The pleasure of a country drive on a summer evening described as enhanced by a pious mind.

It is only fair to the very able solicitors on both sides in the memorable case of Bumpkin v. Snooks to state that the greatest possible despatch was exercised on all occasions. Scarcely a day passed without something being done, as Prigg expressed it, “to expedite matters.” Month after month may have passed away without any apparent advance; but this in reality was not the case. Many appeals on what seemed trifling matters had been heard; so many indeed that Bumpkin v. Snooks had become a household word with the Court of Appeal, and a bye-word among the innumerable loafers about Judge’s Chambers.

“What! Bumpkin v. Snooks again!” the President would say. “What is it now? It’s a pity the parties to this case can’t agree: it seems a very trifling matter.”

“Not so, my lord, as your lordship will quickly apprehend when the new point is brought before your notice. A question of principle is here which may form a precedent for the guidance of future Judges, as did the famous case of Perryman v. Lister, which went to the House of Lords about prosecuting a man for stealing a gun. This is about a pig, my lord—a little pig, no doubt, and although there is not much in the pig, there is a good deal outside it.”

And often did Prigg say to Locust:

“I say, Locust, whenever shall we be ready to set this case down for trial?”

“Really, my dear Prigg,” Locust would reply, “it seems interminable—come and dine with me.” So the gentle and innocent reader will at once perceive that there was great impatience on all sides to get this case ready for trial. Meanwhile it may not be uninteresting to describe shortly some of the many changes that had taken place in the few short months since the action commenced.

First it was clearly observable by the inhabitants of Yokelton that Mr. Prigg’s position had considerably improved. I say nothing of his new hat; that was a small matter, but not so his style of living—so great an advance had that made that it attracted the attention of the neighbours, who often remarked that Mr. Prigg seemed to be getting a large practice. He was often seen with his lady on a summer afternoon taking the air in a nice open carriage—hired, it is true, for the occasion. And everybody remarked how uncommonly ladylike Mrs. Prigg lay back in the vehicle, and how very gracefully she held her new Æsthetic parasol. And what a proud moment it was for Bumpkin, when he saw this good and respectable gentleman pass with the ladylike creature beside him; and Mr. Bumpkin would say to his neighbours, lifting his hat at the same moment,

“That be my loryer, that air be!”

And then Mr. Prigg would gracefully raise his hat, and Mrs. Prigg would lie back perfectly motionless as became a very languid lady of her exalted position. And when Mr. Prigg said to Mrs. Prigg, “My dear, that is our new client;” Mrs. Prigg would elevate her arched eyebrows and expand her delicate nostrils as she answered,—

“Really, my love, what a very vulgar-looking creechar!”

“Not nearly so vulgar as Locust’s client,” rejoined her husband. “You should see him.”

“Thank you, my love, it is quite enough to catch a glimpse of the superior person of the two.”

Mr. Prigg seemed to think it a qualifying circumstance that Snooks was a more vulgar-looking man than Bumpkin, whereas a moment’s consideration showed Mrs. Prigg how illogical that was. It is the intrinsic and personal value that one has to measure things by. This value could not be heightened by contrast. Mrs. Prigg’s curiosity, however, naturally led her to inquire who the other creechar was? As if she had never heard of Bumpkin v. Snooks, although she had actually got the case on four wheels and was riding in it at that very moment; as if in fact she was not practically all Bumpkin, as a silkworm may be said to be all mulberry leaves. As if she knew nothing of her husband’s business! Her ideas were not of this world. Give her a church to build, she’d harass people for subscriptions; or let it be a meeting to clothe the naked savage, Mrs. Prigg would be there. She knew nothing of clothing Bumpkin! But she did interest herself sufficiently in her husband’s conversation to ask, in answer to his reference to Locust’s disreputable client,

“And who is he, pray?”

“My darling,” said Prigg, “you must have heard of Snooks?”

“Oh,” drawled Mrs. Prigg, “do you mean the creechar who sells coals?”

“The same, my dear.”

“And are you engaged against that man? How very dreadful!”

“My darling,” observed Mr. Prigg, “it is not for us to choose our opponents; nor indeed, for the matter of that, our clients.”

“I can quite perceive that,” returned the lady, “or you would never have chosen such men—dear me!”

“We are like physicians,” returned Mr. Prigg, “called in in case of need.”

“And the healing virtues of your profession must not be confined to rich patients,” said Mrs. Prigg, in her jocular manner.

“By no means,” was the good man’s reply; “justice is as much the right of the poor as the rich—so is the air we breathe—so is everything.” And he put his fingers together again, as was his wont whenever he uttered a philosophical or moral platitude.

So I saw in my dream that the good man and his ladylike wife rode through the beautiful lanes, and over the breezy common on that lovely summer afternoon, and as they drew up on the summit of a hill which gave a view of the distant landscape, there was a serenity in the scene which could only be compared to the serenity of Mr. Prigg’s benevolent countenance; and there was a calm, deeply, sweetly impressive, which could only be appreciated by a mind at peace with itself in particular, and with the world in general. Then came from a neighbouring wood the clear voice of the cuckoo. It seemed to sing purposely in honour of the good man; and I fancied I could see a ravenous hawk upon a tree, abashed at Mr. Prigg’s presence and superior ability; and a fluttering timid lark seemed to shriek, “Wicked bird, live and let live;” but it was the last word the silly lark uttered, for the hawk was upon him in a moment, and the little innocent songster was crushed in its ravenous beak. Still the cuckoo sang on in praise of Mr. Prigg, with now and then a little note for Mrs. Prigg; for the cuckoo is a very gallant little bird, and Mrs. Prigg was such a heavenly creature that no cuckoo could be conscious of her presence without hymning her praise.

“Listen,” said Mrs. Prigg, “isn’t it beautiful? I wonder where cuckoos go to?”

“Ah, my dear!” said Prigg, enraptured with the clear notes and the beautiful scene; but neither of them seemed to wonder where hawks go to.

“Do you hear the echo, love? Isn’t it beautiful?”

O, yes, it was beautiful! Nature does indeed lift the soul on a quiet evening from the grovelling occupations of earth to bask in the genial sunshine of a more spiritual existence. What was Bumpkin? What was Snooks to a scene like this? Suddenly the cuckoo ceased. Wonderful bird! I don’t know whether it was the presence of the hawk that hushed its voice or the sight of Mr. Prigg as he stood up in the carriage to take a more extended view of the prospect; but the familiar note was hushed, and the evening hymn in praise of the Priggs was over.

So the journey was continued by the beautiful wood of oaks and chestnuts, along by the hillside from which you could perceive in the far distance the little stream as it wound along by meadow and wood and then lost itself beneath the hill that rose abruptly on the left.

The stream was the symbol of life—probably Bumpkin’s life; all nature presents similes to a religious mind. And so the evening journey was continued with ever awakening feelings of delight and gratitude until they once more entered their peaceful home. And this brings me to another consideration which ought not to be passed over with indifference.

I saw in my dream that a great change had taken place in the home of the Priggs. The furniture had undergone a metamorphosis almost so striking that I thought Mr. Prigg must be a wizard. The gentle reader knows all about Cinderella; but here was a transformation more surprising. I saw that one of Mr. Bumpkin’s pigs had been turned into a very pretty walnut-wood whatnot, and stood in the drawing-room, and on it stood several of the ducks and geese that used to swim in the pond of Southwood farm. They were not ducks and geese now, but pretty silent ornaments. An old rough-looking stack of oats had been turned into a very nice Turkey carpet for the dining-room. Poor old Jack the donkey had been changed into a musical box that stood on a little table made out of a calf. One day Mr. Bumpkin called to see how his case was going on, and by mistake got into this room among his cows and pigs; but not one of them did the farmer know, and when the maid invited him to sit down he was afraid of spoiling something.

Now summonses at Chambers, and appeals, and demurrers, are not at all bad conjuring wands, if you only know how to use them. Two clever men like Prigg and Locust, not only surprise the profession, but alarm the public, since no one knows what will take place next, and Justice herself is startled from her propriety. Let no clamorous law reformer say that interrogatories or any other multitudinous proceedings at Judge’s Chambers are useless. It is astonishing how many changes you can ring upon them with a little ingenuity, and a very little scrupulosity. Mr. Prigg turned two sides of bacon into an Indian vase, and performed many other feats truly astonishing to persons who look on as mere spectators, and wonder how it is done. Wave your magic wand, good Prigg, and you shall see a hayrick turn into a chestnut mare; and a four-wheeled waggon into a Victoria.

But the greatest change he had effected was in Mr. Bumpkin himself, who loved to hear his wife read the interrogatories and answers. The almanac was nothing to this. He had no idea law was so interesting. I dare say there were two guiding influences working within him, in addition to the many influences working without; one being that inherent British pluck, which once aroused, “doesn’t care, sir, if it costs me a thousand pound, I’ll have it out wi’ un;” the other was the delicious thought that all his present outlay would be repaid by the cunning and covetous Snooks. So much was Bumpkin’s heart in the work of crushing his opponent, that expense was treated with ridicule. I heard him one day say jocularly to Mr. Prigg, who had come for an affidavit:

“Be it a pig, sir, or a heifer?”

“O,” said the worthy Prigg, “we want a pretty good one; I think it must be a heifer.”

All this was very pleasant, and made the business, dull and prosaic in itself, a cheerful recreation.

Then, again, there was a feeling of self-importance whenever these affidavits came to be sworn. Mr. Bumpkin would put down his ash-stick by the side of the fireplace, and bidding his visitor be seated, would compose himself with satisfaction to listen to the oft-repeated words:

“I, Thomas Bumpkin, make oath, and say—”

Fancy, “I, Bumpkin!” Just let the reader pause over that for a moment! What must “I, Bumpkin,” be whose statement is required on oath before my Lord Judge?

Always, at these words, he would shout. “That be it—now then, sir, would you please begin that agin?”—while, if Mrs. Bumpkin were not too busy, he would call her in to hear them too.

So there was no wonder that the action went merrily along. Once get up enthusiasm in a cause, and it is half won. Without enthusiasm, few causes can succeed against opposition. Then, again, the affidavit described Bumpkin as a Yeoman. What, I wonder, would Snooks the coal-merchant think of that?

So everything proceeded satisfactorily, and the months rolled away; the seasons came in their turn, so did the crops, so did the farrows of pigs, so did the spring chickens, and young ducks (prettiest little golden things in the world, on the water); so did Mr. Prigg, and so did a gentleman (hereafter to be called “the man,”) with whom a very convenient arrangement was made, by which Mr. Bumpkin preserved the whole of his remaining stock intact; had not in fact to advance a single penny piece more; all advances necessary for the prosecution of the action being made by the strange gentleman (whose name I did not catch) under that most convenient of all legal forms, “a Bill of Sale.”