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 a b—and a u, beant it? See if that beant a u, Miss, your eyes be better un mine; they be younger.”

“O yes, that’s a u,” said Miss Prettyface, “and an m.”

“And that spell bum.”

“But stop,” said Miss Prettyface, “here’s a p.”

“That’s bump,” 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 ur y’s and g’s, I’ll swear; and lookee ’ere, beant this k 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 expression so 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 lady Missis 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 as Mr. 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 had carte blanche to 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, somewhat shabbily 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 the Daily 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, in the absence of any evidence to the contrary, thought there was a prim facie case 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 is sub judice no 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 at Mr. 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.