* * * * *
Here I awoke.
“Now,” said my wife, “is it not just as I told you? I knew that artful Sergeant would enlist poor stupid Joe?”
“O,” quoth I, “have I been talking again?”
“More than ever; and I am very sorry Joe has deserted his kind master. I am afraid now he will lose his case.”
“I am not concerned about that at present; my work is but to dream, not to prophesy events. I hope Mr. Bumpkin will win, but nothing is so uncertain as the Law.”
“And why should that be? Law should be as certain as the Multiplication Table.”
“Ah,” sighed I, “but—”
“A man who brings an action must be right or wrong,” interrupted my wife.
“Yes,” said I, “and sometimes he’s both; and one judge will take one view of his case—his conduct out of Court, and his demeanour in—while another judge will take another; why, I have known a man lose his case through having a wart upon his nose.”
“Gracious!” exclaimed my wife, “is it possible?”
“Yes,” quoth I; “and another through having a twitch in his eye. Then you may have a foolish jury, who take a prejudice against a man. For instance, if a lawyer brings an action, he can seldom get justice before a common jury; and so if he be sued. A blue ribbonman on the jury will be almost sure to carry his extreme virtue to the border of injustice against a publican. Masters decide against workmen, and so on.”
“Well, Mr. Bumpkin is not a lawyer, or a publican, or a blue ribbon man, so I hope he’ll win.”
“I don’t hope anything about it,” I replied. “I shall note down what takes place; I don’t care who wins.”
“When will his case at the Old Bailey come on? I think that’s the term you use.”
“It will be tried next week.”
“He is sure to punish that wicked thief who stole his watch.”
“One would think so: much will depend upon the way Mr. Bumpkin gives his evidence; much on the way in which the thief is defended; a good deal on the ability of the Counsel for the Prosecution; and very much on the class of man they get in the jury box.”
“But the case is so clear.”
“Yes, to us who know all about it; but you have to make it clear to the jury.”
“There’s the watch found upon the man. Why, dear me, what can be clearer or plainer than that?”
“True; that’s Mr. Bumpkin’s evidence.”
“And Mr. Bumpkin saw him take it.”
“That’s Bumpkin again.”
“Then Mr. O’Rapley was with him.”
“Did you not hear that he is not to be called; the Don doesn’t want to be seen in the affair.”
“Well, I feel certain he will win. I shall not believe in trial by jury if they let that man off.”
“You don’t know what a trial at the Old Bailey or Quarter Sessions is. I don’t mean at the Old Baileybefore a real Common Law judge, but a Chancery judge. I once heard a counsel, who was prosecuting a man for passing bad money, interrupt a recorder in his summing up, and ask him to tell the jury there was evidence of seven bad florins having been found in the prisoner’s boot. As guilty knowledge was the gist of the offence, this seemed somewhat important. The learned young judge, turning to the jury, said, in a hesitating manner, ‘Well, really, gentlemen, I don’t know whether that will affect your judgment in any way; there is the evidence, and you may consider it if you please.’”
“One more thing I should like to ask.”
“By all means.”
“Why can’t they get Mr. Bumpkin’s case tried?”
“Because there is no system. In the County Court, where a judge tries three times as many cases in a day as any Superior judge, cases are tried nearly always on the day they are set down for. At the Criminal Courts, where every case is at least as important as any Civil case, everyone gets tried without unnecessary delay. In the Common Law Courts it’s very much like hunt the slipper—you hardly ever know which Court the case is in for five minutes together. Then they sit one day and not another, to the incalculable expense of the suitors, who may come up from Devonshire to-night, and, after waiting a week, go back and return again to town at the end of the following month.”
“But, now that O’Rapley has taken the matter up, is there not some hope?”
“Well, he seems to have as much power as anyone.”
“Then I hope he’ll exert it; for it’s a shame that this poor man should be kept waiting about so long. Iquite feel for him: there really ought not to be so much delay in the administration of justice.”
“A dilatory administration of justice amounts too often to a denial of it altogether. It always increases the expense, and often results in absolute ruin.”
“I wonder men don’t appoint someone when they fell out to arbitrate between them.”
“They often do, and too frequently, after all the expense of getting ready for trial has been incurred, the case is at last sent to the still more costly tribunal called a reference. Many matters cannot be tried by a jury, but many can be that are not; one side clamouring for a reference in order to postpone the inevitable result; the other often obliged to submit and be defeated by mere lapse of time.”
“It seems an endless sort of business.”
“Not quite; the measure of it is too frequently the length of the purse on the one side or the other. A Railway Company, who has been cast in damages for £1,000, can soon wear out a poor plaintiff. One of the greatest evils of modern litigation is the frequency with which new trials are granted.”
“Lawyers,” said my wife, “are not apparently good men of business.”
“They are not organizers.”
“It wants such a man as General Wolseley.”
“Precisely.” And here I felt the usual drowsiness which the subject invariably produces. So I dreamed again.
Morning reflections—Mrs. Oldtimes proves herself to be a great philosopher—the departure of the recruits to be sworn in.
And as I dreamed, methought what a strange paradox is human nature. How often the night’s convivialities are followed by despondent morning reflections! In the evening we grow valiant over the inspiriting converse and the inspiring glass; in the morning we are tame and calculating. The artificial gaslight disappears, and the sober, grey morning breaks in upon our reason. If the sunshine only ripened one-half the good resolves and high purposes formed at night over the social glass, what a harvest of good deeds there would be! Yes, and if the evening dissipations did not obliterate the good resolves of the morning, which we so often form as a protection against sin and sorrow, what happy creatures we should be!
Methought I looked into a piece of three-cornered glass, which was resting on a ledge of the old wall in the room where Joe was sleeping, and that I read therein the innermost thoughts of this country lad. And I saw that he awoke to a very dreadful sense of the realities of his new position; that, one after another, visions of other days passed before his mind’s eye as he lay gazing at the dormer window of his narrow chamber. What aprofound stillness there was! How different from the roystering glee of the previous night! It was a stillness that seemed to whisper of home; of his poor old mother; of the green sward lane that led to the old farm; of the old oak tree, where the owls lived, and ghosts were said to take up their quarters; of the stile where, of a Sunday morning, he used to smoke his pipe with Jack, and Ned, and Charley; where he had often stood to see Polly go by to church; and he knew that, notwithstanding she would not so much as look at him, he loved her down to the very sole of her boot; and would stand and contemplate the print of her foot after she had passed; he didn’t know why, for there was nothing in it, after all. No, Joe, nothing in it—it was in you; that makes all the difference. And the voice whispered to him of sunny days in the bright fields, when he held the plough, and the sly old rook would come bobbing and pecking behind him; and the little field-mouse would flit away from its turned up nest, frightened to death, as if it were smitten with an earthquake; and the skylark would dart up over his head, letting fall a song upon him, as though it were Heaven’s blessing. Then the voice spoke of the noontide meal under the hedge in the warm sunshine, or in the shade of the cool spreading tree; of the horses feeding close up alongside the hedge; of the going home in the evening, and the warm fireside, and the rustic song, and of the thousand and one beloved associations that he was leaving and casting behind him for ever. But then, again, he thought of “bettering his condition,” of getting on in the world, of the smart figure he should look in the eyes of Polly, who would be sure now to like him betterthan she liked the baker. He never could see what there was in the baker that any girl should care for; and he thought of what the Sergeant had said about asking his mother’s leave. And then he pondered on the beef steaks and onions and mutton chops, and other glories of a soldier’s life; so he got up with a brave, resolute heart to face the world like a man, although it was plainly visible that sorrow struggled in his eyes.
There was just one tear for old times, the one tear that showed how very human Joe was beneath all the rough incrustations with which ignorance and poverty had enveloped him.
As he was sousing his head and neck in a pail of cold water in the little backyard of the Inn, the thought occurred to him,—
“I wonder whether or no we ’gins these ’ere mutton chops for brakfast to-day or arter we’re sweared in. I expects not till arter we’re sweared in.”
Then his head went into the pail with a dash, as if that was part of the swearing-in process. As it came out he was conscious of a twofold sensation, which it may not be out of place to describe: the sensation produced by the water, which was refreshing in the highest degree, and the sensation produced by what is called wind, which was also deliciously refreshing; and it was in this wise. Borne along upon the current of air which passed through the kitchen, there was the most odoriferous savour of fried bacon that the most luxurious appetite could enjoy. It was so beautifully and voluptuously fragrant that Joe actually stopped while in the act of soaping his face that he might enjoy it. No one, I think, will deny that it must have been anagreeable odour that kept a man waiting with his eyes fall of soap for half a minute.
“That beant amiss,” thought Joe; “I wonder whether it be for I.”
The problem was soon solved, for as he entered the kitchen with a face as bright and ruddy almost as the sun when he comes up through a mist, he saw the table was laid out for five, and all the other recruits had already assembled. There was not one who did not look well up to his resolution, and I must say a better looking lot of recruits were never seen: they were tall, well made, healthy, good-looking fellows.
Now Mrs. Oldtimes was busy at the kitchen fire; the frying-pan was doing its best to show what could be done for Her Majesty’s recruits. He was hissing bravely, and seemed every now and then to give a louder and heartier welcome to the company. As Joe came in I believe it fairly gave a shout of enthusiasm, a kind of hooray. In addition to the rashers that were frying, there was a large dish heaped up in front of the fire, so that it was quite clear there would be no lack, however hungry the company might be.
Then they sat down and every one was helped. Mrs. Oldtimes was a woman of the world; let me also state she had a deep insight into human nature. She knew the feelings of her guests at this supreme moment, and how cheaply they could be bought off at their present state of soldiering. She was also aware that courage, fortitude, firmness, and the higher qualities of the soul depend so much upon a contented stomach, that she gave every one of her guests some nice gravy from the pan.
It was a treat to see them eat. The Boardman wasterrific, so was Jack. Harry seemed to have a little more on his mind than the others, but this did not interfere with his appetite; it simply affected his manner of appeasing it. He seemed to be in love, for his manner was somewhat reserved. At length the Sergeant came in, looking so cheerful and radiant that one could hardly see him and not wish to be a soldier. Then his cheery “Well, lads; good morning, lads,” was so home-like that you almost fancied soldiering consisted in sitting by a blazing kitchen fire on a frosty morning and eating fried bacon. What a spirit his presence infused into the company! He detected at a glance the down-heartedness of Harry, and began a story about his own enlistment years ago, when the chances for a young man of education were nothing to what they are now. The story seemed exactly to fit the circumstances of the case and cheered Harry up wonderfully. Breakfast was nearly finished when the Sergeant, after filling his pipe, said:
“Comrades, what do you say; shall I wait till you’ve quite finished?”
“No, no, Sergeant; no, no,” said all.
Oh! the fragrance of that pipe! And the multiplied fragrance of all the pipes! Then came smiling Miss Prettyface to see if their ribbons were all right; and the longing look of all the recruits was quite an affecting sight; and the genial motherly good-natured best wishes of Mrs. Oldtimes were very welcome. All these things were pleasant, and proved Mrs. Oldtimes’ philosophy to be correct—if you want to develop the higher virtues in a man, feed him.
Then came the word of command in the tone of an invitation to a pleasure party: “Now, lads, what do yousay?” And off went Harry, upright as if he had been drilled; off went Bill, trying to shake off the deal boards in which he had been sandwiched for a year and a half; off went Bob as though he had found an agreeable occupation at last; off went Devilmecare as though the war was only just the other side of the road; off went Jack as though it mattered nothing to him whether it was the Army or the Church; and, just as Mr. Bumpkin looked out of the parlour window, off went his “head witness,” swaggering along in imitation of the Sergeant, with the colours streaming from his hat as though any honest employment was better than hanging about London for a case to “come on.”
A letter from home.
“I wonder,” said Mrs. Oldtimes, “who this letter be for; it have been ’ere now nigh upon a week, and I’m tired o’ seein’ it.”
Miss Prettyface took the letter in her hand and began, as best she could, for the twentieth time to endeavour to decipher the address. It was very much blotted and besmeared, and presented a very remarkable specimen of caligraphy. The most legible word on it seemed “Gouse.”
“There’s nobody here of that name,” said the young lady. “Do you know anybody, Mr. Bumpkin, of the name of Gouse?”
“Devil a bit,” said he, taking the letter in his hands, and turning it over as if it had been a skittle-ball.
“The postman said it belonged here,” said Mrs. Oldtimes, “but I can’t make un out.”
“I can’t read the postmark,” said Miss Prettyface.
Mr. Bumpkin put on a large pair of glasses and examined the envelope with great care.
“I think you’ve got un upside down,” said Mrs. Oldtimes.
“Ah! so ur be,” replied the farmer, turning it over several times. “Why,” he continued, “here be ab—and au, beant it? See if that beant au, Miss, your eyes be better un mine; they be younger.”
“O yes, that’s au,” said Miss Prettyface, “and anm.”
“And that spellbum.”
“But stop,” said Miss Prettyface, “here’s ap.”
“That’sbump,” said Mrs. Oldtimes; “we shall get at something presently.”
“Why,” exclaimed Bumpkin, “I be danged if I doant think it be my old ’ooman’s writin’: but I beant sure. That be the way ur twists the tail of ury’s andg’s, I’ll swear; and lookee ’ere, beant thisk i n?”
“I think it is,” said the maid.
“Ah, then, thee med be sure that be Bumpkin, and the letter be for I.”
“Yes,” said the young lady, “and that other word which looks more like Grouse is meant for Goose, the sign of the house.”
“Sure be un,” exclaimed Mr. Bumpkin, “and Nancy ha put Bumpkin and Goose all in one line, when ur ought to ha made two lines ov un. Now look at that, that letter might ha been partickler.”
“So it may be as it is,” said Mrs. Oldtimes; “it’s from Mrs. Bumpkin, no doubt. Aren’t you going to open it?”
“I think I wool,” said Bumpkin, turning the letter round and round, and over and over, as though there was some special private entrance which could only be discovered by the closest search. At length Mrs. Oldtimes’ curiosity was gratified, for he found a way in, and drew out the many folded letter of the most difficult penmanship that ever was subjected to mortal gaze. It was not that the writing was illegible, but that the spelling was so extraordinary, and the terms of expressionso varied. Had I to interpret this letter without the aid of a dream I should have a long and difficult task before me. But it is the privilege of dreamers to see things clearly and in a moment: to live a lifetime in a few seconds, and to traverse oceans in the space of a single respiration. So, in the present instance, that which took Mr. Bumpkin, with the help of Mrs. Oldtimes and the occasional assistance of Lucy an hour to decipher, flashed before me in a single second. I ought perhaps to translate it into a more civilized language, but that would be impossible without spoiling the effect and disturbing the continuity of character which is so essential in a work made up of various actors. Mr. Bumpkin himself in his ordinary costume would be no more out of place in my Lord Mayor’s state carriage than Mrs. Bumpkin wielding the Queen’s English in its statelier and more fashionable adornment. So I give it as it was written. It began in a bold but irregular hand, and clearly indicated a certain agitation of mind not altogether in keeping with the even temperament of the writer’s daily life.
“Deer Tom” (the letter began), “I ope thee be well for it be a long time agoo since thee left ere I cant mak un out wot be all this bother about a pig but Tom thee’ll be glad to ear as I be doin weel the lamin be over and we got semteen as pooty lams as ever thee clapped eyes on The weet be lookin well and so be the barly an wuts thee’ll be glad Tom to ear wot good luck I been avin wi sellin Mister Prigg have the kolt for twenty pun a pun more an the Squoire ofered Sam broked er in and ur do look well in Mrs. Prigg faten I met un the tother day Mr. Prigg wur drivin un an he tooked off his at jist th’ sam as if I’d been a ladyMissis Prigg din’t see me as her edd wur turned th’ tother way I be glad to tell ee we sold the wuts ten quorter these was bort by Mister Prigg and so wur the stror ten load as clane and brite as ever thee seed Mr. Prigg be a rale good custumer an a nice man I wish there was moore like im it ud be the makin o’ th’ Parish we shal ave a nice lot o monie to dror from un at Miklemes he be the best customer we ever ad an I toold th’ Squoire wen ur corled about the wuts as Mister Prigg ad orfered ten shillin a quorter for un more un ee Ur dint seem to like un an rod away but we dooant o un anythink Tom so I dont mind we must sell ware we ken mak moast monie I spose Sampson be stronger an grander than ever it’s my belief an I thinks we shal do well wi un this Spring tell t’ Joe not to stop out o’ nites or keep bad kumpany and to read evere nite wat the Wicker told un the fust sarm an do thee read un Tom for its my bleef ur cant ’urt thee nuther.”
“Humph!” said Bumpkin, “fust sarms indade. I got a lot o’ time for sarms, an’ as for thic Joe—lor, lor, Nancy, whatever will thee say, I wonder, when thee knows he’s gone for a soger—a sarm beant much good to un now; he be done for.”
And then Mr. Bumpkin went and looked out of the window, and thought over all the good news of Mrs. Bumpkin’s letter, and mentally calculated that even up to this time Mr. Prigg’s account would come to enough to pay the year’s rent.
Going to law seemed truly a most advantageous business. Here he had got two shillings a quarter more for the oats than the Squire had offered, and a pound more for the colt. Prigg was a famous customer, and no doubt would buy the hay. And, strange to say, just asMr. Bumpkin thought this, he happened to turn over the last page of the letter, and there he saw what was really a Postscript.
“Halloo!” says he, “my dear, here be moore on’t; lookee ’ere.”
“So there is,” answered Lucy; “let’s have a look.” And thus she read:—
“The klover cut out well it made six lode the little rik an four pun nineteen The Squoire ony offered four pun ten so in corse I let Mister Prigg ave un.”
“Well done, Nancy, thee be famous. Now, thic big rik’ll fetch moore’n thic.”
Such cheering intelligence put Mr. Bumpkin in good heart in spite of his witness’s desertion. Joe was a good deal, but he wasn’t money, and if he liked to go for a soger, he must go; but, in Mr. Bumpkin’s judgment, he would very soon be tired of it, and wish himself back at his fireside.
“Now, you must write to Mrs. Bumpkin,” said Lucy.
“Thee’ll write for I, my dear; won’t thee?”
“If you like,” said Lucy. And so, after dinner, when she had changed her dress, she proceeded to write an epistle for Mrs. Bumpkin’s edification. She hadcarte blancheto put in what she liked, except that the main facts were to be that Joe had gone for a horse soger; that he expected “the case would come on every day;” and that he had the highest opinion of the unquestioned ability of honest Lawyer Prigg.
And now another surprise awaited the patient Bumpkin. As he sat, later in the day, smoking his pipe, in company with Mrs. Oldtimes, two men, somewhatshabbily dressed, walked into the parlour and ordered refreshment.
“A fine day, sir,” said the elder of the two, a man about thirty-five. This observation was addressed to Mr. Bumpkin.
“It be,” said the farmer.
The other individual had seated himself near the fire, and was apparently immersed in the study of theDaily Telegraph. Suddenly he observed to his companion, as though he had never seen it before,—
“Hallo! Ned, have you seen this?”
“What’s that?” asked the gentleman called Ned.
“Never read such a thing in my life. Just listen.”
“‘A YOUNG MAN FROM THE COUNTRY.’“extraordinary story.“A man, apparently about sixty-eight, who gave the name of Bumpkin, appeared as the prosecutor in a case under the following extraordinary circumstances. He said he was from the country, but declined to give any more particular address, and had been taken by a friend to see the Old Bailey and to hear the trials at that Court. After leaving the Central Criminal Court, he deposed, that, walking with his friend, he was accosted in the Street in the open daylight and robbed of his watch; that he pursued the thief, and when near Blackfriars Bridge met a man coming towards him; that he seized the supposed thief, and found him wearing the watch which he affirmed had been stolen. The manner and appearance of ‘the young man from the country’ excited great laughter in Court, and the Lord Mayor, inthe absence of any evidence to the contrary, thought there was aprimâ faciecase under the circumstances, and committed the accused for trial to the Central Criminal Court. The prisoner, who was respectably dressed, and against whom nothing appeared to be known, was most ably defended by Mr. Nimble, who declined to put any questions in cross-examination, and did not address his Lordship. The case created great sensation, and it is expected that at the trial some remarkable and astounding disclosures will be made. ‘The young man from the country’ was very remarkably dressed: he twirled in his hand a large old-fashioned white-beaver hat with a black band round it; wore a very peculiar frock, elaborately ornamented with needlework in front and behind, while a yellow kerchief with red ends was twisted round his neck. The countryman declined to give his town address; but a remarkable incident occurred during the hearing, which did not seem to strike either the Lord Mayor or the counsel for the defence, and that was that no appearance of the countryman’s companion was put in. Who he is and to what region he belongs will probably transpire at the ensuing trial, which is expected to be taken on the second day of the next Sessions. It is obvious that while the case issub judiceno comments can properly be made thereon, but we are not prevented from saying that the evidence of this extraordinary ‘young man from the country’ will be subjected to the most searching cross-examination of one of the ablest counsel of the English Bar.”
“‘A YOUNG MAN FROM THE COUNTRY.’“extraordinary story.
“A man, apparently about sixty-eight, who gave the name of Bumpkin, appeared as the prosecutor in a case under the following extraordinary circumstances. He said he was from the country, but declined to give any more particular address, and had been taken by a friend to see the Old Bailey and to hear the trials at that Court. After leaving the Central Criminal Court, he deposed, that, walking with his friend, he was accosted in the Street in the open daylight and robbed of his watch; that he pursued the thief, and when near Blackfriars Bridge met a man coming towards him; that he seized the supposed thief, and found him wearing the watch which he affirmed had been stolen. The manner and appearance of ‘the young man from the country’ excited great laughter in Court, and the Lord Mayor, inthe absence of any evidence to the contrary, thought there was aprimâ faciecase under the circumstances, and committed the accused for trial to the Central Criminal Court. The prisoner, who was respectably dressed, and against whom nothing appeared to be known, was most ably defended by Mr. Nimble, who declined to put any questions in cross-examination, and did not address his Lordship. The case created great sensation, and it is expected that at the trial some remarkable and astounding disclosures will be made. ‘The young man from the country’ was very remarkably dressed: he twirled in his hand a large old-fashioned white-beaver hat with a black band round it; wore a very peculiar frock, elaborately ornamented with needlework in front and behind, while a yellow kerchief with red ends was twisted round his neck. The countryman declined to give his town address; but a remarkable incident occurred during the hearing, which did not seem to strike either the Lord Mayor or the counsel for the defence, and that was that no appearance of the countryman’s companion was put in. Who he is and to what region he belongs will probably transpire at the ensuing trial, which is expected to be taken on the second day of the next Sessions. It is obvious that while the case issub judiceno comments can properly be made thereon, but we are not prevented from saying that the evidence of this extraordinary ‘young man from the country’ will be subjected to the most searching cross-examination of one of the ablest counsel of the English Bar.”
The two men looked at Mr. Bumpkin; while the latter coloured until his complexion resembled beetroot. Miss Prettyface giggled; and Mrs. Oldtimes winked atMr. Bumpkin, and shook her head in the most significant manner.
“That’s a rum case, sir,” said Ned.
Silence.
“I don’t believe a word of the story,” said his companion.
Silence.
“Do you believe,” he continued, “that that man could have been wearing that watch if he’d stole it?”
“Not I.”
“Lor! won’t Jemmy Nimble make mincemeat of ’im!”
Mrs. Oldtimes looked frequently towards Mr. Bumpkin as she continued her sewing, making the most unmistakeable signals that under no circumstances was he to answer. It was apparent to everyone, from Mr. Bumpkin’s manner, that the paragraph referred to him.
“The best thing that chap can do,” said Ned, “is not to appear at the trial. He can easily keep away.”
“He won’t, you’re sure,” answered the other man; “he knows a trick worth two of that. They say the old chap deserted his poor old wife, after beating her black and blue, and leaving her for dead.”
“It be a lie!” exclaimed Bumpkin, thumping his fist on the table.
“Oh!” said Ned, “do you know anything about it, sir? It’s no odds to me, only a man can’t shut his ears.”
“P’r’aps I do and p’r’aps I doant; but it beant no bi’niss o’ thine.”
“I didn’t mean no offence, but anybody can read the paper, surely; it’s a free country. P’r’aps you’re the man himself; I didn’t think o’ that.”
“P’r’aps I be, and p’r’aps I beant.”
“And p’r’aps your name is Bumpkin?”
“And p’r’aps it beant, and what then?”
“Why, you’ve nothing to do with it, that’s all; and I don’t see why you should interfere.”
“I can’t have no quarrelling in my house,” said the landlady. “This gentleman’s nothing to do with it; he knows nothing at all about it; so, if you please, gentlemen, we needn’t say any more.”
“Oh! I don’t want to talk about it,” said Ned.
“No more do I,” chimed in his companion; “but it’s a pity that he should take up our conversation when he hasn’t anything to do with it, and his name isn’t Bumpkin, and he hasn’t lost his watch. It’s no odds to me; I don’t care, do you, Ned?”
“Not I,” said Ned; “let’s be off; I don’t want no row; anybody mustn’t open his mouth now. Good day, sir.”
And the two young men went away.
Mr. Bumpkin determines to maintain a discreet silence about his case at the Old Bailey—Mr. Prigg confers with him thereon.
And I saw that Mr. Bumpkin’s case did not come on. Day by day passed away, and still it was not in the paper. The reason, however, is simple, and need not be told to any except those of my readers who are under the impression that the expeditious administration of justice is of any consequence. It was obvious to the most simple-minded that the case could not be taken for a day or two, because there was a block in every one of the three Courts devoted to the trial of Nisi Prius actions. And you know as well as anyone, Mr. Bumpkin, that when you get a load of turnips, or what not, in the market town blocked by innumerable other turnip carts, you must wait. Patience, therefore, good Bumpkin. Justice may be slow-footed, but she is sure handed; she may be blind and deaf, but she is not dumb; as you shall see if you look into one of the “blocked Courts” where a trial has been going on for the last sixteen days. A case involving a dispute of no consequence to any person in the world, and in which there is absolutely nothing except—O rare phenomenon!—plenty of money. It was interesting only on account of the bickerings between the learned counsel, and the occasionally friendlyaltercations between the Bench and the Bar. But the papers had written it into acause célèbre, and made it a dramatic entertainment for the beauty and the chivalry of England. So Mr. Bumpkin had still to wait; but it enabled him to attend comfortably the February sittings of the Old Bailey, where his other case was to be tried.
When Mr. Prigg read the account of the proceedings before the Lord Mayor, he was very much concerned, not to say annoyed, because he was under the impression that he ought to have been consulted. Not knowing what to do under the circumstances, he resolved, after due consideration, to get into a hansom and drive down to the “Goose.” Mr. Prigg, as I have before observed, was swift in decision and prompt in action. He had no sooner resolved to see Bumpkin than to Bumpkin he went. But his client was out; it was uncertain when he would be in. Judge of Mr. Prigg’s disappointment! He left word that he would call again; he did call again, and, after much dodging on the part of the wily Bumpkin, he was obliged to surrender himself a captive to honest Prigg.
“My dear Mr. Bumpkin,” exclaimed he, taking both the hands of his client into his own and yielding him a double measure of friendship; “is it possible—have you been robbed? Is it you in the paper this morning in thisveryextraordinary case?”
Bumpkin looked and blushed. He was not a liar, but truth is not always the most convenient thing, say what you will.
“I see,” said Mr. Prigg; “quite so—quite so! Nowhowdid this happen?”
Bumpkin still looked and blushed.
“Ah!” said Mr. Prigg; “just so. But who was this companion?”
Bumpkin muttered “A friend!”
“O! O! O!” said Mr. Prigg, drawing a long face and placing the fore-finger of his left hand perpendicularly from the tip of his nose to the top of his forehead.
“Noa,” said Bumpkin, “’taint none o’ that nuther; I beant a man o’ that sort.”
“Well, well,” said Mr. Prigg, “I only thought I’d call, you know, in case there should be anything which might in any way affect our action.”
Mr. Bumpkin, conscious of his moral rectitude, like all good men, was fearless: he knew that nothing which he had done would affect the merits of his case, and, therefore, instead of replying to the subtle question of his adviser, he merely enquired of that gentleman when he thought the case would be on. The usual question.
Mr. Prigg rubbed his hands and glanced his eyes as though just under his left elbow was a very deep well, at the bottom of which lay that inestimable jewel, truth. “Really,” Mr. Bumpkin, “I expect every hour to see us in the paper. It’s very extraordinary; they have no less than three Courts sitting, as I daresay you are aware. No less than—let me see, my mind’s so full of business, I have seven cases ready to come on. Where was I? O, I know; I say there are no less than three Courts, under the continuous sittings system, and yet we seem to make no progress in the diminution of the tremendous and overwhelming mass of business that pours in upon us.”
Mr. Bumpkin said “Hem!”
“You see,” continued Mr. Prigg, “there’s one thing, we shall not last long when we do come on.”
“Shan’t ur?”
“You see there’s only one witness, besides yourself, on our side.”
“And ’eve gone for a soger,” said Mr. Bumpkin.
“A soldier!” exclaimed Prigg. “A soldier, my dear Bumpkin. No—no—you don’t say so, really!”
“Ay, sure ’ave ur; and wot the devil I be to do agin that there Snooks, as ’ll lie through a brick wall, I beant able to say. I be pooty nigh off my chump wot wi’ one thing and another.”
“Off what, sir?” enquired Mr. Prigg.
“Chump,” shouted Bumpkin.
“O, indeed, yes; dear me, you don’t say so. Well, now I’m glad I called. I must see about this. What regiment did you say he’d joined?”
“Hoosors!”
“Ha! dear me, has he, indeed?” said Mr. Prigg, noting it down in his pocket-book. “What a pity for a young man like that to throw himself away—such an intelligent young fellow, too, and might have done so well; dear me!”
“Ha,” answered Bumpkin, “there worn’t a better feller at plough nor thic there; and he could mend a barrer or a ’arrer, and turn his ’and to pooty nigh anything about t’ farm.”
“And is there any reason that can be assigned for this extraordinary conduct? Wasn’t in debt, I suppose?”
Mr. Bumpkin laughed one of his old big fireside laughs such as he had not indulged in lately.
“Debt! why they wouldn’t trust un a shoe-string.Where the devil wur such a chap as thic to get money to get into debt wi’?”
“My dear sir, we don’t want money to get into debt with; we get into debt when we have none.”
“Do ur, sir. Then if I hadn’t ’ad any money I’d like to know ’ow fur thee’d ha’ trusted I.”
“Dear me,” said Mr. Prigg, “what a very curious way of putting it! But, however, soldier or no soldier, we must have his evidence. I must see about it: I must go to the dépôt. Now, with regard to your case at the Old Bailey.”
“Well,” said Mr. Bumpkin, rather testily; “I be bound over to proserkit, and that be all I knows about un. I got to give seam evidence as I guv afore the Lord Mayor, and the Lord Mayor said as the case wur clear, and away it went for trial.”
“Indeed! dear me!”
“And I got to tak no trouble at all about un, but to keep my mouth shut till the case comes on, that’s what the pleeceman told I. I bean’t to talk about un, or to tak any money not to proserkit.”
“O dear, no,” said Mr. Prigg. “O dear, dear, no; you would be compounding a felony.” (Here Mr. Prigg made a note in his diary to this effect:—“Attending you at ‘The Goose’ at Westminster, when you informed me that you were the prosecutor in a case at the Old Bailey, and in which I advised you not, under any circumstances, to accept a compromise or money for the purpose of withdrawing from the prosecution, and strongly impressed upon you that such conduct would amount in law to a misdemeanor. Long conference with you thereon, when you promised to abide by my advice, £1 6s.0d.”).
“Now,” said Bumpkin, “it seem to me that turn which way I wool, there be too much law, too many pitfalls; I be gettin’ sick on’t.”
“Well,” said Mr. Prigg, “we have only to do our duty in that station of life in which we are called, and we have no cause to fear. Now you know you wouldnothave liked that unprincipled man, Snooks, to have the laugh of you, would you now?”
Mr. Bumpkin clenched his fist as he said, “Noa, I’d sooner lose every penny I got than thic there feller should ha’ the grin o’ me.”
“Quite so,” said the straightforward moralist. “Quite so! dear me! Well, well, I must wish you good morning, for really I am so overwhelmed with work that I hardly know which way to turn—bye, bye. I will take care to keep you posted up in—.” Here Mr. Prigg’s cab drove off, and I could not ascertain whether the posting up was to be in the state of the list or in the lawyer’s ledger.
“What a nice man!” said the landlady.
Yes, that was Mr. Prigg’s character, go where he would: “A nice man!”
The trial at the Old Bailey of Mr. Simple Simonman for highway robbery with violence—Mr. Alibi introduces himself to Mr. Bumpkin.
I next saw Mr. Bumpkin wandering about the precincts of that Grand Institution, the Old Bailey, on a drizzly morning about the middle of February, 187—, waiting to go before the Grand Jury. As the famous prison in Scotland was called the “Heart of Midlothian” so the Old Bailey may be considered the Heart of Civilization. Its commanding situation, in the very centre of a commercial population, entitles it to this distinction; for nothing is supposed to have so civilizing an influence as Commerce. I was always impressed with its beautiful and picturesque appearance, especially on a fine summer morning, during its sittings, when the sun was pouring its brightest beams on its lively portals. What a charming picture was presented to your view, when the gates being open, the range of sheds on the left met the eye, especially the centre one where the gallows is kept packed up for future use. The gallows on the one side might be seen and the stately carriages of my Lord Mayor and Sheriffs on the other! Gorgeous coachmen and footmen in resplendent liveries; magnificent civic dignitaries in elaborate liveries too, rich with gold and bright withcolour, stepping forth from their carriages, amid loud cries of “Make way!” holding in their white-gloved hands large bouquets of the loveliest flowers, emblems of—what?
Crime truly has its magnificent accompaniments, and if it does not dress itself, as of old, in the rich costumes of a Turpin or a Duval, it is not without its beautiful surroundings. Here, where the channels and gutters of crime converge, is built, in the centre of the greatest commercial city in the world, the Bailey. Mr. Bumpkin wandered about for hours through a reeking unsavoury crowd of thieves and thieves’ companions, idlers of every type of blackguardism, ruffians of every degree of criminality; boys and girls receiving their finishing lessons in crime under the dock, as they used to do only a few years ago under the gallows. The public street is given over to the enemies of Society; and Civilisation looks on without a shudder or regret, as though crime were a necessity, and the Old Bailey, in the heart of London, no disgrace.
And a little dirty, greasy hatted, black whiskered man, after pushing hither and thither through this pestiferous crowd as though he had business with everybody, but did not exactly know what it was, at length approached Mr. Bumpkin; and after standing a few minutes by his side eyeing him with keen hungry looks, began that interesting conversation about the weather which seems always so universally acceptable. Mr. Bumpkin was tired. He had been wandering for hours in the street, and was wondering when he should be called before the Grand Jury. Mr. Alibi, that was the dark gentleman’s name, knew all about Mr. Bumpkin’s case, his condition of mind, and his impatience; and he said deferentially:
“You are waiting to go before the Grand Jury, I suppose, sir?”
“I be,” answered Bumpkin.
“Where’s your policeman?” enquired Alibi.
“I doant know,” said Bumpkin.
“What’s his number?”
“Sev’n hunderd and sev’nty.”
“O, I know,” said Alibi; “why not let me get you before the Grand Jury at once, instead of waiting about here all day, and perhaps to-morrow and the next day, and the day after that; besides, the sooner you go before the Grand Jury, the sooner your case will come on; that stands to common sense, I think.”
“So ur do,” answered the farmer.
“You will be here a month if you don’t look out. Have you got any counsel or solicitor?”
“Noa, I beant; my case be that plaain, it spaks for itself.”
“Ah!” said Mr. Alibi; “they won’t always let a case speak for itself—they very often stop it—but if you can get a counsel for nothing, why not have one; that stands to reason, I think?”
“For nothing? well that be the fust time I ever eeard o’ a loryer as chape as thic.”
How it could pay was the wonder to Mr. Bumpkin. And what a strange delusion it must seem to the mind of the general reader! But wait, gentle peruser of this history, you shall see this strange sight.
“If you like to have a counsel and a lawyer to conduct your case, sir, it shall not cost you a farthing, I give you my word of honour! What do you think of that?”
What could Mr. Bumpkin think of that? What a pity that he had not met this gentleman before! Probably hewould have brought several actions if he had; for if you could work the machinery of the law for nothing, you would always stand to win.
“O,” said Mr. Alibi, “here is seven hundred and seventy! This gentleman wants a counsel, and I’ve been telling him he can have one, and it won’t cost him anything.”
“That’s right enough,” said the Policeman; “but it ain’t nothin’ to do with me!”
“Just step this way, sir, we’ll soon have this case on,” said Alibi; and he led the way to the back room of a public-house, which seemed to be used as a “hedge” lawyer’s office.
“Med I mak so bold, sir; be thee a loryer?”
“No,” answered Alibi, “I am clerk to Mr. Deadandgone.”
“And don’t Mr. Deadandam charge nothin’?”
“O dear, no!”
What a very nice man Mr. Deadandam must be!
“You see,” said Alibi, “the Crown pays us!”
“The Crown!”
And here Mr. Alibi slipped a crown-piece into the artfully extended palm of the policeman, who said:
“It ain’t nothin’ to do wi’ me; but the gentleman’s quite right, the Crown pays.” And he dropped the money into his leather purse, which he rolled up carefully and placed in his pocket.
“You see,” said Alibi, “I act as the Public Prosecutor, who can’t be expected to do everything—you can’t grind all the wheat in the country in one mill, that stands to common sense.”
“That be right, that’s werry good,”
“And,” continued Mr. Alibi, “the Governmentallows two guineas for counsel, a guinea for the solicitor, and so on, and the witnesses, don’t you see?”
“Zactly!” said Bumpkin.
“And that’s quite enough,” continued Alibi; “we don’t want anything from the prosecutor—that’s right, policeman!”
“It ain’t nothink to do wi’ me,” said the policeman; “but what this ’ere gentleman says is the law.”
“There,” said Alibi, “I told you so.”
“I spose,” said the policeman, “you don’t want me, gentlemen; it ain’t nothink to do with me?”
“Oh, no, Leary,” replied Alibi; “we don’t want you; the case is pretty straight, I suppose.”
“Oh, yes, sir; I expects it’ll be a plea of guilty. There ain’t no defence, not as I’m aware of.”
“Oh,” said Alibi, “that’s all right—keep your witnesses together, Leary—don’t be out of the way.”
“No, sir,” says Leary; “I thinks I knows my dooty.”
And with this he slouched out of the room, and went and refreshed himself at the bar.
In two or three minutes the policeman returned, and was in the act of drawing the back of his hand across his mouth, when Alibi said:
“Yes?”
“Beg pardin, sir; but there’s another gentleman wants to see you—I thinks he wants you to defend ---; but it ain’t nothink to do wi’ me, sir.”
“Very good,” answered Alibi, “very good; now let me see—”
“You got the Baker’s case?” said Leary.
“Yes,” said Alibi; “O, yes—embezzlement.”
Everything was thus far satisfactorily settled, and Mr.Bumpkin’s interests duly represented by Mr. Deadandgone, an eminent practitioner. No doubt the services of competent counsel would be procured, and the case fully presented to the consideration of an intelligent jury.
Who shall say after this that the Old Bailey isnotthe Heart of Civilization?
I pass over the preliminary canter of Mr. Bumpkin before the Grand Jury; the decision of that judicial body, the finding of the true bill, the return of the said bill in Court, the bringing up of the prisoner for arraignment, and the fixing of the case to be taken first on Thursday in deference to the wishes of Mr. Nimble. I pass by all those preliminary proceedings which I have before attempted to describe, and which, if I might employ a racing simile, might be compared to the saddling of Mr. Bumpkin in the paddock, where, unquestionably, he was first favourite for the coming race, to be ridden by that excellent jockey, Alibi; and come at once to the great and memorable trial of Regina on the prosecution of Thomas Bumpkin against Simon Simpleman for highway robbery with violence.
As the prisoner entered the dock there was a look of unaffected innocence in his appearance that seemed to make an impression on the learned Judge, Mr. Justice Technical, a recently appointed Chancery barrister. I may be allowed to mention that his Lordship had never had any experience in Criminal Courts whatever: so he brought to the discharge of his important duty a thoroughly unprejudiced and impartial mind. He did not suspect that a man was guilty because he was charged: and the respectable and harmless manner of the accused was not interpreted by his Lordship as a piece of consummate acting, as it would be by some Judgeswho have seen much of the world as it is exhibited in Criminal Courts.
Many ladies of rank were ushered in by the Sheriff, all looking as smiling and happy as if they were about to witness the performance of some celebrated actress for the first time; they had fans and opera-glasses, and as they took their places in the boxes allotted to rank and fashion, there was quite a pleasant sensation produced in Court, and they attracted more notice for the time being than the prisoners themselves.
Now these ladies were not there to witness the first piece, the mere trial of Simpleman for highway robbery, although the sentence might include the necessary brutality of flogging. The afterpiece was what they had come to see—namely, a fearful tragedy, in which two men at least were sure of being sentenced to death. This is the nearest approach to shedding human blood which ladies can now witness in this country; for I do not regard pigeon slaughtering, brutal and bloodthirsty as it is, as comparable to the sentencing of a fellow-creature to be strangled. And no one can blame ladies of rank if they slake their thirst for horrors in the only way the law now leaves open to them. The Beauty of Spain is better provided for. What a blessed thing is humanity!
It is due to Mr. Newboy, the counsel for the prosecution in the great case ofReginav.Simpleman, to say that he had only lately been called to the Bar, and only “instructed,” as the prisoner was placed in the dock. Consequently, he had not had time to read his brief. I do not know that that was a disadvantage, inasmuch as the brief consisted in what purported to be a copy of the depositions so illegibly scrawled that it would haverequired the most intense study to make out the meaning of a single line.
Mr. Newboy was by no means devoid of ability; but no amount of ability would give a man a knowledge of the facts of a case which were never communicated to him. In its simplicity the prosecution was beautifully commonplace, and five minutes’ consideration would have been sufficient to enable counsel to master the details and be prepared to meet the defence. Alas, for the lack of those five minutes! The more Mr. Newboy looked at the writing (?) the more confused he got. All he could make out was his own name, andReg.v.Somebodyon the back.
Now it happened that Mr. Alibi saw the difficulty in which Mr. Newboy was, and knowing that his, Alibi’s, clerk, was not remarkable for penmanship, handed to the learned counsel at the last moment, when the last juryman was being bawled at with the “well and truly try,” a copy of the depositions.
The first name at the top of the first page which caught the eye of the learned counsel, was that of the prisoner; for the depositions commence in such a way as to show the name of the prisoner in close proximity to, if not among the names of witnesses.
So Mr. Newboy, in his confusion, taking the name of the prisoner as his first witness, shouted out in a bold voice, to give himself courage, “Simon Simpleman.”
“’Ere!” answered the prisoner.
The learned Judge was a little astonished; and, although, he had got his criminal law up with remarkable rapidity, his lordship knew well enough that you cannot call the prisoner as a witness either for or against himself. Mr. Newboy perceived his mistake and apologised.The laugh, of course, went round against him; and when it got to Mr. Nimble, that merry gentleman slid it into the jury-box with a turn of his eyes and a twist of his mouth. The counsel for the prosecution being by this time pretty considerably confused, and not being able to make out the name of a single witness on the depositions (there were only two) called out, “The Prosecutor.”
“Here, I be,” said a voice from the crowd in a tone which provoked more laughter, all of which was turned into the jury-box by Mr. Nimble. “Here I be” struggled manfully with all his might and main to push through the miscellaneous crowd of all sorts and conditions that hemmed him in. All the arrangements at the Old Bailey, like the arrangements at most Courts, are expressly devised for the inconvenience of those who have business there.
All eyes were turned towards “Here I be,” as, after much pushing and struggling as though he were in a football match, he was thrust headlong forward by three policemen and the crier into the body of the Court. There he stood utterly confounded by the treatment he had undergone and the sight that presented itself to his astonished gaze. Opera-glasses were turned on him from the boxes, the gentlemen on the grand tier strained their necks in order to catch a glimpse of him; the pit, filled for the most part with young barristers, was in suppressed ecstasies; while the gallery, packed to the utmost limit of its capacity, broke out into unrestrained laughter. I say, unrestrained; but as the Press truly observed in the evening papers, “it was immediately suppressed by the Usher.”
Mr. Bumpkin climbed into the witness-box (as thoughhe were going up a rick), which was situated between the Judge and the jury. His appearance again provoked a titter through the Court; but it was not loud enough to call for any further measure of suppression than the usual “Si—lence!” loudly articulated in two widely separated syllables by the crier, who had no sooner pronounced it than he turned his face from the learned Judge and pressed his hand tightly against his mouth, straining his eyes as if he had swallowed a crown-piece. Mr. Bumpkin wore his long drab frock overcoat, with the waist high up and its large flaps; his hell-fire waistcoat, his trousers of corduroy, and his shirt-collar, got up expressly for the occasion as though he had been a prime minister. The ends of his neckerchief bore no inconsiderable likeness to two well-grown carrots. In his two hands he carefully nursed his large-brimmed well-shaped white beaver hat; a useful article to hold in one’s hands when there is any danger of nervousness, for nothing is so hard to get rid of as one’s hands. I am not sure that Mr. Bumpkin was nervous. He was a brave self-contained man, who had fought the world and conquered. His maxim was, “right is right,” and “wrong is no man’s right.” He was of the upright and down-straight character, and didn’t care “for all the counsellors in the kingdom.” And why should he? His cause was good, his conscience clear, and the story he had to tell plain and “straightforrard” as himself. No wonder then that his face beamed with a good old country smile, such as he would wear at an exhibition where he could show the largest “turmut as ever wur growed.” That was the sort of smile he turned upon the audience. And as the audience looked at the “turmut,” it felt that it was indeed the most extraordinaryspecimen of field culture it had ever beheld, and worthy of the first prize.
“What is your name?” inquired Mr. Newboy; “I mustn’t lead.”
“Bumpkin, and I bearned asheamed on ’im,” answered the bold farmer.
“Never mind whether you are ashamed or not,” interposed Mr. Nimble; “just answer the question.”
“You must answer,” remarked the learned Judge, “not make a speech.”
“Zackly, sir,” said Bumpkin, pulling at his hair.
Another titter. The jury titter and hold down their heads. Evidently there’s fun in the case.
Then Mr. Newboy questioned him about the occurrence; asked him if he recollected such a day, and where he had been, and where he was going, and a variety of other questions; the answer to every one of which provoked fresh laughter; until, after much floundering on the part of both himself and Mr. Newboy, as though they were engaged in a wrestling match, he was asked by the learned Judge “to tell them exactly what happened. Let him tell his own story,” said the Judge.
“Ha!” said everybody; “now we shall hear something!”
“I wur a gwine,” began Bumpkin, “hoame—”
“That’s not evidence,” said Mr. Nimble.
“How so?” asks the Judge.
“It doesn’t matter where he was going to, my lord, but where he was!”
“Well, that is so,” says the Judge; “you mustn’t tell us, Mr. Bumpkin, whither you were going, but where you were!”
Bumpkin scratched his head; there were too many where’s for him.
“Can’t yon tell us,” says Mr. Newboy, “where you were?”
“Where I were?” says Bumpkin.
A roar of laughter greeted this statement. Mr. Nimble turning it into the jury-box like a flood.
“I wur in Lunnun—”
“Yes—yes,” says his counsel; “but what locality?”
You might just as well have put him under a mangle, as to try to get evidence out of him like that.
“Look,” says the Judge, “attend to me; if you go on like that, you will not be allowed your expenses.”
“What took place?” asks his counsel; “can’t you tell us, man?”
“Why the thief cotch—”
“I object,” says Mr. Nimble; “you mustn’t call him a thief; it is for the jury, my lord, to determine that.”
“That is so,” says my lord; “you mustn’t call him a thief, Mr. Bumpkin.”
“Beg pardon, your lord; but ur stole my watch.”
“No—no,” says Mr. Newboy; “took your watch.”
“An if ur took un, ur stole un, I allows,” says Bumpkin; “for I never gin it to un.”
There was so much laughter that for some time nothing further was said; but every audience knows better than to check the source of merriment by a continued uproar; so it waited for another supply.
“You must confine yourself,” says the Judge, “to telling us what took place.”
“I’ll spak truth and sheam t’ devil,” says Bumpkin.
“Now go on,” says Newboy.
“The thief stole my watch, and that be t’ plain English on ’t.”
“I shall have to commit you to prison,” says the Judge, “if you go on like that; remember you are upon your oath, and it’s a very serious thing—serious for you and serious for the young man at the bar.”
At these touching words, the young man at the bar burst out crying, said “he was a respectable man, and it was all got up against him;” whereupon Mr. Nimble said “he must be quiet, and that his lordship and the gentlemen in the box would take care of him and not allow him to be trampled on.”
“You are liable,” said the Judge, “to be prosecuted for perjury if you do not tell the truth.”
“Well, then, your lord, if a man maun goo to prison for losin’ his watch, I’ll goo that’s all; but that ere man stole un.”
Mr. Newboy: “He took it, did he?”
“I object,” said Mr. Nimble; “that is a leading question.”
“Yes,” said the Judge; “I think that is rather leading,” Mr. Newboy; “you may vary the form though, and ask him whether the prisoner stole it.”
“Really, my lord,” said Mr. Nimble, “that, with very great respect, is as leading as the other form.”
“Not quite, I think, Mr. Nimble. You see in the other form, you make a positive assertion that he did steal it; in this, you merely ask the question.”
And I saw that this was a very keen and subtle distinction, such as could only be drawn by a Chancery Judge.
“Would it not be better, my lord, if he told us what took place?”
“That is what he is doing,” said the Judge; “go on, witness.”
“I say as ’ow thic feller comed out and hugged up aginst I and took ’t watch and runned away. I arter’d him, and met him coomin’ along wi’ it in ’s pocket; what can be plaainer an thic?”
There was great laughter as Mr. Bumpkin shook his head at the learned counsel for the defence, and thumped one hand upon the ledge in front of him.
“That will do,” said Mr. Newboy, sitting down triumphantly.
Then the counsel for the defence arose, and a titter again went round the Court, and there was a very audible adjustment of persons in preparation for the treat that was to come.
“May the prisoner have a seat, my lord?”
“Oh, certainly,” said his lordship; “let an easy-chair be brought immediately.”
“Now then, Mr. Bumpkin, or whatever your name is, don’t lounge on the desk like that, but just stand up and attend to me. Stand up, sir, and answer my questions,” says Mr. Nimble.
“I be standin’ oop,” said Bumpkin, “and I can answer thee; ax away.”
“Just attend,” said the Judge. “You must not go on like that. You are here to answer questions and not to make speeches. If you wish those gentlemen to believe you, you must conduct yourself in a proper manner. Remember this is a serious charge, and you are upon your oath.”
Poor Bumpkin! Never was there a more friendless position than that of Ignorance in the witness-box.
“Just attend!” repeated Mr. Nimble; this was a favourite expression of his.
“How may aliases have you?”
“Ow many who?” asked Bumpkin. (Roars of laughter.)
“How many different names?”
“Naames! why I s’pose I got two, like moast people.”
“How many more?”
“None as iver I knowed of.”
“Wait a bit, we shall see. Now, sir, will you swear you have never gone by the name of Pumpkin?”
Loud laughter, in which the learned judge tried not to join.
“Never!”
“Do you swear it?”
“I do.”
“My lord, would you kindly let me see the depositions. Now look here, sir, is that your signature?”
“I ain’t much of a scollard.”
“No; but you can make a cross, I suppose.”
“Ay, I can make a cross, or zummut in imitation as well as any man.”
“Look at that, is that your cross?”
“It look like un.”
“Now then, sir; when you were before the Lord Mayor, I ask you, upon your oath, did you not give the name of Pumpkin?”
“Noa, I din’t!”
“Was this read over to you, and were you asked if it was correct?”
“It med be.”
“Med be; but wasn’t it? You know it was, or, don’t you?”
Bumpkin seemed spiked, so silent; seemed on fire, so red.
“Well, we know it was so. Now, my lord, I call your lordship’s attention to this remarkable fact; here in the depositions he calls himself Pumpkin.”
His lordship looks carefully at the depositions and says that certainly is so.
Mr. Newboy rises and says he understands that it may be a mistake of the clerk’s.
Judge: “How can you say that, Mr. Newboy, when it’s in his affidavit?”
(Clerk of Arraigns whispers to his lordship.) “I mean in his depositions, as I am told they are called in this Court; these are read over to him by the clerk, and he is asked if they are correct.” Shakes his head.
(So they began to try the prisoner, not so much on the merits of the case as on the merits of the magistrate’s clerk.)
“You certainly said your name was Pumpkin,” said the Judge, “and what is more you swore to it.”
(“They’ve got the round square at work,” muttered a voice in the gallery.)
Mr. Nimble: “Now just attend; have you ever gone so far as to say that this case did not refer to you because your name was not Bumpkin?”
The witness hesitates, then says “he b’leeves not.”
“Let those two gentlemen, Mr. Crackcrib and Mr. Centrebit, step forward.”
There was a bustle in Court, and then, with grinning faces, up stepped the two men who had visited Mr. Bumpkin at the “Goose” some days before.
“Have you ever seen these gentlemen before?” asks the learned counsel.
The gentlemen alluded to looked up as if they hadpractised it together, and both grinned. How can Mr. Bumpkin’s confusion be described? His under jaw fell, and his head drooped; he was like one caught in a net looking at the fowler.
The question was repeated, and Mr. Bumpkin wiped his face and returned his handkerchief into the depths of his hat, into which he would have liked to plunge also.
Question repeated in a tone that conveyed the impression that witness was one of the biggest scoundrels in the Heart of Civilization.
“You must really answer,” says the Judge.
“They be put on, your lordship.”
“No, no,” says the counsel, “you mustn’t say that, I’ll have an answer. Have you seen them before?”
“Yes,” muttered the prosecutor.
“Let them go out of Court. Now then,” says the counsel, extending his right hand and his forefinger and leaning towards the witness, “have—you—not—told—them—that—this case was nothing to do with you as your name wasn’t Bumpkin?”