The pleasure of a country drive on a summer evening described as enhanced by a pious mind.
It is only fair to the very able solicitors on both sides in the memorable case ofBumpkinv.Snooksto state that the greatest possible despatch was exercised on all occasions. Scarcely a day passed without something being done, as Prigg expressed it, “to expedite matters.” Month after month may have passed away without any apparent advance; but this in reality was not the case. Many appeals on what seemed trifling matters had been heard; so many indeed thatBumpkinv.Snookshad become a household word with the Court of Appeal, and a bye-word among the innumerable loafers about Judge’s Chambers.
“What!Bumpkinv.Snooksagain!” the President would say. “What is it now? It’s a pity the parties to this case can’t agree: it seems a very trifling matter.”
“Not so, my lord, as your lordship will quickly apprehend when the new point is brought before your notice. A question of principle is here which may form a precedent for the guidance of future Judges, as did the famous case ofPerrymanv.Lister, which went to the House of Lords about prosecuting a man for stealing agun. This is about a pig, my lord—a little pig, no doubt, and although there is not much in the pig, there is a good deal outside it.”
And often did Prigg say to Locust:
“I say, Locust, whenevershallwe be ready to set this case down for trial?”
“Really, my dear Prigg,” Locust would reply, “it seems interminable—come and dine with me.” So the gentle and innocent reader will at once perceive that there was great impatience on all sides to get this case ready for trial. Meanwhile it may not be uninteresting to describe shortly some of the many changes that had taken place in the few short months since the action commenced.
First it was clearly observable by the inhabitants of Yokelton that Mr. Prigg’s position had considerably improved. I say nothing of his new hat; that was a small matter, but not so his style of living—so great an advance had that made that it attracted the attention of the neighbours, who often remarked that Mr. Prigg seemed to be getting a large practice. He was often seen with his lady on a summer afternoon taking the air in a nice open carriage—hired, it is true, for the occasion. And everybody remarked how uncommonly ladylike Mrs. Prigg lay back in the vehicle, and how very gracefully she held her new æsthetic parasol. And what a proud moment it was for Bumpkin, when he saw this good and respectable gentleman pass with the ladylike creature beside him; and Mr. Bumpkin would say to his neighbours, lifting his hat at the same moment,
“That be my loryer, that air be!”
And then Mr. Prigg would gracefully raise his hat, and Mrs. Prigg would lie back perfectly motionless asbecame a very languid lady of her exalted position. And when Mr. Prigg said to Mrs. Prigg, “My dear, that is our new client;” Mrs. Prigg would elevate her arched eyebrows and expand her delicate nostrils as she answered,—
“Really, my love, what a very vulgar-looking creechar!”
“Not nearly so vulgar as Locust’s client,” rejoined her husband. “You should see him.”
“Thank you, my love, it is quite enough to catch a glimpse of the superior person of the two.”
Mr. Prigg seemed to think it a qualifying circumstance that Snooks was a more vulgar-looking man than Bumpkin, whereas a moment’s consideration showed Mrs. Prigg how illogical that was. It is the intrinsic and personal value that one has to measure things by. This value could not be heightened by contrast. Mrs. Prigg’s curiosity, however, naturally led her to inquire who the other creechar was? As if she had never heard ofBumpkinv.Snooks, although she had actually got the case on four wheels and was riding in it at that very moment; as if in fact she was not practically all Bumpkin, as a silkworm may be said to be all mulberry leaves. As if she knew nothing of her husband’s business! Her ideas were not of this world. Give her a church to build, she’d harass people for subscriptions; or let it be a meeting to clothe the naked savage, Mrs. Prigg would be there. She knew nothing of clothing Bumpkin! But she did interest herself sufficiently in her husband’s conversation to ask, in answer to his reference to Locust’s disreputable client,
“And who is he, pray?”
“My darling,” said Prigg, “you must have heard of Snooks?”
“Oh,” drawled Mrs. Prigg, “do you mean the creechar who sells coals?”
“The same, my dear.”
“And are you engaged againstthatman? How very dreadful!”
“My darling,” observed Mr. Prigg, “it is not for us to choose our opponents; nor indeed, for the matter of that, our clients.”
“I can quite perceive that,” returned the lady, “or you would never have chosen such men—dear me!”
“We are like physicians,” returned Mr. Prigg, “called in in case of need.”
“And the healing virtues of your profession must not be confined to rich patients,” said Mrs. Prigg, in her jocular manner.
“By no means,” was the good man’s reply; “justice is as much the right of the poor as the rich—so is the air we breathe—so is everything.” And he put his fingers together again, as was his wont whenever he uttered a philosophical or moral platitude.
So I saw in my dream that the good man and his ladylike wife rode through the beautiful lanes, and over the breezy common on that lovely summer afternoon, and as they drew up on the summit of a hill which gave a view of the distant landscape, there was a serenity in the scene which could only be compared to the serenity of Mr. Prigg’s benevolent countenance; and there was a calm, deeply, sweetly impressive, which could only be appreciated by a mind at peace with itself in particular, and with the world in general. Then came from a neighbouring wood the clear voice of the cuckoo. Itseemed to sing purposely in honour of the good man; and I fancied I could see a ravenous hawk upon a tree, abashed at Mr. Prigg’s presence and superior ability; and a fluttering timid lark seemed to shriek, “Wicked bird, live and let live;” but it was the last word the silly lark uttered, for the hawk was upon him in a moment, and the little innocent songster was crushed in its ravenous beak. Still the cuckoo sang on in praise of Mr. Prigg, with now and then a little note for Mrs. Prigg; for the cuckoo is a very gallant little bird, and Mrs. Prigg was such a heavenly creature that no cuckoo could be conscious of her presence without hymning her praise.
“Listen,” said Mrs. Prigg, “isn’t it beautiful? I wonder where cuckoos go to?”
“Ah, my dear!” said Prigg, enraptured with the clear notes and the beautiful scene; but neither of them seemed to wonder where hawks go to.
“Do you hear the echo, love? Isn’t it beautiful?”
O, yes, it was beautiful! Nature does indeed lift the soul on a quiet evening from the grovelling occupations of earth to bask in the genial sunshine of a more spiritual existence. What was Bumpkin? What was Snooks to a scene like this? Suddenly the cuckoo ceased. Wonderful bird! I don’t know whether it was the presence of the hawk that hushed its voice or the sight of Mr. Prigg as he stood up in the carriage to take a more extended view of the prospect; but the familiar note was hushed, and the evening hymn in praise of the Priggs was over.
So the journey was continued by the beautiful wood of oaks and chestnuts, along by the hillside from which you could perceive in the far distance the little streamas it wound along by meadow and wood and then lost itself beneath the hill that rose abruptly on the left.
The stream was the symbol of life—probably Bumpkin’s life; all nature presents similes to a religious mind. And so the evening journey was continued with ever awakening feelings of delight and gratitude until they once more entered their peaceful home. And this brings me to another consideration which ought not to be passed over with indifference.
I saw in my dream that a great change had taken place in the home of the Priggs. The furniture had undergone a metamorphosis almost so striking that I thought Mr. Prigg must be a wizard. The gentle reader knows all about Cinderella; but here was a transformation more surprising. I saw that one of Mr. Bumpkin’s pigs had been turned into a very pretty walnut-wood whatnot, and stood in the drawing-room, and on it stood several of the ducks and geese that used to swim in the pond of Southwood farm. They were not ducks and geese now, but pretty silent ornaments. An old rough-looking stack of oats had been turned into a very nice Turkey carpet for the dining-room. Poor old Jack the donkey had been changed into a musical box that stood on a little table made out of a calf. One day Mr. Bumpkin called to see how his case was going on, and by mistake got into this room among his cows and pigs; but not one of them did the farmer know, and when the maid invited him to sit down he was afraid of spoiling something.
Now summonses at Chambers, and appeals, and demurrers, are not at all bad conjuring wands, if you only know how to use them. Two clever men like Prigg and Locust, not only surprise the profession, but alarm thepublic, since no one knows what will take place next, and Justice herself is startled from her propriety. Let no clamorous law reformer say that interrogatories or any other multitudinous proceedings at Judge’s Chambers are useless. It is astonishing how many changes you can ring upon them with a little ingenuity, and a very little scrupulosity. Mr. Prigg turned two sides of bacon into an Indian vase, and performed many other feats truly astonishing to persons who look on as mere spectators, and wonder how it is done. Wave your magic wand, good Prigg, and you shall see a hayrick turn into a chestnut mare; and a four-wheeled waggon into a Victoria.
But the greatest change he had effected was in Mr. Bumpkin himself, who loved to hear his wife read the interrogatories and answers. The almanac was nothing to this. He had no idea law was so interesting. I dare say there were two guiding influences working within him, in addition to the many influences working without; one being that inherent British pluck, which once aroused, “doesn’t care, sir, if it costs me a thousand pound, I’ll have it out wi’ un;” the other was the delicious thought that all his present outlay would be repaid by the cunning and covetous Snooks. So much was Bumpkin’s heart in the work of crushing his opponent, that expense was treated with ridicule. I heard him one day say jocularly to Mr. Prigg, who had come for an affidavit:
“Be it a pig, sir, or a heifer?”
“O,” said the worthy Prigg, “we want a pretty good one; I think it must be a heifer.”
All this was very pleasant, and made the business, dull and prosaic in itself, a cheerful recreation.
Then, again, there was a feeling of self-importancewhenever these affidavits came to be sworn. Mr. Bumpkin would put down his ash-stick by the side of the fireplace, and bidding his visitor be seated, would compose himself with satisfaction to listen to the oft-repeated words:
“I, Thomas Bumpkin, make oath, and say—”
Fancy, “I,Bumpkin!” Just let the reader pause over that for a moment! What must “I, Bumpkin,” be whose statement is required on oath before my Lord Judge?
Always, at these words, he would shout. “That be it—now then, sir, would you please begin that agin?”—while, if Mrs. Bumpkin were not too busy, he would call her in to hear them too.
So there was no wonder that the action went merrily along. Once get up enthusiasm in a cause, and it is half won. Without enthusiasm, few causes can succeed against opposition. Then, again, the affidavit described Bumpkin as a Yeoman. What, I wonder, would Snooks the coal-merchant think of that?
So everything proceeded satisfactorily, and the months rolled away; the seasons came in their turn, so did the crops, so did the farrows of pigs, so did the spring chickens, and young ducks (prettiest little golden things in the world, on the water); so did Mr. Prigg, and so did a gentleman (hereafter to be called “the man,”) with whom a very convenient arrangement was made, by which Mr. Bumpkin preserved the whole of his remaining stock intact; had not in fact to advance a single penny piece more; all advances necessary for the prosecution of the action being made by the strange gentleman (whose name I did not catch) under that most convenient of all legal forms, “a Bill of Sale.”
A farmhouse winter fireside—a morning drive and a mutual interchange of ideas between town and country: showing how we may all learn something from one another.
I never saw the home of Farmer Bumpkin without thinking what a happy and comfortable home it was. The old elm tree that waved over the thatched roof, seemed to bless and protect it. On a winter’s evening, when Bumpkin was sitting in one corner smoking his long pipe, Mrs. Bumpkin darning her stockings, and Joe on the other side looking into the blazing fire, while the old Collie stretched himself in a snug corner beside his master, it represented a scene of comfort almost as perfect as rustic human nature was capable of enjoying. And when the wind blew through the branches of the elm over the roof, it was like music, played on purpose to heighten the enjoyment. Comfort, thou art at the evening fireside of a farm-house, if anywhere!
You should have seen Tim, when an unusual sound disturbed the harmony of this peaceful fireside. He growled first as he lay with his head resting between his paws, and just turned up his eyes to his master for approval. Then, if that warning was not sufficient, he rose and barked vociferously. Possessed, I believe, ofmore insight than Bumpkin, he got into the most tremendous state of excitement whensoever anyone came from Prigg’s, and he cordially hated Prigg. But most of all was he angry when “the man” came. There was no keeping him quiet. I wonder if dogs know more about Bills of Sale than farmers. I am aware that some farmers know a good deal about them; and when they read this story, many of them will accuse me of being too personal; but Tim was a dog of strong prejudices, and I am sure he had a prejudice against money-lenders.
As the persons I have mentioned were thus sitting on this dreary evening in the month of November, suddenly, Tim sprang from his recumbent position, and barked furiously.
“Down, Tim! down, Tim!” said the farmer; “what be this, I wonder!”
“Tim, Tim,” said Mrs. Bumpkin, “down, Tim! hold thee noise, I tell ee.”
“Good Tim!” said Joe; he also had an instinct.
“I’ll goo and see what it be,” said Mrs. Bumpkin; “whoever can come here at this time o’ night! it be summat, Tom.” And she put down her stockings, and lighting a candle went to the front door, whereat there was a loud knocking. Tim jumped and flew and thrust his nose down to the bottom of the door long before Mrs. Bumpkin could get there.
“Quiet, Tim! I tell thee; who be there?”
“From Mr. Prigg’s,” answered a voice.
This was enough for Tim; the name of Prigg made him furious.
“Somebody from Mr. Prigg, Tom.”
“Wull, let un in, Nance; bless thee soul, let un in; may be the case be settled. I hope they ain’t took lessnor a hundred pound. I told un not to.” The door was unbolted and unbarred, and a long time it took, and then stood before Mrs. Bumpkin a tall pale youth.
“I’ve come from Mr. Prigg.”
“Will er plase to walk in, sir?” said Mrs. Bumpkin.
By this time the master had got up from his seat, and advancing towards the youth said:—
“How do, sir; how do, sir; wark in, wark in, tak a seat, I be glad to see thee.”
“I come from Mr. Prigg,” said the youth, “and we want another affidavit.”
“Hem!” said Bumpkin, “be it a pig or a eifer, sir?” He couldn’t forget the old joke.
“We want an affidavit of documents,” said the youth.
“And what be the manin o’ that?—affiday o’ what?”
“Documents, sir,” said the mild youth; “here it is.”
“Oh,” said Bumpkin, “I got to swear un, I spoase, that’s all.”
“That’s it, sir,” said Horatio.
“Well, thee can’t take oaths, I spoase.”
“No, sir, not exactly.”
“Wull then I spoase I must goo to --- in the marnin. And thee’ll stop here the night and mak thyself comfortable. We can gie un a bed, can’t us, Nancy?”
“Two, if ur wishes it,” answered Mrs. Bumpkin.
“Devil’s in it, ur doan’t want two beds, I’ll warrant? Now then, sir, sitten doon and mak theeself comfortable. What’ll thee drink?”
“I’m too young to drink,” said Horatio, with a smile.
Bumpkin smiled too. “I’ll warrant thee be.”
“I’m always too young,” said Horatio, “for every thing that’s nice. Mr. Prigg says I’m too young toenjoy myself; but if you don’t mind, sir, I’m not too young to be hungry. I’ve walked a long distance.”
“Have ur now?” said Mrs. Bumpkin. “We ain’t got anything wery grand, sir; but there be a nice piece o’ pickle pork and pease-puddin, if thee doan’t mind thic.”
“Bring un out,” said Bumpkin; and accordingly a nice clean cloth was soon spread, and the table was groaning (as the saying is), with a large leg of pork and pease-pudding and home-made bread; to which Horatio did ample justice.
“Bain’t bad pooark,” said Bumpkin.
“Best I ever tasted,” replied Horatio; “we don’t get this sort of pork in London—pork there doesn’t seem like pork.”
“Now look at that,” said Joe; “I fed that air pig.”
“So ur did, Joe,” said the farmer; “I’ll gie thee credit, Joe, thee fed un well.”
“Ah!” said Joe; “and that air pig knowed I as well as I knows thee.”
When Horatio had supped, and the things were removed, Mr. Bumpkin assured the youth that a little drop of gin-and-water would not hurt him after his journey; and accordingly mixed him a tumbler. “Thee doan’t smoke, I spoase?” he said; to which Mrs. Bumpkin added that she “spoased he wur too young like.”
“I’ll try,” answered the courageous youth, nothing daunted by his youngness.
“So thee shall—dang if thee shan’t,” rejoined Mr. Bumpkin; and produced a long churchwarden pipe, and a big leaden jar of tobacco of a very dark character, called “shag.”
Horatio filled his pipe, and puffed away as if he had been a veteran smoker; cloud after cloud came forth,and when Mr. and Mrs. Bumpkin and Joe looked, expecting that the boy should be ill, there was not the least sign; so Joe observed with great sagacity:
“Look at that now, maister; I bleeve he’ve smoked afoore.”
“Have ur, sir?” asked Mr. Bumpkin.
“A little,” said Horatio.
“Why, I never smoked afoore I wur turned twenty,” said the farmer.
“I believe the right time now is fourteen,” observed the youth; “it used to be twenty, I have heard father say; but everything has been altered by the Judicature Act.”
“Look at that air,” said Joe, “he’ve eeard father say. You knows a thing or two, I’ll warrant, Mr. —.”
Here Joe was baffled, and coming so abruptly to an end of his address, Mr. Bumpkin took the matter up, and asked, if he might make so bold, what the youth’s name might be.
“Horatio Snigger,” answered that gentleman.
“When will this ere case be on, think’ee, sir?” inquired Mr. Bumpkin.
“We expect it to be in the paper every day now,” said the youth; “they’ve tried to dodge us a good deal, but they can’t dodge us much longer—we’re a little too downy for em.”
“It have been a mighty long time about, surely,” said Mr. Bumpkin.
“O, that’s nothing,” said Horatio; “time’s nothing in Law! Why, a suit to administer a Will sometimes takes ’ears; and Bankruptcy, O my eye, ain’t there dodging about that, and jockeying too, eh! Crikey!”
Mr. Bumpkin here winked at his wife, as much as tosay, “Now you hold your tongue, and see me dror un out. I’ll have un.”
“Will ee tak a little more gin-and-water, sir?”
“No, thankee,” said the youth.
“A little more won’t hurt ee—it’ll do thee good.” And again he filled the tumbler; while the pale boy refilled his pipe.
“Now, who’s my counsellor gwine to be?” asked the farmer.
“Oh,” said Horatio, “a regular cruncher—Mr. Catapult.”
“He be a cruncher, be he?”
“I believe you; he turned a man inside out the other day; a money-lender he was.”
“Did ur now?”
“Look at that,” said Joe.
“And we’re going to have Mr. Dynamite for junior; my eye, don’t he make a row!”
“Two an em!” exclaimed Bumpkin.
“Must have two for the plaintiff,” said Horatio; “that’s the law. Why, a Queen’s Counsel ain’t allowed to open a case without a junior starts him—it’s jist like the engine-driver and the guard. You have the junior to shove the leader.”
“Look at that,” said Joe; expectorating into the fire.
Mr. Bumpkin looked again at Nancy, and gave another wink that you might have heard.
“And the tother side?” he asked.
“Ah! I don’t know about them,” said the boy. “They’re artful dodgers, they are.”
“Is ’em now? but artfulness don’t allays win, do ur?”
“No,” said Horatio; “but it goes a long way, and sometimes when it’s gone a long way it beats itself.”
“Look at that,” said Joe; “that’s like that ere—”
“Be quiet, Joe,” said Bumpkin; “let I talk, will ur? You said it beats itself, sir?”
“If the judge gets ’old of him, it’s sure to,” said Horatio. “There ain’t no judge on the Bench as will let artfulness win if he knows it. I’ve sin em watchin like a cat watches a mouse; and directly it comes out o’ the ’ole, down he is on em—like that:” and he slapped his hand on the table with startling effect.
“Good!” said Bumpkin.
“And don’t they know who the solicitor is, eh—that’s all! My word, if he’s a shady one—the judge is down on the case like winkin.”
“And be this ere Locust a shady un?” (Another wink at Mrs. Bumpkin.)
“Ah! I’m too young to know.”
“Thee beest too old, thee meanest,” said Mrs. Bumpkin, laughing.
“Now hold thee tongue, Nancy; I wur gwine to say that myself—dang if I warnt!”
“Now look at thic,” said Joe; “maister were gwine to say thic.”
“So I wur,” repeated Bumpkin. “Jist got the word o’ th’ tip o’ th’ tongue.”
“And be these Queen’s Counsellors,” he asked, “summat grand?”
“I believe you,” said Horatio; “they wears silk gowns.”
“Do em?” said Mrs. Bumpkin, laughing. “Silk gowns—and what kind o’ petticoats?”
“Shut up,” said Bumpkin; “thee be as igorant as adonkey; these Queen’s Counsellors be made for their larnin and cleverness, beant em, sir?”
“Well,” said Horatio, “nobody ever could make out—some of em are pretty good, and some of em ain’t much—not near so good as the others.”
“But this ere Mr. Catapult be a good un, bean’t he—a regler crunsher?”
“O, I believe you, my boy: his look’s enough for some of em.”
“I spoase he be dear?” (Another wink at Mrs. Bumpkin.)
“They’re all dear,” said Horatio; “some of em are dear because their fees are high; and some of em would be dear at a gift, but I’m too young to know much about it.”
“Now hark at that,” said Joe; “like that air old horse o’ Morris’.”
“Hold thee tongue, Joe, I tell ee, putten thy spoke in; does thee think the Queen ’as old ’orses in her stable? It’s merit, I tell ee—ain’t it, Mr. Jigger?”
“Merit, sir; I believe it’s merit.” And thus in pleasant conversation the evening passed merrily away, until the clock striking nine warned the company that it was time to retire.
A bright, brisk frosty morning succeeded, and a substantial breakfast of bacon, eggs, fresh butter, and home-made bread, at seven o’clock, somewhat astonished and delighted the youthful Horatio; and then the old horse, with plenty of hair about his heels, was brought round with the gig. And Mr. Bumpkin and his guest got up and took their seats. The old Market Town was about seven miles off, and the road lay through the most picturesque scenery of the county. To ride on sucha pleasant morning through such a country almost made one think that swearing affidavits was the most pleasing occupation of life. It was the first time Horatio had ever ridden in a gig: the horse went a good old market pace, and the beautiful sunshine, lovely scenery, and crisp air produced in his youthful bosom a peculiarly charming and delightful sense of exhilaration. He praised the country and the weather and the horse, and asked if it was what they called a thoroughbred.
“Chit!” said Bumpkin, “thoroughbred! So be I thoroughbred—did thee ever see thoroughbred wi’ ’air on his ’eels?’
“Well, he goes well,” said Horatio.
“Gooes well enough for I,” said Bumpkin.
This answer somewhat abashed Horatio, who was unlearned in horses; for some time he remained silent. Then it became Mr. Bumpkin’s turn to renew the conversation:
“I spoase,” said he, “thee be gwine to be a loryer?”
“Not if I know it,” answered Horatio.
“Why not, then?”
“Don’t care for it; I like the country.”
“What wouldst thee like to be then, a farmer?”
“I should—that’s the life for me!”
“Thee likes plenty o’ fresh air?” said the farmer.
“Yes,” answered Horatio, “and fresh butter and fresh eggs.”
“I’ll go to ---, if thee doen’t know what’s good for thee, anyhow. Thee’d ha’ to work ’ard to keep straaight, I can tell thee; thee’d had to plough, and danged if I believe thee could hold plough! What’s thee say to that, lad?”
“I think I could.”
“Devil a bit! now spoase thee’st got plough-handles under thy arms, and the cord in the ’ands, and thee wanted to keep t’colter from jibbin into t’ soil, wouldst thee press down wi’ might and main, or how?”
“Press down with might and main,” said Horatio.
“Right!” exclaimed Bumpkin; “danged if I doant think thee’d make a ploughman now. Dost know what th’ manin o’ mither woiy be?”
This was rather a startling question for the unsophisticated London youth. He had never heard such an expression in his life; and although he might have puzzled his agricultural interrogator by a good many questions in return, yet that possibility was no answer to “mither woiy.”
“I don’t know that, Mr. Bumpkin,” he ingenuously replied.
“No? well, there ain’t a commoner word down ere nor ‘mither woiy,’ and there ain’t a boy arf your age as doan’t know the manin o’t, so thee see thee got summat to larn. Now it mane this—spoase thee got a team o’ horses at dung cart or gravel cart, and thee wants em to come to ee; thee jest holds whip up over to the ed o’ th’ leadin orse like this ere, and says ‘mither woiy,’ and round er comes as natteral as possible.”
“O, that’s it!” said Horatio; “I see.”
“Ah!” said Bumpkin, “I can teach ee summat, can’t I, though thee comes from town, and I be only a country clown farmer?”
“I should just like to come down a month on trial, that’s all, when I have my holiday,” said the youth; “I think it would do me good: ‘mither woiy,’” he said, mimicking his instructor.
“Thee shall come if thee likes,” replied the good-naturedBumpkin; “Nancy’ll be proud to see thee—thee’s got ‘mither woiy’ to rights.”
“What a very nice public-house!” exclaimed Horatio, as they approached a village green where an old Inn that had flourished in the coaching days still stood, the decaying monument of a past age, and an almost forgotten style of locomotion.
“Be a good house. I often pulls up there on way from market.”
“Did you ever try rum and milk for your cough?” inquired the pale youth.
“Never had no cough,” said Bumpkin.
“What a good thing! But it’s capital, they say, in case you should have one; they say there’s nothing beats rum and milk.”
“Hem!” muttered Bumpkin, giving his horse a tremendous jerk with the reins. “I spoase thee’d like a glass, Mr. Jigger.”
“I don’t care about it for myself,” answered the youth; “but if you like to have one I’ll join you with pleasure.”
“So us wool then;” and up they pulled at the sign of the “Merry-go-round” on Addlehead Green.
“Bain’t bad tackle!” said Mr. Bumpkin, tossing off his glass.
“No,” responded Horatio, “I’ve tasted worse medicine. I quite enjoy my ride, Mr. Bumpkin; I wish we had a dozen more affidavits to swear.”
“I doan’t,” said the client; “I sworn a goodish many on em as it be. I doan’t think that air Snooks can bate un.”
“I don’t think he can,” said Horatio, as they once more climbed into the old-fashioned gig; “but talkabout paper, you should see your brief: that’s a caution and no mistake!”
“Is ur now? In what way, sir?”
“Lor, how I should like a cigar, Mr. Bumpkin, if I’d only got my case with me, but unfortunately—”
“Would ur—then thee shall ’ave one; here, Mr. Ostler, jest goo and fetch one o’ them there what d’ye call ems.”
“O, do they sell them down here? Cigars—cigars,” said Horatio, “I wasn’t aware of that.”
“Now then, sir; what about this ere what d’ye call un—beef?”
Mr. Bumpkin, being a very artful man, was inwardly chuckling at the successful manœuvring by which he was drawing out this pale unsophisticated London youth, and hoped by dint of a little strategy to learn a good deal before they parted company.
“Brief! brief!” said Horatio, laughing.
“Ah! so it wur; thee said he wur a hell of a big un.”
“Yes, and I wrote him myself.”
“Did ur now; then thee knows all about un?”
“From beginning to end—he is a clipper, I can tell you; a regular whacker.”
“I hope he’ll whack thic Snooks then.”
“He’s a beauty!” rejoined Horatio, much to his companion’s surprise; for here was this young man speaking of a brief in the same terms that he (Bumpkin) would use with reference to a prize wurzel or swede. A brief being abeautysounded somewhat strange in the ears of a farmer who could associate the term with nothing that didn’t grow on the farm.
“I dare say you’ve heard of Macaulay’s England?” asked the lad.
“Whose England?”
“Macaulay’s.”
“I’ve eerd o’ England, if you mean this ere country, sartainly.”
“You’ve heard of Macaulay’s History, I mean?”
“Can’t say as ever I eerd tell on un.”
“Well, there’s as much in your brief as there is in that book, and that’s saying something, ain’t it?”
“Zo’t be; but what th’ devil be ’t all about?”
“Well, I’ll tell you,” said Horatio, holding out his hands and putting the point of his right forefinger on to the point of the forefinger of his left hand. “First: biography of the plaintiff.”
“There now,” said Bumpkin, shaking the reins; “thee med jist as well talk Greek—it’s the same wally (value) to me, for I doan’t understan’ a word—bography, indade!”
“Well then, Mr. Bumpkin, there is first a history of your life.”
“Good lord, what be that for?”
“I’ll tell you presently—then there’s the history of Mrs. Bumpkin from the cradle.” (Mr. Bumpkin uttered an exclamation which nothing shall induce me to put on paper.) “Then”—and here the young man had reached the third finger of the left hand—“then comes a history of the defendant Snooks.”
“Ah!” said Bumpkin, as though they were getting nearer the mark; “that be summut like—that’ll do un—have you put in about the gal?”
“What’s that?” asked the youth.
“Oh! didn’t thee ’ear? Why, thee ’st left out the best part o’ Snooks’ life; he were keepin company wi’ a gal and left her in t’ lurch: but I ’ope thee ’st shownup ur carater well in other ways—he be the worst man as ever lived in this ’ere country.”
“Well,” said Horatio, travelling towards his little finger; “then there’s the history of the pig.”
“Zounds!” laughed the farmer, “if ever I eerd tell o’ such a thing in my bornd days. What the devil be the good o’ thic?”
“O, a good deal; the longer you make the brief the more money you get—you are paid by the yard. They don’t pay lawyers accordin’ to the value of their services, but the length of ’em.”
“Well, look ee ’ere, if I sells a pig it ain’t wallied by its length, but by its weight.”
“It ain’t so with lawyers then,” rejoined Horatio; “the taxing master takes the length of the pig, and his tail counts, and the longer the tail the better the taxing master likes it; then comes,”—(as the young lad had only four fingers he was obliged to have recourse to his thumb, placing his forefinger thereon)—“then comes about ten pages on the immortality of the soul.”
“That be the tail, I spoase.”
“You got it,” said Horatio, laughing. “O, he’s a stunner on the immortality of the soul.”
“Who be?—Snooks?”
“No—Prigg—he goes into it like winkin’.”
“But what be it to do with thic case?”
“Well, if you only put in a brief what had got to do with the case it would be a poor thing.”
And I saw in my dream that the young man was speaking truthfully: it was a beautifully drawn essay on the immortality of the soul, especially Bumpkin’s.
“By George!” continued the youth, “it’ll cost something—that brief.”
Mr. Bumpkin twitched as if he had touched with ice a nerve of his hollow tooth.
“If I had the money that case’ll cost I wouldn’t do any more work,” said the youth.
“What would’st thee be then?”
“Well, I should try and get an Associate’s place in one of the Courts.”
“Hem! but this ere Snooks ull have to pay, won’t he?”
“Ah!” said Horatio, breathing deeply and indignantly, “I hope so; he’s a mean cuss—what d’ye think? never give Locust’s boy so much as a half-sovereign! Now don’t such a feller deserve to lose? And do you think Locust’s boy will interest himself in his behalf?”
Bumpkin looked slily out of the corners of his eyes at the young man, but the young man was impassive as stone, and pale as if made of the best Carrara marble.
“But tell I, sir—for here we be at the plaace of Mr. Commissioner to take oaths—what need be there o’ this ere thing I be gwine to swear, for I’ll be danged if I understand a word of un, so I tell ee.”
“Costs, my dear sir, costs!”
* * * * *
And I heard Bumpkin mutter to himself that “he’d he danged if this ’ere feller wur so young as he made out—his ’ead wur a mighty dale older nor his body.”
The last night before the first London expedition, which gives occasion to recall pleasant reminiscences.
“I, Bumpkin, make oath and say,” having been duly presented, and the Commissioner having duly placed the Testament in Mr. Bumpkin’s hands, and said to him that to the best of his knowledge and belief the contents of the “I Bumpkin” paper were true, the matter was over, and Mr. Snigger, with the valuable document in his possession, might have returned to London by the next train. But as Horatio afterwards observed to a friend, he “was not quite so green.” It was market day; Mr. Bumpkin was a genial companion, and had asked him to partake of the Market Ordinary. So thither at one o’clock they repaired, and a very fine dinner the pale youth disposed of. It seemed in proportion to the wonderful brief whose merits they had previously discussed. More and more did Horatio think that a farmer’s life was the life for him. He had never seen such “feeding;” more and more would he like that month on trial in the country; more and more inclined was he to throw up the whole blessed law at once and for ever. This partly-formed resolution he communicated to Mr. Bumpkin, and assured him that, but for the case ofBumpkinv.Snooks, he would do so on that very afternoon, and wash his hands of it.
“I don’t want,” said he, “to leave you in the lurch, Mr. Bumpkin, or else I’d cut it at once, and throw this affidavit into the fire.”
“Come, come,” said the farmer, “thee beest a young man, don’t do nowt that be wrong—stick to thy employer like a man, and when thee leaves, leave like a man.”
“As soon as your case is over, I shall hook it, Mr. Bumpkin. And now let me see—you’ll have to come to London in a week or two, for I am pretty nigh sure we shall be in the paper by that time. I shall see you when you come up—where shall you stay?”
“Danged if I know; I be a straanger in Lunnun.”
“Well, now, look ’ere, Mr. Bumpkin, I can tell you of a very nice quiet public-house in Westminster where you’ll be at home; the woman, I believe, comes from your part of the country, and so does the landlord.”
“What be the naame o’ the public ’ouse?” asked Mr. Bumpkin.
“It’s the sign of the ‘Goose,’ and stands just a little way off from the water-side.”
“The Goose” sounded countryfied and homelike, and being near the water would be pleasant, and the landlord and landlady being Somersetshire people would also be pleasant.
“Be it a dear plaace?” he inquired.
“Oh, no; dirt cheap.”
“Ah, that airdirtcheap I doan’t like—I likes it a bit clean like.”
“Oh, yes, clean as a smelt—clean as ever it can be; and I’ll bespeak your lodgings for you if you like, and all.”
“Well, thankee, sir, thankee,” said the farmer, shaking hands with the youth, and giving him a half-sovereign.“I be proud to know thee.” And thus they parted: Horatio returning to his office, and Mr. Bumpkin driving home at what is called a “shig-shog” pace, reflecting upon all the events that had transpired during that memorable day.
Pretty much the same as ever went on the things at the farm, and the weeks passed by, and the autumn was over, and Christmas Day came and went, and the Assizes came and went, andBumpkinv.Snooksalone in all the world seemed to stand still. One day in the autumn a friend of Mr. Prigg’s came and asked the favour of a day’s fishing, which was granted with Mr. Bumpkin’s usual cordiality. He was not only to fish on that day, but to come whenever he liked, and make the house his “hoame, like.” So he came and fished, and partook of the hospitality of the homely but plentiful table, and enjoyed himself as often as he pleased. He was a most agreeable man, and knew how to talk. Understood a good deal about agriculture and sheep breeding, and quite enjoyed a walk with Mr. Bumpkin round the farm. This happened five or six times during the autumn. He was reticent when Mr. Bumpkin mentioned the lawsuit, because he knew so little about legal proceedings. Nor could Mr. Bumpkin “draw him out” on any point. Nothing could be ascertained concerning him except that he had a place in Yorkshire, and was in London on a visit; that he had known Mr. Prigg for a good many years, and always “found him the same.” At last, the month of February came, and the long expected letter from Mr. Prigg. Bumpkin and Joe were to be in London on the following day, for it was expected they would be in the paper. What a flutter of preparation there was at the farm! Bumpkin was eager, Mrs. Bumpkin anxious.She had never liked the lawsuit, but had never once murmured; now she seemed to have a presentiment which she was too wise to express. And she went about her preparations for her husband’s leaving with all the courage she could command. It was, however, impossible entirely to repress her feelings, and now and again as she was packing the flannels and worsted stockings, a tear would force its way in spite of all she could do.
Night came, and the fireside was as cosy as ever. But there was a sense of sadness nevertheless. Tim seemed to understand that something was not quite as it should be, for he was restless, and looked up plaintively in his master’s face, and went to Joe and put his head in his lap; then turned away and stretched himself out on the hearth, winking his eyes at the fire.
It is always a melancholy effort to “keep up the spirits” when the moment of separation is at hand. One longs for the last shake of the hand and the final good-bye. This was the case at Southwood Farm on this memorable evening. Nothing in the room looked as usual. The pewter plates on the shelf shone indeed, but it was like the smile of a winter sun; it lacked the usual cheery warmth. Even the old clock seemed to feel sad as he ticked out with melancholy monotony the parting moments; and the wind, as it came in heavy gusts and howled round the old chimney, seemed more melancholy than need be under the circumstances.
“Thee must be careful, Tom,” said Mrs. Bumpkin; “that Lunnun, as I hear, be a terrible plaace.”
“How be un a terrible plaace?” said Bumpkin, sarcastically. “I bean’t a child, Nancy.”
“No, thee bean’t a child, Tom; but thee bean’t up toLunnun ways: there be thieves and murderers, and what not.”
“Thieves and murderers!”
“And Joe, doan’t ee git out o’ nights; if anything ’appened to thee, thy old mother ’ud brak her ’art.”
“Look ee ’ere,” said Joe, “I bean’t got nuthin’ to lose, so I bean’t afeared o’ thieves.”
“No, but thee might git into trouble, thee might be led away.”
“So might thic bull,” said Joe; “but I’d like to zee what ’ud become o’ the chap as led un.”
“Chap as led un!” said Mrs. Bumpkin, laughing.
“I’d gie un a crack o’ the canister,” said Joe.
“Don’t thee git knockin’ down, Joe, unless thee be ’bliged,” said Mrs. Bumpkin; “keep out o’ bad company, and don’t stay out o’ nights.”
“And lookee ’ere, Joe,” said Bumpkin, “when thee comes afore th’ Counsellor wi’ wig on, hold up thee head; look un straight in t’ face and spak oop. Thee needn’t be afeared t’ spak t’ truth.”
“I bean’t afeard,” said Joe; “I mind me when old Morris wur at plough, and I was leadin’ th’ ’orses, Morris says, says he, ‘Now then, cock, let’s see if we can’t git a eend this time;’ so on we goes, and jist afore I gits the ’orses to eend o’ t’ field, Dobbin turns, and then, dash my bootons, the tother turns after un, and me tryin’ to keep em oop, Dobbin gits his legs over the trace. Well, Morris wur that wild, he says, says he, ‘Damme, if yer doan’t look sharp, I’ll gie thee a crack o’ t’ canister wi’ this ’ere whippense presny’” (presently).
“Crack o’ the canister!” laughed Mrs. Bumpkin, “and that’s what Morris called thy head, eh?”
This was a capital hit on Joe’s part, for it set themthinking of the events of old times, and Joe, seeing the effect of it, ventured upon another anecdote relating to the old carter.
“Thee recollect, master, when that there Mr. Gearns come down to shoot; lor, lor, what a queer un he wur, surely!”
“Couldn’t shoot a hit,” said Bumpkin.
“Not he. Wall, we was carrying wheat, and Morris wur loadin, and jest as we gits the last pitch on t’ load, right through th’ ’orses legs runds a rat. Gearns wi’out more ado oops wi’ his loaded gun and bangs her off right under t’ ’orses legs; up jumps th’ ’orse, and Morris wur wery nigh tossed head fust into th’ yard. Wall, he makes no moore ado, for he didn’t keer, gemman or no gemman—didn’t Morris—”
“No more ur didn’t, Joe,” said Mrs. Bumpkin.
“He makes no moore ado, but he up and said, ‘damme,’ he says, ‘sir, you might as well a said you was gwine to shoot; you might a had me off and broked my neck.’”
“Haw! haw! haw!” laughed Mr. Bumpkin, and “Well done, Morris,” said Mrs. Bumpkin.
“Wall,” said Joe, “this ere gemman says, ‘It wouldn’t er bin much loss,’ he says, ‘if he had!’ ‘Damme,’ roars Morris, ‘it had a bin as much wally to me as yourn, anyhow.’”
They all remembered the story, and even Tim seemed to remember it too, for when they laughed he wagged his tail and laughed with them.
And thus the evening dragged along and bed time came.
In the morning all was in readiness, and the plaintiff with his witness drove away in the gig to the station, where Morris waited to bring the old horse back.
And as the train came into the little country station I awoke.
* * * * *
“I hope,” cried my wife, “that Mr. Prigg is a respectable man.”
“Respectable,” I answered, “I know he is; but whether he is honest is another matter.”
“But don’t you know?”
“I only know what I dream.”
“I have no opinion of him,” said she; “nor of that Locust; I believe they are a couple of rogues.”
“I should be very sorry to suggest such a thing as that,” I answered, “without some proof. Everybody should give credit for the best of motives.”
“But what are all these summonses you speak of?”
“O, they are summonses in the action. You may have as many of them as you can invent occasion for. You may go up to the Court of Appeal about twenty times before you try the action, which means about eighty different hearings before Master and Judges.”
“But how can a poor man endure that? It’s a great shame.”
“He can’t—he may have a perfectly good cause of action against a rich man or a rich company, and they can utterly ruin him before ever his case can come into Court.”
“But will no solicitor take it up for the poor man?”
“Yes, some will, and the only reward they usually get for their pains is to be stigmatized as having brought a speculative action—accused of doing it for the sake of costs; although I have known the most honourable men do it out of pure sympathy for the poor man.”
“And so they ought,” cried she.
“And I trust,” said I, “that hereafter it will be considered honourable to do so. It is quite as honourable, in my judgment, to bring an action when you may never be paid as to bring it when you know you will be.”
“Who was the person referred to as ‘the man?’”
“I don’t know,” said I, “but I strongly suspect he is, in reality, a nominee of Prigg’s.”
“That is exactly my opinion,” said my wife. “And if so, between them, they will ruin that poor man.”
“I can’t tell,” said I, lighting my pipe. “I know no more about the future of my dream than you do; maybe when I sleep again something else will transpire.”
“But can no one do anything to alter this state of things? I plainly perceive that they are all against this poor Bumpkin.”
“Well, you see, in a tinkering sort of way, a good many try their hands at reforming the law; but it’s to no one’s interest, that I can see, to reform it.”
“I hope you’ll write this dream and publish it, so that someone’s eyes may be opened.”
“It may make me enemies.”
“Not among honest people; they will all be on your side, and the dishonest ones, who seem to me to be the only persons benefited by such a dilatory and shocking mode of procedure, are the very persons whose enmity you need not fear. But can the Judges do nothing?”
“No; their duty is merely to administer the law, not to change it. But if the people would only give them full power and fair play, Old Fogeyism would be buried to-morrow. They struggle might and main to break through the fetters, but to no purpose while they are hampered by musty old precedents, ridiculous forms and bad statutes. They are not masters of the situation. Iwish they were for the sake of suitors. I would only make one condition with regard to them. If they were to set about the task of reform, I would not let the Equity Judges reform the Common Law nor the Common Law Judges the Equity.”
“I thought they were fused.”
“No, only transposed.”
Commencement of London life and adventures.
And I dreamt again, and methought there were three things with reference to London that Joe had learnt at school. First, that there was a Bridge, chiefly remarkable for the fact that Captain Cook, the Navigator, shot his servant because he said he was under London Bridge when he was in the South Pacific Ocean; secondly, that there was a famous Tower, where the Queen’s Crown was kept; thirdly, that there was a Monument built to show where the Great Fire began, and intimately connected in its cause with Guy Faux, whom Joe had helped to carry on the Fifth of November. Now when the young man woke in the morning at “The Goose,” in Millbank Street, Westminster, his attention was immediately attracted by these three historic objects; and it was not till after he had made inquiries that he found that it was not London Bridge that crossed the water in a line with the Horseferry Road, but a very inferior structure called Lambeth Suspension Bridge. Nor was the Tower on the left the Tower of London, but the Lollards’ tower of Lambeth Palace; while the supposed Monument was only the handsome column of Messrs. Doulton’s Pottery.
But they were all interesting objects nevertheless; and so were the huge cranes that were at work opposite thehouse lifting the most tremendous loads of goods from the lighters to the wharves. The “Shipping,” too, with its black and copper-coloured sails, gave some idea of the extent of England’s mercantile marine. At all events, it excited the country lad’s wonder and astonishment. But there was another matter that gave quite an agricultural and countrified look to the busy scene, and that was the prodigious quantity of straw that was being unloaded from the barges alongside. While Mr. Bumpkin went to see his solicitor at Westminster Hall, Joe wandered about the wharves looking at the boats and barges, the cranes and busy workmen who drove their barrows from barge to wharf, and ran along with loads on their backs over narrow planks, in the most lively manner. But looking on, even at sights like these, day by day, becomes a wearisome task, and Joe, being by no means an idle lad, occasionally “lent a hand” where he saw an opportunity. London, no doubt, was a very interesting place, but when he had seen Page Street, and Wood Street, and Church Street, and Abingdon Street, and Millbank Prison, and the other interesting objects referred to, his curiosity was gratified, and he began to grow tired of the sameness of the place. Occasionally he saw a soldier or two and the military sight fired his rustic imagination. Not that Joe had the remotest intention of entering the army; it was the last thing he would ever dream of; but, in common with all mankind he liked to look at the smart bearing and brilliant uniform of the sergeant, who seemed to have little else to do than walk about with his cane under his arm, or tap the stone parapet with it as he looked carelessly at some interesting object on the river.
The evenings in the taproom at “The Goose” were among the most enjoyable periods of the lad’s London existence. A select party usually gathered there, consisting chiefly of a young man who never apparently had had anything to do in his life. His name was Harry Highlow, a clever sort of wild young scapegrace who played well at “shove-ha’penny,” and sang a good comic song. Another of the party was a youth who earned a precarious livelihood by carrying two boards on his shoulders advertising a great pickle, or a great singer, as the case might be. Another of the company was a young man who was either a discharged or a retired groom; I should presume the former, as he complained bitterly that the authorities at Scotland Yard would not grant him a licence to drive a cab. He appeared to be a striking instance of how every kind of patronage in this country is distributed by favouritism. There were several others, all equally candidates for remunerative situations, but equally unfortunate in obtaining them: proving conclusively that life is indeed a lottery in which there may be a few prizes, usually going, by the caprice of Fortune, to the undeserving, while the blanks went indiscriminately to all the rest.
Bound together by the sympathy which a common misfortune engenders, these young men were happy in the pursuit of their innocent amusements at “The Goose.” And while, at first, they were a little inclined to chaff the rustic youth on account of his apparent simplicity, they soon learned to respect him on account of his exceedingly good temper and his willingness to fall in with the general views of the company on all occasions. They learnt all about Joe’s business in London, and it was a common greeting when they metin the evening to ask “how the pig was?” And they would enquire what the Lord Chancellor thought about the case, and whether it wouldn’t be as well to grease the pig’s tail and have a pig-hunt. To all which jocular observations Joe would reply with excellent temper and sometimes with no inappropriate wit. And then they said they would like to see Joe tackle Mr. Orkins, and believed he would shut him up. But chaff never roused his temper, and he laughed at the case as much as any man there. Fine tales he would have to tell when he got back to Yokelton; and pleasant, no doubt, would be in after-life, his recollections of the evenings at “The Goose.”
As a great general surveys the field where the intended action is to be fought, so Mr. Bumpkin was conducted by Horatio to Westminster Hall, and shown the various Courts of Justice, and some of the judges.
“Be this Chancery?” he enquired.
“O my eye, no!” said Horatio; “the cause has been transferred from Chancery to these ’ere Common Law Courts. It was only brought in Chancery because the costs there are upon a higher scale; we didn’t mean to try her there.”
“Where will she be tried then?”
“In one of these Courts.”
“Who be the judge?” whispered Bumpkin.
At this moment there was a loud shout of “Silence!” and although Mr. Bumpkin was making no noise whatever, a gentleman approached him, looking very angry, and enquired if Mr. Bumpkin desired to be committed for contempt of Court.
Mr. Bumpkin thought the most prudent answer was silence; so he remained speechless, looking the gentlemanfull in the face; while the gentleman looked him full in the face for at least a minute and a half, as if he were wondering whether he should take him off to prison there and then, or give him another chance, as the judge sometimes does a prisoner when he sentences him to two years imprisonment with hard labour.
Now the gentleman was a very amiable man of about forty, with large brown mutton-chop whiskers, and a very well trained moustache; good-looking and, I should think, with some humour, that is for a person connected with the Courts. He was something about the Court, but in what capacity he held up his official head, I am unable to say. He was evidently regarded with great respect by the crowd of visitors. It was some time before he took his gaze off Mr. Bumpkin; even when he had taken his eyes off, he seemed looking at him as if he feared that the moment he went away Bumpkin would do it again.
And then methought I heard someone whisper near me: “His lordship is going to give judgment in the case ofStarlingv.Nightingale,” and all at once there was a great peace. I lost sight of Bumpkin, I lost sight of the gentleman, I lost sight of the crowd; an indefinable sensation of delight overpowered my senses. Where was I? I had but a moment before been in a Court of Justice, with crowds of gaping idlers; with prosaic-looking gentlemen in horsehair wigs; with gentlemen in a pew with papers before them ready to take down the proceedings. Now it seemed as if I must be far away in the distant country, where all was calm and heavenly peace.
Surely I must be among the water-lilies! What a lullaby sound as of rippling waters and of distant musicin the evening air; of the eddying and swirl of the mingling currents; of the chime of bells on the evening breeze; of the zephyrs through fir-tops; of woodland whispers; of the cadence of the cathedral organ; of the soft sweet melody of the maiden’s laugh; of her gentlest accents in her sweetest mood; of—but similitudes fail me. In this delicious retreat, which may be compared to the Garden of Eden before the tempter entered, are the choicest flowers of rhetoric. I hear a voice as from the far-off past, and I wonder will that be the voice which will utter the “last syllable of recorded time?”
Then methought the scene changed, and I heard the question—
“Do you move, Mr. Jones?”
O the prosaic Jones!—“don’t you move?”
Yes, he does; he partly rises, ducks his head, and elevates the hinder portion of his person, and his movement ceases. And the question is repeated to Mr. Quick. “Do you move, Mr. Quick?”
Then I saw Mr. Bumpkin again, just as Mr. Quick ducked his head and elevated his back.
And then some gentleman actually moved in real earnest upon these interesting facts:—A farmer’s bull—just the very case for Mr. Bumpkin—had strayed from the road and gone into another man’s yard, and upset a tub of meal; was then driven into a shed and locked up. The owner of the bull came up and demanded that the animal should be released. “Not without paying two pounds,” said the meal-owner. The bull owner paid it under protest, and summoned the meal-owner to the County Court for one pound seventeen shillings and sixpence, the difference between the damage done (which was really about twopence) and the money paid to redeemthe bull. Judgment for the plaintiff. Motion for new trial, or to enter verdict for the defendant, on the ground that the meal man could charge what he liked.
One of the learned Judges asked:
“Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Smiles, that if a man has a bull, and that bull goes into a yard and eats some meal out of a meal-tub, and the damage amounts to twopence, and the owner of the bull says ‘here’s your twopence,’ that the owner of the meal can say, “No, I want a hundred pounds, and shall take your bull damage feasant,” and then takes him and locks him up, and the owner of the bull pays the hundred pounds, he cannot afterwards get the money back?”
“That is so,” says the learned counsel, “such is the law.” And then he cited cases innumerable to prove that it was the law.
“Well,” said the Judge, “unless you show me a case of a bull and a meal-tub, I shall not pay attention to any case—must be a meal-tub.”
Second Judge: “It is extortion, and done for the purpose of extortion; and I should say he could be indicted for obtaining money by false pretences.”
“I am not sure he could not, my lord,” said the counsel; “but he can’t recover the money back.”
“Then,” said the Judge, “if he obtains money by an indictable fraud cannot he get it back?”
“Well,” said Bumpkin, “that be rum law; if it had bin my bull, he’d a gin ’em summat afore they runned him in.”
It was interesting to see how the judges struggled against this ridiculous law; and it was manifest even to the unlettered Bumpkin, that a good deal of old law is very much like old clothes, the worse for wear, andtotally inapplicable to the present day. A struggle against old authorities is often a struggle of Judges to free themselves from the fetters of antiquated dicta and decisions no longer appropriate to or necessary for the modern requirements of civilisation.
In this case precedents running overone hundred and eight yearswere quoted, and so far from impressing the Court with respect, they simply evoked a smile of contempt.
The learned Judges, after patiently listening to the arguments, decided that extortion and fraud give no title, and thus were the mists and vapours that arose from the accumulated mudbanks of centuries dispelled by the clear shining of common sense. In spite of arguments by the hour, and the pettifogging of one hundred and eight years, justice prevailed, and the amazed appellant was far more damaged by his legal proceedings than he was by the bull. The moral surely is, that however wise ancient judges were in their day, their wisdom ought not to be allowed to work injustice. He may be a wise Judge who makes a precedent, but he is often a much wiser who sweeps it away.