How the great Don O’Rapley became an usher of the Court of Queen’s Bench and explained the ingenious invention of the round square—how Mr. Bumpkin took the water and studied character from a penny steamboat.
Some years ago there lived in a little village near Bridgewater a young man who was the bowler of his village eleven—one of the first roundhand bowlers in point of time, and by no means the last in point of merit. Indeed, so great was the local fame of this young man that it produced a sensation for miles around when it was announced that Don O’Rapley (such was his name) was going to bowl. All the boys of the village where the match was to take place were in a state of the utmost excitement to see the Don. At times it was even suggested that he was unfairly “smugged in” to play for a village to which he had no pretensions to belong. In process of time the youth became a man, and by virtue of his cricket reputation he obtained a post in the Court of Queen’s Bench. The gentleman whom I have referred to as looking with such austerity at Mr. Bumpkin is that very Don O’Rapley; the requirements of a large family necessitated his abandonment of a profession which, although more to his taste, was not sufficiently remunerative to admit of his indulging itafter the birth of his sixth child. But it was certain that he never lost his love for the relinquished pursuit, as was manifest from his habit when alone of frequently going through a kind of dumb motion with his arm as if he were delivering one of his celebrated “twisters.” He had even been seen in a quiet corner of the Court to go through the same performance in a somewhat modified form. He was once caught by the Judge in the very act of delivering a ball, but found a ready apology in the explanation that he had a touch of “rheumatiz” in his right shoulder.
Now I saw in my dream that Don O’Rapley was in earnest conversation with Horatio, and it was clear Mr. Bumpkin was the subject of it, from the very marked manner in which the Don and the youth turned occasionally to look at him. It may be stated that Horatio was the nephew of Don O’Rapley, and, perhaps, it was partly in consequence of this relationship, and partly in consequence of what Horatio told him, that the latter gentleman rose from his seat under the witness-box and came towards Mr. Bumpkin, shouting as he did so in a very solemn and prolonged tone, “Si-lence!”
Mr. Bumpkin saw him, and, conscious that he was innocent this time of any offence for which he could be committed, stood his ground with a bold front, and firmly held his white beaver with both hands. O’Rapley contemplated him for a few minutes with an almost affectionate interest. Bumpkin felt much as a pigeon would under the gaze of an admiring owl.
At last O’Rapley spoke:—
“Why, it’s never Mr. Bumpkin, is it?”
“It be a good imitation, sir,” said Bumpkin, “and I bean’t asheamed of un.”
“Silence!” cried the Don. “You don’t remember me, I s’pose?”
“Wall, not rightly, I doan’t.”
“I dissay you recollect Don O’Rapley, the demon bowler of Bridgewater?”
“I’ve ’eered tell on ’im,” said Bumpkin.
“I’m that man!” said the Don, “and this is my nephew, Mr. Snigger. He tells me you’ve got a case comin’ on?”
“I be.”
“Just step outside,” said the Don, “we mustn’t talk ’ere.” So they went into Westminster Hall, and the good-natured O’Rapley asked if Mr. Bumpkin would like to look round, and if so he said he would be happy to show him, for he was very pleased to see anyone from the scene of his youthful exploits.
“Thankee, sir—thankee, sir,” answered Bumpkin, delighted to find another “native” among “furriners.” “And this ’ere genleman be thy nevvy, sir?”
“He is, and very proud of him I am; he’s my sister’s son.”
“Seems a nice quiet boy,” said Mr. Bumpkin. “Now how old might he be?”
“Old,” said Mr. O’Rapley, looking deedily at the floor and pressing his hand to his forehead, “why he’ll be seventeen come March.”
“Hem! his ’ed be a good deal older nor thic: his ’ed be forty—it’s my way o’ thinkin’.”
The Don laughed.
“Yes, he has his head screwed on the right way, I think.”
“Why that air lad,” said Bumpkin, “might make a judge.”
O’Rapley laughed and shook his head.
“In old times,” said he, “he might ha’ made a Lord Chancellor; a man as was clever had a chance then, but lor’ blesh you, Mr. Bumpkin, now-a-days it’s so very different; the raw material is that plentiful in the law that you can find fifty men as would make rattlin good Lord Chancellors for one as you could pick out to make a rattlin’ good bowler. But come, we’ll have a look round.”
So round they looked again, and Mr. Bumpkin was duly impressed with the array of wigs and the number of books and the solemnity of the judges and the arguments of counsel, not one word of which was intelligible to him. Mr. O’Rapley explained everything and pointed out where a judge and jury tried a case, and then took him into another court where two judges tried the judge and jury, and very often set them both aside and gave new trials and altered verdicts and judgments or refused to do so notwithstanding the elaborate arguments of the most eloquent and long-winded of learned counsel.
Then the Don asked if Mr. Bumpkin would like to see the Chancery Judges—to which Mr. Bumpkin answered that “he hadn’t much opinion o’ Chancery from all he’d ’eeard, and that when a man got into them there Cooarts maybe he’d never coome out agin, but he shouldn’t mind seein’ a Chancery Judge.”
“Well, then,” said the distinguished bowler, “now-a-days we needn’t go to Chancery, for they’ve invented the ‘Round Square.’”
Mr. Bumpkin stared. Could so great a man as the O’Rapley be joking? No; the Don seldom laughed. He was a great admirer of everything relating to the law, but had a marked prejudice against the new system;and when he spoke of the “Round Square” he meant, as he afterwards explained, that confusion of Law and Equity which consists in putting Chancery Judges to try common law cases and Common Law Judges to unravel the nice twistings of the elaborate system of Equity; “as though,” said he, “you should fuse the butcher and the baker by getting the former to make bread and the latter to dress a calf.”
Mr. Bumpkin could only stare by way of reply.
“If you want to see Chancery Judges,” added the Don, “come to the Old Bailey!”
An interesting gentleman—showing how true it is that one half the world does not know how the other half lives.
“The Old Bailey,” said Mr. Bumpkin, as they crossed Palace Yard on their way to the steamboat pier, “bean’t that where all these ’ere chaps be tried for ship stealin’?” (sheep stealing).
“I don’t know about ship stealing,” said O’Rapley, “but it’s a place where they can cure all sorts of diseases.”
“Zounds!” exclaimed Bumpkin, “I’ve ’eeard tell of un. A horsepital you means—dooan’t want to goo there.”
“Horse or donkey, it don’t matter what,” said Don O’Rapley. “They’ve got a stuff that’s so strong a single drop will cure any disease you’ve got.”
“I wonder if it ’ud cure my old ’ooman’s roomatiz. It ’ud be wuth tryin’, maybe.”
“I’ll warrant it,” replied the Don. “She’d never feel ’em after takin’ one drop,” and he drew his hand across his mouth and coughed.
“I’d like to try un,” said the farmer, “for she be a terrible suffrer in these ’ere east winds. ’As ’em like all up the grine.”
“Ah,” said the Don, “it don’t matter where she ’as ’em, it will cure her.”
“How do ’em sell it—in bottles?”
“No, it isn’t in bottles—you take it by the foot; about nine feet’s considered a goodish dose.”
Mr. Bumpkin looked straight before him, somewhat puzzled at this extraordinary description of a medicine. At length he got a glimmering of the Don’s meaning, and, looking towards, but not quite at him, said:—
“I be up to ’ee, sir!” and the Don laughed, and asked whether his description wasn’t right?
“That be right enough. Zounds! it be right enough. Haw! haw! haw!”
“You never want a second dose,” said the Don, “do you?”
“No, sir—never wants moore ’an one dose; but ’ow comes it, if you please, sir, that these ’ere Chancery chaps have changed their tack; be it they’ve tried ’onest men so long that they be gwine to ’ave a slap at the thieves for a change?”
“Look ’ere,” said the worthy O’Rapley, “you will certainly see the inside of a jail before you set eyes on the outside of a haystack, if you go on like that. It’s contempt of court to speak of Her Majesty’s Judges as ‘chaps’.”
“Beg pardon, sir,” said Bumpkin, “but we must all ’ave a larnin’. I didn’t mane no disruspect to the Lord Judge; but I wur only a axin’ jist the same as you might ax me about anythink on my farm.”
And I saw that they proceeded thus in edifying conversation until they came to the Thames embankment. It was somewhat difficult to preserve his presence of mind as Mr. Bumpkin descended the gangway and stepped on board the boat, which was belching forth its volumes of black smoke and rocking under the influence of the wash of a steamer that had just left the pier.
“I doant much like these ’ere booats,” said he. “Doant mind my old punt, but dang these ’ere ships.”
“There’s no danger,” said the O’Rapley, springing on board as though he had been a pilot: and then making a motion with his arm as if he was delivering a regular “length ball,” his fist unfortunately came down on Mr. Bumpkin’s white hat, in consequence of a sudden jerk of the vessel; a rocking boat not being the best of places for the delivery of length balls.
Mr. Bumpkin looked round quite in the wrong direction for ascertaining what was the cause of the sudden shock to his nervous system and his hat.
“Zounds!” said he, “what were thic?”
“What was what?” asked O’Rapley.
“Summut gie me a crack o’ the top o’ my ’ead like a thunderbolt.”
“I didn’t see anything fall,” said the Don.
“Noa; but I felt un, which I allows wur more’n seein’—lookee ’ere.”
And taking off his huge beaver he showed the dent of Mr. O’Rapley’s fist.
“Bless me,” said the roundhand bowler, “it’s like a crack with a cricket ball.”
But there was no time for further examination of the extraordinary circumstance, for the crowd of passengers poured along and pushed this way and that, so that the two friends were fairly driven to the fore part of the boat, where they took their seats. It was quite a new world to Mr. Bumpkin, and more like a dream than a reality. As he stared at the different buildings he was too much amazed even to enquire what was this or what was that. But when they passed under the Suspension Bridge, and the chimney ducked her head and the smokecame out of the “stump,” as Mr. Bumpkin termed it, he thought she had struck and broken short off. Mr. O’Rapley explained this phenomenon, as he did many others on their route; and when they came to Cleopatra’s Needle he gave such information as he possessed concerning that ancient work. Mr. Bumpkin looked as though he were not to be taken in.
“I be up to ’ee, sir,” said he. “I s’pose that air thing the t’other side were the needle-case?”
The O’Rapley informed him that it was a shot tower where they made shot.
Mr. Bumpkin laughed heartily at this; he was not to be taken in by any manner of means; was far too sharp for that.
“And I spoase,” said he, “they makes the guns—”
“In Gunnersbury,” said Mr. O’Rapley; it was no use to be serious.
“I thought thee were gwine to say in a gun pit, but I don’t mind thy chaff, Master Rapley, and shall be mighty proud to see thee down at Southood for a day’s shoot-in’: and mind thee bring some o’ these ere shot with thee that be made at yon tower, haw! haw! haw! Thee’ll kill a white-tailed crow then, I shouldn’t wonder; thee knows a white-tailed crow, doan’t thee, Master Rapley, when thee sees un—and danged if I doan’t gie thee a quart bottle o’ pigeon’s milk to tak’ wi’ thee; haw! haw! haw!”
The O’Rapley laughed heartily at these witty sallies, for Bumpkin was so jolly, and took everything in such good part, that he could not but enjoy his somewhat misplaced sarcasms.
“Now you’ve heard of Waterloo, I dare say,” said Mr. O’Rapley.
“Yes, I’ve ’eeard tell on un, and furder, my grand-feather wur out theer.”
“Well, this that we are coming to is Waterloo Bridge.”
“Yes,” said Bumpkin, “it be a bridge, but it bean’t Worterloo more ’an I be my grandfearther—what de think o’ that—haw! haw! haw!”
“Good,” said O’Rapley; “that’s quite right, but this is the bridge named after the battle.”
“Zo’t be neamed artur un because it worn’t named afore un, haw! haw! haw! Good agin, Maister Rapley, thee got it.”
Mr. O’Rapley found that any attempt to convey instruction was useless, so he said:—
“Joking apart, Mr. Bumpkin, you see that man sitting over there with the wideawake hat?”
“D’ye mane near the noase o’ the ship?”
“Well, the nose if you like.”
“I zee un—chap wi’ red faace, blue ’ankercher, and white spots?”
“That’s the man. Well, now, you’d never guess who he is?”
Mr. Bumpkin certainly would have been a sharp man if he could.
“Well,” continued the Don, “that man gets his living by bringing actions. No matter who it is or what, out comes the writ and down he comes for damages.”
“Hem! that be rum, too, bean’t it?”
“Yes, he’s always looking out for accidents; if he hears o’ one, down he comes with his pocket-book, gets ’old o’ some chap that’s injured, or thinks he is, and out comes the writ.”
“What be he then?”
“A scamp—works in the name of some broken-down attorney, and pays him for the use of it.”
“So he can work the lor like wirout being a loryer?”
“That’s it—and, lor’ bless you, he’s got such a way with him that if he was to come and talk to you for five minutes, he’d have a writ out against you in the morning.”
“Ain’t it rayther cold at this eend o’ the booat,” asked Mr. Bumpkin, “I feel a little chilly loike.”
“No,” said the Don, “we just caught the wind at that corner, that was all.”
But Mr. Bumpkin kept his eye on the artful man, with a full determination to “have no truck wi’ un.”
“As I was saying, this Ananias never misses a chance: he’s on the look-out at this moment; if they was to push that gangway against his toe, down he’d go and be laid up with an injured spine and concussion of the brain, till he got damages from the company.”
“Must be a reg’ler rogue, I allows; I should like to push un overboard.”
“Just what he would like; he isn’t born to be drowned, that man; he’d soon have a writ out against you. There was a railway accident once miles away in the country; ever so many people were injured and some of ’em killed. Well, down he goes to see if he could get hold of anybody—no, nobody would have him—so what does he do but bring an action himself.”
“What for?”
“Why, just the same as if he’d been in the accident.”
“Ought to be hanged.”
“Well, the doctors were very pleased to find that no bones were broken, and, although there were no bruises,they discovered that there were internal injuries: the spine was wrong, and there was concussion of the brain, and so on.”
“If ever I ’eerd tell o’ sich a thing in my borned days.”
“No, but it’s true. Well, he was laid up a long time under medical treatment, and it was months before he could get about, and then he brings his action: but before it came on he prosecutes his servant for stealing some trumpery thing or other—a very pretty girl she was too—and the trial came on at Quarter Sessions.”
“Where Squoire Stooky sits.”
“I never laughed so in all my life; there was the railway company with the red light, and there was Fireaway, the counsel for the girl, and then in hobbled the prosecutor, with a great white bandage round his head. He was so feeble through the injuries he had received that he could hardly walk. ‘Now then,’ says the counsel, ‘is he sworn?’ ‘Yes,’ says the crier.
“‘He must be sworn on the Koran,’ says Fireaway; ‘he’s a Mommadon.’
“‘Where’s the Jorum?’ says the crier. ‘Must be swore on the Jorum.’
“O dear, dear, you should ha’ heard ’em laugh—it was more like a theayter than a court. It was not only roars, but continnerus roars for several minutes. And all the time the larfter was going on there was this man throwin’ out his arms over the witness-box at the counsel like a madman; and the more he raved the more they laughed. He was changed from a hobblin’ invalid, as the counsel said, into a hathletic pugilist.”
“I ’ope she got off.”
“Got off with flying colours—we’re magnanimous said the jury, ‘not guilty.’”
“Well, I likes upright and down-straight,” said Bumpkin, “it’ll goo furdest in th’ long run.”
“Yes,” said O’Rapley, “and the longer the run the furder it’ll go.”
“So ’t wool; but if you doan’t mind, sir, I’d like to get nearer that ’ere fireplace.”
“The funnel—very well.” And as they moved Mr. O’Rapley, in the exuberance of his spirits, delivered another ball at the chimney, which apparently took the middle stump, for the chimney again broke in half.
“Got him!” said he. “I quite agree, and I’ll tell you for why. You can play a straight ball if you mind what you are about—just take your bat so, and bring your left elbow well round so, and keep your bat, as you say, upright and down-straight, so—and there you are. And there, indeed, Mr. Bumpkin was, on his back, for the boat at that moment bumped so violently against the side of the pier that many persons were staggering about as if they were in a storm.
“Zounds!” said the farmer, as he was being picked up—“these ’ere booats, I doan’t like ’em—gie me the ole-fashioned uns.”
Now came the usual hullabaloo, “Stand back!—pass on!—out of the way! now, then, look sharp there!” and the pushing of the gangway against people’s shins as though they were so many skittles to be knocked over, and then came the slow process of “passing out.”
“There’s one thing,” whispered O’Rapley, “if you do break your leg the company’s liable—that’s one comfort.”
“Thankee, sir,” answered Bumpkin, “but I bean’t a gwine to break my leg for the sake o’ a haction—and mebbee ha’ to pay the costs.”
THE OLD BAILEY—ADVANTAGES OF THE NEW SYSTEM ILLUSTRATED.
And I saw in my dream that Don O’Rapley and worthy Master Bumpkin proceeded together until they came to the Old Bailey; that delightful place which will ever impress me with the belief that the Satanic Personage is not a homeless wanderer. As they journeyed together O’Rapley asked whether there was any particular kind of case which he would prefer—much the same as he would enquire what he would like for lunch.
“Well, thankee, sir,” said Bumpkin, “what he there?”—just the same as a hungry guest would ask the waiter for the bill of fare.
“Well,” said Mr. O’Rapley, “there’s no murder to-day, but there’s sure to be highway robberies, burglaries, rapes, and so on.”
“Wall, I thinks one o’ them air as good as anything,” said Bumpkin. “I wur on the jury once when a chap were tried.”
“Did he get off?”
“Got off as clane as a whusle. Not guilty, we all said: sarved her right.”
“It’s rather early in the morning, p’r’aps,” said O’Rapley; “but there’s sure to be something interestingbefore lunch—crimes are very pop’lar, and for my own part, I think they’re as nice as anything: divorces, p’r’aps, are as good, and the female intellect prefers ’em as a more digestable food for their minds.”
“As a what, sir!”
“Well, since they did away withcrim. cons, there’s nothing left for females but murders and divorces, worth speaking of.”
“Why, how’s that, then?”
“O, they’re not considered sufficiently moral, that’s all. You see, Master Bumpkin, we’re getting to be a very moral and good people. They’re doin’ away with all that’s naughty, such as music and dancing, peep-shows and country fairs. This is a religious age. No pictur galleries on a Sunday, but as many public-houses as you like; it’s wicked to look at picturs on a Sunday. And now I’ll tell you another thing, Master Bumpkin, although p’r’aps I ought to keep my mouth closed; but ’ere you’ll see a Chancery Judge as knows everything about land and titles to property, and all that, and never had any training in Criminal Courts, and may be never been inside of one before, you’ll see ’im down ’ere tryin’ burglaries and robberies, and down at the Assizes you’ll see ’im tryin’ men and women for stealing mutton pies and a couple of ounces of bacon; that’s the way the Round Square’s worked, Master Bumpkin; and very well it acts. There’s a moral atmosphere, too, about the Courts which is very curious. It seems to make every crime look bigger than it really is. But as I say, where’s the human natur of a Chancery barrister? How can you get it in Chancery? They only sees human natur in a haffidavit, and although I don’t say you can’tput a lot of it into a haffidavit, such as perjury and such like, yet it’s so done up by the skill of the profession that you can hardly see it. Learning from haffidavits isn’t like learning from the witness-box, mark my words, Mr. Bumpkin; and so you’ll find when you come to hear a case or two.”
Having thus eloquently delivered himself, Mr. O’Rapley paused to see its effect: but there was no answer. There was no doubt the Don could talk a-bit, and took especial pride in expressing his views on law reform, which, to his idea, would best be effected by returning to the “old style.”
And I saw that they pushed their way through a crowd of people of all sorts and degrees of unwashedness and crime, and proceeded up a winding stair, through other crowds of the most evil-looking indictable persons you could meet with out of the Bottomless Pit.
And amongst them were pushing, with eager, hungry, dirty faces, men who called themselves clerks, evil-disposed persons who traded under such names as their owners could use no longer on their own account. These prowlers amongst thieves, under the protection of the Law, were permitted to extort what they could from the friends of miserable prisoners under pretence of engaging counsel to defend them. Counsel they would engage after a fashion—sometimes: but not unfrequently they cheated counsel, client and the law at the same time, which is rather better than killing two birds with one stone.
And the two friends, after threading their way through the obnoxious crowd, came to the principal Court of the Old Bailey, called the “Old Court,” and a very evil-lookingplace it was. All the ghosts of past criminals seemed floating in the dingy atmosphere. Crowds of men, women and children were heaped together in all directions, except on the bench and in a kind of pew which was reserved for such ladies as desired to witness the last degradation of human nature.
Presently came in, announced with a loud cry of “Silence!” and “Be uncovered in Court!” a gorgeous array of stout and berobed gentlemen, with massive chains and purple faces. These, I learned, were the noble Aldermen of the Corporation. What a contrast to the meagre wretches who composed the crowd! Here was a picture of what well-fed honesty and virtue could accomplish for human nature on the one part, as opposed to what hungry crime could effect, on the other. Blessings, say I, on good victuals! It is a great promoter of innocence. And I thought how many of the poor, half-starved, cadaverous wretches who crowded into the dock in all their emaciated wretchedness and rags would, under other conditions, have become as portly and rubicund and as moral as the row of worthy aldermen who sat looking at them with contempt from their exalted position.
The rich man doesn’t steal a loaf of bread; he has no temptation to do so: the uneducated thief doesn’t get up sham companies, becausehehas no temptation to do so. Temptation and Opportunity have much to answer for in the destinies of men. Honesty is the best policy, but it is not always the most expedient or practicable.
Now there was much arraignment of prisoners, and much swearing of jurymen, and proclamations about “informing my Lords Justices and the Queen’s Attorney-General of any crimes, misdemeanours, felonies, &c., committedby any of the prisoners,” and “if anybody could so inform my Lords Justices,” &c, he was to come forward and do so, and he would be heard. And then the crowd of prisoners, except the one about to be tried, were told to stand down. And down they all swarmed, some laughing and some crying, to the depths below. And the stout warders took their stand beside the remaining prisoner.
“Now,” said Mr. O’Rapley, “this Judge is quite fresh to the work, and I’ll warrant he’ll take a moral view of the law, which is about the worst view a Judgecantake.”
The man left in the dock was a singular specimen of humanity: he was a thin, wizen-looking man of about seventy, with a wooden leg: and as he stood up to plead, leant on two crutches, while his head shook a good deal, as if he had got the palsy. A smile went round the bar, and in some places broke out into a laugh: the situation was, indeed, ridiculous; and before any but a Chancery Judge, methought, there must be an acquittal on the view. However, I saw that the man pleaded not guilty, and then Mr. Makebelieve opened the case for the Crown. He put it very clearly, and, as he said, fairly before the jury; and then called a tall, large-boned woman of about forty into the witness-box. This was the “afflicted widow,” as Makebelieve had called her; and the way she gave her evidence made a visible impression on the mind of the learned Judge. His Lordship looked up occasionally from his note-book and fixed his eyes on the prisoner, whose appearance was that of one trembling with a consciousness of guilt—that is, to one not versed in human nature outside an affidavit.
Mr. Nimble, the prisoner’s counsel, asked if the prisoner might sit down as he was very “infirm.”
“Have you an affidavit of that fact, Mr. Nimble?” asked the Judge.
“No, my lord; it is not usual on such an application to have an affidavit.”
“It is not usual,” said his lordship, “to take notice of any fact not upon affidavit; but in this case the prisoner may sit down.”
The prosecutrix gave her evidence very flippantly, and did not seem in the least concerned that her virtue had had so narrow an escape.
“Now,” asked Mr. Nimble, “what are you?”
The learned Judge said he could not see what that had to do with the question. Could Mr. Nimble resist the facts?
“Yes, my lord,” answered the learned counsel; “and I intend, in the first place, to resist them by showing that this woman is entirely unworthy of credit.”
“Are you really going to suggest perjury, Mr. Nimble?”
“Assuredly, my lord! I am going to show that there is not a word of truth in this woman’s statement. I have a right to cross-examine as to her credit. If your lordship will allow me, I will—”
“Cross-examination, Mr. Nimble, cannot be allowed, in order to make a witness contradict all that she has said in her examination-in-chief; it would be a strange state of the law, if it could.”
Mr. Nimble looked about the desk, and then under it, and felt in his bag, and at last exclaimed in a somewhat petulant tone:
“Where’s my Taylor?”
“What do you want your tailor for?” asked the Judge.
“I wish to point out to your lordship that my proposition is correct, and that I can cross-examine to the credit of a witness.”
Here the clerk of arraigns, who sat just under the learned Judge, and was always consulted on matters of practice when there was any difficulty, was seen whispering to his lordship: after which his lordship looked very blank and red.
“We always consult him, my lord,” said Mr. Nimble, with a smile, “in suits at Common Law.”
Everybody tried not to laugh, and everybody failed. Even the Judge, being a very good-tempered man, laughed too, and said:
“O yes, Taylor on Evidence, Mr. Nimble.”
At last the book, about the size of a London Directory, was handed up by a tall man who was Mr. Nimble’s clerk.
“Now, my lord, at page nineteen hundred and seventy-two your lordship will find that when the credibility of a witness is attacked—”
Judge: “That will be near the end of the book.”
Mr. Nimble: “No, my lord, near the beginning.”
“I shall not stop you,” said the learned Judge; “your question may be put for what it is worth: but now, suppose in answer to your question she says she is an ironer, what then?”
“That’s what I am, my lordship,” said the woman, with an obsequious curtsey.
“There, now you have it,” said the Judge, “she is an ironer; stop, let me take that down, ‘I am an ironer.’”
The cross-examination continued, somewhat in anangry tone no doubt, and amid frequent interruptions; but Mr. Nimble always thumped down the ponderous Taylor upon any objection of the learned Judge, and crushed it as though it were a butterfly.
Next the policeman gave his evidence, and was duly cross-examined. Mr. Nimble called no witnesses; there were none to call: but addressed the jury in a forcible and eloquent speech, stigmatizing the charge as an utterly preposterous one, and dealing with every fact in a straightforward and manly manner. After he had finished, the jury would undoubtedly have acquitted; but the learned Judge had to sum up, which in this, as in many cases at Quarter Sessions, was no more a summing up than counting ten on your fingers is a summing up. It was a desultory speech, and if made by the counsel for the prosecution, would have been a most unfair one for the Crown: totally ignoring the fact that human nature was subject to frailties, and testimony liable to be tainted with perjury. It made so great an impression upon me in my dream that I transcribed it when I awoke; and this is the manner in which it dealt with the main points:—
“Gentlemen of the Jury,
“This is a case of a very serious character (the nature of the offence was then read from Roscoe), and I am bound to tell you that the evidence is all one way: namely, on the side of the prosecution. There is not a single affidavit to the contrary. Now what are the facts?”
Mr. Nimble: “Would your lordship pardon me—whether they are facts or not is for the jury.”
“I am coming to that, Mr. Nimble; unless contradicted they are facts, or, at least, if you believe them,gentlemen. If the evidence is uncontradicted, what is the inference? The inference is for you, not for me; I have simply to state the law: it is for you to find the facts. You must exercise your common sense: if the prisoner could have contradicted this evidence, is it reasonable to suppose he would not have done so with so serious a charge hanging over his head?”
“My lord, may I ask how could the prisoner have called evidence? there was no one present.”
“Mr. Nimble,” said his Lordship solemnly, “he might have shown he was elsewhere.”
“Yes, my lord; but the prisoner admits being present: he doesn’t set up analibi.”
“Gentlemen, you hear what the learned counsel says: he admits that the prisoner was present; that is corroborative of the story told by the prosecutrix. Now, if you find a witness speaking truthfully about one part of a transaction, what are you to infer with regard to the rest? Gentlemen, the case is for you, and not for me: happily I have not to find the facts: they are for you—and what are they? This woman, who is an ironer, was going along a lonely lane, proceeding to her home, as she states—and again I say there is no contradiction—and she meets this man; he accosts her, and then, according to her account, assaults her, and in a manner which I think leaves no doubt of his intention—but that is for you. I say he assaults her, if you believe her story: of course, if you do not believe her story, then in the absence of corroboration there would be an end of the case. But is there an absence of corroboration? What do we find, gentlemen? Now let me read to you the evidence of Police Constable Swearhard. What does he say? ‘I was coming along the Lover’s Lane at ninetwenty-five, and I saw two persons, whom I afterwards found to be the prosecutrix and the prisoner.’ ‘You will mark that, gentlemen, the prisoner himself does not suggest analibi, that is to say, that he was elsewhere, when this event occurred. Then he was upon the spot: and the policeman tells you—it is for you to say whether you believe the policeman or not; there is no suggestion that he is not a witness of truth—and he says that he heard a scream, and caught the defendant in the act. Now, from whom did that scream proceed? Not from the prisoner, for it was the scream of a woman. From whom then could it proceed but from the prosecutrix? Now, in all cases of this kind, one very material point has always been relied on by the Judges, and that point is this: What was the conduct of the woman? Did she go about her ordinary business as usual, or did she make a complaint? If she made no complaint, or made it a long time after, it is some evidence—not conclusive by any means—but it is some evidence against the truth of her story. Let us test this case by that theory. What is the evidence of the policeman? I will read his words: ‘The moment I got up,’ he says, now mark that, gentlemen, ‘the woman complained of the conduct of the prisoner: she screamed and threw herself in my arms and then nearly fainted.’ Gentlemen, what does all that mean? You will say by your verdict.”
“Consider your verdict,” said the Clerk of Arraigns, and almost immediately the Jury said: “Guilty of attempt.”
“Call upon him,” said the Judge: and he was called upon accordingly, but only said “the prosecutrix was a well-known bad woman.”
Then the Judge said very solemnly:—
“Prisoner at the bar, you have been convicted uponthe clearest possible evidence of this crime: what you say about the character of the prosecutrix the more convinces me that you are a very bad man. You not only assail the virtue of this woman, but, happily prevented in your design, you endeavour to destroy it afterwards in this Court. No one who has heard this case can doubt that you have been guilty of this very grave offence; and in my judgment that offence is aggravated by the fact that you committed it against her will and without her consent. The sentence is that you be sent to prison for eighteen calendar months.”
“Rather warm,” said Mr. O’Rapley.
“Never heeard such a thing in my life,” said Master Bumpkin, “she wur a consentin’ party if ever there wur one.”
“But that makes no difference now-a-days,” said Mr. O’Rapley. “Chancery Judges studies the equity of the thing more. But perhaps, Mr. Bumpkin, you don’t know what that means?”
“No,” said Bumpkin, “I doan’t.”
“You must be quiet,” said Mr. O’Rapley; “recollect you are in a Court of Justice.”
“Be I! It ’ud take moore un thic case to make I believe it; but lookee here: I be hanged if there ain’t that Snooks feller down along there.”
“Who?” enquired O’Rapley.
“That there feller,” said Bumpkin, “be sure to find his way where there’s anything gooin on o’ this ere natur.”
Next an undefended prisoner was placed on trial, and as he was supposed to know all the law of England, he was treated as if he did.
“You can’t put that question, you know,” said the learned Judge; “and now you are making a statement;it is not time to make your statement yet; you will have ample opportunity by-and-by in your speech to the jury.” And afterwards, when the Judge was summing up, the unhappy prisoner called his lordship’s attention to a mistake; but he was told that he had had his turn and had made his speech to the jury, and must not now interrupt the Court. So he had to be quite silent until he was convicted. Then the two companions went into another court, where a very stern-looking Common Law Judge was trying a ferocious-looking prisoner. And Mr. O’Rapley was delighted to explain that now his friend would see the difference. They had entered the court just as the learned Judge had begun to address the jury; and very careful his lordship was to explain (not in technical language), but in homely, common-place and common-sense English, the nature of the crime with which the prisoner was charged. He was very careful in explaining this, for fear the jury should improperly come to the conclusion that, because they might believe the prisoner had in fact committed the act, he must necessarily be guilty. And they were told that the act was in that case only one element of the crime, and that they must ascertain whether there was the guilty intent or no. Now this old Mr. Justice Common Sense, I thought, was very well worth listening to, and I heartily wished Mr. Justice Technical from the Old Court had been there to take a lesson; and I take the liberty of setting down what I heard in my dream for the benefit of future Justices Technical.
His lordship directed the jury’s attention to the evidence, which he carefully avoided calling facts: not to the verbatim report of it on his note-book as some Recorders do, and think when they are reading it overthey are summing it up; but pointing out statements which, if believed, become facts and if facts, lead to certaininferencesof guilt or innocence.
It was while the learned Mr. Justice Common Sense was thus engaged, that the warder in the dock suddenly checked the prisoner with these words:
“You mustn’t interrupt.”
“Why may he not interrupt?” asks Mr. Justice Common Sense. “What do you want to say, prisoner?”
“My lord,” answered the prisoner, “I wanted to say as how that there witness as your lordship speaks on didn’t say as he seen me there.”
“O, didn’t he?” said the Judge. “I thought he did—now let us see,” turning over his notes. “No, you are quite right, prisoner, he did not see you at the spot but immediately after.”
Then his lordship proceeded until there was another interruption of the same character, and the foolish warder again told the prisoner to be quiet. This brought down Mr. Justice Common Sense with a vengeance:
“Warder! how dare you stop the prisoner? he is on his trial and is undefended. Who is to check me if I am misstating the evidence if he does not? If you dare to speak like that to him again I will commit you. Prisoner, interrupt me as often as you think I am not correctly stating the evidence.”
“Thankee, my lord.”
“That be the sort o’ Judge for me,” said Bumpkin; “but I’ve ’ad enough on it, Maister O’Rapley, so if you please, I’ll get back t’ the ‘Goose.’ Why didn’t that air Judge try t’other case, I wonder?”
“Because,” replied the Don, “the new system is to work the ‘Round Square’.”
Mr. Bumpkin’s experience of London life, enlarged.
On leaving the Old Bailey the two friends proceeded to a neighbouring public-house and partook of some light refreshment at the counter. Now Mr. Bumpkin had never yet examined the viands displayed on a counter. His idea of refreshment, when from home, had always been a huge round of beef smoking at one end of the table and a large leg of mutton smoking at the other, with sundry dishes of similar pretensions between, and an immense quantity of vegetables. When, therefore he saw some stale-looking sandwiches under the ordinary glass cover, he exclaimed: “Wittals must be mighty scarce to clap ’em under a glass case.”
“It’s to keep the flies off;” said his companion.
“They need well keep un off, for there bean’t enough for a couple if they was ony wise ongry like.”
However, our friends made the best of what there was, and Mr. O’Rapley, wishing success to his companion, enquired who was to be his counsel.
“I doan’t rightly know, but I’ll warrant Mr. Prigg’ll have a good un—he knows what he be about; and all I hopes is, he’ll rattle it into that there Snooks, for if ever there wur a bad un it be him.”
“He looks a bad un,” replied O’Rapley. “When do you think the case is likely to come on?”
“Well, it is supposed as it ull be on to-morrer; but I bleeve there’s no sartinty about thic. Now then, just give us a little moore, will ’ee sir?” (this to the waiter).
“I’ll pay for the next,” said O’Rapley, feeling in his pocket.
“Noa, noa, I’ll pay; and thankee, sir, for comin’.”
And then O’Rapley drank his friend’s health again, and wished further success to the case, and hoped Mr. Bumpkin would be sure to come to him when he was at Westminster; and expressed himself desirous to assist his friend in every way that lay in his power—declaring that he really must be going for he didn’t know what would happen if the Judge should find he was away; and was not at all certain it would not lead to some officious member of the House of Commons asking a question of the Prime Minister about it.
Mr. Bumpkin drank his good health, again and again, declaring he was “mighty proud to have met with un;” and that when the case was over and he had returned to his farm, he should be pleased if Mr. O’Rapley would come down and spend a few days with him. “Nancy,” he said, “’ll be rare and pleased to see thee. I got as nice a little farm as any in the county, and as pooty pigs as thee ever clapped eyes on.”
Mr. O’Rapley, without being too condescending, expressed himself highly gratified with making Mr. Bumpkin’s acquaintance, and observed that the finest pigs ever he saw were those of the Lord Chief Justice.
“Dade, sir, now what sort be they?” Mr. O’Rapley was not learned in pigs, and not knowing the name of any breed whatever, was at a loss how to describe them. Mr. Bumpkin came to his assistance.
“Be they smooth like and slim?”
“Yes,” said the Don.
“Hardly any hair?”
“Scarce a bit.”
“They be Chichesters then—the werry best breed as a man ever had in his stye.”
“I never see anything so pretty,” replied Mr. O’Rapley.
“Ah! and they be the smallest-boned pigs as ever could be—they bean’t got a bone bigger nor your little finger.”
“Ha!” said the Don, finishing his glass, “the smaller the bone the more the meat, that’s what I always say; and the Lord Chief Justice don’t care for bone, he likes meat.”
“An’ so do I—the Lud Judge be right, and if he tries my case he’ll know the difference betwixt thic pig as Snooks tooked away and one o’ them there—”
“Jackass-looking pigs,” said O’Rapley, seeing that his friend paused. “I hate them jackass pigs.”
“So do I—they never puts on fat.”
“I must go, really,” said O’Rapley. “What do you make the right time?”
Master Bumpkin pulled out his watch with great effort, and said it was just a quarter past four by Yokelton time.
“Here’s your good health again, Mr. Bumpkin.”
“And yours, sir; and now I think on it, if it’s a fair question Mr. O’Rapley, and I med ax un wirout contempt, when do you think this ’ere case o’ mine be likely to come on, for you ought to know summut about un?”
“Ha!” said the Don, partially closing one eye, and looking profoundly into the glass as though he weredivining the future, “law, sir, is a mystery and judges is a mystery; masters is a mystery and ’sociates is a mystery; ushers is a mystery and counsel is a mystery;—the whole of life (here he tipped the contents of the glass down his throat) is a mystery.”
“So it be,” said Mr. Bumpkin, drawing the back of his hand across his mouth. “So it be sir, but do ’ee think—”
“Well, really,” answered the Don, “I should say in about a couple of years if you ask me.”
“How the h—”
“Excuse me, Master Bumpkin, but contempt follers us like a shadder: if you had said that to a Judge it would have been a year at least: it’s three months as it is if I liked to go on with the case; but I’m not a wicious man, I hope.”
“I didn’t mean no offence,” said the farmer.
“No, no, I dare say not; but still there is a way of doing things. Now if you had said to me, ‘Mr. O’Rapley, you are a gentleman moving in judicial circles, and are probably acquainted with the windings of the,’ &c. &c. &c. ‘Can you inform me why my case is being so unduly prolonged?’ Now if you had put your question in that form I should in all probability have answered: ‘I do not see that it is unduly prolonged, Master Bumpkin—you must have patience. Judges are but human and it’s a wonder to me they are as much as that, seein’ what they have to go through.’”
“But if there be a Court why can’t us get in and try un, Mr. Rapley?”
“Ah, now that is putting it pointedly;” and O’Rapley closed one eye and looked into his tumbler with the other before he answered:
“You see this is how it goes under the contineroussittings—off and on we sits continerously at Nisy Prisy in London three months in the year. Now that ain’t bad for London: but it’s nothing near so much time as they gives to places like Aylesbury, Bedford, and many others.”
Mr. Bumpkin looked like a terrier dog watching a hole out of which he expected a rat: at present he saw no sign of one.
“Take Aylesbury; well now, if a Judge went there once in seven years he’d find about every other assize enough work to last him till lunch. But in course two Judges must go to Aylesbury four times a year, to do nothing but admire the building where the Courts are held; otherwise you’d soon have Aylesbury marching on to London to know the reason why. P’r’aps the Judges have left five hundred cases untried in London to go to this Aylesbury.”
“Be it a big plaace, sir?”
“Not so big as a good-sized hotel,” said the Don. “Then,” he continued, “there’s Bedford ditto again—septennel would do for that; then comes Northampton—they don’t want no law there at all.” (I leave the obvious pun to anyone who likes to make it). “Then Okeham again—did you ever hear of anyone who came from Okeham? I never did.”
The Don paused, as though on the answer to this question depended his future course.
“Noa,” said Bumpkin, “can’t rightly say as ever I did.”
“And nobody ever did come from there except the Judges. Well, to Okeham they go four times a year, whereas if they was to go about once in every hundred years it wouldn’t pay. Why raly, Mr. Bumpkin, the Judges goes round like travellers arfter orders, and can’tget none. I’m not talkin’, as you are aware, about great centres like Liverpool, where if they had about fifty-two assizes in the year it wouldn’t be one too many; but I’m talking about circumfrences on the confines of civilization.”
“Oh dear!” sighed Bumpkin. The hole seemed to him too choked up with “larnin’” for the rat ever to come out—he could glean nothing from this highly wrought and highly polished enthusiasm.
“And, notwithstanding and accordingly,” continued the Don, “they do say, goodness knows how true it is, that they’re going to have two more assizes in the year. All that I can say is, Mr. Bumpkin—and, mark my words, there’ll be no stopping in London at all, but it will be just a reg’ler Judge’s merry-go-round.”[138]
Mr. Bumpkin dropped a look into his glass, and the two companions came out of the door and proceeded along under the archway until they came to the corner of Bridge Street, Blackfriars. Exactly at that point a young woman with a baby in her arms came in contact with Mr. Bumpkin, and in a very angry tone said,—
“I tell you what it is, don’t you take them liberties with me or I’ll give you in charge.”
And the young woman passed on with her baby.Just at that moment, and while Master Bumpkin was meditating on this strange conduct of the young female, he felt a smart tug at his watch, and, looking down, saw the broken chain hanging from his pocket.
“Zounds!” he exclaimed, “I never zeed anything claner than thic; did thee zee thic feller?”
“There he goes,” said O’Rapley.
“There ur gooes,” said Mr. Bumpkin, and, as fast as he could, pursued the thief.
“Stop un!” he cried. “Stop thic there thief; he got my watch.”
But it was a long time before Master Bumpkin’s mandate was obeyed; the value of a policeman, like that of every other commodity, depends upon his rarity. There was no policeman to be found. There was a fire escape in the middle of the street, but that was of no use to Master Bumpkin. Away went thief, and away went Bumpkin, who could “foot it,” as he said, “pooty well, old as he wur.” Nor did either the thief or himself stop until they got nearly to the bridge, when, to Bumpkin’s great astonishment, up came the thief, walking coolly towards him. This was another mystery, in addition to those mentioned by Mr. O’Rapley. But the fact was, that the hue and cry was now raised, and although Master Bumpkin did not perceive it, about a hundred people, men, women, and boys, were in full chase; and when that gentleman was, as Bumpkin thought, coolly coming towards him, he was simply at bay, run down, without hope of escape; and fully determined to face the matter out with all the coolness he could command.
“Take un,” said Bumpkin; “take un oop; thee dam scoundrel!”
“Take care what you’re saying,” said the thief. “I’m a respectable man, and there’s law in the land.”
“Yes, and thee shall have un, too, thee willin; thee stole my watch, thee knows that.”
“You’re a liar,” said the captive.
“Why thee’s got un on, dang if thee bean’t, and a wearin’ on un. Well, this bates all; take un oop, pleeceman.”
At this moment, which is always the nick of time chosen by the force, that is to say, when everything is done except the handcuffs, a policeman with a great deal of authority in his appearance came up, and plunged his hands under his heavy coat-tails, as though he were about to deliver them of the bower anchor of a ship.
“Do you give him in charge?”
“Sure enough do ur,” said Mr. Bumpkin.
So the handcuffs were put on, and the stalwart policeman, like a hero with the captive of his bow and spear, marched him along at a great rate, Bumpkin striding out manfully at the side, amid a great crowd of small boys, with all their heads turned towards the prisoner as they ran, in the highest state of delight and excitement. Even Bumpkin looked as if he had made a good thing of it, and seemed as pleased as the boys.
As they came again to the corner of Ludgate Hill, there stood Mr. O’Rapley, looking very pompous and dignified, as became so great a man.
“You’ve got him then,” said he.
“Ay; come on, Master Rapley, come on.”
“One moment,” said the official; “I must here leave you for the present, Mr. Bumpkin; we are not allowed to give evidence in Criminal Courts any more than Her Majesty’s Judges themselves; we are a part of the Court.But, besides all that, I did not see what happened; what was it?”
“Well,” said Mr. Bumpkin, “that be rum too, sir; thee see thic feller steal my watch, surely.”
“Indeed, Mr. Bumpkin, it was so quickly done that I really didnotsee it, if you ask me.”
“Why, he dragged un out o’ thic pocket.”
“No doubt, Master Bumpkin; but it does not follow that I see it.”
“Thee can come and say I wur with thee, anyhow.”
“I can’t give evidence, Mr. Bumpkin, as I told you before; and, besides, I must not appear in this matter at all. You know I was absent to oblige you, and it’s possible I may be of some further service to you yet; but please don’t mention me in this matter. I assure you it will do harm, and perhaps I should lose my place.”
“Well, Master Rapley,” said Bumpkin, taking his hand, “I won’t do thee no harm if I knows it, and there be plenty of evidence.”
“Evidence! You say you found the watch upon him?”
“Sartinly.”
“The case then is clear. You don’t want any evidence besides that.”
“Well, sir, you’re a man o’ larnin’. I bean’t much of a scollard, I’ll tak’ thy advice; but I must get along; they be waitin’ for I.”
“I will see you at Westminster to-morrow, Mr. Bumpkin.”
“All right, zir, all right.”
And with that Mr. O’Rapley proceeded on his way down Fleet Street, and Mr. Bumpkin proceeded on his up Ludgate Hill in the midst of an excited crowd.
The coarse mode of procedure in Ahabv.Naboth ruthlessly exposed and carefully contrasted with the humane and enlightened form of the present day.
Here I awoke, and my wife said unto me, “Dear, you have been dreaming and talking in your sleep.”
Now fearing for what I may have said, although of a tolerably clear conscience, I enquired if she could tell me what words I had uttered. She replied that I had mentioned the names of many eminent men: such as Mr. Justice Common Sense.
“Indeed,” quoth I; and then I told my dream. Upon which she observed, that it seemed there must be much exaggeration. To this I made answer that dreams do generally magnify events, and impress them more vividly upon the senses, inasmuch as the imagination was like a microscope: it enabled you to see many things which would escape the naked eye.
“But,” said my partner, “if they are distorted?”
“If they are distorted, they are not reliable; but a clear imagination, like a good lens, faithfully presents its objects, although in a larger form, in order that those who have no time for scientific observation, may see what the scientist desires to direct their attention to. There are creatures almost invisible to the naked eye, which,nevertheless, cause great irritation to the nerves. So, also, there are matters affecting the body corporate of these kingdoms which the public are blind to and suffer from, but which, if thoroughly exposed, they may be inclined to take a hand in removing.”
“I don’t believe that Mr. O’Rapley,” said she: “he seems a cantankerous, conceited fellow.”
“Why so he is; but cantankerous and conceited fellows sometimes speak the truth. They’re like those cobwebbed, unwholesome-looking bottles which have lain a long time in cellars. You would hardly like to come in contact with them, and yet they often contain a clear and beautiful wine. This Mr. O’Rapley is a worthy man who knows a great deal, and although a bit of a toady to his superiors, expresses his opinions pretty freely behind their backs.”
“And what of this Master Bumpkin—this worthy Master Bumpkin I hear you speak of so often?”
“A very shrewd man in some respects and a silly one in others.”
“Not an unusual combination.”
“By no means.”
And then I told her what I have already related; to which she observed it was a pity some friend had not interposed and stopped the business. I answered, that friends were no doubt useful, but friends or no friends we must have law, and whether for sixpence or a shilling it ought to be readily attainable: that no one would be satisfied with having no other authority than that of friendship to settle our disputes; and besides that, friends themselves sometimes fell out and were generally the most hard to reconcile without an appeal to our tribunals.
“Well, it does seem a pity,” said she, “that judges cannot sit as they did in Moses’ time at all seasons so as to decide expeditiously and promptly between the claims of parties.”
“Why so they do sit ‘continuously,’” quoth I, “but the whole difficulty consists in getting at them. What is called procedure is so circuitous and perplexing, that long before you get to your journey’s end you may faint by the way.”
“Is there no one with good sense who will take this matter up and help this poor man to come by his rights. It must be very expensive for him to be kept away from his business so long, and his poor wife left all alone to manage the farm.”
“Why, so it is, but then going to law, which means seeking to maintain your rights, is a very expensive thing: a luxury fit only for rich men.”
“Why then do people in moderate circumstances indulge in it?”
“Because they are obliged to defend themselves against oppressive and unjust demands; although I think, under the present system, if a man had a small estate, say a few acres, and a rich man laid claim to it, it would be far better for the small man to give up the land without any bother.”
“But no man of spirit would do that?”
“No, that is exactly where it is, it’s the spirit of resistance that comes in.”
“Resistance! a man would be a coward to yield without a fight.”
“Why so he would, and that is what makes law such a beautiful science, and its administration so costly. Men will fight to the last rather than give in. If Naboth had lived in these times there would have been no needof his death in order to oust him from his vineyard. Ahab could have done a much more sensible thing and walked in by process of law.”
“In what way?”
“In the first place he could have laid claim to a right of way, or easement as it is called, of some sort: or could have alleged that Naboth had encroached on his land by means of a fence or drain or ditch.”
“Well, but if he hadn’t?”
“If he hadn’t, so much the better for the Plaintiff, and so much the worse for Naboth.”
“I don’t understand; if Naboth had done no wrong, surely it would be far better for him than if he had.”
“Not in the long run, my dear: and for this reason, if he had encroached it would have taken very little trouble to ascertain the fact, and Naboth being a just and honest man, would only require to have it pointed out to him to remedy the evil. Maps and plans of the estate would doubtless have shown him his mistake, and, like a wise man, he would have avoided going to law.”
“I see clearly that the good man would have said, ‘Neighbour Ahab, we have been on neighbourly terms for a long lime, and I do not wish in any way to alter that excellent feeling which has always subsisted between us. I see clearly by these maps and plans which worthy Master Metefield hath shown me that my hedge hath encroached some six inches upon thy domain, wherefore, Neighbour Ahab, take, I pray thee, as much of the land as belongeth unto thee, according to just admeasurement.”
“Why certainly, so would the honest Naboth have communed with Ahab, and there would have been an end of the business.”
“But show me, darling, how being in the wrong was better for good Naboth than being in the right in this business?”
“Most willingly,” said I; “you see, my dear, there was quickly an end of the matter by Naboth yielding to the just demands of neighbour Ahab. But now let us suppose honest Naboth in the right concerning his vineyard, and neighbour Ahab to be making an unjust demand. You have already most justly observed that in that case it would be cowardly on the part of Naboth to yield without a struggle?”
“Assuredly.”
“Well then, that means a lawsuit.”
“But surely,” said my wife, “it ought to be soon seen who is in the wrong. Where is Master Metefield who you said just now was so accurate a surveyor, and where are those plans you spoke of which showed the situation of the estates?”
“Ah, my dear, I see you know very little of the intricacies of the law; that good Master Metefield, instead of being a kind of judge to determine quickly as he did for Master Naboth what were the boundaries of the vineyard, hath not now so easy a task of it, because Ahab being in the wrong he is not accepted by him as his judge.”
“But if the plans are correct, how can he alter them?”
“He cannot alter them, but the question of correctness of boundary as shown, is matter of disputation, and will have to be discussed by surveyors on both sides, and supported and disputed by witnesses innumerable on both sides: old men coming up with ancient memories, hedgers and ditchers, farmers and bailiffs and people of allsorts and conditions, to prove and disprove where the boundary line really divides Neighbour Naboth’s vineyard from Neighbour Ahab’s park.”
“But surely Naboth will win?”
“All that depends upon a variety of things, such as, first, the witnesses; secondly, the counsel; thirdly, the judge; fourthly, the jury,”
“O,” said my wife, “pray don’t go on to a fifthly—it seems to me poor Naboth is like to have a sorry time of it before he establish his boundary line.”
“Ay, if he ever do so: but he first is got into the hands of his Lawyers, next into the hands of his Counsel, thirdly, into Chancery, fourthly, into debt—”
“Pray, do not let us have a fifthly here either; I like not these thirdlys and fourthlys, for they seem to bring poor Naboth into bad case; but what said you about debt?”
“I say that Naboth, not being a wealthy man, but, as I take it, somewhat in the position of neighbour Bumpkin, will soon be forced to part with a good deal of his little property in order to carry on the action.”