Many ladies of rank were ushered in by the Sheriff, all looking as smiling and happy as if they were about to witness the performance of some celebrated actress for the first time; they had fans and opera-glasses, and as they took their places in the boxes allotted to rank and fashion, there was quite a pleasant sensation produced in Court, and they attracted more notice for the time being than the prisoners themselves.

Now these ladies were not there to witness the first piece, the mere trial of Simpleman for highway robbery, although the sentence might include the necessary brutality of flogging. The afterpiece was what they had come to see—namely, a fearful tragedy, in which two men at least were sure of being sentenced to death. This is the nearest approach to shedding human blood which ladies can now witness in this country; for I do not regard pigeon slaughtering, brutal and bloodthirsty as it is, as comparable to the sentencing of a fellow-creature to be strangled. And no one can blame ladies of rank if they slake their thirst for horrors in the only way the law now leaves open to them. The Beauty of Spain is better provided for. What a blessed thing is humanity!

It is due to Mr. Newboy, the counsel for the prosecution in the great case of Regina v. Simpleman, to say that he had only lately been called to the Bar, and only "instructed," as the prisoner was placed in the dock. Consequently, he had not had time to read his brief. I do not know that that was a disadvantage, inasmuch as the brief consisted in what purported to be a copy of the depositions so illegibly scrawled that it would have required the most intense study to make out the meaning of a single line.

Mr. Newboy was by no means devoid of ability; but no amount of ability would give a man a knowledge of the facts of a case which were never communicated to him. In its simplicity the prosecution was beautifully commonplace, and five minutes' consideration would have been sufficient to enable counsel to master the details and be prepared to meet the defence. Alas, for the lack of those five minutes! The more Mr. Newboy looked at the writing (?) the more confused he got. All he could make out was his own name, and Reg. v. Somebody on the back.

Now it happened that Mr. Alibi saw the difficulty in which Mr. Newboy was, and knowing that his, Alibi's, clerk, was not remarkable for penmanship, handed to the learned counsel at the last moment, when the last juryman was being bawled at with the "well and truly try," a copy of the depositions.

The first name at the top of the first page which caught the eye of the learned counsel, was that of the prisoner; for the depositions commence in such a way as to show the name of the prisoner in close proximity to, if not among the names of witnesses.

So Mr. Newboy, in his confusion, taking the name of the prisoner as his first witness, shouted out in a bold voice, to give himself courage, "Simon Simpleman."

"'Ere!" answered the prisoner.

The learned Judge was a little astonished; and, although, he had got his criminal law up with remarkable rapidity, his lordship knew well enough that you cannot call the prisoner as a witness either for or against himself. Mr. Newboy perceived his mistake and apologised. The laugh, of course, went round against him; and when it got to Mr. Nimble, that merry gentleman slid it into the jury-box with a turn of his eyes and a twist of his mouth. The counsel for the prosecution being by this time pretty considerably confused, and not being able to make out the name of a single witness on the depositions (there were only two) called out, "The Prosecutor."

"Here, I be," said a voice from the crowd in a tone which provoked more laughter, all of which was turned into the jury-box by Mr. Nimble. "Here I be" struggled manfully with all his might and main to push through the miscellaneous crowd of all sorts and conditions that hemmed him in. All the arrangements at the Old Bailey, like the arrangements at most Courts, are expressly devised for the inconvenience of those who have business there.

All eyes were turned towards "Here I be," as, after much pushing and struggling as though he were in a football match, he was thrust headlong forward by three policemen and the crier into the body of the Court. There he stood utterly confounded by the treatment he had undergone and the sight that presented itself to his astonished gaze. Opera-glasses were turned on him from the boxes, the gentlemen on the grand tier strained their necks in order to catch a glimpse of him; the pit, filled for the most part with young barristers, was in suppressed ecstasies; while the gallery, packed to the utmost limit of its capacity, broke out into unrestrained laughter. I say, unrestrained; but as the Press truly observed in the evening papers, "it was immediately suppressed by the Usher."

Mr. Bumpkin climbed into the witness-box (as though he were going up a rick), which was situated between the Judge and the jury. His appearance again provoked a titter through the Court; but it was not loud enough to call for any further measure of suppression than the usual "Si—lence!" loudly articulated in two widely separated syllables by the crier, who had no sooner pronounced it than he turned his face from the learned Judge and pressed his hand tightly against his mouth, straining his eyes as if he had swallowed a crown-piece. Mr. Bumpkin wore his long drab frock overcoat, with the waist high up and its large flaps; his hell-fire waistcoat, his trousers of corduroy, and his shirt-collar, got up expressly for the occasion as though he had been a prime minister. The ends of his neckerchief bore no inconsiderable likeness to two well-grown carrots. In his two hands he carefully nursed his large-brimmed well-shaped white beaver hat; a useful article to hold in one's hands when there is any danger of nervousness, for nothing is so hard to get rid of as one's hands. I am not sure that Mr. Bumpkin was nervous. He was a brave self-contained man, who had fought the world and conquered. His maxim was, "right is right," and "wrong is no man's right." He was of the upright and down-straight character, and didn't care "for all the counsellors in the kingdom." And why should he? His cause was good, his conscience clear, and the story he had to tell plain and "straightforrard" as himself. No wonder then that his face beamed with a good old country smile, such as he would wear at an exhibition where he could show the largest "turmut as ever wur growed." That was the sort of smile he turned upon the audience. And as the audience looked at the "turmut," it felt that it was indeed the most extraordinary specimen of field culture it had ever beheld, and worthy of the first prize.

"What is your name?" inquired Mr. Newboy; "I mustn't lead."

"Bumpkin, and I bearned asheamed on 'im," answered the bold farmer.

"Never mind whether you are ashamed or not," interposed Mr. Nimble; "just answer the question."

"You must answer," remarked the learned Judge, "not make a speech."

"Zackly, sir," said Bumpkin, pulling at his hair.

Another titter. The jury titter and hold down their heads. Evidently there's fun in the case.

Then Mr. Newboy questioned him about the occurrence; asked him if he recollected such a day, and where he had been, and where he was going, and a variety of other questions; the answer to every one of which provoked fresh laughter; until, after much floundering on the part of both himself and Mr. Newboy, as though they were engaged in a wrestling match, he was asked by the learned Judge "to tell them exactly what happened. Let him tell his own story," said the Judge.

"Ha!" said everybody; "now we shall hear something!"

"I wur a gwine," began Bumpkin, "hoame—"

"That's not evidence," said Mr. Nimble.

"How so?" asks the Judge.

"It doesn't matter where he was going to, my lord, but where he was!"

"Well, that is so," says the Judge; "you mustn't tell us, Mr. Bumpkin, whither you were going, but where you were!"

Bumpkin scratched his head; there were too many where's for him.

"Can't yon tell us," says Mr. Newboy, "where you were?"

"Where I were?" says Bumpkin.

A roar of laughter greeted this statement. Mr. Nimble turning it into the jury-box like a flood.

"I wur in Lunnun—"

"Yes—yes," says his counsel; "but what locality?"

You might just as well have put him under a mangle, as to try to get evidence out of him like that.

"Look," says the Judge, "attend to me; if you go on like that, you will not be allowed your expenses."

"What took place?" asks his counsel; "can't you tell us, man?"

"Why the thief cotch—"

"I object," says Mr. Nimble; "you mustn't call him a thief; it is for the jury, my lord, to determine that."

"That is so," says my lord; "you mustn't call him a thief, Mr. Bumpkin."

"Beg pardon, your lord; but ur stole my watch."

"No—no," says Mr. Newboy; "took your watch."

"An if ur took un, ur stole un, I allows," says Bumpkin; "for I never gin it to un."

There was so much laughter that for some time nothing further was said; but every audience knows better than to check the source of merriment by a continued uproar; so it waited for another supply.

"You must confine yourself," says the Judge, "to telling us what took place."

"I'll spak truth and sheam t' devil," says Bumpkin.

"Now go on," says Newboy.

"The thief stole my watch, and that be t' plain English on 't."

"I shall have to commit you to prison," says the Judge, "if you go on like that; remember you are upon your oath, and it's a very serious thing—serious for you and serious for the young man at the bar."

At these touching words, the young man at the bar burst out crying, said "he was a respectable man, and it was all got up against him;" whereupon Mr. Nimble said "he must be quiet, and that his lordship and the gentlemen in the box would take care of him and not allow him to be trampled on."

"You are liable," said the Judge, "to be prosecuted for perjury if you do not tell the truth."

"Well, then, your lord, if a man maun goo to prison for losin' his watch, I'll goo that's all; but that ere man stole un."

Mr. Newboy: "He took it, did he?"

"I object," said Mr. Nimble; "that is a leading question."

"Yes," said the Judge; "I think that is rather leading," Mr. Newboy; "you may vary the form though, and ask him whether the prisoner stole it."

"Really, my lord," said Mr. Nimble, "that, with very great respect, is as leading as the other form."

"Not quite, I think, Mr. Nimble. You see in the other form, you make a positive assertion that he did steal it; in this, you merely ask the question."

And I saw that this was a very keen and subtle distinction, such as could only be drawn by a Chancery Judge.

"Would it not be better, my lord, if he told us what took place?"

"That is what he is doing," said the Judge; "go on, witness."

"I say as 'ow thic feller comed out and hugged up aginst I and took 't watch and runned away. I arter'd him, and met him coomin' along wi' it in 's pocket; what can be plaainer an thic?"

There was great laughter as Mr. Bumpkin shook his head at the learned counsel for the defence, and thumped one hand upon the ledge in front of him.

"That will do," said Mr. Newboy, sitting down triumphantly.

Then the counsel for the defence arose, and a titter again went round the Court, and there was a very audible adjustment of persons in preparation for the treat that was to come.

"May the prisoner have a seat, my lord?"

"Oh, certainly," said his lordship; "let an easy-chair be brought immediately."

"Now then, Mr. Bumpkin, or whatever your name is, don't lounge on the desk like that, but just stand up and attend to me. Stand up, sir, and answer my questions," says Mr. Nimble.

"I be standin' oop," said Bumpkin, "and I can answer thee; ax away."

"Just attend," said the Judge. "You must not go on like that. You are here to answer questions and not to make speeches. If you wish those gentlemen to believe you, you must conduct yourself in a proper manner. Remember this is a serious charge, and you are upon your oath."

Poor Bumpkin! Never was there a more friendless position than that of Ignorance in the witness-box.

"Just attend!" repeated Mr. Nimble; this was a favourite expression of his.

"How may aliases have you?"

"Ow many who?" asked Bumpkin. (Roars of laughter.)

"How many different names?"

"Naames! why I s'pose I got two, like moast people."

"How many more?"

"None as iver I knowed of."

"Wait a bit, we shall see. Now, sir, will you swear you have never gone by the name of Pumpkin?"

Loud laughter, in which the learned judge tried not to join.

"Never!"

"Do you swear it?"

"I do."

"My lord, would you kindly let me see the depositions. Now look here, sir, is that your signature?"

"I ain't much of a scollard."

"No; but you can make a cross, I suppose."

"Ay, I can make a cross, or zummut in imitation as well as any man."

"Look at that, is that your cross?"

"It look like un."

"Now then, sir; when you were before the Lord Mayor, I ask you, upon your oath, did you not give the name of Pumpkin?"

"Noa, I din't!"

"Was this read over to you, and were you asked if it was correct?"

"It med be."

"Med be; but wasn't it? You know it was, or, don't you?"

Bumpkin seemed spiked, so silent; seemed on fire, so red.

"Well, we know it was so. Now, my lord, I call your lordship's attention to this remarkable fact; here in the depositions he calls himself Pumpkin."

His lordship looks carefully at the depositions and says that certainly is so.

Mr. Newboy rises and says he understands that it may be a mistake of the clerk's.

Judge: "How can you say that, Mr. Newboy, when it's in his affidavit?"

(Clerk of Arraigns whispers to his lordship.) "I mean in his depositions, as I am told they are called in this Court; these are read over to him by the clerk, and he is asked if they are correct." Shakes his head.

(So they began to try the prisoner, not so much on the merits of the case as on the merits of the magistrate's clerk.)

"You certainly said your name was Pumpkin," said the Judge, "and what is more you swore to it."

("They've got the round square at work," muttered a voice in the gallery.)

Mr. Nimble: "Now just attend; have you ever gone so far as to say that this case did not refer to you because your name was not Bumpkin?"

The witness hesitates, then says "he b'leeves not."

"Let those two gentlemen, Mr. Crackcrib and Mr. Centrebit, step forward."

There was a bustle in Court, and then, with grinning faces, up stepped the two men who had visited Mr. Bumpkin at the "Goose" some days before.

"Have you ever seen these gentlemen before?" asks the learned counsel.

The gentlemen alluded to looked up as if they had practised it together, and both grinned. How can Mr. Bumpkin's confusion be described? His under jaw fell, and his head drooped; he was like one caught in a net looking at the fowler.

The question was repeated, and Mr. Bumpkin wiped his face and returned his handkerchief into the depths of his hat, into which he would have liked to plunge also.

Question repeated in a tone that conveyed the impression that witness was one of the biggest scoundrels in the Heart of Civilization.

"You must really answer," says the Judge.

"They be put on, your lordship."

"No, no," says the counsel, "you mustn't say that, I'll have an answer. Have you seen them before?"

"Yes," muttered the prosecutor.

"Let them go out of Court. Now then," says the counsel, extending his right hand and his forefinger and leaning towards the witness, "have—you—not—told—them—that—this case was nothing to do with you as your name wasn't Bumpkin?"

"My lord," says the witness.

"No, no; you must answer."

The witness stood confounded.

"You decline to answer," says the counsel. "Very well; now then, let me see if you will decline to answer this. When you were robbed, as you say, was anybody with you?"

"Be I obligated to answer, my lord?"

"I think you must answer," said his lordship.

"There wur."

"Who was it?"

"A companion, I s'poase."

"Yes, but who was he? what was his name?"

No answer.

"You'd rather not answer; very well. Where does he live?"

"I doant know. Westmunster, I believe."

"Is he here?"

"Not as I knows on."

("What a lark this is," chuckled the Don, as he sat in the corner of the gallery peeping from behind the front row.)

"Did he see the watch taken?"

"He did, leastways I s'poase so."

"And has never appeared as a witness?"

"How is that?" asks his lordship.

"He axed me, m'lud, not to say as 'ow he wur in it."

Judge shakes his head. Counsel for the prisoner shakes his head at the jury, and the jury shake their heads at one another.

Now in the front row of the gallery sat five young men in the undress uniform of the hussars: they were Joe and his brother recruits come to hear the famous trial. At this moment Mr. Bumpkin in sheer despair lifted his eyes in the direction of the gallery and immediately caught sight of his old servant. He gave a nod of recognition as if he were the only friend left in the wide world of that Court of Justice.

"Never mind your friends in the gallery," said Mr. Nimble; "I dare say you have plenty of them about; now attend to this question:"—Yes, and a nice question it was, considering the tone and manner with which it was asked. "At the moment when you were being robbed, as you say, did a young woman with a baby in her arms come up?"

The witness's attention was again distracted, but this time by no such pleasing object as on the former occasion. He was dumbfoundered; a sparrow facing an owl could hardly be in a greater state of nervousness and discomfiture: for down in the well of the Court, a place where he had never once cast his eyes till now, with a broad grin on his coarse features, and a look of malignant triumph, sat the fiendlike Snooks! His mouth was wide open, and Bumpkin found himself looking down into it as though it had been a saw-pit. By his side sat Locust taking notes of the cross-examination.

"What are you looking at, Mr. Bumpkin?" inquired the learned counsel.

Mr. Bumpkin started.

"What are you looking at?"

"I wur lookin' doun thic there hole in thic feller's head," answered Bumpkin.

Such a roar of laughter followed this speech as is seldom heard even in a breach of promise case, where the most touching pathos often causes the greatest amusement to the audience.

"What a lark!" said Harry.

"As good as a play," responded Dick.

"I be sorry for the old chap," said Joe; "they be givin' it to un pooty stiff."

"Now attend," said the counsel, "and never mind the hole. Did a young woman with a baby come up?"

"To the best o' my b'leef."

"Don't say to the best of your belief; did she or not?"

"He can only speak to the best of his belief," said the Judge.

("There's the round square," whispered O'Rapley.)

"Did she come up then to the best of your belief?"

"Yes."

"And—did—she—accuse—you—to the best of your belief of assaulting her?"

"I be a married man," answered the witness. (Great laughter.)

"Yes, we know all about you; we'll see who you are presently. Did she accuse you, and did you run away?"

"I runned arter thic feller."

"No, no; did she accuse you?"

"She might."

The learned counsel then sat down with the quickest motion imaginable, and then the policeman gave his evidence as to taking the man into custody; and produced the huge watch. Mr. Bumpkin was recalled and asked how long he had had it, and where he bought it; the only answers to which were that he had had it five years, and bought it of a man in the market; did not know who he was or where he came from; all which answers looked very black against Mr. Bumpkin. Then the policeman was asked to answer this question—yes or no. "Did he know the prisoner?" He said "No."

Mr. Nimble said to the jury, "Here was a man dressing himself up as an old man from the country (laughter) prowling about the streets of London in company with an associate whose name he dared not mention, and who probably was well-known to the police; here was this countryman actually accused of committing an assault in the public streets on a young woman with a baby in her arms: he runs away as hard as his legs will carry him and meets a man who is actually wearing the watch that this Bumpkin or Pumpkin charges him with stealing. He, the learned counsel, would call witness after witness to speak to the character of his client, who was an engraver (I believe he was an engraver of bank notes); he would call witness after witness who would tell them how long they had known him, and how long he had had the watch; and, curiously enough, such curious things did sometimes almost providentially take place in a Court of Justice, he would call the very man that poor Mr. Simpleman had purchased it of five years ago, when he was almost, as you might say, in the first happy blush of boyhood (that 'blush of boyhood' went down with many of the jury who were fond of pathos); let the jury only fancy! but really would it be safe—really would it be safe, let him ask them upon their consciences, which in after life, perhaps years to come, when their heads were on their pillows, and their hands upon their hearts, (here several of the jury audibly sniffed), would those consciences upbraid, or would those consciences approve them for their work to-day? would it be safe to convict after the exhibition the prosecutor had made of himself in that box, where, he ventured to say, Bumpkin stood self-condemned before that intelligent jury."

Here the intelligent jury turned towards one another, and after a moment or two announced, through their foreman (who was a general-dealer in old metal, in a dark street over the water), that if they heard a witness or two to the young man's character that would be enough for them.

Witnesses, therefore, were called to character, and the young man was promptly acquitted, the jury appending to their verdict that he left the Court without a stain upon his character.

"Bean't I 'lowed to call witnesses to charickter?" asks the Prosecutor.

"Oh, no," replied Mr. Nimble; "we know your character pretty well."

"What's that?" inquired the Judge.

"He wants to know, my lord," says Mr. Nimble, laughing, "if he may call witnesses to character!"

"Oh dear, no," says the Judge; "you were not being tried."

Now many persons might have been of a different opinion from his lordship on this point. Snooks for one, I think; for he gave a great loud vulgar haw! haw! haw! and said, "I could ha' gien him a charakter."

"Si-lence!" said the Usher.

"May the prisoner have his watch, my lord?" asks Mr. Nimble.

"O, yes," said his lordship, "to be sure. Give the prisoner his watch."

"His watch," groaned a voice.



CHAPTER XXX.

Mr. Alibi is stricken with a thunderbolt—interview with Horatio and Mr. Prigg.

The "round square," as the facetious Don called the new style of putting the round judicial pegs into the square judicial holes, had indeed been applied with great effect on this occasion; for I perceived that Mr. Alibi, remarkable man, was not only engaged on the part of the Crown to prosecute, but also on that of the prisoner to defend. And this fact came to my knowledge in the manner following:

When Mr. Bumpkin got into the lower part of that magnificent pile of buildings which we have agreed to call the Heart of Civilisation, he soon became the centre of a dirty mob of undersized beings who were anxious to obtain a sight of him; and many of whom were waiting to congratulate their friend, the engraver. Amidst the crowd was Mr. Alibi. That gentleman had no intention of meeting Mr. Bumpkin any more, for certain expenses were due to him as a witness, and it had long been a custom at the Old Bailey, that if the representative of the Crown did not see the witnesses the expenses due to them would fall into the Consolidated Fund, so that it was a clear gain to the State if its representative officers did not meet the witnesses. On this occasion, however, Mr. Alibi ran against his client accidentally, and being a courteous gentleman, could not forbear condoling with him on the unsuccessful termination of his case.

"You, see," began Mr. Alibi, "I was instructed so late—really, the wonder is, when gentlemen don't employ a solicitor till the last moment, how we ever lay hold of the facts at all. Now look at your case, sir. Yes, yes, I'm coming—bother my clerks, how they worry—I'll be there directly."

"But thic feller," said Mr. Bumpkin, "who had my case din't know nowt about it. I could ha' done un better mysel."

"Ah, sir; so we are all apt to think. He's a most clever man, that—a very rising man, sir."

"Be he?" said Bumpkin.

"Why, do you know, sir," continued Mr. Alibi, "he was very great at his University."

"That bean't everything, though, by a long way."

"No, sir, granted, granted. But he was Number Four in his boat; and the papers all said his feathering was beautiful."

"A good boatman, wur he?"

"Magnificent, sir; magnificent!"

"Then he'd better keep a ferry; bean't no good at law."

"Ah! I am afraid you are a little prejudiced. He's a very learned man."

"I wish he'd larned to open his mouth. Why, I got a duck can quack a devilish sight better un thic feller can talk."

"Ha, how d'ye do, Mr. Swindle?" said a shabby-looking gentleman, who came up at this moment.

"Excuse me, sir; but you have the advantage of me," said Alibi, winking.

"Dear me, how very strange, I thought you were Mr. Wideawake's representative."

"Ah!" said Mr. Alibi, laughing, "we are often taken for brothers—and yet, would you believe me, there is no relationship."

"No?" said the gentleman.

"None, whatever. I think you'll find him in the Second Court, if not, he'll be there in a short time. I saw him only just now."

That is how I learned that Mr. Alibi represented the Crown and Mr. Deadandgone for the prosecutor; also the prisoner, and Mr. Wideawake for the defence. Clever man!

"Now," said Mr. Bumpkin, "Can't un get a new trial?"

"I fear not," said Alibi; "but I should not be in the least surprised if that Wideawake, who represented the prisoner, brought an action against you for false imprisonment and malicious prosecution."

"What, thic thief?"

"Ah, sir—law is a very deep pit—it's depth is not to be measured by any moral plummet."

"Doan't 'zacly zee't."

"Well, it's this," said Mr. Alibi. "Whether you're right or whether you're wrong, if he brings an action you must defend it—it's not your being in the right will save you."

"Then, what wool?" asked Mr. Bumpkin.

Mr. Alibi did not know, unless it was instructing him in due time and not leaving it to the last moment. That seemed the only safe course.

Mr. Bumpkin took off his hat, drew out his handkerchief, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. Then he breathed heavily. Now at this moment a strange phenomenon occurred, not to be passed over in this truthful history. Past Mr. Bumpkin's ear something shot, in appearance like a human fist, in velocity like a thunderbolt, and unfortunately it alighted full on the nose and eye of the great Mr. Alibi, causing that gentleman to reel back into the arms of the faithful thieves around. I cannot tell from what quarter it proceeded, it was so sudden, but I saw that in the neighbourhood whence it came stood five tall hussars, and I heard a voice say:

"Now, look at that. Come on, Maister, don't let us git into no row."

Mr. Bumpkin, with the politeness of his nature, said:

"Good marnin', sir," and retired.

And thus thought the unfortunate prosecutor: "This 'ere country be all law, actions grows out o' actions, like that 'ere cooch that runs all over everywhere's." And then he saw the five recruits strutting along with their caps at the side of their heads, the straps across their chins, their riding-whips under their arms, and walking with such a swagger that one would have thought they had just put down a rebellion, or set up a throne.

It was some time before, in the confusion of his mind, the disappointed Bumpkin could realize the fact that there was any connection between him and the military. But as he looked, with half-closed eyes, suddenly the thought crossed his mind: "Why, that be like our Joe—that middle un."

And so it was: they were walking at a fastish pace, and as they strutted along Joe seemed to be marching away with the whole farm and with all the pleasures of his past life. Even Mrs. Bumpkin herself, in some extraordinary manner, seemed to be eloping with him. Why was it? And now, despondent, disappointed and humiliated, with his blood once more up, poor old Bumpkin bethought himself seriously of his position. For weeks he had been waiting for his case to "come on"; weeks more might pass idly away unless he made a stir. So he would call at the office of Mr. Prigg. And being an artful man, he had a reason for calling without further delay. It was this: his desire to see Prigg before that gentleman should hear of his defeat. Prigg would certainly blame him for not employing a solicitor, or going to the Public Prosecutor. So to Prigg's he went about three o'clock on that Thursday afternoon. I do not undertake to describe furniture, so I say nothing of Prigg's dingy office, except this, that if Prigg had been a spider, it was just the sort of corner in which I should have expected him to spin his web. Being a man of enormous practice, and in all probability having some fifty to sixty representatives of county families to confer with, two hours elapsed before Mr. Bumpkin could be introduced. The place, small as it was, was filled with tin boxes bearing, no doubt, eminent names. Horatio was busy copying drafts of marriage settlements, conveyances, and other matters of great importance. He had little time for gossip because his work seemed urgent, and although he was particularly glad to see Mr. Bumpkin, yet being a lad of strict adherence to duty, he always replied courteously, but in the smallest number of words to that gentleman's questions.

"Will ur be long?" asked the client; "I don't think so," said Horatio.

Then in a whisper, asked Mr. Bumpkin, "How does thee think, sir, we shall get on: win, shan't us?"

Horatio just raised his face from the paper and winked, as though he were conveying a valuable secret.

"Have ur heard anythink, sir?"

Another artful wink.

"Thee know's zummat, I knows thee do."

Another artful wink.

"Thee can tell I, surely? I wunt let un goo no furder."

Horatio winked once more, and made a face at the door where the great Prigg was supposed to be.

"Ain't give in, ave ur?"

Horatio put his finger in his mouth and made a popping noise as he pulled it out.

"What the devil does thee mean, lad? there be zummat up, I'll swear."

"Hush! hush!"

"Now, look here," said Bumpkin, taking out his purse; "thee beest a good chap, and writ out thic brief, didn't thee? I got zummat for thee;" and hereupon he handed Horatio half-a-crown.

The youth took the money, spun it into the air, caught it in the palm of his hand, spat on it for good luck, and put it in his pocket

"I'll have a spree with that," said he, "if I never do again."

"Be careful, lad," said Bumpkin, "don't fool un away."

"Not I," said Horatio; "I'm on for the Argille tonight, please the pigs."

"Be thic a place o' wusship" said Bumpkin, laughing.

"Not exactly," answered Horatio; "it's a place where you can just do the gentleman on the cheap, shoulder it with noblemen's sons, and some of the highest. Would you like to go now, just for a lark? I'm sure you'd like it."

"Not I," said the client; "this 'ere Lunnun life doan't do for I.'.'

"Yes; but this is a nice quiet sort of place."

"Gals, I spoase."

"Rather; I believe you my boy; stunners too."

"Thee be too young, it's my thinking."

"Well, that's what the Governor says; everybody says I'm too young; but I hope to mend that fault, Master Bumpkin, if I don't get the better of any other."

"I wish I wur as old in the 'ead; but tell I, lad, hast thee 'eard anything? Thee might just as well tell I; it wunt goo no furder."

Horatio put his finger to his nose and made a number of dumb signs, expressive of more than mere words could convey.

"Danged if I can mak' thee out," said Bumpkin.

"You recollect that ride we had in the gig."

"Ha, now it's coming," thought he; "I shall have un now," so he answered: "Well, it wur nice, wurn't ur?"

"Never enjoyed myself more in my life," rejoined Horatio; "what a nice morning it was!"

"Beautiful!"

"And do you recollect the rum and milk?"

Mr. Bumpkin remembered it.

"Well, I believe that rum and milk was the luckiest investment you ever made. Hallo! there's the bell—hush, mither woy!"

"Dang thee!" said Bumpkin, "thee's got un;" and he followed the youthful clerk into Mr. Prigg's room.

There sat that distinguished lawyer with his respectable head, in his easy chair, much worn, both himself and the chair, by constant use. There sat the good creature ready to offer himself up on the altar of Benevolence for the good of the first comer. His collar was still unruffled, so was his temper, notwithstanding the severe strain of the county families. There was his clear complexion indicating the continued health resulting from a well-spent life. His almost angelic features were beautiful rather in the amiability of their expression than in their loveliness of form. Anyone looking at him for the first time must exclaim, "Dear me, what a nice man!"

"Well, Mr. Bumpkin," said he, extending his left hand lazily as though it were the last effort of exhausted humanity, "how are we now?"—always identifying himself with Bumpkin, as though he should say "We are in the same boat, brother; come what may, we sink or swim together—how are we now?"

"Bean't wery well," answered Mr. Bumpkin, "I can tell 'ee."

"What's the matter? dear me, why, what's the matter? We must be cool, you know. Nothing like coolness, if we are to win our battle."

"Lookee 'ere," said Bumpkin; "lookee 'ere, sir; I bin here dordlin' about off an' on six weeks, and this 'ere dam trial—"

"Sh—sh!" remonstrated Mr. Prigg with the softest voice, and just lifting his left hand on a level with his forehead. "Let us learn resignation, good Mr. Bumpkin. Let us learn it at the feet of disappointment and losses and crosses."

"Yes, yes," said Bumpkin; "but thic larnin' be spensive, I be payin' for it."

"Mr. Bumpkin," said the good man sternly, "the dispensations of Providence are not to be denounced in this way. You are a man, Bumpkin; let us act, then, the man's part. You see these boxes, these names: they represent men who have gone through the furnace; let us be patient."

"But I be sick on it. I wish I'd never know'd what law wur."

"Ah, sir, most of us would like to exist in that state of wild and uncultured freedom which only savages and beasts are permitted to enjoy; but life has higher aims, Mr. Bumpkin; grander pursuits; more sublime duties."

"Well, sir, I bean't no schollard and so can't argify; but if thee plase to tell I, sir, when this case o' mine be likely to come on—"

"I was just that minute going to write to you, Mr. Bumpkin, as your name was announced, to say that it would not be taken until next term."

Mr. Bumpkin uttered an exclamation which is not for print, and which caused the good Prigg to clap his hands to his ears and press them tightly for five minutes. Then he took them away and rubbed them together (I mean his hands), as though he were washing them from the contaminating influence of Mr. Bumpkin's language.

"Quite so," he said, mechanically; "dear me!"

"What be quite so," asked Mr. Bumpkin.

"Yes—yes—you see," said Prigg, "Her Majesty's Judges have to go circuit; or, as it is technically called, jail delivery."

"They be allays gwine suckitt."

"Quite so. That is precisely what the profession is always observing. No sooner do they return from one circuit than they start off on another. Are you aware, Mr. Bumpkin, that we pay a judge five thousand a-year to try a pickpocket?"

"Hem!" said Bumpkin, "I bean't aware on it. Never used t' have so many o' these 'ere—what d'ye call 'ems?"

"Circuits. No—but you see, here now is an instance. There's a prisoner away somewhere, I think down at Bodmin, hundreds of miles off, and I believe he has sent to say that they must come down and try him at once, for he can't wait."

"I'd mak' un wait. Why should honest men wait for sich as he? I bin waitin' long enough."

"Quite so. And the consequence is that the Lord Chief Justice of England is going down to try him, a common pickpocket, I believe, and his Lordship is the very head of the Judicial Body."

"Hem!" said Mr. Bumpkin; "then I may as well goo hoame?"

"Quite so," answered the amiable Prigg; "in fact, better—much better."

"An' we shan't come on now, sir; bean't there no chance?"

"Not the least, my dear sir; but you see we have not been idle; we have been advancing, in fact, during the whole time that has seemed to you so long. Now, just look, my dear sir; we have fought no less than ten appeals, right up, mind you, to the Court of Appeal itself; we have fought two demurrers; we have compelled them three times to give better answers to our interrogatories, and we have had fourteen other summonses at Chambers on which they have not thought proper to appeal beyond the Judge. Now, Mr. Bumpkin, after that, I think you ought to be satisfied; but really that is one of the most disparaging things in the profession, the most disparaging, I may say; we find it so difficult to show our clients that we have done enough for them."

"An' thee think, sir, as we shall win un?" said Bumpkin.

"Well," said Mr. Prigg, "I never like to prophesy; but if ever a case looked like winning it's Bumpkin v. Snooks. And I may tell you this, Mr. Bumpkin, only pray don't say that I told you."

"What be thic, sir?" asked the eager client, with his eyes open as widely as ever client's can be.

"The other side are in a tre-men-dous way!"

"What, funkin', be um? I said so. That there Snooks be a rank bad un—now, then, we'll at un like steam."

"All in good time, Bumpkin," said the worthy Prigg, affectionately taking his client's hand. "All in good time. My kind regards to Mrs. Bumpkin. I suppose you return to-night?"

"Ay, sir, I be off by the fust train. Good day t' ye, sir; good day and thankee."

Thus comforted and thus grateful did the confiding client take leave of his legal adviser, who immediately took down his costs-book and booked a long conference, including the two hours that Mr. Bumpkin was kept in the "outer office." This followed immediately after another "long conference with you when you thought we should be in the paper to-morrow from what a certain Mr. O'Rapley had told you, and I thought we should not."

As he passed through the "outer office" he shook. Horatio by the hand. "Good-bye, sir. I knows what it wur now—bean't comin' on."

"Don't say I told you," said the pale boy, as though he were afraid of communicating some tremendous secret.

"Noa, thee bean't told I. Now, lookee 'ere, Mr. Jigger, come down when thee like; I shall be rare and prood to see thee, and so'll Missus."

"Thanks," said Horatio; "I'll be sure and come. Mither woy!"

"Ha! mither woy, lad! that's ur; thee got un. Good-bye."



CHAPTER XXXI.

Mr. Bumpkin at home again.

How peaceful the farm seemed after all the turmoil and worry that Farmer Bumpkin had been subjected to in London! What a haven of rest is a peaceful Home! How the ducks seemed to quack!—louder, as Mr. Bumpkin thought, than they ever did before. The little flock of sheep looked up as he went, with his old ash stick under his arm, to look round the farm. They seemed to say to one another, "Why, here's Master; I told you he'd come back." And the cows turned their heads and bellowed a loud welcome. They knew nothing of his troubles, and only expressed their extreme pleasure at seeing him again. They left off eating the whole time he was with them; for they were very well bred Shorthorns and Alderneys. It was quite pleasant to see how well behaved they all were. And Mrs. Bumpkin pointed out which ones had calved and which were expected to calve in the course of a few months. And then the majestic bull looked up with an expression of immense delight; came up to Mr. Bumpkin and put his nose in his master's hand, and gazed as only a bull would gaze on a farmer who had spent several weeks in London. It was astonishing with what admiration the bull regarded him; and he seemed quite delighted as Mrs. Bumpkin told her husband of the bull's good conduct in his absence; how he had never broken bounds once, and had behaved himself as an exemplary bull on all occasions.

"But," said Mrs. Bumpkin, "I be 'bliged to say, Tom, that there Mrs. Snooks have belied him shamefully. She haven't got a good word to say for un; nor, for the matter o' that, for anything on the farm."

"Never mind," said Mr. Bumpkin; "he bean't the only one as 'ave been slandered hereabouts."

"No, Tom, sure enough; but we bean't 'bliged to heed un."

"No, nor wun't. And now here come Tim."

To see Tim run and bound and leap and put his paws round Mr. Bumpkin's neck and lick him, was a sight which must have made up for a great deal of the unkindness which he had experienced of late. Nor could any dog say more plainly than Tim did, how he had had a row with that ill-natured cur of Snooks', called Towser, and how he had driven him off the farm and forbade him ever setting foot on it again. Tim told all about the snarling of Towser, and said he would not have minded his taking Snooks' part in the action, if he had confined himself to that; but when he went on and barked at Mr. Bumpkin's sheep and pigs, against whom he ought to have shown no ill-feeling, it was more than Tim could stand; so he flew at him and thoroughly well punished him for his malignant disposition.

But in the midst of all this welcoming, there was an unpleasant experience, and that was, that all the pigs were gone but two. The rare old Chichester sow was no more.

"There be only two affidavys left, Nancy!"

"No, Tom—only two; the man fetched two yesterday."

"I hope they sold well. Have he sent any money yet?"

"Not a farthing," said Mrs. Bumpkin; "nor yet for the sheep. He have had six sheep."

"Zo I zee; and where be th' heifers? we had six."

"They be all sold, Tom."

"And how much did 'em fetch?"

"The man ain't brought in the account yet, Tom; but I spect we shall have un soon."

"Why," said Mr. Bumpkin, looking at the stackyard, "another rick be gone!"

"Yes, Tom, it be gone, and fine good hay it wur; it cut out as well as any hay I ever zeed."

"Sure did ur!" answered Tom; "it were the six ak'r o' clover, and were got up wirout a drop o' rain on un; it wur prime hay, thic. Why, I wur offered six pun' a looad for un."

"I don'ow what ur fetched, Tom; but I be mighty troubled about this 'ere lawsuit. I wish we'd never 'a had un."

"Doan't say thic, Nancy; we be bound to bring un. As Laryer Prigg say, it bean't so much t' pig—"

"No, Tom, thee said un fust."

"Well, s'poase I did—so ur did, and it worn't so much t' pig, it wur thic feller's cheek."

"Well, I don't know nothing about un; I dissay you be right, because you've allays been right, Tom; and we've allays got on well togither these five and thirty year: but, some'ow, Tom—down, Tim!—down, Tim!"

"Poor old Tim!" said Tom. "Good boy! I wish men wur as good as dogs be."

"Some'ow," continued Mrs. Bumpkin, "I doan't like that 'aire Prigg; he seem to shake his head too much for I; and 'olds his 'at up to his face too long in church when ur goes in; and then ur shakes his head so much when ur prays. I don't like un, Tom."

"Now, Nancy, thee knows nothing about un. I can tell 'ee he be a rare good man, and sich a clever lawyer, he'll knock that 'aire Snooks out o' time. But, come on, let's goo in and 'ave some ta."

So they went in. And a very comfortable tea there was set out on the old oak table in front of the large fireplace where the dog-irons were. And a bright, blazing log there was on the hearth; for a cold east wind was blowing, notwithstanding that the sun had shone out bravely in the day. Ah! how glad Tom was to see the bright pewter plates and dishes ranged in rows all round the homely kitchen! They seemed to smile a welcome on the master; and one very large family sort of dish seemed to go out of his way to give him welcome. I believe he tumbled down in his enthusiasm at Tom's return, although it was accounted for by saying that Tim had done it by the excessive "waggling" of his tail. I believe that dish fell down in the name of all the plates and dishes on the shelves, for the purpose of congratulating the master; else why should all their faces brighten up so suddenly with smiles as he did so? It's ridiculous to suppose plates and dishes have no feelings; they've a great deal more than some people. And then, how the great, big, bright copper kettle, suspended on his hook, which was in the centre of the huge fireplace, how he did sing! Why the nightingale couldn't throw more feeling into a song than did that old kettle! And then the home-made bread and rashers of bacon, such as you never see out of a farmhouse; and tea, such as can't be made anywhere else! And then the long pipe was brought out of his corner, where he had been just as Tom had left it before going to town. And the bowl of that pipe gave off circular clouds of the bluest smoke, expressive of its joy at the master's return: it wasn't very expressive, perhaps, but it was all that a pipe could do; and when one does his best in this world, it is all that mortal man can expect of him.

And then said Mrs. Bumpkin,—still dubious as to the policy of the proceedings, but too loving to combat her husband upon them,—"When be thee gwine agin, Tom?"

"I doan't rightly know," said Bumpkin. "Mr. Prigg will let I know; sometime in May, I reckon."

"Dear, dear!" said Mrs. Bumpkin; "it may be on, then, just as th' haymakin's about."

"Lor, lor! no, dearie; it'll be over long enough afore."

"Doan't be too sure, Tom; it be a long time now since it begun."

"Ah!" said Tom, "a long time enough; but it'll be in th' paper afore long now; an' we got one o' the cleverest counsel in Lunnun?"

"What be his name?"

"Danged if I know, but it be one o' the stunninest men o' the day; two on 'em, by Golly; we got two, Nancy."

"Who be th' tother? p'r'aps thee med mind his name?"

"Noa, I doan't mind his name nuther. Now, what d'ye think o' thic?"

Mrs. Bumpkin laughed, and said, "I think it be a rum thing that thee 'as counsellors and doan't mind their names."

And then the conversation turned upon Joe, whose place was vacant in the old chimney corner.

The tears ran down Mrs. Bumpkin's rosy cheeks as she said for the twentieth time since Mr. Bumpkin's return,—

"Poor Joe! why did ur goo for a soger?"

"He wur a fool!" said Bumpkin, "and I told un so. So as I warned un about thic Sergeant; the artfullest man as ever lived, Nancy."

Mrs. Bumpkin wiped her eyes. "He wur a good boy, wur Joe, goo where ur wool; but, Tom, couldn't thee 'a' kept thine eye on un when thee see thic Sergeant hoverin' roun' like a 'awk arter a sparrer?"

"I did keep eye on un, I tell 'ee; but what be the good o' thic; as well keep thee eye on th' sparrer when th' hawk be at un. I tell 'ee I 'suaded un and warned un, and begged on un to look out."

"An' what did ur say?"

"Say, why said ur wur up to un."

"Up to un," repeated Mrs. Bumpkin. "Can't think 'ow ur got 'old on un."

"No, and thee mark I, no more can nobody else—in Lunnon thee're 'ad afore thee knows where thee be."

And now Mr. Bumpkin had his "little drop of warm gin and water before going to bed": and Mrs. Bumpkin had a mug of elder wine, for the Christmas elder wine was not quite gone: and after that Mrs. Bumpkin, who as the reader knows, was the better scholar of the two, took down from a shelf on which the family documents and books were kept, a large old bible covered with green baize. Then she wiped her glasses, and after turning over the old brown leaves until she came to the place where she had read last before Tom went away, commenced her evening task, while her husband smoked on and listened.

Was it the old tone with which she spelt her way through the sacred words? Hardly: here it could be perceived that in her secret heart there was doubt and mistrust. Do what she would her eyes frequently became so dim that it was necessary to pause and wipe her glasses; and when she had finished and closed the book, she took Tom's hand and said:

"O, Tom, I hope all 'll turn out well, but sure enough I ha' misgivings."

"What be it, my dear? Mr. Prigg say we shall win—how can ur do better 'an thic?"

"Shall we get back the pigs and sheep, Tom?"

"Why not?"

Mrs. Bumpkin looked into her lap, and folding her apron very smooth with both hands, answered:

"I doan't think, Tom, that man looks like bringing anything back. He be very chuffy and masterful, and looks all round as he goo away, as though he wur lookin' to see what ur would take next. I think he'll have un all, Tom."

"Stuff!" said Mr. Bumpkin, "he be sellin' for I, take what ur may."

"He be sellin' THEE, Tom, I think, and I'd stop un from takin' more."

They rose to go to bed, and as Mrs. Bumpkin looked at the cosy old hearth, and put up the embers of the log to make it safe for the night, it seemed as if the prosperity of their old home had burnt down at last to dull ashes, and she looked sadly at the vacant place where Joe had used to sit.



CHAPTER XXXII.

Joe's return to Southwood—an invitation from the Vicar—what the old oak saw.

It was a long time after the circumstances mentioned in the last chapter. The jails had been "delivered" of their prisoners, and prodigious events had taken place in the world; great battles had been fought and won, great laws made for the future interpretation of judges, and for the vexation of unfortunate suitors. It seemed an age to Mr. Bumpkin since his case commenced; and Joe had been in foreign parts and won his share of the glory and renown that falls to the lot of privates who have helped to achieve victory for the honour and glory of their General and the happiness of their country. It was a very long time, measured by events, since Mr. Bumpkin's return from town, when on a bright morning towards the end of June, a fine sunburnt soldier of Her Majesty's regiment of the —- Hussars knocked with the butt-end of his riding whip at the old oak door in the old porch of Southwood farm-house.

"Well, I never! if that there bean't our Joe!" exclaimed Mrs. Bumpkin, looking out of the window; and throwing down the rolling-pin which she had just been using in rolling-out the dough for a dumpling—(Mr. Bumpkin was "uncommon fond o' dumplins")—"well, I never!" repeated Mrs. Bumpkin, as she opened the door; "who ever would ha' thought it? Why, how be'est thee, Joe? And bless the lad, 'ow thee've growed! My 'art alive, come along! The master'll be mighty glad to see thee, and so be I, sure a ly."

And here Mrs. Bumpkin paused to look round him, sticking her knuckles in her sides and her elbows in the air as though Joe were a piece of handiwork—a dumpling, say—which she herself had turned out, clothes and all. And then she put the corner of her apron to her eye.

"Why, Joe, I thought," said she, "I should never see thee agin! Dear, dear, this 'ere lawsuit be the ruin on us, mark my words! But lor, don't say as I said so to the master for the world, for he be that wropped up in un that nothing goes down night and morning, morning and night, but affidavys, and summonses, and counsellors, and jussices, and what not."

"Well," said the soldier, slapping his whip on his leg as was his custom, "you might be sure I should come and see yer if they left me a leg to hop with, and I should 'a wrote, but what wi' the smoke and what with the cannon balls flying about, you haven't got much time to think about anything; but I did think this, that if ever I got back to Old England, if it was twenty year to come, I'd go and see the old master and missus and 'ear 'ow that lawsuit wur going on."

"And that be right, Joe—I knowed 'ee would; I said as much to master. But 'ow do thee think it'll end? shall us win or lose?"

Now this was the first time he had ever been called upon to give a legal opinion, or rather, an opinion upon a legal matter, so he was naturally somewhat put about; and looking at the rolling-pin and the dough and then at Mrs. Bumpkin, said:

"Well, it's like this: a man med win or a man med lose, there's no telling about the case; but I be dang'd well sure o' this, missus, he'll lose his money: I wish master had chucked her up long agoo."

This opinion was not encouraging; and perceiving that the subject troubled Mrs. Bumpkin more than she liked to confess, he asked a question which was of more immediate importance to himself, and that was in reference to Polly Sweetlove.

"Why, thee'll make her look at thee now, I'll warrant; thy clothes fit thee as though they growed on thee."

"Do she walk with the baker?" inquired Joe, with trembling accents.

"I never heeard so, an' it's my belief she never looked at un wi' any meaning. I've seen her many a time comin' down the Green Lane by herself and peepin' over th' gate."

"Now look at that!" said Joe; "and when I was here I couldn't get Polly to come near the farm—allays some excuse—did you ever speak to her about me, missus?"

"I ain't going to tell tales out of school, Joe, so there."

"Now look at that," said Joe; "here's a chap comes all this way and you won't tell him anything."

Mrs. Bumpkin laughed, and went on rolling the dough, and told him what a nice dumpling she was making, and how he would like it, and asked how long he was going to stop, and hoped it would be a month, and was telling him all about the sheep and the cows and the good behaviour of the bull, when suddenly she said:

"Here he be, Joe! lor, lor, how glad he'll be to see thee!"

But it wasn't the Bull that stepped into the room; it was Mr. Bumpkin, rosy, stalwart, jolly, and artful as ever. Now Mrs. Bumpkin was very anxious to be the bearer of such good intelligence as Joe's arrival, so, notwithstanding the fact that Mr. Bumpkin and he were face to face, the eager woman exclaimed:

"Here be our Joe, Tom, hearty and well. And bean't he a smart fine feller? What'll Polly think of un now?"

"Shut up thic chatter," said Mr. Bumpkin, laughing. "Halloa! why, Joe, egad thee looks like a gineral. I'd take thee for a kernel at the wery least. Why, when did thee come, lad?"

"Just now, master."

"That be right, an' I be glad to see thee. I'll warrant Nancy ain't axed thee t' have nothun."

"Why, thee be welcome to the 'ouse if thee can eat un, thee knows thic," answered Nancy; "but dinner'll be ready at twelve, and thee best not spoil un."

"A quart o' ale wun't spile un, will un, Joe?"

"Now look at that," said the soldier. "Thankee, master, but not a quart."

"Well, thee hasn't got thee head snicked off yet, Joe?"

"No, master, if my head had been snicked off I couldn't ha' bin here." And he laughed a loud ha! ha! ha!

And Mr. Bumpkin laughed a loud haw! haw! haw! at this tremendous witticism. It was not much of a witticism, perhaps, after all, when duly considered, but it answered the purpose as well as the very best, and produced as much pleasure as the most brilliant repartee, in the most fashionable circles. We must take people as they are.

So Joe stayed chattering away till dinner-time, and then, referring to the pudding, said he had never tasted anything like it in his life; and went on telling the old people all the wonders of the campaign: how their regiment just mowed down the enemy as he used to cut corn in the harvest-field, and how nothing could stand aginst a charge of cavalry; and how they liked their officers; and how their General, who warn't above up to Joe's shoulder, were a genleman, every inch on him, an' as brave as any lion you could pick out. And so he went on, until Mr. Bumpkin said:

"An' if I had my time over agin I'd goo for a soger too, Joe," which made Mrs. Bumpkin laugh and ask what would become of her.

"Ha! ha! ha! look at that!" said Joe; "she's got you there, master."

"No she bean't, she'd a married thic feller that wur so sweet on her afore I had ur."

"What, Jem?" said Mrs. Bumpkin, "why I wouldn't ha' had un, Tom, if every 'air had been hung wi' dimonds."

"Now look at that," laughed Joe.

And so they went on until it was time to take a turn round the farm. Everything seemed startled at Joe's fine clothes, especially the bull, who snorted and pawed the earth and put out his tail, and placed his head to the ground, until Joe called him by name, and then, as he told his comrades afterwards in barracks, the bull said:

"Why danged if it bean't our Joe!"

I must confess I did not hear this observation in my dream, but I was some distance off, and if Mr. Ricochet, Q.C., in cross-examination had said, "Will you swear, sir, upon your oath that the bull did not use those words?" I must have been bound to answer, "I will not."

But presently they met old Tim, the Collie, and there was no need for Joe to speak to him. Up he came with a bound and caressed his old mate in the most loving manner.

The Queen's uniform was no disguise to him.

The next day it was quite a treat to see Joe go through the village. Such a swagger he put on that you would have thought he was the whole regiment. And when he went by the Vicarage, where Polly was housemaid, it was remarkable to see the air of indifference which he assumed. Whack went his riding-whip on his leg: you could hear it a hundred yards off. He didn't seem to care a bit whether she was staring at him out of the study window as hard as she could stare or not. Two or three times he struck the same leg, and marched on perfectly indifferent to all around.

At length came Sunday, as Sunday only comes in a country village. No such peace, no such Sabbath anywhere. You have only got to look at anything you like to know that it is Sunday. Bill's shirt collar; the milkman; even his bright milk-can has a Sunday shine about it. The cows standing in the shallow brook have a reverent air about them. They never look like that on any other day. Why the very sunshine is Sabbath sunshine, and seems to bring more peace and more pleasantness than on any other day of the week. And all the trees seem to whisper together, "It's Sunday morning."

Presently you see the people straggling up to the little church, whose donging bell keeps on as much as to say, "I know I'm not much of a peal, but in my humble way I do my duty to the best of my ability; it's not the sound but the spirit of the thing that is required; and if I'm not very musical, and can't give you many changes, I'm sincere in what I say." And this was an emblem of the sincerity and the simplicity of the clergyman inside. He kept on hammering away at the old truths and performing his part in God's great work to the best of his ability; and I know with very great success. So in they all came to church; and Joe, who had been a very good Sunday-school pupil (notwithstanding his love of poaching) and was a favourite with the vicar, as the reader knows, took his old place in the free seats, not very far from the pew where the vicar's servants sat. Who can tell what his feelings were as he wondered whether Polly would be there that morning?

The other servants came in. Ah, dear! Polly can't come, now look at that! Just as he was thinking this in she came. Such a flutter in her heart as she saw the bright uniform and the brighter face, bronzed with a foreign clime and looking as handsome as ever a face could look. O what a flutter too in Joe's heart! But he was determined not to care for her. So he wouldn't look, and that was a very good way; and he certainly would have kept his word if he could.

I think if I had to choose where and how I would be admired, if ever such a luxury could come to me, I would be Joe Wurzel under present circumstances. A young hero, handsome, tall, in the uniform of the Hussars, with a loved one near and all the village girls fixing their eyes on me! That for once only, and my utmost ambition would be gratified. Life could have no greater pride for me. I don't know whether the sermon made much impression that day, but of the two, I verily believe Joe made the most; and as they streamed out of the little church all the young faces of the congregation were turned to him: and everywhere when they got outside it was, "Halloa, Joe!" "Why, Joe, my lad, what cheer?" "Dang'd if here bean't Joe!" and other exclamations of welcome and surprise. And then, how all the pinafored boys flocked round and gazed with wondering eyes at this conquering hero; chattering to one another and contradicting one another about what this part of his uniform was and what that part was, and so on; but all agreeing that Joe was about the finest sight that had come into Yokelton since ever it was a place.

And then the old clergyman sent for him and was as kind as ever he could be; and Joe was on the enchanted ground where the fairy Polly flitted about as noiselessly as a butterfly. Ah, and what's this? Now let not the reader be over-anxious; for a few lines I must keep you, gentle one, in suspense; a great surprise must be duly prepared. If I told you at once what I saw, you would not think so much of it as if I kept you a little while in a state of wondering curiosity. What do you think happened in the Vicarage?

Now's the moment to tell it in a fresh paragraph. Why in came the fairy with a little tray of cake and wine! Now pause on that before I say any more. What about their eyes? Did they swim? What about their hearts; did they flutter? Did Polly blush? Did Joe's bronzed face shine? Ah, it all took place, and much more than I could tell in a whole volume. The vicar did not perceive it, for luckily he was looking out of the window. It only took a moment to place the tray on the table, and the fairy disappeared. But that moment, not then considered as of so much importance, exciting as it was, stamped the whole lives of two beings, and who can tell whether or no such a moment leaves its impress on Eternity?

All good and all kind was the old vicar; and how attentively he listened with Mrs. Goodheart to the eye-witness of England's great deeds! And then—no, he did not give Joe a claptrap maudlin sermon, but treated him as a man subject to human frailties, and, only hoped in all his career he would remember some of the things he had been taught at the Sunday School.

"Ay," said Joe, "ay, sir, and the best lesson I ever larned, and what have done me most good, be the kindness I always had from you."

So they parted, and a day or two after, strangely enough, just as Joe was walking along by the old Oak that is haunted, and which the owls and the ghosts occupy between them, who should come down the lane in the opposite direction but Polly Sweetlove! Where she came from was the greatest mystery in the world! And it was so extraordinary that Joe should meet her: and he said so, as soon as he could speak.

"Now look at that! Whoever would have thought of meeting anybody here?"

Polly hung down her head and blushed. Neither of them knew what to say for a long time; for Joe was not a spokesman to any extent. At last Polly Sweetlove broke silence and murmured in the softest voice, and I should think the very sweetest ever heard in this world:

"Are you going away soon, Joe?"

"Friday," answered the young Hussar.

Ah me! This was Wednesday already; to-morrow would be Thursday, and the next day Friday! I did not hear this, but I give you my word it took place.

"Are you coming to see the Vicar again?" asked the sweet voice.

"No," said Joe.

They both looked down at the gnarled roots of the old tree—the roots did stick out a long way, and I suppose attracted their attention—and then Polly just touched the big root with her tiny toe. And the point of that tiny toe touched Joe's heart too, which seemed to have got into that root somehow, and sent a thrill as of an electric shock, only much pleasanter, right through his whole body, and even into the roots of his hair.

"When are you coming again?" whispered the sweet lips.

"Don't know," said the young soldier; "perhaps never."

"But you'll come and see—your mother?"

"O yes," answered Joe, "I shall come and see mother; but what's it matter to thee, lassie?"

The lassie blushed, and Joe thought it a good opportunity to take hold of her hand. I don't know why, but he did; and he was greatly surprised that the hand did not run away.

"I think the Vicar likes you, Joe?"

"Do he?" and he kept drawing nearer and nearer, little by little, until his other hand went clean round Polly Sweetlove's waist, and—well an owl flew out of the tree at that moment, and drew off my attention; but afterwards I saw that they both kept looking at the root of the tree, and then Joe said;

"But you love th' baker, Polly?"

"No," whispered Polly; "no, no, never!"

"Now, look at that!" said Joe, recovering himself a little; "I always thought you liked the baker."

"Never, Joe."

"Well then, why didn't you look at me?"

Polly blushed.

"Joe, they said you was so wild."

"Now, look at that," said Joe; "did you ever see me wild, Polly?"

"Never, Joe—I will say that."

"No, and you can ask my mother or Mrs. Bumpkin, or the Vicar, or anybody else you like, Polly—."

"I shall go and see your mother," said Polly.

"Will you come to-morrow night?" asked Joe.

"If I can get away I will; but I must go now—good-bye—good-bye—good——"

"Are you in a hurry, Polly."

"I must go, Joe—good—; but I will come to-morrow, as soon as dinner is over—good—good—good-bye."

"And then——," but the Old Oak kept his counsel. Here I awoke.

* * * * *

"Well," cried my wife, "you have broken off abruptly."

"One can't help it," quoth I, rubbing my eyes. "I cannot help waking any more than I can help going to sleep."

"Well, this would be a very pretty little courtship if true."

"Ah," I said, "if I have described all that I saw in my dream, you may depend upon it it is true. But when I go to Southwood I will ask the Old Oak, for we are the greatest friends imaginable, and he tells me everything. He has known me ever since I was a child, and never sees me but he enters into conversation."

"What about?"

"The past, present, and future—a very fruitful subject of conversation, I assure you."

"Wide enough, certainly."

"None too wide for a tree of his standing."

"Ask him, dear, if Joe will marry this Polly Sweetlove."

"He will not tell me that; he makes a special reservation in favour of lovers' secrets. They would not confide their loves to his keeping so often as they do if he betrayed them. No, he's a staunch old fellow in that respect, and the consequence is, that for centuries lovers have breathed their vows under his protecting branches."

"I'm sorry for that—I mean I am sorry he will not tell you about this young couple, for I should like to know if they will marry. Indeed, you must find out somehow, for everyone who reads your book will be curious on this subject."

"What, as to whether ploughman Joe will marry Polly the housemaid. Had he been the eldest son of the Squire now, and she the Vicar's daughter, instead of the maid—"

"It would not have been a whit more interesting, for love is love, and human nature the same in high and low degree. But, perhaps, this old tree doesn't know anything about future events?"

"He knows from his long experience of the past what will happen if certain conditions are given; he knows, for instance, the secret whispers, and the silent tokens exchanged beneath his boughs, and from them he knows what will assuredly result if things take their ordinary course."

"So does anyone, prophet or no prophet."

"But his process of reasoning, based upon the experience of a thousand years, is unerring; he saw William the Conqueror, and listened to a council of war held under his branches; he knew what would happen if William's projects were successful: whether they would be successful was not within his knowledge. He was intimately acquainted with Herne's Oak at Windsor, and they frequently visited."

"Visited! how was that possible?"

"Quite possible; trees visit one another just the same as human beings—they hold intercourse by means of the wind. For instance, when the wind blows from the north-east, Southwood Oak visits at Windsor Park, and when the wind is in the opposite direction a return visit is paid. There isn't a tree of any position in England but the Old Oak of Southwood knows. He is in himself the History of England, only he is unlike all other histories, for he speaks the truth."

"He must have witnessed many love scenes!"

"Thousands!"

"Tell me some?"

"Not now—besides, I must ask leave."

"Does he ever tell you anything about yourself?"

"A great deal—it is our principal topic of conversation; but he always begins it, lest my modesty should prevent any intercourse on the subject."

"What has he said?"

"A great deal: he has inspired me with hope, even instilled into me some ambition: he has tried to impart to me an admiration of all that is true, and to awaken a detestation of all that is mean and pettifogging. I never look at him but I see the symbol of all that is noble, grand and brave: he is the emblem of stability, friendship and affection; a monument of courage, honesty, and fidelity; he is the type of manly independence and self-reliance. I am glad, therefore, that under his beautiful branches, and within his protecting presence, two young hearts have again met and pledged, as I believe they have, their troth, honestly resolving to battle together against the storms of life, rooted in stedfast love, and rejoicing in the sunshine of the Creator's smiles!"

After these observations, which were received with marked approval, I again gave myself up to the soft influence of a dreamy repose.



CHAPTER XXXIII.

A consultation as to new lodgings.—Also a consultation with counsel.

It was a subject of grave discussion between the Bumpkins and Joe, as to where would be the best place for the plaintiff to lodge on his next visit to London. If he had moved in the upper ranks of life, in all probability he would have taken Mrs. Bumpkin to his town house: but being only a plain man and a farmer, it was necessary to decide upon the most convenient, and at the same time, inexpensive locality.

Mrs. Bumpkin, who, of course, knew all about her husband's adventures, was strongly opposed to his returning to the Goose. Never had created thing lost so much in her estimation by mere association as this domestic bird. Joe was a fine soldier, no doubt, but it was the Goose that had taken him in.

Curiously enough, as they were discussing this important question, who should come in but honest Lawyer Prigg himself.

What a blessing that man seemed to be, go where he would! Why, he spread an air of hope and cheerfulness over this simple household the moment he entered it! But the greatest virtue he dispensed was resignation; he had a large stock of this on hand. He always preached it: "resignation to the will of Providence;" resignation to him, Prigg!

So when he came in with his respectable head, professional collar, and virtuous necktie, Mr. and Mrs. Bumpkin could not choose but rise. Mr. Bumpkin meekly pulled his hair, and humbly bowed obeisance as to his benefactor. Mrs. Bumpkin curtseyed as to a superior power, whom she could not recognize as a benefactor. Joe stood up, and looked as if he couldn't quite make out what Mr. Prigg was. He knew he worked the Law somehow, and "summut like as a man works a steam-threshing machine, but how or by what means, was a mystery unrevealed to the mind of the simple soldier."

"Good morning! good morning!" said Mr. Prigg, after the manner of a patriarch conferring a blessing. "Well, Joe, so you are returned, are you? Come, now, let me shake hands with one of our brave heroes!"

What condescension! and his tone was the tone of a man reaching down from a giddy height to the world beneath him.

"So you were in the thick of the fight, were you—dear me! what a charge that was!" Ah, but, dear reader, you should see Prigg's charges!

"I wur someur about, sir," said Joe. "I dunnow where now though."

"Quite so," said Mr. Prigg, "it was a great victory; I'm told the enemy ran away directly they heard our troops were coming."

"Now look at that," said Joe; "what a lot of lies do get about sure-ly!"

"Dear me!" said Mr. Prigg; "but you beat them, did you not? we won the battle?"

"That's right enough," said Joe; "but if they'd run away we couldn't a beat un—'tain't much of a fight when there's no enemy."

"Haw, haw, haw!" laughed Bumpkin. "That be good, Mr. Prigg, that be good!"

"Very good, very good, indeed," said Mr. Prigg; "I don't wonder at your winning if you could make such sallies as that."

And that was good for Mr. Prigg.

"And now," said he, "to business—business, eh?"

"We be jist gwine to 'ave a nice piece o' pork and greens, Mr. Prigg, would ee please to tak some," said Mr. Bumpkin.

"Dear me!" answered Prigg; "how very strange, my favourite dish—if ever Mrs. Prigg is in doubt about—"

"It be wery plain," said Bumpkin.

"The plainer the better, my dear sir; as I always say to my servants, if you—"

"I'm sure," said Mrs. Bumpkin; "I be 'ardly fit to wait on a gennleman like you. I ain't 'ad time this morning to change my gown and tidy up myself."

"Really, my dear madam—don't, now; I adjure you; make no apologies—it is not the dress—or the—or the —, anything in fact, that makes us what we are;—don't, if you please."

And here his profound sentiments died away again and were lost to the world; and the worthy man, not long after, was discussing his favourite dish with greedy relish.

"An when'll this 'ere thing be on, Mr. Prigg, does thee think? It be a hell of a long time."

"Tom! Tom!" exclaimed Mrs. Bumpkin. But Mr. Prigg was too well bred and too much occupied with his pork and greens to hear the very wayward epithet of the Farmer Bumpkin.

"Quite so," said the lawyer; "quite so, it is so difficult to tell when a case will come on. You're in the list to-day and gone to-morrow; a man the other day was just worried as you have been; but mark this; at the trial, Mr. Bumpkin, the jury gave that man a verdict for a thousand pounds!"

"Look at that, Nancy," exclaimed Mr. Bumpkin; "Will 'ee tak a little more pork, sir?"

"Thank you," said Mr. Prigg, "it's uncommonly good; some of your own feeding, I suppose?"

"Ay," said Mr. Bumpkin.

"Were that a pig case, Mr. Prigg, where the man got the thousand pounds?" asked Mrs. Bumpkin.

"Let me see," answered Prigg, "was it a pig case?" Here he put his finger to the side of his nose. "I really, at this moment, quite forget whether it was or was not a pig case. I'll trouble you, Mrs. Bumpkin, for a little more greens, if you please."

"Now, I wur saying," said Bumpkin, "jist as thee comed in, where be I to lodge when I gooes to Lunnon agin?"

"Ah, now, quite so—yes; and you must go in a day or two. I expect we shall be on shortly. Now, let me see, you don't like 'The Goose'? A nice respectable hostelry, too!"

"I wunt 'ave un goo there, Mr. Prigg," said Mrs. Bumpkin.

"Quite so—quite so. Now what I was thinking was, suppose you took lodgings at some nice suburban place, say—"

"What pleace, sir?" inquired Bumpkin.

"Let us say Camden Town, for instance—nice healthy neighbourhood and remarkably quiet. You could come every morning by 'bus, or if you preferred it, by rail; and if by rail, you could take a season ticket, which would be much cheaper; a six months' ticket, again, being cheaper than a three months' ticket."

"In the name o' Heaven, sir," exclaimed Mrs. Bumpkin, "be this 'ere thing gwine on for ever?"

Mr. Prigg smiled benignly, as much as to say, "You ladies are so impatient, so innocent of the business of life."

"It seems to me, Mr. Prigg, one need live to be as old as thic there Mackthusaler to bring a law-suit now-a-days."

"Now, look at that!" broke in Joe, "it's made master look forty year older aready."

"So it have, Joe," rejoined the mistress; "I wish it could be chucked up altogether."

Mr. Prigg benignantly shook his head.

"D'ye think I be gwine to give in to thic sniggerin' Snooks feller?" asked Mr. Bumpkin. "Not if I knows it. Why thic feller goo sniggerin' along th' street as though he'd won; and he 'ave told lots o' people how he'll laugh I out o' Coourt—his counsel be gwine to laugh I out o' Coourt becors I be a country farmer."

"Right can't be laughed out of Court, sir," said the excellent Prigg, solemnly.

"Noa, noa, right bean't asheamed, goo where ur wool. Upright and down-straight wur allays my motto. I be a plain man, but I allays tried to act straight-forrerd, and bean't asheamed o' no man."

This speech was a complete success: it was unanswerable. It fixed the lodgings at Camden Town. It stopped Mrs. Bumpkin's impatience; diminished her apprehensions; and apparently, lulled her misgivings. She was a gentle, hard-working, loving wife.

And so all was settled. It was the month of April, and it was confidently expected that by the end of July all would be comfortably finished in time to get in the harvest. The crops looked well; the meadows and clover-field promised a fair crop, and the wheat and barley never looked better.

The following week found Mr. Bumpkin in his new lodgings at Camden Town; and I verily believe, as Mr. Prigg very sagaciously observed, if it had not been for the Judges going circuit, Bumpkin v. Snooks would have been in the paper six weeks earlier than it really was. But even lawsuits must come on at last, be they never so tardy: and one day, in bustling haste, Mr. Prigg's young man informed Mr. Bumpkin that a consultation was actually fixed at his leader's chambers, Garden Court, Temple, at seven o'clock punctually the next day.

Bumpkin was delighted: he was to be present at the express wish of the leading counsel. So to Garden Court he went at seven, with Mr. Prigg; and there sure enough was Mr. Dynamite, his junior counsel. Mr. Catapult, Q.C., had not yet arrived. So while they waited, Mr. Bumpkin had an opportunity of looking about him; never in his life had he seen so many books. There they were all over the walls; shelves upon shelves. The chambers seemed built with books, and Mr. Bumpkin raised his eyes with awe to the ceiling, expecting to see books there.

"What be all these 'ere books, sir?" he whispered to Prigg.

"These are law books," answered the intelligent Prigg; "but these are only a few."

"Must be a good dale o' law," said Bumpkin.

"A good deal too much," observed Mr. Dynamite, with a smile; "if we were to burn nine-tenths of the law books we should have better law, eh, Mr. Prigg?"

Mr. Prigg never contradicted counsel; and if Mr. Dynamite had said it's a great pity that our libraries have so few authorities, Prigg would have made the same answer, "I quite agree, quite so! quite so!"

"Mr. Cats-'is-name don't seem to come," observed Bumpkin, after an hour and a half had passed.

"Mr. Catapult, Mr. Catapult," said Mr. Prigg; "no, he doesn't seem to come." And then he rang for the clerk, and the clerk came.

"Do you think Mr. Catapult will return to-night?" inquired Prigg.

"I don't think he will," said the clerk, looking at his watch; "I am afraid not."

"Beant much good to stop then," said Mr. Bumpkin.

"I fear not," observed the clerk, "he has so many engagements. Shall we fix another consultation, Mr. Prigg?"

"If you please," said that gentleman.

"Say half-past seven to-morrow, then. The case, I find, is not in the paper to-morrow."

"Quite so, quite so," returned Prigg, "half-past seven to-morrow."

And thus the consultation was at an end and the parties went their several ways.



CHAPTER XXXIV.

Mr. Bumpkin receives compliments from distinguished persons.

One evening as Mr. Bumpkin was sitting in his little parlour, ruminating, or as he termed it, "rummaging" in his mind over many things, and especially wondering when the trial would come on, Horatio, in breathless impatience, entered the room. His excited and cheerful appearance indicated that something of an unusually pleasant nature had occurred. A strong intimacy had long been established between this boy and Mr. Bumpkin, who regarded Horatio as a kind of legal prodigy; his very hopes seemed centered in and inspired by this lad. He seemed to be the guiding spirit and the flywheel of the whole proceedings. Was Snooks to be pulverized? it must be under Horatio's heel!

This legal stripling brought almost as much comfort as Mr. Prigg himself; and it was quite a pleasure to hear the familiar terms in which he spoke of the bigwigs of the profession. He would say of McCannister, the Queen's Counsel, "I like Mac's style of putting a question, it's so soft like—it goes down like a Pick-me-up." Then he would allude to Mr. Heavytop, Q.C., as Jack; to Mr. Bigpot as old Kettledrum; to Mr. Swagger, Q.C., as Pat; to B. C. Windbag, Q.C., M.P., as B. C.—all which indicated to the mind of Mr. Bumpkin the particularly intimate terms upon which Horatio was with these celebrities. Nor did his intimacy cease there: instead of speaking of the highest legal official of the land in terms of respectful deference, as "my Lord High Chancellor," or "my Lord Allworthy,"—he would say, in the most indifferent manner "Old Allworthy" this, and "Old Allworthy," that; sometimes even, he ventured to call some of Her Majesty's Judges by nick-names; an example which, I trust, will not be followed by the Horatios of the future. But I believe the pale boy, like his great namesake, was fearless. It was a comfort to hear him denounce the law's delay, and the terrible "cumbersomeness" of legal proceedings: not that he did it in soothing language or in happy phraseology: it was rather in a manner that led Mr. Bumpkin to believe the young champion was standing up for his particular rights; as if he had said to the authorities, whoever they might be, "Look here! I'll have no more of this: it's a shame and disgrace to this country that a simple dispute between a couple of neighbours can't be tried without months of quarrelling in Judges' Chambers and elsewhere; if you don't try this case before long I'll see what can be done." Then there was further consolation in the fact that Horatio declared that, in his opinion, Tommy Catpup, Q.C., would knock Snooks into a cocked hat, and that Snooks already looked very down in the mouth.