“But will not the action be tried in a reasonable time, say a week or two?”
“I perceive,” cried I, “that you are yet in the very springtide and babyhood of innocence in these matters. There must be summonses for time and for further time; there must be particulars and interrogatories and discoveries and inspections and strikings out and puttings in and appeals and demurrers and references and—”
“O, please don’t. I perceive that poor Naboth is already ruined a long way back. I think when you came to the interrogatories he was in want of funds to carry on the action.”
“A Chancery action sometimes takes years,” said I.
“Years! then shame to our Parliament.”
“I pray you do not take on so,” said I. “Naboth, according to the decree of Fate, is to be ruined. Jezebel did it in a wicked, clumsy and brutal manner. Anyone could see she was wrong, and her name has been handed down to us with infamy and execration. I now desire to show how Ahab could have accomplished his purpose in a gentle, manly and scientific manner and saved his wife’s reputation. Naboth’s action, carried as it would be from Court to Court upon every possible point upon which an appeal can go, under our present system, would effectually ruin him ages before the boundary line could be settled. It would be all swallowed up in costs.”
“Poor Naboth!” said my wife.
“And,” continued I, “the law reports would hand down thecause celebreofAhabv.Nabothas a most interesting leading case upon the subject of goodness knows what: perhaps as to whether a man, under certain circumstances, may not alter his neighbour’s landmark in spite of the statute law of Moses.”
“And so you think poor Naboth would be sold up?”
“That were about the only certain event in his case, except that Ahab would take possession and so put an end for ever to the question as to where the boundary line should run.”
Here again I dozed.
Shewing that lay tribunals are not exactly Punch and Judy shows where the puppet is moved by the man underneath.
It was particularly fortunate for Mr. Bumpkin that his case was not in the list of causes to be tried on the following day. It may seem a curious circumstance to the general reader that a great case likeBumpkinv.Snooks, involving so much expense of time, trouble, and money should be in the list one day and out the next; should be sometimes in the list of one Court and sometimes in the list of another; flying about like a butterfly from flower to flower and caught by no one on the look-out for it. But this is not a phenomenon in our method of procedure, which startles you from time to time with its miraculous effects. You can calculate upon nothing in the system but its uncertainty. Most gentle and innocent reader, I saw that there was no Nisi Prius Court to sit on the following day, soBumpkinv.Snookscould not be taken, list or no list. The lucky Plaintiff therefore found himself at liberty to appear before that August Tribunal which sits at the Mansion House in the City of London. A palatial and imposing building it was on the outside, but within, so far as was apparent to me, it was a narrow ill ventilated den, full of all unclean people and unpleasant smells. I say full ofunclean people, but I allude merely to that portion of it which was appropriated to the British Public; for, exalted on a high bench and in a huge and ponderous chair or throne sat the Prince of Citizens and the King of the Corporation, proud in his dignity, grand in his commercial position, and highly esteemed in the opinion of the world. There he sat, the representative of the Criminal Law, and impartial, as all will allow, in its administration. Wonderful being is my Lord Mayor, thought I, he must have the Law at his fingers’ ends. Yes, there it is sitting under him in the shape and person of his truly respectable clerk. The Common Law resides in the breasts of the Judges, but it is here at my Lord Mayor’s fingers’ ends. He has to deal with gigantic commercial frauds; with petty swindlers, common thieves; mighty combinations of conspirators; with extradition laws; with elaborate bankruptcy delinquencies; with the niceties of the criminal law in every form and shape. Surely, thought I, he should be one of those tremendous geniuses who can learn the criminal law before breakfast, or at least before dinner! So he was. His lordship seemed to have learned it one morning before he was awake. But it is not for me to criticise tribunals or men: I have the simple duty to perform of relating the story of the renowned Mr. Bumpkin.
After the night charges are disposed of up comes the man through the floor, not Mr. Bumpkin, but Mr. Bumpkin’s prisoner. He comes up through the floor like the imp in the pantomime: and then the two tall warders prevent his going any farther.
He was a pale, intelligent looking creature, fairly dressed in frock coat, dark waistcoat and grey trousers, with a glove on his left hand and another in his right;looked meekly and modestly round, and then politely bowed to the Lord Mayor. The charge was then read to him and with a smile he indignantly repudiated the idea of theft.
And I saw in my dream that he was represented by a learned Counsel, who at this moment entered the Court, shook hands with the Lord Mayor, and saying, “I appear, my lord, for the prisoner,” took his seat upon the bench, and entered for a minute or so into some private and apparently jocular conversation with his Lordship.
The name of the learned Counsel was Mr. Nimble, whom we have before seen. He was a very goodly-shaped man, with a thin face and brown hair. His eyes were bright, and always seemed to look into a witness rather than at him. His manner was jaunty, good-natured, easy, and gay; not remarkable for courtesy, but at the same time, not unpleasantly rude. I thought the learned Counsel could be disagreeable if he liked, but might be a very pleasant, sociable fellow to spend an hour with—not in the witness-box.
He was certainly a skilful and far-seeing Counsel, if I may make so bold as to judge from this case. And methought that nothing he did or said was said or done without a purpose. Nor could I help thinking that a good many Counsel, young and old, if their minds were free from prejudice, might learn many lessons from this case. It is with this object that, in my waking moments, I record the impressions of this dream. I do not say Mr. Nimble was an example to follow on all points, for he had that common failing of humanity, a want of absolute perfection. But he was as near to perfection in defending a prisoner as any man I ever saw, and the proceedings inthis very case, if carefully analysed, will go a long way towards proving that assertion.
After the interchange of courtesies between his Lordship and Mr. Nimble, the learned Counsel looked down from the Bench on to the top of Mr. Keepimstraight’s bald head and nodded as if he were patting it. Mr. Keepimstraight was the Lord Mayor’s Clerk. He was very stout and seemed puffed up with law: had an immense regard for himself and consequently very little for anybody else: but that, so far as I have been able to ascertain, is a somewhat common failing among official personages. He ordered everybody about except the Lord Mayor, and him he seemed to push about as though he were wheeling him in a legal Bath-chair. His Lordship was indeed a great invalid in respect to matters of law; I think he had overdone it, if I may use the expression; his study must have been tremendous to have acquired a knowledge of the laws of England in so short a time. But being somewhat feeble, and in his modesty much misdoubting his own judgment, he did nothing and said nothing, except it was prescribed by his physician, Dr. Keepimstraight. Even the solicitors stood in awe of Dr. Keepimstraight.
And now we are all going to begin—Walk up!
The intelligent and decent-looking prisoner having been told what the charge against him was, namely, Highway Robbery with violence, declares that he is as “innercent as the unborn babe, your lordship:” and then Mr. Keepimstraight asks, where the Prosecutor is—“Prosecutor!” shout a dozen voices at once—all round, everywhere is the cry of “Prosecutor!” There was no answer, but in the midst of the unsavoury crowd there was seen to be a severe scuffle—whether it was a fight ora man in a fit could not be ascertained for some time; at length Mr. Bumpkin was observed struggling and tearing to escape from the throng.
“Why don’t you come when you are called?” asks the Junior Clerk, handing him the Testament, as Mr. Bumpkin stood revealed in the witness-box.
And I saw that he was dressed in a light frock, not unlike a pinafore, which was tastefully wrought with divers patterns of needlework on the front and back thereof; at the openings thus embroidered could be seen a waistcoat of many stripes, that crossed and recrossed one another at various angles and were formed of several colours. He wore a high calico shirt collar, which on either side came close under the ear; and round his neck a red handkerchief with yellow ends. His linen certainly did credit to Mrs. Bumpkin’s love of “tidiness,” and altogether the prosecutor wore a clean and respectable appearance. His face was broad, round and red, indicating a jovial disposition and a temperament not easily disturbed, except when “whate” was down too low to sell and he wanted to buy stock or pay the rent: a state of circumstances which I believe has sometimes happened of late years. A white short-clipped beard covered his chin, while his cheeks were closely shaven. He had twinkling oval eyes, which I should say, he invariably half-closed when he was making a bargain. If you offered less than his price the first refusal would come from them. His nose was inexpressive and appeared to have been a dormant feature for many a year. It said nothing for or against any thing or any body, and from its tip sprouted a few white hairs. His mouth, without utterance, said plainly enough that he owed “nobody nothink” and was a thousand pound man every morninghe rose. It was a mouth of good bore, and not by any means intended for a silver spoon.
Such was the Prosecutor as he stood in the witness-box at the Mansion House on this memorable occasion; and no one could doubt that truth and justice would prevail.
“Name?” said Mr. Keepimstraight.
“Bumpkin.”
Down it goes.
“Where?”
After a pause, which Mr. Nimble makes a note of.
“Where?” repeats Keepimstraight.
“Westminister.”
“Where there?”
“‘Goose’ publichouse.”
Down it goes.
“Yes?” says Keepimstraight.
Bumpkin stares.
“Yes, go on,” says the clerk.
“Go on,” says the crier; “go on,” say half-a-dozen voices all round.
“Can’t you go on?” says the clerk.
“Tell your story,” says his Lordship, putting his arms on the elbows of the huge chair. “Tell it in your own way, my man.”
“I wur gwine down thic place when—” “my man” began.
“What time was this?” asks the clerk.
“Arf arter four, as near as I can tell.”
“How do you know?” asks the clerk.
“I heard—”
“I object,” says the Counsel—“can’t tell us what he heard.”
Then I perceived that the Lord Mayor leant forwardtowards Mr. Keepimstraight, and the latter gentleman turned his head and leaned towards the Lord Mayor, so that his Lordship could obtain a full view of Mr. Keepimstraight’s eyes.
Then I perceived that Mr. Keepimstraight winked his left eye and immediately turned to his work again, and his Lordship said:
“I don’t think what you heard, witness, is evidence.”
“Can’t have that,” said Mr. Keepimstraight, as though he took his instructions and the Law from his Lordship.
“You said it was half-past four.”
“Heard the clock strike th’ arf hour.”
Here his Lordship leant again forward and Mr. Keepimstraight turned round so as to bring his eyes into the same position as heretofore. And I perceived that Mr. Keepimstraight winked his right eye, upon which his Lordship said:
“I think that’s evidence.”
Clerk whispered, behind his hand, “Can hardly exclude that.”
“Can hardly exclude that,” repeats his Lordship; then—turning to the Learned Counsel—“Can’t shut that out, Mr. Nimble.”
“You seldom can shut a church clock out, my Lord,” replies the Counsel.
At this answer his Lordship smiled and the Court was convulsed with laughter for several minutes.
“Now, then,” said Mr. Keepimstraight, “we must have order in Court.”
“We must have order in Court,” says his Lordship.
“Order in Court,” says the Junior Clerk, and “Order!” shouts the Policeman on duty.
Then Mr. Bumpkin stated in clear and intelligiblelanguage how the man came up and took his watch and ran away. Foolishly enough he said nothing about the woman with the baby, and wisely enough Mr. Nimble asked nothing about it. But what an opportunity this would have been for an unskilful Counsel to lay the foundation for a conviction. Knowing, as he probably would from the prisoner but from no other possible source about the circumstance, he might have shown by a question or two that it was a conspiracy between the prisoner and the young woman. Not so Mr. Nimble, he knew how to make an investment of this circumstance for future profit: indeed Mr. Bumpkin had invested it for him by not mentioning it. Beautiful is Advocacy if you do not mar it by unskilful handling.
When, after describing the robbery, the prosecutor continued:
“I ses to my companion, ses I—”
“I object,” says Mr. Nimble.
And I perceived that his Lordship leant forward once more towards Mr. Keepimstraight, and Mr. Keepimstraight turned as aforetime towards the Lord Mayor, but not quite, I thought, so fully round as heretofore; the motion seemed to be performed with less exactness than usual, and that probably was why the operation miscarried. Mr. Keepimstraight having given the correct signal, as he thought, and the Enginedriver on the Bench having misunderstood it, an accident naturally would have taken place but for the extreme caution and care of his Lordship, who, if he had been a young Enginedriver, would in all probability have dashed on neck or nothing through every obstacle. Not so his Lordship. Not being sure whether he was on the up or down line, he pulled up.
Mr. Keepimstraight sat pen in hand looking at his paper, and waiting for the judicial voice which should convey to his ear the announcement that “I ses, ses I,” is evidence or no evidence. Judge then of Mr. Keepimstraight’s disappointment when, after waiting in breathless silence for some five minutes, he at last looks up and sees his Lordship in deep anxiety to catch his eye without the public observing it. His Lordship leant forward, blushing with innocence, and whispered something behind his hand to Mr. Keepimstraight. And in my dream I heard his Lordship ask:
“Which eye?”
To which Mr. Keepimstraight as coolly as if nothing had happened, whispered behind his hand:
“Left!” and then coughed.
“O then,” exclaimed his Lordship, “it is clearly not evidence.”
“It’s not evidence,” repeated the clerk; and then to the discomfiture of Mr. Nimble, he went on, “You say you had a companion.”
This was more than the learned Counsel wanted, seeing as he did that there was another investment to be made if he could only manage it.
Mr. Bumpkin blushed now, but said nothing.
“Would you excuse me,” said Mr. Nimble; “I shall not cross-examine this witness.”
“O, very good,” says Keepimstraight, thinking probably it was to be a plea of guilty hereafter; “very good. Then I think that is all—is that the watch?”
“It be,” said the witness; “I ken swear to un.”
It certainly would be from no want of metal if Mr. Bumpkin could not identify the timepiece, for it was a ponderous-looking watch, nearly as large as a tea-saucer.
Then said Mr. Nimble:
“You say that is your watch, do you?”
“It spakes for itself.”
“I don’t think that’s evidence,” says Mr. Keepimstraight, with a smile.
“That’s clearly not evidence,” says the Lord Mayor, gravely. Whereupon there was another burst of laughter, in which the clerk seemed to take the lead. The remarkable fact, however, was, that his Lordship was perfectly at a loss to comprehend the joke. He was “as grave as a Judge.”
After the laughter had subsided, the learned Keepimstraight leaned backward, and the learned Lord Mayor leaned forward, and it seemed to me they were conversing together about the cause of the laughter; for suddenly a smile illuminated the rubicund face of the cheery Lord Mayor, and at last he had a laugh to himself—a solo, after the band had ceased. And then his Lordship spoke:
“What your watch may say is not evidence, because it has not been sworn.”
Then the band struck up again to a lively tune, his Lordship playing the first Fiddle; and the whole scene terminated in the most humorous and satisfactory manner for all parties—except, perhaps, the prisoner—who was duly committed for trial to the next sittings of the Central Criminal Court, which were to take place in a fortnight.
Mr. Bumpkin naturally asked for his watch, but that request was smilingly refused.
“Bin in our famly forty years,” exclaimed the prisoner.
“Will you be quiet?” said Mr. Nimble petulantly, for it was a foolish observation for the prisoner to make, inasmuchas, if Mr. Bumpkin had been represented by professional skill, the remark would surely be met at the trial with abundant evidence to disprove it. Mr. Bumpkin at present, however, has no professional skill.
* * * * *
Here something disturbed me, and I awoke. While preparing to enjoy my pipe as was my custom in these intervals, my wife remarked:
“I do not approve of that Master O’Rapley by any means, with his cynicisms and sarcasms and round squares. Did ever anyone hear of such a contradiction?”
“Have patience,” quoth I, “and we shall see how worthy Master O’Rapley makes it out. I conjecture that he means the same thing that we hear of under the term, ‘putting the round peg into the square hole.’”
“But why should such a thing be done when it is easy surely to find a square peg that would fit?”
“Granted; but the master-hand may be under obligations to the round peg; or the round peg may be a disagreeable peg, or a hundred things: one doesn’t know. I am but a humble observer of human nature, and like not these ungracious cavillings at Master O’Rapley. Let us calmly follow this dream, and endeavour to profit by its lessons without finding fault with its actors.”
“But I would like to have a better explanation of that Round Square, nevertheless,” muttered my wife as she went on with her knitting. So to appease her I discoursed as follows:—
“The round square,” said I, “means the inappropriate combination of opposites.”
“Now, not too long words,” said she, “and not too much philosophy.”
“Very well, my dear,” I continued; “Don O’Rapleyis right, not in his particular instance, but in the general application of his meaning. Look around upon the world, or so much of it as is comprised within our own limited vision, and what do you find?”
“I find everything,” said my wife, “beautifully ordered and arranged, from the Archbishop of Canterbury to the Parish Beadle.”
“What do you find?” I repeated. “Mark the O’Rapley’s knowledge of human nature, you not only find Waterloos won in the Cricket-field of Eton, but Bishopricks and Secretaryships and many other glorious victories; so that you might—”
“Don’t be foolish; Trafalgar was not won in the Cricket-field.”
“No, but it was fought on the Isis or the Cam, I forget which. But carry the O’Rapley’s theory into daily life, and test it by common observation, what do you find? Why, that this round square is by no means a modern invention. It has been worked in all periods of our history. Here is a Vicar with a rich benefice, intended by nature for a Jockey or a Whipper-in—”
“What, the benefice?”
“No, the Vicar! Here is a barrister who ought to have been a curate, and become enthusiastic over worked slippers: there is another thrust into a Government appointment, not out of respect to him, the Minister doesn’t know him, but to serve a political friend, or to place an investment in the hands of a political rival, who will return it with interest on a future day. The gentleman thus provided for at the country’s expense would, if left to himself, have probably become an excellent billiard-marker or pigeon-shooter. Here is another,who, although a member of Parliament, was elected by no constituency under Heaven or above it; and it is clear he was intended by Nature for a position where obsequiousness and servility meet with their appropriate reward. Another fills the post of some awful Commissioner of something, drawing an immense salary, and doing an immense amount of mischief for it, intended naturally for a secretary to an Autocratic Nobleman, who would trample the rights of the people under foot. Here is another—”
“O pray, my dear, do not let us have another—”
“Only one more,” said I; “here is another, thrust into the Cabinet for being so disagreeable a fellow, who ought to have been engaged in making fireworks for Crystal Palace fêtes.”
“But this is only an opinion of yours; how do you know these gentlemen are not fitted for the posts they occupy? surely if they do the work—”
“The public would have no right to grumble.”
“And as for obsequiousness and servility, I am afraid those are epithets too often unjustly applied to those gentlemen whose courteous demeanour wins them the respect of their superiors.”
“Quite so,” said I; “and I don’t see that it matters what is the distinguishing epithet you apply to them: this courteous demeanour or obsequiousness is no doubt the very best gift Nature can bestow upon an individual as an outfit for the voyage of life.”
“Dear me, you were complaining but just now of its placing men in positions for which they were not qualified.”
“Not complaining, my love; only remarking. I go in for obsequiousness, and trust I shall never be foundwanting in that courteous demeanour towards my superiors which shall lead to my future profit.”
“But would you have men only courteous?”
“By no means, I would have them talented also.”
“But in what proportion would you have the one to the other?”
“I would have the same proportion maintained that exists between the rudder and the ship: you want just enough tact to steer your obsequiousness.”
Here again I dozed.
A comfortable evening at the Goose
When Mr. Bumpkin left the Mansion House, he was in a state of great triumph not to say ecstasy: for it seemed to him that he had had everything his own way. He was not cross-examined; no witnesses were called, and it had only been stated by the prisoner himself, not proved, although he said he should prove it at the trial, that the watch had been in the family for upwards of forty years.
“The biggest lie,” muttered Master Bumpkin, “that ever wur told.” And then he reasoned in this wise: “how could it a bin in his family forty year when he, Bumpkin, only lost it the day afore in the most barefaced manner? He was a pooty feller as couldn’t tell a better story than thic.”
And then methought in my dream, “Ah, Bumpkin, thou may’st triumph now, but little dreamest thou what is in store for thee at the trial. Wait till all those little insignificant points, hardly visible at present, shall rise, like spear-heads against thee at the Old Bailey and thrust thee through and through and make thee curse the advocate’s skill and the thief’s impudence and the inertness of the so-called Public Prosecutor: and mayhap, I know not yet, show thee how wrong and robbery may triumph over right and innocence. Thouhast raised thyself, good Bumpkin, from the humblest poverty to comparative wealth and a lawsuit: but boast not overmuch lest thou find Law a taskmaster instead of a Protector!
Thus, moralizing in my dream I perceived that Mr. Bumpkin after talking to some men betook himself to a Bus and proceeded on his way to the “Goose” at Westminster, whither he arrived in due time and in high spirits.
The Goose was a nice cosy public-house, situated, as I before observed, near the river side and commanded a beautiful view of the neighbouring wharves and the passing craft. It was a favourite resort of waterside men, carters, carriers, labourers on the wharf and men out of work. The Military also patronized it:—And many were the jovial tales told around the taproom hearth by members of Her Majesty’s troops to admiring and astonished Ignorance.
It was a particularly cold and bleak day, this ninth of March one thousand eight hundred and something. The wind was due East and accompanied ever and anon with mighty thick clouds of sleet and snow. The fireside therefore was particularly comfortable, and the cheery faces around the hearth were pleasant to behold.
Now Mr. Bumpkin, as the reader knows, was not alone in his expedition. He had his witness, named Joseph Wurzel: called in the village “Cocky,” inasmuch as it was generally considered that he set much by his wisdom: and was possessed of considerable attainments. For instance, he could snare a hare as well as any man in the county: or whistle down pheasants to partake of a Buckwheat refection which he was in the habit of spreading for their repast.
A good many fellows who were envious of Joe’s abilities avowed that “he was a regler cunnin’ feller, as ud some day find out his mistake;” meaning thereby that Joe would inevitably be sent to prison. Others affirmed that he was a good deal too cunning for that; that he was a regular artful dodger, and knew how to get round the vicar and all in authority under him. The reader knows that he was a regular attendant at Church, and by that means was in high favour. Nor was his mother behind hand in this respect, especially in the weeks before Christmas; and truly her religion brought its reward even in this world in the shape of Parish Gifts.
No doubt Joe was fond of the chase, but in this respect he but imitated his superiors, except that I believe he occasionally went beyond them in the means he employed.
Assembled in this common room at the Goose on the night in question, were a number of persons of various callings and some of no calling in particular. Most of them were acquainted, and apparently regular customers. One man in particular became a great favourite with Joe, and that was Jacob Wideawake the Birdcatcher; and it was interesting to listen to his conversation on the means of catching and transforming the London Sparrow into an article of Commerce.
Joe’s dress no doubt attracted the attention of his companions when he first made his appearance, for it was something out of the ordinary style: and certainly one might say that great care had been bestowed upon him to render his personal appearance attractive in the witness-box. He wore a wideawake hat thrown back on his head, thus displaying his brown country-looking face to full advantage. His coat was a kind of dark velveteenwhich had probably seen better days in the Squire’s family; so had the long drab waistcoat. His corduroy trousers, of a light green colour, were hitched up at the knees with a couple of straps as though he wore his garters outside. His neckerchief was a bright red, tied round his neck in a careless but not unpicturesque manner. Take him for all in all he was as fine a specimen of a country lad as one could wish to meet,—tall, well built, healthy looking, and even handsome.
Now Mr. Bumpkin, being what is called “a close man,” and prone to keep his own counsel on all occasions when it was not absolutely necessary to reveal it, had said nothing about his case before the Lord Mayor; not even Mrs. Oldtimes had he taken into his confidence. It is difficult to understand his motive for such secrecy, as it is impossible to trace in nine instances out of ten any particular line of human conduct to its source.
Acting probably on some vague information that he had received, Mr. Bumpkin looked into the room, and told Joe that he thought they should be “on” to-morrow. He had learned the use of that legal term from frequent intercourse with Mr. Prigg. He thought they should be on but “wur not sartin.”
“Well,” said Joe, “the sooner the better. I hates this ere hangin’ about.” At this Jack Outofwork, Tom Lazyman, and Bill Saunter laughed; while Dick Devilmecare said, “He hated hanging about too; it was wus than work.”
“And that’s bad enough, Heaven knows,” said Lazyman.
Then I saw that at this moment entered a fine tall handsome soldier, who I afterwards learned was Sergeant Goodtale of the One Hundred and twenty-fourthHussars. A smarter or more compact looking fellow it would be impossible to find: and he came in with such a genial, good-natured smile, that to look at him would almost make you believe there was no happiness or glory on this side the grave except in Her Majesty’s service—especially the Hussars!
I also perceived that fluttering from the side of Sergeant Goodtale’s cap, placed carelessly and jauntily on the side of his head, was a bunch of streamers of the most fascinating red white and blue you ever could behold. Altogether, Sergeant Goodtale was a splendid sight. Down went his cane on the table with a crack, as much as to say “The Queen!” and he marched up to the fire and rubbed his hands: apparently taking no heed of any human being in the room.
Mr. Bumpkin’s heart leaped when he saw the military sight: his eyes opened as if he were waking from a dream out of which he had been disturbed by a cry of “fire:” and giving Joe a wink and an obviously made-up look, beckoned him out of the room. As they went out they met a young man, shabbily clad and apparently poorly fed. He had an intelligent face, though somewhat emaciated. He might be, and probably was, a clerk out of employment, and he threw himself on the seat in a listless manner that plainly said he was tired of everything.
This was Harry Highlow. He had been brought up with ideas beyond his means. It was through no fault of his that he had not been taught a decent trade: those responsible for his training having been possessed of the notion that manual labour lowers one’s respectability: an error and a wickedness which has been responsible for the ruin of many a promising youth before to-day.
Harry was an intelligent, fairly educated youth, and nothing more. What is to be done with raw material so plentiful as that? The cheapest marketable commodity is an average education, especially in a country where even our Universities can supply you with candidates for employment at a cheaper rate than you can obtain the services of a first-class cook. This young man had tried everything that was genteel: he had even aspired to literature: sought employment on the Press, on the Stage, everywhere in fact where gentility seemed to reign. Nor do I think he lacked ability for any of these walks; it was not ability but opportunity that failed him.
“Lookee ere, Joe,” said Mr. Bumpkin; “harken to me. Don’t thee ’ave nowt to say to that there soger.”
“All right, maister,” said Joe, laughing; “thee thinks I be gwine for a soger. Now lookee ere, maister, I beant a fool.”
“No, thee beant, Joe. I knowed thee a good while, and thee beant no fool.”
Joe laughed. It was a big laugh was Joe’s, for his mouth was somewhat large, and a grin always seemed to twist it. On this occasion, so great was his surprise that his master should think he would be fool enough to enlist for a “soger,” that his mouth assumed the most irregular shape I ever saw, and bore a striking resemblance to a hole such as might be made in the head of a drum by the heel of a boot.
“I be up to un, maister.”
“Have no truck wi’ un, I tell ee; don’t speak to un. Thee be my head witness, and doant dare goo away; no, no more un if—”
“No fear,” said Joe. “’Taint likely I be gwine tolisten to ee. I knows what he wants; he’s arter listin chaps.”
“Look ee ere, Joe, if ur speaks to thee, jist say I beant sich a fool as I looks; that’ll ave un.”
“Right,” says Joe; “I beant sich a fool as I looks; that’ll ave un straight.”
“Now, take heed; I’m gwine into the parlour wi’ Landlord.”
Accordingly, into the little quiet snuggery of Mr. Oldtimes, Mr. Bumpkin betook himself. And many and many an agreeable evening was passed with Mr. and Mrs. Oldtimes during the period when Mr. Bumpkin was waiting for his trial. For Mr. and Mrs. Oldtimes being Somersetshire people knew many inhabitants of the old days in the village of Yokelton, where Mr. Bumpkin “were bred and born’d.”
Meanwhile the “head witness” had returned to the cheerful scene in the taproom, and sat leering out of the corners of his eyes upon the Sergeant, as though he expected every moment that officer would make a spring at him and have him upon the floor. But the Sergeant was not a bullying, blustering sort of man at all; his demeanour was quiet in the extreme. He scarcely looked at anyone. Simply engaged in warming his hands at the cheerful fire, no one had cause to apprehend anything from him.
But a man, Sergeant or no Sergeant, must, out of common civility, exchange a word now and then, if only about the weather; and so he said, carelessly,—
“Sharp weather, lads!”
Now, not even Joe could disagree with this; it was true, and was assented to by all; Joe silently acquiescing. After the Sergeant had warmed his hands andrubbed them sufficiently, he took off his cap and placed it on a little shelf or rack; and then took out a meerschaum pipe, which he exhibited without appearing to do so to the whole company. Then he filled it from his pouch, and rang the bell; and when the buxom young waitress appeared, he said,—
“My dear, I think I’ll have a nice rump steak and some onions, if you please.”
“Yes, sir,” said the maid.
Now I observed that two or three matters were noteworthy at this point. First, Joe’s mouth so watered that he actually went to the fireplace and expectorated. Secondly, he was utterly amazed at the familiar manner in which the Sergeant was permitted to address this beautiful young person, who seemed to be quite a lady of quality. Thirdly, he was duly impressed and astounded with the luxurious appetite of this Sergeant of Hussars!
Then the young woman came back and said,—“Would you like to have it in the parlour, sir?”
“O no, my dear,” said the Sergeant; “I would rather have it here. I hate being alone.”
As he said this, he slightly glanced at Dick Devilmecare. Dick, flattering himself that the observation was addressed particularly to him, observed that he also hated being alone.
Then the Sergeant lighted his pipe; and I suppose there was not one in the company who did not think that tobacco particularly nice.
Next, the Sergeant rang again, and once more the pretty maid appeared.
“Lucy,” said he, “while my steak is getting ready, Ithink I’ll have three of whiskey hot, with a little lemon in it.”
At this there was an involuntary smacking of lips all round, although no one was conscious he had exhibited any emotion. The Sergeant was perfectly easy and indifferent to everything. He smoked, looked at the fire, sipped his grog, spread out his legs, folded his arms; then rose and turned his back to the fire, everyone thinking how thoroughly he enjoyed himself.
“That smells very nice, Sergeant,” said Harry.
“Yes, it’s very good,” said the Sergeant; “it’s some I got down at Yokelton, Somersetshire.”
Here Joe looked up; he hadn’t been home for a week, and began to feel some interest in the old place, and everything belonging to it.
“I comes from that ere place, Mr. Sergeant,” said he.
“Indeed, sir,” said the Sergeant, in an off-hand manner.
“Did thee buy un at a shop by the Pond, sir?”
“That’s it,” replied the Sergeant, pointing with his pipe, “to the right.”
“The seame plaace,” exclaimed Joe. “Why my sister lives there sarvant wi that ooman as keeps the shop.”
“Indeed!” said Sergeant Goodtale; “how very curious!”
And Jack said, “What a rum thing!”
And Bill said, “That is a rum thing!”
And Harry said it was a strange coincidence. In short, they all agreed that it was the most remarkable circumstance that ever was.
The subject continued.
As soon as the conversation on the remarkable circumstance recorded in the last chapter had drifted into another subject no less remarkable, and the Sergeant had finished his pipe, the beautiful being appeared with the rump steak and onions, a snowy white cloth having been previously spread at the end of one of the tables. When all was ready, it looked as nice and appetizing as could well be conceived. The most indifferent man there seemed the Sergeant himself, who, instead of rushing to the chair provided for him, walked as coolly up to the table as though he were going into action. Then he took the knife, and seeing it had not quite so sharp an edge as he liked, gave it a touch or two on the stone hearth.
The smell of that tobacco from Yokelton had been sweet; so had the perfume from the whiskey toddy and the lemon; but of all the delicious and soul-refreshing odours that ever titilated human nostrils, nothing surely could equal that which proceeded from the rump steak and onions. The fragrance of new mown hay, which Cowper has so beautifully mentioned, had palled on Joe’s senses; but when would the fragrance of that dish pall on the hungry soul?
The Sergeant took no notice of the hungry looks ofthe company; he was a soldier, and concentrated his mind upon the duties of the moment. Sentimentality was no part of his nature. He was a man, and must eat; he was a soldier, and must perform the work as a duty irrespective of consequences.
“Do you mind my smoke?” asked Harry.
“Oh dear, no,” said the Sergeant; “I like it.”
Joe stared and watched every bit as the Sergeant cut it. He looked admiringly on the soldier and so lovingly at the steak, that it almost seemed as if he wished he could be cut into such delicious morsels and eaten by so happy a man. What thoughts passed through his mind no one but a dreamer could tell; and this is what I saw passing through the mind of Wurzel.
“O, what a life! what grub! what jollyness! no turmut oeing; no dung-cart; no edgin and ditchin; no five o’clock in the mornin; no master; no bein sweared at; no up afore the magistrates; no ungriness; rump steaks and inguns; whiskey and water and bacca; if I didn’t like that air Polly Sweetlove, danged if I wouldn’t go for a soger to-morrer!”
Then said Joe, very deferentially and as if he were afraid of being up afore the magistrate, “If you please, sir, med I have a bit o’ that there bacca?”
“Of course,” said the Sergeant, tossing his pouch; “certainly; help yourself.”
Joe’s heart was softened more and more towards the military, which he had hitherto regarded, from all he could hear, as a devil’s own trap to catch Sabbath breakers and disobedient to parents.
And methought, in my dream, I never saw men who were not partakers of a feast enjoy it more than the onlookers of that military repast.
Then said Harry,—
“Well, Sergeant, I’m well-nigh tired of my life, and I’ve come here to enlist.”
“Just wait a bit,” said the Sergeant; “I’m not a man to do things in a hurry. I never allow a man to enlist, if I know it, in Her Majesty’s service, honourable and jolly as it is, without asking him to think about it.”
“Hear, hear!” said Lazyman; “that’s good, I likes that; don’t be in a hurry, lad.”
“Hear, hear!” says Outofwork, “don’t jump into a job too soon, yer medn’t like it.”
“Hear, hear!” says the Boardman, “walk round a-bit.”
“But,” said Harry, “I have considered it. I’ve just had education enough to prevent my getting a living, and not enough to make a man of me: I’ve tried everything and nobody wants me.”
“Then,” said Sergeant Goodtale, “do you think the Queen only wants them that nobody else’ll have. I can tell you that ain’t the Queen of England’s way. It might do for Rooshia or Germany, or them countries, but not for Old England. It’s a free country. I think, lads, I’m right—”
Here there was tremendous hammering on the table by way of assent and applause; amidst which Joe could be observed thumping his hard fist with as much vehemence as if he had got a County Magistrate’s head under it.
“This is a free country, sir,” said the Sergeant, “no man here is kidnapped into the Army, which is a profession for men, not slaves.”
“I’m going to join,” said Harry, “say what you like.”
“Wait till the morning;” said the Sergeant, “and meanwhile we’ll have a song.”
At this moment Mr. Bumpkin put in an appearance; for although he had been enjoying himself with Mr. and Mrs. Oldtimes, he thought it prudent to have a peep and see how “thic Joe wur gettin on.”
Mr. Bumpkin sings a good old song—the Sergeant becomes quite a convivial companion and plays dominoes.
The Sergeant, having finished his repast, again had recourse to his pipe, and was proceeding to light it when Mr. Bumpkin appeared in the room.
“We be gwine to have a song, maister,” said Joe.
“Give us a song, governor,” said half-a-dozen voices.
“Ay, do, maister,” says Joe; “thee sings a good un, I knows, for I ha eerd thee often enough at arvest oames: gie us a song, maister.”
Now if there was one thing Mr. Bumpkin thought he was really great at besides ploughing the straightest and levellest furrow, it was singing the longest and levellest song. He had been known to sing one, which, with its choruses, had lasted a full half hour, and then had broken down for lack of memory.
On the present occasion he would have exhibited no reluctance, having had a glass or two in the Bar Parlour had he not possessed those misgivings about the Sergeant. He looked furtively at that officer as though it were better to give him no chance. Seeing, however, that he was smoking quietly, and almost in a forlorn manner by himself, his apprehensions became less oppressive.
Invitations were repeated again and again, and with such friendly vehemence that resistance at last was out of the question.
“I aint sung for a good while,” said he, “but I wunt be disagreeable like, so here goes.”
But before he could start there was such a thundering on the tables that several minutes elapsed. At length there was sufficient silence to enable him to be heard.
“This is Church and Crown, lads.”
“Gie me the man as loves the Squire,The Parson, and the Beak;And labours twelve good hours a dayFor thirteen bob a week!”
“Hooroar! hooroar! hooroar!” shouted Lazyman. “What d’ye think ’o that?”
“O, my eye,” said Outofwork, “aint it jolly?”
“Well done! bravo!” shrieked the Boardman. “I’ll carry that ere man through the streets on my shoulders instead o’ the boards, that I will. Bravo! he ought to be advertized—this style thirteen bob a week!”
“Thirteen bob a week!” laughed Harry; “who’d go for a soldier with such a prospect. Can you give us a job, governor?”
“Wait a bit, lads,” said Mr. Bumpkin, “there be another werse and then a chorus.”
“Hooray!” they shouted, “a chorus! let’s have the chorus—there ought to be a chorus—thirteen bob a week!”
“Now, gentlemen, the chorus if you please,” said Harry; “give it mouth, sir!”
Then sang Bumpkin—
“O ’edgin, ditchin, that’s the geaam,All in the open air;The poor man’s health is all his wealth,But wealth without a care!
Chorus.
Then shout hurrah for Church and StateThough ’eretics may scoff,The devil is our head Constable,To take the willins off.
Give me the man that’s poor and strong,Hard working and content;Who looks on onger as his lot,In Heaven’s wise purpose sent.Who looks on riches as a snareTo ketch the worldly wise;And good roast mutton as a dodge,To blind rich people’s eyes.
Chorus.
Give me the man that labours hardFrom mornin’ until night,And looks at errins as a treatAnd bacon a delight.O ’edgin, ditchin, diggin drains,And emptyin pool and dyke,It beats your galloppin to ’ounds,Your ball-rooms and the like.
Chorus.
Gi’ me the man that loves the SquireWith all his might and main;And with the taxes and the ratesAs never racks his brain.Who loves the Parson and the BeakAs Heaven born’d and sent,And revels in that blessed balmA hongry sweet content.
Chorus.
Gie me the good Shaksperan manAs wants no other books,But them as he no need to spell,The ever runnin brooks:As feeds the pigs and minds the flocks,And rubs the orses down;And like a regler lyal man,Sticks up for Church and Crown.”
Chorus.
At the termination of this pastoral song there was such a hullabaloo of laughter, such a yelling, thumping, and, I grieve to say, swearing, that Mr. Bumpkin wondered what on earth was the occasion of it. At the Rent dinner at the Squire’s he had always sung it with great success; and the Squire himself had done him the honour to say it was the best song he had ever heard, while the Clergyman had assured him that the sentiments were so good that it ought to be played upon the organ when the people were coming out of church. And Farmer Grinddown, who was the largest gentleman farmer for miles around, had declared that if men would only act up to that it would be a happy country, and we should soon be able to defy America itself.
Mr. Bumpkin, hearing such shouts of laughter, thought perhaps he might have a patch of black on his face, and put his hand up to feel. Then he looked about him to see if his dress was disarranged; but finding nothing amiss, he candidly told them he “couldn’t zee what there wur to laugh at thic fashion.”
They all said it was a capital song, and wondered if he had any more of the same sort, and hoped he’d leave them a lock of his hair—and otherwise manifested tokens of enthusiastic approbation.
Mr. Bumpkin, however, could not quite see theirmirth in the same light, so he turned on his heel and, beckoning to Joe, left the room in high dudgeon, not to say disdain.
“Mind Joe—no truck wi un.”
“Why, maister, he knows my sister.”
“Damn thee sister, Joe; it be a lie.”
“Be it? here’s some o’ the bacca he brought up from Okleton, I tell ee.”
“I tell thee, have nowt to do wi un; we shall be on t’morrer, we be tenth in the list.”
“Ay,” said Joe, “we bin igher in list un thic, we bin as near as eight; I shall be mighty glad when it be over.”
“An get back to pigs, aye, Joe?”
“Aye, maister.”
“Nothin like oame, Joe, be there?” and Mr. Bumpkin turned away.
“No,” said Joe; “no, maister, if so be” (and this was spoken to himself) “if so be you got a oame.”
Then I saw that Joe rejoined his companions, amongst whom a conversation was going on as to the merits of the song. Some said one thing and some another, but all condemned it as a regular toading to the Parson and the Squire: and as for the Beak, how any man could praise him whose only duty was to punish the common people, no one could see. The company were getting very comfortable. The Sergeant had called for another glass of that delectable grog whose very perfume seemed to inspire everyone with goodfellowship, and they all appeared to enjoy the Sergeant’s liquor without tasting it.
“What do you say to a game of dominoes?” said Harry.
“They won’t allow em ere,” said Lazyman.
“Won’t they,” answered Outofwork. “I’ll warrant if the Sergeant likes to play there’s no landlord’ll stop him, ay, Sergeant?”
“Well, I believe,” said the Sergeant, “as one of the Queen’s servants, I have the privilege of playing when I like.”
“Good,” said Harry, “and I’ll be a Queen’s man too, so out with the shilling, Sergeant.”
“Wait till the morning,” said the Sergeant.
“No,” said Harry. “I’ve had enough waiting. I’m on, give me the shilling.”
The Sergeant said, “Well, let me see, what height are you?” and he stood up beside him.
“Ah!” he said, “I think I can get you in,” saying which he gave him a shilling; such a bright coin, that it seemed to have come fresh from the Queen’s hand.
Then the Sergeant took out some beautiful bright ribbons which he was understood to say (but didnotsay) the Queen had given him that morning. Then he rang the bell, and the buxom waitress appearing he asked for the favour of a needle and thread, which, the radiant damsel producing, with her own fair fingers she sewed the ribbons on to Harry’s cap, smiling with admiration all the while. Even this little incident was not without its effect on the observant “head witness,” and he felt an unaccountable fascination to have the same office performed by the same fair hands on his own hat.
Then, without saying more, a box of dominoes was produced, and Joe soon found himself, he did not know how, the Sergeant’s partner, while Lazyman and Outofwork were opposed to them.
“Is it pooty good livin in your trade, Mr. Sergeant?” asked Joe.
“Not bad,” said the Sergeant; “that is five-one, I think”—referring to the play.
“Rump steaks and ingons aint bad living,” said Outofwork.
“No,” said the Sergeant, “and there’s nothing I like better than a good thick mutton chop for breakfast—let me see, what’s the game?”
“Ah!” said Joe, smacking his lips, “mutton chops is the best thing out; I aint had one in my mouth, though, for a doocid long time; I likes em with plenty o’ fat an gravy loike.”
“You see,” said the Sergeant, “when you’ve been out for a two or three mile ride before breakfast in the fresh country air, a chap wants something good for breakfast, and a mutton chop’s none too much for him.”
“No,” answered Joe, “I could tackle three.”
“Yes,” said Sergeant Goodtale, “but some are much larger than others.”
“So em be,” agreed Joe.
“What’s the game,” enquired the Sergeant.
“Two-one,” said Joe.
“One’s all,” said the soldier.
“I tell ee what,” remarked Joe, “if I was going to list, there’s no man as I’d liefer list wi than you, Mr. Sergeant.”
“Domino!” said the Sergeant, “that’s one to us, partner!”
Then they shuffled the dominoes and commenced again. But at this moment the full figure of Mr. Bumpkin again stood in the doorway.
“Joe!” he exclaimed angrily, “I want thee, come ere thirecly, I tell ee!”
“Yes, maister; I be comin.”
“You stoopid fool!” said Mr. Bumpkin in a whisper, as Joe went up to him, “thee be playin with thic feller.”
“Well, maister, if I be; what then?” Joe said this somewhat angrily, and Mr. Bumpkin replied:—
“He’ll ha thee, Joe—he’ll ha thee!”
“Nay, nay, maister; I be too old in the tooth for he; but it beant thy business, maister.”
“No,” said Bumpkin, as he turned away, “it beant.”
Then Joe resumed his play. Now it happened that as the Sergeant smacked his lips when he took his occasional sip of the fragrant grog, expressive of the highest relish, it awakened a great curiosity in Wurzel’s mind as to its particular flavour. The glass was never far from his nose and he had long enjoyed the extremely tempting odour. At last, as he was not invited to drink by Sergeant Goodtale, he could contain himself no longer, but made so bold as to say:—
“Pardner, med I jist taste this ere? I never did taste sich a thing.”
“Certainly, partner,” said the Sergeant, pushing the tumbler, which was about three-parts full. “What’s the game now?”
“Ten-one,” said Outofwork.
“One’s all, then,” said the Sergeant.
Joe took the tumbler, and after looking into it for a second or two as though he were mentally apostrophizing it, placed the glass to his lips.
“Don’t be afraid,” said the Sergeant.
No one seemed more courageous than Wurzel, in respect of the act with which he was engaged, and before he took the glass from his lips its contents had disappeared.
“I’m mighty glad thee spoke, Maister Sergeant, for ifthee hadn’t I should a drunk un all wirout thy leave. I never tasted sich tackle in my life; it’s enough to make a man gie up everything for sogering.”
“Domino!” said the Sergeant. “I think that’s the game!”
* * * * *
“My dear,” said my wife, “you have been talking again in your sleep.”
“Really,” said I, “I hope I have not compromised myself.”
“I do not understand you,” cried she.
“No more do I, for I am hardly awake.”
“You have been talking of Joe Wurzel again.”
“O, to be sure. What about him?”
“Then you mentioned Mr. Outofwork and Mr. Lazyman and Mr. Devilmecare, and another whose name I did not catch.”
“Ah,” I asked, “did they go for soldiers?”
“At present, no, except Harry, for whom I was heartily sorry, he seemed such a nice disappointed lad. But pray who is this Sergeant Goodtale?”
“He is on recruiting service, a very fine, persuasive fellow.”
“But he didn’t seem to press these people or use any arts to entice them: I like him for that. He rather seemed to me to discourage them from enlisting. He might have been sure poor Harry meant it, because, as I take it, he was half-starved, and yet he desired him to wait till the morning.”
“I think,” said I, “his conduct was artful if you examine it with reference to its effect on the others; but he is an extraordinary man, this Sergeant Goodtale—was never known to persuade any one to enlist, I believe.”
“But he seemed to get along very well.”
“Very; I thought he got along very comfortably.”
“Then there was one Lucy Prettyface!”
“Ah, I don’t remember her,” cried I, alarmed lest I might have said anything in my dream for which I was not responsible.
“Why she was the girl who sewed the colours on and somebody called ‘my dear.’”
“I assure you,” I said, “it was not I: it must have been the Sergeant; but I have no recollection—O yes, to be sure, she was the waitress.”
“You remember her now?”
“Well,” said I, determined not to yield if I could possibly help it, “I can’t say that I do. I know there was a person who sewed colours on and whom the Sergeant called ‘my dear,’ but further than that I should not like to pledge myself. Yes—yes—to be sure,” and here I went on talking, as it were, to myself, for I find it is much better to talk to yourself if you find it difficult to carry on a conversation with other persons.
“She was pretty, wasn’t she?” said my wife with an arch look.
I gave her a look just as arch, as I replied,
“Really I hardly looked at her; but I should saynot.” I make a point of never saying any one is pretty.
“Joe thought her so.”
“Did he? Well she may have been, but I never went in for Beauty myself.”
“You shocking man,” said my wife, “do you perceive what you are saying?”
“Why, of course; but you take me up so sharply: if you had not cut me off in the flower of my speech you would have been gratified at the finish of my sentence.I was going to say, I never went in for Beauty, but once. That, I think, gives the sentence a pretty turn.”
“Well, now, I think these dreams and this talking in your sleep indicate that you require a change; what do you say to Bournemouth?”
“You think I shall sleep better there?”
“I think it will do you good.”
“Then we’ll go to Bournemouth,” cried I, “for I understand it’s a very dreamy place.”
“But I should like to know what becomes of this action of Mr. Bumpkin, and how all his people get on? You may depend upon it that Sergeant will enlist those other men.”
“I do not know,” I remarked, “what is in the future.”
“But surely you know what you intend. You can make your characters do anything.”
“Indeed not,” I said. “They will have their own way whether I write their history or any one else.”
“That Sergeant Goodtale will have every one of them, my dear; you mark my words. He’s the most artful man I ever heard of.”
Of course I could offer no contradiction to this statement as I was not in the secrets of the future. How the matter will work out depends upon a variety of circumstances over which I have not the least control. For instance, if Bill were to take the shilling, I believe Dick would follow: and if the Sergeant were to sing a good song he might catch the rest. But who can tell?