Commencement of London life and adventures.

And I dreamt again, and methought there were three things with reference to London that Joe had learnt at school. First, that there was a Bridge, chiefly remarkable for the fact that Captain Cook, the Navigator, shot his servant because he said he was under London Bridge when he was in the South Pacific Ocean; secondly, that there was a famous Tower, where the Queen’s Crown was kept; thirdly, that there was a Monument built to show where the Great Fire began, and intimately connected in its cause with Guy Faux, whom Joe had helped to carry on the Fifth of November. Now when the young man woke in the morning at “The Goose,” in Millbank Street, Westminster, his attention was immediately attracted by these three historic objects; and it was not till after he had made inquiries that he found that it was not London Bridge that crossed the water in a line with the Horseferry Road, but a very inferior structure called Lambeth Suspension Bridge. Nor was the Tower on the left the Tower of London, but the Lollards’ tower of Lambeth Palace; while the supposed Monument was only the handsome column of Messrs. Doulton’s Pottery.

But they were all interesting objects nevertheless; and so were the huge cranes that were at work opposite the house lifting the most tremendous loads of goods from the lighters to the wharves. The “Shipping,” too, with its black and copper-coloured sails, gave some idea of the extent of England’s mercantile marine. At all events, it excited the country lad’s wonder and astonishment. But there was another matter that gave quite an agricultural and countrified look to the busy scene, and that was the prodigious quantity of straw that was being unloaded from the barges alongside. While Mr. Bumpkin went to see his solicitor at Westminster Hall, Joe wandered about the wharves looking at the boats and barges, the cranes and busy workmen who drove their barrows from barge to wharf, and ran along with loads on their backs over narrow planks, in the most lively manner. But looking on, even at sights like these, day by day, becomes a wearisome task, and Joe, being by no means an idle lad, occasionally “lent a hand” where he saw an opportunity. London, no doubt, was a very interesting place, but when he had seen Page Street, and Wood Street, and Church Street, and Abingdon Street, and Millbank Prison, and the other interesting objects referred to, his curiosity was gratified, and he began to grow tired of the sameness of the place. Occasionally he saw a soldier or two and the military sight fired his rustic imagination. Not that Joe had the remotest intention of entering the army; it was the last thing he would ever dream of; but, in common with all mankind he liked to look at the smart bearing and brilliant uniform of the sergeant, who seemed to have little else to do than walk about with his cane under his arm, or tap the stone parapet with it as he looked carelessly at some interesting object on the river.

The evenings in the taproom at “The Goose” were among the most enjoyable periods of the lad’s London existence. A select party usually gathered there, consisting chiefly of a young man who never apparently had had anything to do in his life. His name was Harry Highlow, a clever sort of wild young scapegrace who played well at “shove-ha’penny,” and sang a good comic song. Another of the party was a youth who earned a precarious livelihood by carrying two boards on his shoulders advertising a great pickle, or a great singer, as the case might be. Another of the company was a young man who was either a discharged or a retired groom; I should presume the former, as he complained bitterly that the authorities at Scotland Yard would not grant him a licence to drive a cab. He appeared to be a striking instance of how every kind of patronage in this country is distributed by favouritism. There were several others, all equally candidates for remunerative situations, but equally unfortunate in obtaining them: proving conclusively that life is indeed a lottery in which there may be a few prizes, usually going, by the caprice of Fortune, to the undeserving, while the blanks went indiscriminately to all the rest.

Bound together by the sympathy which a common misfortune engenders, these young men were happy in the pursuit of their innocent amusements at “The Goose.” And while, at first, they were a little inclined to chaff the rustic youth on account of his apparent simplicity, they soon learned to respect him on account of his exceedingly good temper and his willingness to fall in with the general views of the company on all occasions. They learnt all about Joe’s business in London, and it was a common greeting when they met in the evening to ask “how the pig was?” And they would enquire what the Lord Chancellor thought about the case, and whether it wouldn’t be as well to grease the pig’s tail and have a pig-hunt. To all which jocular observations Joe would reply with excellent temper and sometimes with no inappropriate wit. And then they said they would like to see Joe tackle Mr. Orkins, and believed he would shut him up. But chaff never roused his temper, and he laughed at the case as much as any man there. Fine tales he would have to tell when he got back to Yokelton; and pleasant, no doubt, would be in after-life, his recollections of the evenings at “The Goose.”

As a great general surveys the field where the intended action is to be fought, so Mr. Bumpkin was conducted by Horatio to Westminster Hall, and shown the various Courts of Justice, and some of the judges.

“Be this Chancery?” he enquired.

“O my eye, no!” said Horatio; “the cause has been transferred from Chancery to these ’ere Common Law Courts. It was only brought in Chancery because the costs there are upon a higher scale; we didn’t mean to try her there.”

“Where will she be tried then?”

“In one of these Courts.”

“Who be the judge?” whispered Bumpkin.

At this moment there was a loud shout of “Silence!” and although Mr. Bumpkin was making no noise whatever, a gentleman approached him, looking very angry, and enquired if Mr. Bumpkin desired to be committed for contempt of Court.

Mr. Bumpkin thought the most prudent answer was silence; so he remained speechless, looking the gentleman full in the face; while the gentleman looked him full in the face for at least a minute and a half, as if he were wondering whether he should take him off to prison there and then, or give him another chance, as the judge sometimes does a prisoner when he sentences him to two years imprisonment with hard labour.

Now the gentleman was a very amiable man of about forty, with large brown mutton-chop whiskers, and a very well trained moustache; good-looking and, I should think, with some humour, that is for a person connected with the Courts. He was something about the Court, but in what capacity he held up his official head, I am unable to say. He was evidently regarded with great respect by the crowd of visitors. It was some time before he took his gaze off Mr. Bumpkin; even when he had taken his eyes off, he seemed looking at him as if he feared that the moment he went away Bumpkin would do it again.

And then methought I heard someone whisper near me: “His lordship is going to give judgment in the case of Starling v. Nightingale,” and all at once there was a great peace. I lost sight of Bumpkin, I lost sight of the gentleman, I lost sight of the crowd; an indefinable sensation of delight overpowered my senses. Where was I? I had but a moment before been in a Court of Justice, with crowds of gaping idlers; with prosaic-looking gentlemen in horsehair wigs; with gentlemen in a pew with papers before them ready to take down the proceedings. Now it seemed as if I must be far away in the distant country, where all was calm and heavenly peace.

Surely I must be among the water-lilies! What a lullaby sound as of rippling waters and of distant music in the evening air; of the eddying and swirl of the mingling currents; of the chime of bells on the evening breeze; of the zephyrs through fir-tops; of woodland whispers; of the cadence of the cathedral organ; of the soft sweet melody of the maiden’s laugh; of her gentlest accents in her sweetest mood; of—but similitudes fail me. In this delicious retreat, which may be compared to the Garden of Eden before the tempter entered, are the choicest flowers of rhetoric. I hear a voice as from the far-off past, and I wonder will that be the voice which will utter the “last syllable of recorded time?”

Then methought the scene changed, and I heard the question—

“Do you move, Mr. Jones?”

O the prosaic Jones!—“don’t you move?”

Yes, he does; he partly rises, ducks his head, and elevates the hinder portion of his person, and his movement ceases. And the question is repeated to Mr. Quick. “Do you move, Mr. Quick?”

Then I saw Mr. Bumpkin again, just as Mr. Quick ducked his head and elevated his back.

And then some gentleman actually moved in real earnest upon these interesting facts:—A farmer’s bull—just the very case for Mr. Bumpkin—had strayed from the road and gone into another man’s yard, and upset a tub of meal; was then driven into a shed and locked up. The owner of the bull came up and demanded that the animal should be released. “Not without paying two pounds,” said the meal-owner. The bull owner paid it under protest, and summoned the meal-owner to the County Court for one pound seventeen shillings and sixpence, the difference between the damage done (which was really about twopence) and the money paid to redeem the bull. Judgment for the plaintiff. Motion for new trial, or to enter verdict for the defendant, on the ground that the meal man could charge what he liked.

One of the learned Judges asked:

“Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Smiles, that if a man has a bull, and that bull goes into a yard and eats some meal out of a meal-tub, and the damage amounts to twopence, and the owner of the bull says ‘here’s your twopence,’ that the owner of the meal can say, “No, I want a hundred pounds, and shall take your bull damage feasant,” and then takes him and locks him up, and the owner of the bull pays the hundred pounds, he cannot afterwards get the money back?”

“That is so,” says the learned counsel, “such is the law.” And then he cited cases innumerable to prove that it was the law.

“Well,” said the Judge, “unless you show me a case of a bull and a meal-tub, I shall not pay attention to any case—must be a meal-tub.”

Second Judge: “It is extortion, and done for the purpose of extortion; and I should say he could be indicted for obtaining money by false pretences.”

“I am not sure he could not, my lord,” said the counsel; “but he can’t recover the money back.”

“Then,” said the Judge, “if he obtains money by an indictable fraud cannot he get it back?”

“Well,” said Bumpkin, “that be rum law; if it had bin my bull, he’d a gin ’em summat afore they runned him in.”

It was interesting to see how the judges struggled against this ridiculous law; and it was manifest even to the unlettered Bumpkin, that a good deal of old law is very much like old clothes, the worse for wear, and totally inapplicable to the present day. A struggle against old authorities is often a struggle of Judges to free themselves from the fetters of antiquated dicta and decisions no longer appropriate to or necessary for the modern requirements of civilisation.

In this case precedents running over one hundred and eight years were quoted, and so far from impressing the Court with respect, they simply evoked a smile of contempt.

The learned Judges, after patiently listening to the arguments, decided that extortion and fraud give no title, and thus were the mists and vapours that arose from the accumulated mudbanks of centuries dispelled by the clear shining of common sense. In spite of arguments by the hour, and the pettifogging of one hundred and eight years, justice prevailed, and the amazed appellant was far more damaged by his legal proceedings than he was by the bull. The moral surely is, that however wise ancient judges were in their day, their wisdom ought not to be allowed to work injustice. He may be a wise Judge who makes a precedent, but he is often a much wiser who sweeps it away.