Joe electrifies the company and surprises the reader.
“Suppose we have another song,” said Sergeant Goodtale.
“And spoase we has some moore o’ that there stuff,” answered Joe.
“Aye,” said Harry, “we will too. I’ll spend my shilling like a man.”
Saying which he rang the bell and ordered a glass for himself and one for Joe.
“Now, then,” said the latter, “I can’t sing, but I’ll gie thee summut as I larned.”
“Hooray!” said Harry, “summut as he larned!”
“Bravo!” said the Boardman, “summut as he larned?”
“Here’s at un,” said Joe.
And then with a mighty provincialism he repeated without a break:—
I bin to Church, I ha’, my boy,And now conwarted be;The last time I wur ever thereWar eighteen farty-three!
And ’ow I knows it is as this,I didn’t goo to pray,Nor ’ear the Word, but went becorseIt wur my weddin day!
Zounds! wot a blessed sarmon twurI ’eeard the Sabbath morn;’Ow I a woful sinner wurOr ever I wur born.
You sees them wilful igorant pigsIn mud a wollorin;Well, like them pigs, but ten times wus,We wollers in our sin.
We’re coated o’er wi’ sinful mud,—A dreadful sight we be;And yet we doant despise ourselves—For why?—We doant zee!
I thinks I had yer there, my boy,For all your sniggerin’ jeers;Thee’re in t’ mud, I tell ’ee, lad,Rightoover ’ed an’ ears.
Zounds! what a orful thing it beThat love should blind us so!Why, them there bloomin rosy cheeksBe ony masks o’ woe!
The reddest on ’em thee could kissAint ’ardly wuth the pains;At best it’s but the husk o’ bliss,It’s nuther wuts nor banes.
There aint a pleasure you can name,From coourtin down to skittles,But wot there’s mischief in the same,Like pisen in your wittles.
The Reverend Brimstone says, “Beloved,Be allays meek an umble;A saint should never ax for moor,An never larn to grumble.”
We ain’t to tork o’ polleticksAn’ things as don’t consarn us,And wot we wornts to know o’ lorThe madgistret will larn us.
We ain’t to drink wi’ Methodists,No, not a friendly soop;We ain’t to tork o’ genteel folksOnless to praise un oop.
We ain’t to ’ear a blessed wordAgin our betters said;We’re got to lay the butter thickBecorse they’re sich ’igh bred!
We got to say “Ha! look at he!A gemman tooth and nail!”You morn’t say, “What a harse he’d beIf he’d a got a tail!”
For why? becorse these monied gentsHa’ got sich birth an’ breedin’;An’ down we got to ’old our ’eads,Like cattle, when they’re feedin’.
The parson put it kindly like—He sed, says he, as ’owWe’re bean’t so good as them there grubsWe turns up wi’ the plow.
There’s nowt more wretcheder an we,Or worthier an the rich,I praises ’em for bein’ born,An’ ’eaven for makin’ sich.
So wile we be, I daily staresThat earthquakes doan’t fall,An’ swaller up this unconwincedOwdashus earthly ball!
An’ wen I thinks of all our sins—Lay down, says I, my boys,We’re fittin’ only for manoor,So don’t let’s make a noise.
Let’s spred us out upon the groundAn’ make the turmuts grow,It’s all we’re good for in this worldO’ wickedness an’ woe!
And yet we’re ’llow’d to brethe the airThe same as gents from town;And ’llow’d to black their ’appy boots,And rub their ’orses down!
To think o’ blessins sich as these,Is like ongrateful lust;It stuffs us oop wi’ worldly pride,As if our ’arts would bust!
But no, we’re ’umble got to be,Though privileged so ’igh:Why doan’t we feed on grass or grains,Or leastways ’umbly die!
We got to keep our wicked tongueFrom disrespeckful speakin’,We han’t a got to eat too much,Nor yet goo pleasure seekin’.
Nor kitch a rabbit or a aire,Nor call the Bobby names,Nor stand about, but goo to church,And play no idle games:
To love paroshial orficers,The squire, and all that’s his,And never goo wi’ idle chapsAs wants their wages riz.
So now conwarted I ha’ binFrom igorance and wice;It’s only ’appiness that’s sin,And norty things that’s nice!
Whereas I called them upstart gentsThe wust o’ low bred snobs,Wi’ contrite ’art I hollers out“My heye, wot bloomin’ nobs!”
I sees the error o’ my ways,So, lads, this warnin’ take,The Poor Man’s path, the parson says,Winds round the Burnin’ Lake.
They’ve changed it since the days o’ yore,Them Gospel preachers, drat un;They used to preach it to the poor,An’ now they preach itatun.
Every one was amazed at the astonishing memory of this country lad: and the applause that greeted the reciter might well be calculated to awaken his latent vanity. It was like being called before the curtain after the first act by a young actor on his first appearance. And I believe every one understood the meaning of the verses, which seemed to imply that the hungry prodigal, famishing for food, was fed with husks instead of grain. Contentment with wretchedness is not good preaching, and this was one lesson of Dr. Brimstone’s sermon. As soon as Harry could make himself heard amidst the general hubbub, which usually follows a great performance, he said:—
“Now, look here, lads, it’s all very well to be converted with such preaching as that; but it’s my belie it’s more calculated to make hypocrites than Christians.”
“Hear! hear!” said Lazyman. “Thatisright.” Anything but conversion for Lazyman.
“Now,” continued Harry, “I’ve heard that kind of preaching a hundred times: it’s a regular old-fashioned country sermon; and, as for the poor being so near hell, I put it in these four lines.”
“Hear, hear!” cried the company; “order!”
And they prepared themselves for what was to come with as great eagerness as, I venture to say, wouldalways be shown to catch the text, if it came at the end, instead of the beginning, of a sermon.
“Shut up,” says Lazyman; “let’s ’ear this ’ere. I knows it’s summut good by the look an him.”
“Don’t make a row,” retorts the Boardman; “who can hear anything while you keeps on like that?”
And there they stood, actually suspending the operation of smoking as they waited the summing up of this remarkably orthodox “preaching of the word.” The sergeant only was a spectator of the scene, and much amused did he seem at the faces that prepared for a grin or a sneer as the forthcoming utterance should demand. Then said Harry solemnly and dramatically:—
“InWantfull many a vice is born,And Virtue in aDinner;A well-spread board makes many aSaint,AndHungermany a sinner.”
“InWantfull many a vice is born,And Virtue in aDinner;A well-spread board makes many aSaint,AndHungermany a sinner.”
From the explosion which followed this antidote to Mr. Brimstone’s sermon, I should judge that the more part of the company believed that Poverty was almost as ample a virtue as Charity itself. They shook their heads in token of assent; they thumped the table in recognition of the soundness of the teaching; and several uttered an exclamation not to be committed to paper, as an earnest of their admiration for the ability of Mr. Highlow, who, instead of being a private soldier, ought, in their judgment, to be Lord Mayor of London. After this recital every one said he thought Mr. Highlow might oblige them.
“Well, I’m no singer,” said Harry.
“Try, Harry!” exclaimed Lazyman: he was a rare one to advise other people to try.
“Trying to sing when you can’t,” answered Harry, “I should think is a rum sort of business; but I’ll tell you what I’ll do if you like. When I was down at Hearne Bay I heard an old fisherman tell a story which—”
“That’s it!” thumped out Joe, “a story. I likes a good story, specially if there be a goast in it.”
“I don’t know what there is in it,” said Harry, “I’ll leave you to make that out; but I tell you what I did when I heard it, I made a ballad of it, and so if you like I’ll try and recollect it.”
“Bravo!” they said, and Harry gave them the following
Far away on the pebbly beachThat echoes the sound of the surge;As if they were gifted with speech,The breakers will sing you a dirge.
The fishermen list to it oft,And love the sweet charm of its spell,For sometimes it wispers so soft,It seems but the voice of the shell.
It tells of a beautiful childThat used to come down there and play,And shout to the surges so wildThat burst on the brink of the bay.
She was but a child of the poor,Whose father had perished at sea;’Twas strange, that sweet psalm of the shore,Whatever the story might be!
Yes, strange, but so true in its toneThat no one could listen and doubt;The heart must be calm and aloneTo search its deep mystery out.
She came with a smaller than sheThat toddled along at her side;Now ran to and fled from the sea,Now paddled its feet in the tide.
Afar o’er the waters so wild,Grazed Effie with wondering eye;What mystery grew on the childIn all that bright circle of sky?
Her father—how sweet was the thought!Was linked with this childish delight;’Twas strange what a vision it brought—As though he still lingered in sight.
Was it Heaven so near, so remote,Across the blue line of the wave?’Twas thither he sailed in his boat,’Twas there he went down in his grave!
So the days and the hours flew along,Like swallows that skim o’er the flood;Like the sound of a beautiful song,That echoes and dies in the wood!
One day as they strayed on the strand,And played with the shingle and shell,A boat that just touched on the landWas playfully rocked by the swell.
O childhood, what joy in a ride!What eagerness beams in their eyes!What bliss as they climb o’er the sideAnd shout as they tumble and rise!
O sea, with thy pitiful dirge,Thou need’st to be mournful and moan!The wrath of thy terrible surgeOmnipotence curbs it alone!
The boat bore away from the shore,The laughter of childhood so glad!And the breakers bring back ever moreThe dirge with its echo so sad!
A widow sits mute on the beach,And ever the tides as they flow,As if they were gifted with speech,Repeat the sad tale of her woe!
“That’s werry good,” said the Boardman. “I’m afraid them there children was washed away—it’s a terrible dangerous coast that ere Ern Bay. I’ve ’eeard my father speak on it.”
“Them there werses is rippin’!” said Joe.
“Stunnin’!” exclaimed Bob.
And so they all agreed that it was a pretty song and “well put together.”
“Capital,” said the sergeant, “I never heard anything better, and as for Mr. Wurzel, a man with his memory ought to do something better than feed pigs.”
“Ay, aye,” said the company to a man.
“Why don’t you follow my example?” said Harry; “it’s the finest life in the world for a young fellow.”
“Well,” said the sergeant, “that all depends; its very good for some, for others not so good—although there are very few who are not pleased when they once join, especially in such a regiment as ours!”
“And would you mind telling me, sir,” asked Outofwork, “what sort of chaps it don’t suit?”
“Well, you see, chaps that have been brought up in the country and tied to their mothers’ apron strings all their life: they have such soft hearts, they are almost sure to cry—and a crying soldier is a poor affair. I wouldn’t enlist a chap of that sort, no, not if he gave me ten pounds. Now, for instance, if Mr. Wurzel was to ask my advice about being a soldier I should say ‘don’t!’”
“Why not, sir?” asked Joe; “how’s that there, then? D’ye think I be afeard?”
“I should say, go home first, my boy, and ask your mother!”
“I be d---d if I be sich a molly-coddle as that, nuther; and I’ll prove un, Mr. Sergeant; gie me thic bright shillin’ and I be your man.”
“No,” said the sergeant, “think it over, and come to me in a month’s time, if your mother will let you. I don’t want men that will let their masters buy them off the next day.”
“No; an lookee here, Maister Sergeant; I bean’t to be bought off like thic, nuther. If I goes, I goes for good an’ all.”
“Well, then,” said the sergeant, shaking him by the hand, and pressing into it the bright shilling, “if you insist on joining, you shall not say I prevented you: my business is not to prevent men from entering Her Majesty’s service.”
Then the ribbons were brought out, and Joe asked if the young woman might sew them on as she had done Harry’s; and when she came in, Joe looked at her, and tried to put on a military bearing, in imitation of his great prototype; and actually went so far as to address her as “My dear,” for which liberty he almost expected a slap in the face. But Lucy only smiled graciously, and said: “Bravo, Mr. Wurzel! Bravo, sir; I’ve seen many a man inlisted, and sewed the Queen’s colours on for him, but never for a smarter or a finer fellow, there!” and she skipped from the room.
“Well done!” said several voices. And the sergeant said:
“What do you think of that, Mr. Wurzel? I’ll back she’s never said that to a soldier before.”
Joe turned his hat about and drew the ribbons through his fingers, as pleased as a child with a new toy, and as proud as if he had helped to win a great battle.
Here I awoke.
The Sergeant makes a loyal speech and sings a song, both of which are well received by the company.
And when I got to Bournemouth I dreamed again; and a singular thing during this history was, that always in my dream I began where I had left off on the previous night. So I saw that there, in the room at “The Goose,” were Sergeant Goodtale, and Harry, and Joe, and the rest, just as I had left them when I last awoke. But methought there was an air of swagger on the part of the head witness which I had not observed previously. His hat was placed on one side, in imitation of the sergeant’s natty cap, and he seemed already to hold up his head in a highly military manner; and when he stooped down to get a light he tried to stoop in the same graceful and military style as the sergeant himself; and after blowing it out, threw down the spill in the most off-hand manner possible, as though he said, “That’s how we chaps do it in the Hussars!” Everyone noticed the difference in the manner and bearing of the young recruit. There was a certain swagger and boldness of demeanour that only comes after you have enlisted. Nor was this change confined to outward appearance alone. What now were pigs in the mind of Joe? Merely the producers of pork chops forbreakfast. What was Dobbin that slowly dragged the plough compared to the charger that Joe was destined to bestride? And what about Polly Sweetlove and her saucy looks? Perhaps she’d be rather sorry now that she did not receive with more favour his many attentions. Such were the thoughts that passed through the lad’s mind as he gradually awakened to a sense of his new position. One thought, however, strange to say, did not occur to him, and that was as to what his poor old mother would think. Dutiful son as Joe had always been, (though wild in some respects), he had not given her a single thought. But his reflections, no doubt, were transient and confused amid the companions by whom he was surrounded.
“You’ll make a fine soldier,” said the Boardman, as he saw him swagger across to his seat.
“Yes,” said the sergeant, “any man that has got it in him, and is steady, and doesn’t eat too much and drink too much, may get on in the army. It isn’t like it used to be.”
“I believe that,” said Bob Lazyman.
“The only thing,” continued the sergeant, “is, there is really so little to do—there’s not work enough.”
“That ud suit me,” said Bob.
“Ah! but stop,” added the sergeant, “the temptations are great—what with the girls—.”
“Hooray!” exclaimed Dick; “that beats all—I likes them better than mutton chops.”
“Yes,” replied the sergeant; “they are all very well in their way; but you know, if a man wants to rise in the army, he must be steady.”
“Steady, boys! stea—dy!” shouted Dick
I don’t know how far the sergeant was justified,morally, in thus holding out the prospect of riotous living to these hungry men, but I think, all things considered, it was an improvement on the old system of the pressgang, which forced men into the navy. These lads were not bound to believe the recruiting sergeant, and were not obliged to enter into a contract with Her Majesty. At the same time, the alluring prospects were such that if they had been represented as facts in the commercial transactions of life, such is the purity of the law that they would have given rise to much pleading, multifarious points reserved, innumerable summonses at Chambers, and, at least, one new trial.
“Now,” said Jack Outofwork, “I tell yer what it is—I don’t take no Queen’s shilling, for why? it ain’t the Queen’s—it belongs to the people—I’m for a republic.”
‘“Well,” said the sergeant, “I always like to meet a chap that calls himself a republican, and I’ll tell you why. This country is a republic, say what you like, and is presided over by our gracious Queen. And I should like to ask any man in this country—now, just listen, lads, for this is the real question, whether—”
“Now, order,” said Lazyman, “I never ’eerd nothing put better.”
“Let’s have order, gentlemen,” said Harry; “chair! chair!”
“All ’tention, sergeant,” said Dick.
“I say,” continued the sergeant; “let us suppose we got a republic to-morrow; well, we should want a head, or as they say, a president.”
“That’s good,” said half-a-dozen voices.
“Well, what then?” said the sergeant; “Who would you choose? Why, the Queen, to be sure.”
Everybody said “The Queen!” And there was such a thumping on the table that all further discourse was prevented for several minutes. At last everyone said it was good, and the sergeant had put it straight.
“Well, look’ee ’ere, lads—I was born among the poor and I don’t owe nothing to the upper classes, not even a grudge!”
“Hear! hear! Bravo, Mr. Sergeant!” cried all.
“Well, then; I’ve got on so far as well as I can, and I’m satisfied; but I’ll tell you what I believe our Queen to be—a thorough woman, and loves her people, especially the poor, so much that d---d if I wouldn’t die for her any day—now what d’ye think o’ that?”
Everybody thought he was a capital fellow.
“Look, here,” he continued, “it isn’t because she wears a gold crown, or anything of that sort, nor because a word of her’s could make me a field marshal, or a duke, or anything o’ that sort, nor because she’s rich, but I’ll tell you why it is—and it’s this—when we’re fighting we don’t fight for her except as the Queen, and the Queen means the country.”
“Hear! hear! hear! hear!”
“Well, we fight for the country—but she loves the soldiers as though they were not the country’s but her own flesh and blood, and comes to see ’em in the hospital like a mother, and talks to ’em the same as I do to you, and comforts ’em, and prays for ’em, and acts like the real mother of her people—that’s why I’d die for her, and not because she’s the Queen of England only.”
“Bravo!” said Joe. “Hope I shall soon see her in th’ ’orsepittal. It be out ’ere: beant it St. Thomas’s.”
“I hope you won’t, my brave lad,” said the sergeant; “but don’t tell me about republicanism when we’ve got such a good Queen; it’s a shame and a disgrace to mention it.”
“So it be,” said Joe; “I’m darned if I wouldn’t knock a feller into the middle o’ next week as talked like thic. Hooroar for the Queen!”
“And now I’m going to say another thing,” continued the sergeant, who really waxed warm with his subject, and struck admiration into his audience by his manner of delivery: may I say that to my mind he was even eloquent, and ought to have been a sergeant-at-law, only that the country would have been the loser by it: and the country, to my mind, has the first right to the services of every citizen. “Just look,” said the sergeant, “at the kindness of that—what shall I call her? blessed!—yes, blessed Princess of Wales! Was there ever such a woman? Talk about Jael in the Bible being blessed above women—why I don’t set no value upon her; she put a spike through a feller it’s true, but it was precious cowardly; but the Princess, she goes here and goes there visiting the sick and poor and homeless, not like a princess, but like a real woman, and that’s why the people love her. No man despises a toady more than I do—I’d give him up to the tender mercies of that wife of Heber the Keenite any day; but if the Princess was to say to me, ‘Look ’ere, Sergeant, I feel a little low, and should like some nice little excitement just to keep up my spirits and cheer me up a bit’” (several of them thought this style of conversation was a familiar habit with the Princess and Sergeant Goodtale, and that hemust be immensely popular with the Royal Family), “well, if she was to say, ‘Look here, Sergeant Goodtale, here’s a precipice, it ud do me good to see you leap off that,’ I should just take off my coat and tuck up my shirt sleeves, and away I should go.”
At such unheard of heroism and loyalty there was a general exclamation of enthusiasm, and no one in that company could tell whom he at that moment most admired, the Princess or the Sergeant.
“That’s a stunner!” said Joe.
“Princess by name and Princess by nature,” replied the sergeant; “and now look’ee here, in proof of what I say, I’m going to give you a toast.”
“Hear, hear,” said everybody.
“But stop a minute,” said the sergeant, “I’m not a man of words without deeds. Have we got anything to drink to the toast?”
All looked in their respective cups and every one said, “No, not a drop!”
Then said the sergeant “We’ll have one all rounded for the last. You’ll find me as good as my word. What’s it to be before we part?”
“Can’t beat this ’ere,” said Joe, looking into the sergeant’s empty glass.
“So say all of us,” exclaimed Harry.
“That’s it,” said all.
“And a song from the sergeant,” added Devilmecare.
“Ay, lads, I’ll give you a song.”
Then came in the pretty maid whom Joe leered at, and the sergeant winked at; and then came in tumblers of the military beverage, and then the sergeant said:
“In all companies this is drunk upstanding, and withhats off, except soldiers, whose privilege it is to keep them on. You need not take yours off, Mr. Wurzel; you are one of Her Majesty’s Hussars. Now then all say after me: ‘Our gracious Queen; long may she live and blessed be her reign—the mother and friend of her people!’”
The enthusiasm was loud and general, and the toast was drunk with as hearty a relish as ever it was at Lord Mayor’s Banquet.
“And now,” said the sergeant, “once more before we part—”
“Ah! but the song?” said the Boardman.
“Oh yes, I keep my word. A man, unless he’s a man of his word, ought never to wear Her Majesty’s uniform!” And then he said:
“The Prince and Princess of Wales and the rest of the Royal Family.”
This also was responded to in the same unequivocal manner; and then amid calls of “the sergeant,” that officer, after getting his voice in tune, sang the following song:
There’s not a grief the heart can bearBut love can soothe its pain;There’s not a sorrow or a careIt smiles upon in vain.AndShesends forth its brightest raysWhere darkest woes depress,Where long wept Suffering silent prays—God save our dear Princess!
chorus.
She soothes the breaking heart,She comforts in distress;She acts true woman’s noblest part.God save our dear PrincessShe bringeth hope to weary livesSo worn by hopeless toil;E’en Sorrow’s drooping form revivesBeneath her loving smile.Where helpless Age reluctant seeksIts refuge from distress,E’en thereHername the prayer bespeaksGod save our dear Princess!
It’s not in rank or princely showTrueManhood’sheart to win;’Tis Love’s sweet sympathetic glowThat makes all hearts akin.Though frequent storms the State must stirWhile Freedom we possess,Our hearts may all beat true to Her,Our own beloved Princess.
The violet gives its sweet perfumeUnconscious of its worth;So Love unfolds her sacred bloomAnd hallows sinful earth;May God her gentle life prolongAnd all her pathway bless;Be this the nation’s fervent song—God save our dear Princess!
Although the language of a song may not always be intelligible to the unlettered hearer, the spirit and sentiment are; especially when it appeals to the emotions through the charms of music. The sergeant had a musical voice capable of deep pathos; and as the note of a bird or the cry of an animal in distress is always distinguishable from every other sound, so the pathos of poetry finds its way where its words are not always accurately understood. It was very observable, and much I thought to the sergeant’s great power as a singer, that the first chorus was sung with a tone which seemed to imply that the audience was feeling its way:the second was given with more enthusiasm and vehemence: the third was thumped upon the table as though a drum were required to give full effect to the feelings of the company; while the fourth was shouted with such heartiness that mere singing seemed useless, and it developed into loud hurrahs, repeated again and again; and emphasized by the twirling of hats, the clapping of hands, and stamping of feet.
“What d’ye think o’ that?” says the Boardman.
“I’m on,” said Lazyman; “give me the shilling, sergeant, if you please?”
“So’m I,” said Saunter.
“Hooroar!” shouted the stentorian voice that had erstwhile charmed the audience with Brimstone’s sermon.
“Bravo!” said Harry.
“Look’ee here,” said Jack Outofwork, “we’ve had a werry pleasant evenin’ together, and I ain’t goin’ to part like this ’ere; no more walkin’ about looking arter jobs for me, I’m your man, sergeant.”
“Well,” said the sergeant, eyeing his company, “I didn’t expect this; a pluckier lot o’ chaps I never see; and I’m sure when the Queen sees you it’ll be the proudest moment of her life. Why, how tall do you stand, Mr. Lazyman?”
“Six foot one,” said he.
“Ha,” said the Sergeant, “I thought so. And you, Mr. Outofwork?”
“I don’t rightly know,” said Jack.
“Well,” said the sergeant, “just stand up by the side of me—ha, that will do,” he added, pretending to take an accurate survey, “I think I can squeeze you in—it will be a tight fit though.”
“I hope you can, Mr. Sergeant,” said he.
“Look ’ere,” laughed Joe; “We’ll kitch ’old of his legs and give him a stretch, won’t us, Sergeant?”
And so the bright shillings were given, and the pretty maid’s services were again called in; and she said “she never see sich a lot o’ plucky fellows in her born days;” and all were about to depart when, as the sergeant was shaking hands with Dick Devilmecare in the most pathetic and friendly manner, as though he were parting from a brother whom he had not met for years, Devilmecare’s eyes filled with tears, and he exclaimed,
“Danged if I’ll be left out of it, sergeant; give me the shillin’?”
At this moment the portly figure of Mr. Bumpkin again appeared in the doorway!
The famous Don O’Rapley and Mr. Bumpkin spend a social evening at the “Goose.”
When Mr. Bumpkin, on this memorable evening, went into Mrs. Oldtimes’ parlour to console himself after the fatigues and troubles of the day there were a cheerful fire and a comfortable meal prepared for him. Mr. O’Rapley had promised to spend the evening with him, so that they might talk over the business of the day and the prospects of the coming trial. It was a very singular coincidence, and one that tended to cement the friendship of these two gentlemen, that their tastes both inclined to gin-and-water. And this very house, as appeared from a notice on the outside, was the “noted house for Foolman’s celebrated gin.”
But as yet Mr. O’Rapley had not arrived; so after his meal Mr. Bumpkin looked into the other room to see how Joe was getting on, for he was extremely anxious to keep his “head witness” straight. “Joe was his mainstay.”
I have already related what took place, and the song that Bumpkin sang. The statement of the head witness that he was all right, and that he was up to Mr. Sergeant, to a great extent reassured Mr. Bumpkin: although he felt, keen man that he was, that that soldier was there for the purpose of “ketchin whatyoung men he could to make sogers on ’em; he had ’eerd o’ sich things afore:” such were his thoughts as Mr. O’Rapley entered the apartment.
“Dear me, Mr. Bumpkin,” said that official, “how very cold it is! how are you, Mrs. Oldtimes? I haven’t seen you for an age.”
The Don always made that observation when strangers were present.
“Hope you’re quite well, sir,” said the landlady, with much humility.
“What’ll thee please to take, sir?” asked Bumpkin.
“Well, now, I daresay you’ll think me remarkable strange, Mr. Bumpkin, but I’m going to say something which I very very seldom indulge in, but it’s good, I believe, for indigestion. I will take a little—just a very small quantity—of gin, with some hot water, and a large lump of sugar, to destroy the alcohol.”
“Ha!” said the knowing Bumpkin; “that’s wot we call gin-and-water in our part of the country. So’ll I, Mrs. Oldtimes, but not too much hot water for I. What’ll thee smoke, sir?”
“Thank you, one of those cheroots that my lord praised so much the last time we was ’ere.”
“If you please, sir,” said the landlady, with a very good-natured smile.
“Well,” said the O’Rapley, in his patronizing manner; “and how have we got on to-day? let us hear all about it. Come, your good health, Mr. Bumkin, and success to our lawsuit. I call itoursnow, for I really feel as interested in it as you do yourself; by-the-bye, what’s it all about, Mr. Bumpkin?”
“Well, sir, you see,” replied the astute man, “I hardly knows; it beginnd about a pig, but what it’sabout now, be more un I can tell thee. I think it be salt and trespass.”
“You have not enquired?”
“No, I beant; I left un all in the hands o’ my lawyer, and I believe he’s a goodun, bean’t he?”
“Let me see; O dear, yes, a capital man—a very good man indeed, a close shaver.”
“Is ur? and that’s what I want. I wants thic feller shaved as close to his chin as may be.”
“Ah!” said O’Rapley, “and Prigg will shave him, and no mistake. Well, and how did we get on at the Mansion House? First of all, who was against you?—Mrs. Oldtimes, IthinkI’ll just take a very small quantity more, it has quite removed my indigestion—who was against you, sir?”
“Mr. Nimble; but, lor, he worn’t nowhere; I had un to rights,—jest gi’e me a leetle more, missus,—he couldn’t axe I a question I couldn’t answer; and I believe he said as good, for I zeed un talking to the Lord Mayor; it worn’t no use to question I.”
“You didn’t say anything about me?”
“No,” answered Bumpkin, in a loud whisper; “I din’t; but I did say afore I could stop the word from comin’ out o’ my mouth as I had acompanion, but they didn’t ketch it, except that the gentleman under the lord mayor were gwine to ax about thee, and blowed if the counsellor didn’t stop un; so that be all right.”
“Capital!” exclaimed the great bowler, waving his arm as if in the act of delivery; then, in a whisper, “Did they ask about the woman?”
“Noa—they doan’t know nowt about thic—not a word; I was mighty plased at un, for although, as thee be aware, it be the biggest lie as ever wur heard, Iwouldn’t have my wife hear o’ sich to save my life. She be a good wife to I an’ allays have a bin; but there I thee could clear me in a minute, if need be, sir.”
“Yes, but you see,” said the artful Don, “if I was to appear, it would make a sensational case of it in a minute and fill all the papers.”
“Would ur now? Morn’t do that nuther; but, wot d’ye think, sir? As I wur leavin’ the Cooart, a gemman comes up and he says, says he, ‘I spoase, sir, you don’t want this thing put in the papers?’ How the dooce he knowed that, I can’t make out, onless that I wouldn’t say where I lived, for the sake o’ Nancy; no, nor thee couldn’t ha’ dragged un out o’ me wi’ horses.”
“Yes?” said the Don, interrogatively.
“‘Well,’ says I, ‘no, I don’t partickler want it in.’ I thought I’d say that, don’t thee zee (with a wink), ’cos he shouldn’t think I were eager like.”
“Exactly,”
“Well, this ’ere gemman says, says he, ‘It don’t matter to me, sir, whether it’s in or not, but if thee don’t want it in, I’ll keep it out, that’s all. It will pay I better p’raps to put un in.’
“‘And who med thee be, sir?’ I axed.
“‘Only theTimes’, said the gemman, ‘that’s all.’ Then, turning to his friend, he said, ‘Come on, Jack, the gemman wants it in, so we’ll have it in, every word, and where he comes from too, and all about the gal; we know all about it, don’t us, Jack?’”
“Ha!” said the O’Rapley, blowing out a large cloud, and fixing his eye on the middle stump.
“Well,” continued Bumpkin, “thee could ha’ knocked I down wi’ a feather. How the doose they knowed where I comed from I can’t make out; but here wur Ias cloase to the man as writes theTimesas I be to thee.”
The O’Rapley nodded his head knowingly several times.
“‘Well, and how much do thee charge to keep un out?’ seys I. ‘Don’t be too hard upon me, I be only a poor man.’
“‘We have only one charge,’ says theTimes, ‘and that is half a guinea.’
“‘Spoase we say seven and six,’ sess I.
“‘That,’ seys theTimes, ‘wouldn’t keep your name out, and I suppose you don’t want that in?’ ‘Very well,’ I sess, takin’ out my leather bag and handin’ him the money; ‘this’ll keep un out, wool ur?’
“‘Sartainly,’ says he; and then his friend Jack says, ‘My fee be five shillings, sir.’ ‘And who be thee?’ says I. ‘I’m theTelegrarf,’ seys he. ‘The devil thee be?’ I sess, ‘I’ve eerd tell on ee.’ ‘Largest calculation in the world,’ he says; ‘and, if thee like,’ he says, ‘I can take theDaily NoosandStanardmoney, for I don’t see ’em here jist now; it’ll be five shillings apiece.’
“‘Well,’ I sess, ‘this be rum business, this; if I takes a quantity like this, can’t it be done a little cheaper?’
“‘No,’ he says; ‘we stands too high for anything o’ that sort. Thee can ’ave it or leave it.’
“‘Very well,’ I sess; ‘then, if there’s no option, there’s the money.’ And with that I handed un the fifteen shillings.
“‘Then,’ says theTimes, ‘we’d better look sharp, Jack, or else we shan’t be in time to keep it out.’ And wi’ that they hurried off as fast as they could. I will say’t they didn’t let the grass grow under their feet.”
“And why,” enquired the Don, with an amused smile, “were you so anxious to keep it out of theTimes? Mrs. Bumpkin doesn’t read theTimes, does she?”
“Why, no; but then the Squoire tak it in, and when eve done wi un he lends un to the Doctor, Mr. Gossip; and when he gets hold o’ anything, away it goes to the Parish Clerk, Mr. Jeerum, and then thee med as well hire the town crier at once.”
“I see; but if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Bumpkin, I will give you a bit of information that may be of service.”
“Thankee, sir; will thee jist tak a little more to wet the tother eye like.”
“Well, really,” replied O’Rapley, “it is long past my hour of nocturnal repose.”
“What, sir? I doant ondustand.”
“I mean to say that I generally hook it off to bed before this.”
“Zackly; but we’ll ’ave another. Your leave, sir, thee was going to tell I zummat.”
“O yes,” said Mr. O’Rapley, with a wave of the hand in imitation of the Lord Chief Justice. “I was going to say that those two men were a couple of rogues.”
Mr. Bumpkin paused in the act of passing the tumbler to his lips, like one who feels he has been artfully taken in.
“You’ve been done, sir!” said Mr. O’Rapley emphatically, “that man who said he was theTimeswas no more theTimesthan you’rePunch.”
“Nor thicTelegrarffeller!”
“No. And you could prosecute them. And I’ll tell you what you could prosecute them for.” Mr. Bumpkin looked almost stupified.
“I’ll tell you what these villains have been guilty of; they’ve been guilty of obtaining money by false pretences, and conspiring to obtain money by false pretences.”
“Have um?” said Bumpkin.
“And you can prosecute them. You’ve only got to go and put the matter in the hands of the police, and then go to some first-rate solicitor who attends police courts; now I can recommend you one that will do you justice. I should like to see these rascals well punished.”
“And will this fust-rate attorney do un for nothin’?”
“Why, hardly; any more than you would sell him a pig for nothing.”
“Then I shan’t prosekit,” said Mr. Bumpkin; “the devil’s in’t, I be no sooner out o’ one thing than I be into another—why I beant out o’ thic watch job yet, for I got to ’pear at the Old Bailey on the twenty-fourth.”
“O, committed for trial, was he?” exclaimed the Don.
“Sure wur ur,” said Mr. Bumpkin triumphantly—“guilty!”
Now I perceived that the wily Mr. O’Rapley did not recommend Bumpkin to obtain the services of a solicitor to conduct his prosecution in this case; and I apprehend for this reason, that the said solicitor being conscientious, would unquestionably recommend and insist that Mr. Bumpkin’s evidence at the Old Bailey should be supported by that of the Don himself. So Mr. Bumpkin was left to the tender mercies of the Public Prosecutor or a criminal tout, or the most inexperienced of “soup” instructed counsel, as the case might be, but of which matters at present I have no knowledge as I have no dreams of the future.
Then Mr. Bumpkin said, “By thy leave, worthy Mr. O’Rapley, I will just see what my head witness be about: he be a sharp lad enow, but wants a dale o’ lookin arter.”
Don O’Rapley expresses his views of the policy of the legislature in not permitting dominoes to be played in public houses.
When Mr. Bumpkin returned to the cosy parlour, his face was red and his teeth were set. He was so much agitated indeed, that instead of addressing Mr. O’Rapley, he spoke to Mrs. Oldtimes, as though in her female tenderness he might find a more sincere and sympathetic adviser.
Mr. Bumpkin was never what you would call an eloquent or fluent speaker: his Somersetshire brogue was at times difficult of comprehension. He certainly was not fluent when he said to Mrs. Oldtimes: “Why thic—there—damn un Mrs. Oldtimes if he beant gwine and never zeed zich a thing in my bornd days—”
“Why what ever in the name of goodness gracious is the matter?” asked the landlady.
“Why thic there head witness o’ mine: a silly-brained—Gor forgive me that iver I should spake so o’ un, for he wor allays a good chap; and I do b’leeve he’ve got moore sense than do any thing o’ that kind.”
“What’s the matter? what’s the matter?” again enquired Mrs. Oldtimes.
“Why he be playin’ dominoes wi thic Sergeant.”
“O,” said the landlady, “I was afraid something hadhappened. We’re not allowed to know anything about dominoes or card-playing in our house—the Law forbids our knowing it, Mr. Bumpkin; so, if you please, we will not talk about it—I wish to conduct my house as it always has been for the last five-and-twenty years, in peace and quietness and respectability, Mr. Bumpkin, which nobody can never say to the contrairy. It was only the last licensing day Mr. Twiddletwaddle, the chairman of the Bench, said as it were the best conducted house in Westminster.”
Now whether it was that the report of this domino playing was made in the presence of so high a dignitary of the law as Mr. O’Rapley, or from any other cause, I cannot say, but Mrs. Oldtimes was really indignant, and positively refused to accept any statement which involved the character of her establishment.
“I think,” she continued, addressing Mr. O’Rapley, “you have known this house for some time, sir.”
“I have,” said O’Rapley. “I have passed it every evening for the last ten years.”
“Ah now, to be sure—you hear that, Mr. Bumpkin. What do you think of that?”
“Never saw anything wrong, I will say that.”
“Never a game in my house, if I knows it; and what’s more, I won’t believe it until I sees it.”
“Ockelar demonstration, that’s the law,” said the Don.
Mr. Bumpkin’s excitement was absolutely merged in that of the landlady, whom he had so innocently provoked. He stared as the parties continued their wordy justification of this well-ruled household like one dreaming with his eyes open. No woman could have made more ado about her own character than Mrs. Oldtimes did respecting that of her house. But then,the one could be estimated in money, while the other possessed but an abstract value.
“I believe,” she repeated, “that cards or dominoes has never been played in my house since here I’ve been, or since the law has been what it is.”
“I be wery sorry,” said the penitent Bumpkin; “I warn’t aweare I wur doing anythin’ wrong.”
“It’s unlawful, you see, to play,” said the Don; “and consequently they dursn’t play. Now, why is it unlawful? Because Public Houses is for drinking, not for amusement. Now, sir, Drink is the largest tax-payer we’ve got—therefore Drink’s an important Industry. Set people to work drinking and you get a good Rewenue, which keeps up the Army and Navy—the Navy swims in liquor, sir—but let these here Perducers of the Rewenue pause for the sake o’ playing dominoes, or what not, and what’s the consequence? You check this important industry—therefore don’t by any manner of means interrupt drinking. It’s an agreeable ockepation and a paying one.”
“Well done, sir,” said Oldtimes, from the corner of the fireplace, where he was doing his best with only one mouth and one constitution to keep up the Army and Navy. A patriotic man was Oldtimes.
“Drink,” continued O’Rapley, “is the most powerful horgsilery the Government has.”
“Ah!” said Mr. Bumpkin, not knowing what a horgsilery was; “now thee’ve gone a-head o’ me, sir. Thee’re a larned man, Mr. O’Rapley, and I beant much of a schollard; will thee please to tell I what a horgs—what wur it?”
“Horgsilery,” said Mr. O’Rapley.
“Horsgilly—ah! so twur. Well, by thy leave,worthy sir, will thee be so kind as to tell I be it anything like a hogshead?”
“Well,” said Mr. O’Rapley, “its more like a corkscrew: the taxes of the country would be bottled up as tight as champagne and you couldn’t get ’em out without this corkscrew.”
“But I worn’t spakin’ about taxes when I spak of dominoes; what I wur alludin’ to wur thic Joe been drawed in to goo for a soger.”
“Lor, bless you,” said Mrs. Oldtimes, “many a man as good as Joe have listed before now and will again.”
“Mayhap,” said Bumpkin; “but he wurn’t my ’ead witness and didn’t work for I. Joe be my right hand man, although I keeps un down and tells un he beant fit for nothin’.”
“Ha,” said the Don, “he’s not likely to go for a soldier, I think, if it’s that good-looking young chap I saw with the kicking-straps on.”
“Kickin’-straps,” said Bumpkin; “haw! haw! haw! That be a good un. Well he told I he wur up to un and I think ur be: he’ll be a clever feller if ur gets our Joe. Why Nancy ud goo amost out o’ her mind. And now, sir, will thee ’ave any moore?”
Mr. O’Rapley, in the most decisive but polite manner, refused. He had quite gone out of his way as it was in the hope of serving Mr. Bumpkin. He was sure that the thief would be convicted, and as he rose to depart seized his friend’s hand in the most affectionate manner. Anything he could do for him he was sure he would do cheerfully, at any amount of self-sacrifice—he would get up in the night to serve him.
“Thankee,” said Bumpkin; but he had hardly spoken when he was startled by the most uproarious cheers fromthe taproom. And then he began again about the folly of young men getting into the company of recruiting sergeants.
“Look here,” said the Don, confidentially, “take my advice—say nothing—a still tongue makes a wise head; to persuade a man not to enter the army is tantamount to advising him to desert. If you don’t mind, you may lay yourself open to a prosecution.”
“Zounds!” exclaimed Mr. Bumpkin, “it seem to me a man in Lunnon be every minit liable to a prosecution for zummat. I hope sayin’ that beant contempt o’ Coourt, sir.”
Mr. O’Rapley was silent—his head drooped towards Mr. Bumpkin in a semi-conscious manner, and he nodded three consecutive times: called for another “seroot,” lit it after many efforts, and again assuring Mr. Bumpkin that he would do all he could towards facilitating his triumph over Snooks, was about to depart, when his friend asked him, confidentially, whether he had not better be at the Old Bailey when the trial came on, in case of its being necessary to call him.
“Shurel not!” hiccupped the Don. Then he pointed his finger, and leering at Bumpkin, repeated, “Shurel not;—jus swell cll Ch. Jussiself”—which being interpreted meant, “Certainly not, you might just as well call the Chief Justice himself.”
“Pr’aps he’ll try un?” said Bumpkin.
“Noer won’t—noer won’t: Chansy Juge mos likel Massr Rolls.”
In spite of all warnings, Joe takes his own part, not to be persuaded on one side or the other—affecting scene between Mr. Bumpkin and his old servant.
“Whatever can that there shoutin’ be for, Mrs. Oldtimes—they be terrible noisy.”
“O,” said the landlady, “somebody else has listed.”
“I hope it beant that silly Joe. I warned un two or three times agin thic feller.”
“There have been several to-night,” said the landlady, who had scarcely yet recovered from the insinuations against the character of her house.
“How does thee know thic, my dear lady?”
“O, because Miss Prettyface have been in and out sewin’ the colours on all the evening, that’s all. Sergeant Goodtale be the best recrootin’ sergeant ever come into a town—he’d list his own father!”
“Would ur, now?” said Bumpkin. “Beant thee afeard o’ thy husband bein’ took?”
Mrs. Oldtimes shrieked with laughter, and said she wished he would list Tom, for he wasn’t any good except to sit in the chimney corner and smoke and drink from morning to night.
“And keep up th’ Army,” growled the husband
“Ha, keep up the Army, indeed,” said Mrs. Oldtimes; “you do your share in that way, I grant.”
Now it was quite manifest that that last cheer from the taproom was the herald of the company’s departure. There was a great scuffling and stamping of feet as of a general clearing out, and many “good nights.” Then the big manly voice of the Sergeant said: “Nine o’clock, lads; nine o’clock; don’t oversleep yourselves; we shall have chops at eight. What d’ye say to that, Mrs. Oldtimes?”
“As you please, Sergeant; but there’s a nice piece of ham, if any would like that.”
“Ha!” said the Sergeant; “now, how many would like ham?”
“I’se for a chop,” said Joe, working his mouth as if he would get it in training.
“Right,” said the Sergeant, “we’ll see about breakfast in the morning. But you know, Mrs. Oldtimes, we like to start with a good foundation.”
And with three cheers for the Sergeant the recruits left the house: all except Joe, who occupied his old room.
After they were gone, and while Mr. Bumpkin was confidentially conversing with the landlord in the chimney corner, he was suddenly aroused by the indomitable Joe bursting into the room and performing a kind of dance or jig, the streamers, meanwhile, in his hat, flowing and flaunting in the most audaciously military manner.
“Halloa! halloa! zounds! What be th’ meaning o’ all this? Why, Joe! Joe! thee’s never done it, lad! O dear! dear!”
There were the colours as plain as possible in Joe’shat, and there was a wild unmeaning look in his eyes. It seemed already as if the old intimacy between him and his master were at an end. His memory was more a thing of the future than the past: he recollected the mutton chops that were to come. And I verily believe it was brightened by the dawn of new hopes and aspirations. There was an awakening sense of individuality. Hitherto he had been the property of another: he had now exercised the right of ownership over himself; and although that act had transferred him to another master, it had seemed to give him temporary freedom, and to have conferred upon him a new existence.
Man is, I suppose, what his mind is, and Joe’s mind was as completely changed as if he had been born into a different sphere. The moth comes out of the grub, the gay Hussar out of the dull ploughman.
“Why, Joe, Joe,” said his old master. “Thee’s never gone an’ listed, has thee, Joe?”
“Lookee ’ere, maister,” said the recruit, taking off his hat and spreading out the colours—“Thee sees these here, maister?”
“Thee beant such a fool, Joe, I knows thee beant—thee’s been well brought oop—and I knows thee beant gwine to leave I and goo for a soger!”
“I be listed, maister.”
“Never!” exclaimed Mr. Bumpkin. “I wunt b’lieve it, Joe.”
“Then thee must do tother thing, maister. I tellee I be listed; now, what’s thee think o’ that?”
“That thee be a fool,” said Mr. Bumpkin, angrily; “thee be a silly-brained—.”
“Stop a bit, maister, no moore o’ that. I beant thysarvant now. I be a Queen’s man—I be in the Queen’s sarvice.”
“A pooty Queen’s man thee be, surely. Why look at thic hair all down over thy face, and thee be as red as a poppy.”
Now I perceived that although neither master nor man was in such a state as could be described as “intoxicated,” yet both were in that semi-beatific condition which may be called sentimental.
“Lookee ’ere, maister,” continued Joe.
“And lookee here,” said Mr. Bumpkin, “didn’t I come out to thee two or three times, and call thee out and tell ’ee to tak’ heed to thic soger feller, for he wur up to no good? Did I Joe, or did I not?”
“Thee did, maister.”
“Well, an’ now look where thee be; he’ve regler took thee in, thee silly fool.”
“No, he beant; for he wouldn’t ’ave I at fust, and told I to goo and ax my mither. No ses I, I’ll goo to the divil afore I be gwine to ax mither. I beant a child, I ses.”
“But thee’s fond o’ thy poor old mither, Joe; I knows thee be, and sends her a shillin’ a week out o’ thy wages; don’t thee, Joe?”
This was an awkward thrust, and pricked the lad in his most sensitive part. His under-lip drooped, his mouth twitched, and his eyes glistened. He was silent.
“Where’ll thy poor old mither get a shilling a week from noo, Joe? That’s what I wants to know.”
Joe drew his sleeve over his face, but bore up bravely withal.Hewasn’t going to cry, not he.
“Thee beest a silly feller to leave a good ooame and nine shillin’ a week to goo a sogerin; and when thee wasout o’ work, there were allays a place for thee, Joe, at the fireside: now, warnt there, Joe?”
“Lookee ’ere, maister, I be for betterin’ myself.”
“Betterin’ thyself? who put that into thy silly pate? thic sergeant, I bleeve.”
“So ur did; not by anything ur said, but to see un wi beef steaks and ingons for supper, while I doan’t ’ave a mouthful o’ mate once a week, and work like a oarse.”
“Poor silly feller—O dear, dear! whatever wool I tell Nancy and thy poor mither. What redgimen be thee in, Joe?”
“Hooroars!”
“Hooroars! hoo-devils!” and I perceived that Mr. Bumpkin’s eyes began to glisten as he more and more realized the fact that Joe was no more to him—“thee manest the oosors, thee silly feller; a pooty oosor thee’ll make!”
“I tellee what,” said Joe, whose pride was now touched, “Maister Sergeant said I wur the finest made chap he ever see.”
“That’s ow ur gulled thee, Joe.”
“Noa didn’t; I went o’ my own free will. No man should persuade I—trust Joe for thic: couldn’t persuade I to goo, nor yet not to goo.”
“That’s right,” chimed in Miss Prettyface, with her sweet little voice.
“And thee sewed the colours on; didn’t thee, Miss?”
“I did,” answered the young lady.
“Joe,” said Mr. Bumpkin, “I be mortal sorry for thee; what’ll I do wirout thy evidence? Lawyer Prigg say thee’s the most wallible witness for I.”
“Lookee ’ere, maister, ere we bin ’anging about for weeks and weeks and no forrerder so far as I can see.When thy case’ll come on I don’t bleeve no man can tell; but whensomdever thee wants Joe, all thee’ve got to do is to write to the Queen, and she’ll gie I leave.”
“O thee silly, igerant ass!” said Mr. Bumpkin; “I can’t help saying it, Joe—the Queen doan’t gie leave, it be the kernel. I know zummut o’ sogerin, thee see; I were in th’ militia farty year agoo: but spoase thee be away—abraird? How be I to get at thee then?”
“Ha! if I be away in furren parts, and thy case be in the list, I doant zee—”
“Thee silly feller, thee’ll ha to goo fightin’ may be.”
“Well,” said Joe, “I loikes fightin’.”
“Thee loikes fightin’! what’s thee know about fightin’? never fit anything in thy life but thic boar-pig, when he got I down in the yard. O, Joe, I can’t bear the thought o thee goin’.”
“Noa, but Maister Sergeant says thee jist snicks off the ’eads of the enemy like snickin’ off the tops o’ beans.”
“Yes, but ow if thee gets thine snicked off?”
“Well, if mine be snicked off, it wunt be no use to I, and I doan’t care who has un when I ha’ done wi un: anybody’s welcome as thinks he can do better with un than I, or ’as moore right to un.”
“Joe, Joe, whatever’ll them there pigs do wirout thee, and thic there bull ’ll goo out of his mind—he wur mighty fond o’ thee, Joe—thee couldst do anything wi un: couldn’t ur, Joe?”
“Ha!” said the recruit; “that there bull ud foller I about anywhere, and so ur would Missis.”
“Then there be Polly!”
“Ha, that there Polly, she cocked her noase at I, maister, becos she thought I worn’t good enough; butwait till she sees me in my cloase; she wunt cock her noase at I then, I’ll warrant.”
“Well, Joe, as thee maks thy bed so thee must lie on un, lad. I wish thee well, Joe.”
“Never wronged thee, did I, maister?”
“Never; no, never.” And at this point master and man shook hands affectionately.
“Gie my love to thic bull,” said Joe. “I shall come down as soon as evir I can: I wish they’d let me bring my oarse.”
“Joe, thee ha’ had too much to drink, I know thee has; and didn’t I warn thee, Joe? Thee can’t say I didn’t warn thee.”
“Thee did, maister, I’ll allays say it; thee warned I well—but lor that there stuff as the Sergeant had, it jist shoots through thee and livins thee oop for all the world as if thee got a young ooman in thee arms in a dancin’ booth at the fair.”
“Ha, Joe, it were drink done it.”
“Noa, noa, never!—good-night, maister, and God bless thee—thee been a good maister, and I been a good sarvant. I shall allays think o’ thee and Missis, too.”
Here I saw that Mr. Bumpkin, what with his feelings and what with his gin-and-water, was well nigh overcome with emotion. Nor was it to be wondered at; he was in London a stranger, waiting for a trial with a neighbour, with whom for years he had been on friendly terms; his hard savings were fast disappearing; his stock and furniture were mortgaged; some of it had been sold, and his principal witness and faithful servant was now gone for a soldier. In addition to all this, poor Mr. Bumpkin could not help recalling the happiness of his past life, his early struggles, his rigid self-denial, hispleasure as the modest savings accumulated—not so much occasioned by the sordid desire of wealth, as the nobler wish to be independent. Then there was Mrs. Bumpkin, who naturally crossed his mind at this miserable moment in his existence—at home by herself—faithful, hardworking woman, who believed not only in her husband’s wisdom, but in his luck. She had never liked this going to law, and would much rather have given Snooks the pig than it should have come about; yet she could not help believing that her husband must be right come what may. What would she think of Joe’s leaving them in this way? All this passed through the shallow mind of the farmer as he prepared for bed. And there was no getting away from his thoughts, try as he would. As he lay on his bed there passed before his mind the old farm-house, with its elm tree; and the barnyard, newly littered down with the sweet smelling fodder; the orchard blossoms smiling in the morning sunshine; the pigs routing through the straw; the excited ducks and the swifter fowls rushing towards Mrs. Bumpkin as she came out to shake the tablecloth; the sleek and shining cows; the meadows dotted all over with yellow buttercups; the stately bull feeding in the distance by himself; the lazy stream that pursued its even course without a quarrel or a lawsuit; all these, and a thousand other remembrances of home, passed before the excited and somewhat distempered vision of the farmer on this unhappy night. Had he been a criminal waiting his trial he could not have been more wretched. At length he endeavoured to console himself by thinking of Snooks: tried to believe that victory over that ill-disposed person would repay the trouble and anxiety it cost him to achieve. But no, not even revenge was sweet under hispresent circumstances. It is always an apple of ashes at the best; but, weighed now against the comforts and happiness of a peaceful life, it was worse than ashes—it was poison.