me, sir."

"Very good," answered Alibi, "very good; now let me see—"

"You got the Baker's case?" said Leary.

"Yes," said Alibi; "O, yes—embezzlement."

Everything was thus far satisfactorily settled, and Mr. Bumpkin's interests duly represented by Mr. Deadandgone, an eminent practitioner. No doubt the services of competent counsel would be procured, and the case fully presented to the consideration of an intelligent jury.

Who shall say after this that the Old Bailey is not the Heart of Civilization?

I pass over the preliminary canter of Mr. Bumpkin before the Grand Jury; the decision of that judicial body, the finding of the true bill, the return of the said bill in Court, the bringing up of the prisoner for arraignment, and the fixing of the case to be taken first on Thursday in deference to the wishes of Mr. Nimble. I pass by all those preliminary proceedings which I have before attempted to describe, and which, if I might employ a racing simile, might be compared to the saddling of Mr. Bumpkin in the paddock, where, unquestionably, he was first favourite for the coming race, to be ridden by that excellent jockey, Alibi; and come at once to the great and memorable trial of Regina on the prosecution of Thomas Bumpkin against Simon Simpleman for highway robbery with violence.

As the prisoner entered the dock there was a look of unaffected innocence in his appearance that seemed to make an impression on the learned Judge, Mr. Justice Technical, a recently appointed Chancery barrister. I may be allowed to mention that his Lordship had never had any experience in Criminal Courts whatever: so he brought to the discharge of his important duty a thoroughly unprejudiced and impartial mind. He did not suspect that a man was guilty because he was charged: and the respectable and harmless manner of the accused was not interpreted by his Lordship as a piece of consummate acting, as it would be by some Judges who have seen much of the world as it is exhibited in Criminal Courts.