Mr. Bumpkin receives compliments from distinguished persons.

One evening as Mr. Bumpkin was sitting in his little parlour, ruminating, or as he termed it, “rummaging” in his mind over many things, and especially wondering when the trial would come on, Horatio, in breathless impatience, entered the room. His excited and cheerful appearance indicated that something of an unusually pleasant nature had occurred. A strong intimacy had long been established between this boy and Mr. Bumpkin, who regarded Horatio as a kind of legal prodigy; his very hopes seemed centered in and inspired by this lad. He seemed to be the guiding spirit and the flywheel of the whole proceedings. Was Snooks to be pulverized? it must be under Horatio’s heel!

This legal stripling brought almost as much comfort as Mr. Prigg himself; and it was quite a pleasure to hear the familiar terms in which he spoke of the bigwigs of the profession. He would say of McCannister, the Queen’s Counsel, “I like Mac’s style of putting a question, it’s so soft like—it goes down like a Pick-me-up.” Then he would allude to Mr. Heavytop, Q.C., as Jack; to Mr. Bigpot as old Kettledrum; to Mr. Swagger, Q.C., as Pat; to B. C. Windbag, Q.C., M.P., as B. C.—all which indicated to the mind of Mr. Bumpkin the particularly intimate terms upon which Horatio was with these celebrities. Nor did his intimacy cease there: instead of speaking of the highest legal official of the land in terms of respectful deference, as “my Lord High Chancellor,” or “my Lord Allworthy,”—he would say, in the most indifferent manner “Old Allworthy” this, and “Old Allworthy,” that; sometimes even, he ventured to call some of Her Majesty’s Judges by nick-names; an example which, I trust, will not be followed by the Horatios of the future. But I believe the pale boy, like his great namesake, was fearless. It was a comfort to hear him denounce the law’s delay, and the terrible “cumbersomeness” of legal proceedings: not that he did it in soothing language or in happy phraseology: it was rather in a manner that led Mr. Bumpkin to believe the young champion was standing up for his particular rights; as if he had said to the authorities, whoever they might be, “Look here! I’ll have no more of this: it’s a shame and disgrace to this country that a simple dispute between a couple of neighbours can’t be tried without months of quarrelling in Judges’ Chambers and elsewhere; if you don’t try this case before long I’ll see what can be done.” Then there was further consolation in the fact that Horatio declared that, in his opinion, Tommy Catpup, Q.C., would knock Snooks into a cocked hat, and that Snooks already looked very down in the mouth.

On the evening at which I have arrived in my dream, when the pale boy came in, Mr. Bumpkin inquired what was the matter: was the case settled? Had Snooks paid the damages? Nothing of the kind. Horatio’s visit was of a common-place nature. He had simply come to inform Mr. Bumpkin that the Archbishop of Canterbury had kindly sent him a couple of tickets for the reserved seats at Canterbury Hall.

Mr. Bumpkin was disappointed. He cared nothing for Archbishops. He was in hopes it had been something better.

“I wunt goo,” said he.

“We ought to go, I think,” said Horatio; “it was very kind of old Archy to send em, and he wouldn’t like it if we didn’t go: besides, he and the Rolls are great chums.”

“Rolls!” said Bumpkin.

“The Master of the Rolls. I shouldn’t wonder if he aint got Archy to send em—don’t you be a fool. And another thing, Paganani’s going to play the farmyard on the fiddle to-night. Gemminey, ain’t that good! You hear the pigs squeak, and the bull roar, and the old cock crow, and the sow grunt, and the horse kick—”

“How the devil can thee hear a horse kick, unless he kicks zummat?”

“Well, he does,” said Horatio; “that’s just what he does do. Let’s go, I am sure you will like it.”

“It beant one o’ these ere playhouse pleaces, be it?”

“Lor bless you,” said Horatio, “there’s pews just the same as if you was in Church: and the singing’s beautiful.”

“No sarmon, I s’pooase.”

“Not on week nights, but I’ll tell you what there is instead: a chap climbs up to the top of a high pole and stands on his head for ten minutes.”

Mr. Bumpkin, although a man who never went out of an evening, could not resist the persuasions of his pale young friend. He had never been to any place of amusement, except the Old Bailey, since he had been in London; although he had promised himself a treat to the Cattle Show, provided that came on, which was very likely, as it only wanted five months to it, before his case.

So they got on the top of a ’Bus and proceeded on their way to Lambeth Palace; for the Canterbury Hall, as everyone knows, is in that ancient pile. And truly, when they arrived everything was astonishingly beautiful and pleasing. Mr. Bumpkin was taken through the Picture Gallery, which he enjoyed, although he would have liked to see one or two like the Squire had got in his Hall, such as “Clinker,” the prize bull; and “Father Tommy,” the celebrated ram. But the Archbishop probably had never taken a prize: not much of a breeder maybe.

Now they entered the Hall amid strains of sweet, soft, enchanting music. Never before had the soul of Bumpkin been so enthralled: it was as if the region of fairyland had suddenly burst upon his astonished view. In presence of all this beauty, and this delicious cadence of sweet sounds, what a common-place thing Bumpkin v. Snooks seemed!

Theirs was a very nice pew, commanding a full view of the stage and all the angelic looking beings. And evidently our friends were considered fashionable people, for many of the audience looked round at them as they entered. So awed was Mr. Bumpkin when he first sat down, that he wondered whether he ought to look into his hat as the Squire did in Church; but, resolving to be guided by Horatio, and seeing that the pale youth did not even take his billycock off, but spread his elbows out on the front ledge and clapped his hands with terrific vehemence, and shouted “Anchore” as loudly as he could, Mr. Bumpkin, in imitation, clapped his hands and said “Hooroar!”

It was glorious. The waiter came and exchanged winks with the pale boy, and brought some soda-and-brandy and a cigar. Mr. Bumpkin wondered more and more. It was the strangest place he had ever heard of. It seemed so strange to have smoking and drinking. But then he knew there were things occurring every day that the cleverest men could not account for: not even Mr. Slater, the schoolmaster at Yokelton, could account for them.

Just in front of the two friends was another pew, a very nice one that was, and for some little time it was unoccupied. Presently with a great rustling of silks and a great smell of Jockey Club, and preceded by one of the servants of the establishment, entered two beautiful and fashionably dressed ladies of extremely quiet (except the Jockey Club) and retiring demeanour. They could not but attract Mr. Bumpkin’s attention: they so reminded him of the Squire’s daughters, only they dressed much better. How he would like Nancy to see them: she was very fond of beautiful gowns, was Nancy.

“I wonder who they be?” whispered Bumpkin.

“I don’t know,” answered Horatio; “I’ll ask as soon as I get a chance. It’s the Archbishop’s pew; I believe they are his daughters.”

“Wouldn’t ur ha come wi em?” said Bumpkin.

“He generally does, but I suppose he can’t get away to-night.”

At this moment a waiter, or as Bumpkin called him a pew opener, was passing, and Horatio whispered something in his ear, his companion looking at him the while from the corner of his eyes.

“The one on the right,” whispered the waiter, untwisting the wire of a bottle of sodawater, “is the Countess Squeezem, and the other is Lady Flora, her sister.”

Bumpkin nodded his head as much as to say, “Just see that: high life, that, if you like!”

And really the Countess and Lady Flora were as quiet and unassuming as if they had been the commonest bred people in the world.

Now came forward on the stage a sweet young lady dressed in yellow satin, with lovely red roses all down the front and one on the left shoulder, greeted by a thunder of applause. Her voice was thrilling: now it was at the back of the stage; now it was just behind your ear; now in the ceiling. You didn’t know where to have it. After she had done, Horatio said:

“What do you think of Nilsson?”

“Wery good! wery good!”

“Hallo,” says Horatio, “here’s Sims Reeves. Bravo Sims! bravo Reeves!”

“I’ve eered tell o’ he,” says Bumpkin; “he be wery young, bean’t he?”

“O,” says Horatio, “they paint up so; but ain’t he got a tenor—O gemminey crikery!”

“A tenner?” says Bumpkin, “what’s thee mean, ten pun a week?”

“O my eye!” says the youth, “he gets more than that.”

“It be good wages.”

“Yes, but it’s nothing to what some of em get,” says Horatio; “why if a man can play the fool well he can get as much as the Prime Minister.”

“Ah, and thic Prime Minister can play the fool well at times; it seem to me—they tooked the dooty of whate and made un too chape.”

“Who’s this?” asks Horatio of the waiter.

“Patti,” says the waiter, “at the express wish of the Queen.”

Bumpkin nods again, as though there was no end to the grandeur of the company.

Then comes another no less celebrated, if Horatio was correct.

“Hullo,” says he, “here’s Trebelli!”

Now this was too much for the absorbing powers of even a Bumpkin. Horatio had carried it too far. Not that his friend had ever heard of the great vocalist, but if you are inclined for fun pray use names that will go down. Mr. Bumpkin looked hard at Horatio’s face, on which was just the faintest trace of a smile. And then he said:

“What a name, Bellie! danged if I doan’t think thee be stickin it into I,” and then he laughed and repeated, “thee be stickin it into I.”

“Now for Pagannini!” says Horatio; “now you’ll hear something. By Jove, he’ll show you!”

“Why I’ve eerd tell o’ thic Piganiny when I were a boy,” says Bumpkin, “used to play on one leg.”

“That’s the man,” says Horatio.

“But this ere man got two legs, how can he be Piganiny?”

“I don’t know anything about that,” says Horatio; “what’s it matter how many legs he’s got, just listen to that!”

“Why danged if that bean’t as much like thic Cochin Chiner cock o’ mine as ever I eered in my life.”

“Told you so,” says Horatio; “but keep quiet, you’ll hear something presently.”

And sure enough he did: pig in the straw; sow in the stye; bull in the meadow; sheep in the fold; everything was perfect.

Never before had Mr. Bumpkin been so overpowered. He never before knew what music was. Truly Piganiny was a deserving man, and a clever one too. Mr. Bumpkin’s enthusiasm had carried him thus far, when to his great satisfaction the Lady Flora looked round. It was very nice of her, because it was as if she wished to know if Mr. Bumpkin and his friend felt the same rapturous delight as she and her sister. What a nice face Lady Flora’s was! It wasn’t unlike the Squire’s eldest daughter’s. Between that, perhaps, and the Vicar’s youngest daughter’s.

Then the Countess slightly turned round, her face wearing a smile of great complaisance, and Mr. Bumpkin could have seen at once that she was a person of great distinction even if he had not been informed of her rank. Well, taken for all in all, it was a night he would never forget, and his only feeling of regret was that Mrs. Bumpkin was not present to share his pleasure—the roar of that bull would have just pleased her; it was so like Sampson.

And now the scene shifters were preparing for another performance, and were adjusting ropes and fixing poles, and what not, when, as Mr. Bumpkin was lost in profound meditation, up rose from her seat the beautiful Lady Flora, and turning round with a bewitching face, and assuming an air of inexpressible simplicity, she exclaimed to Mr. Bumpkin in the sweetest of voices: “O you duck!”

Mr. Bumpkin started as if a cannon had exploded in his face instead of a beautiful young lady. He blushed to the deepest crimson, and then the lady Flora poured into him a volley of her sweetiest prettiest laughter. Attacked thus so suddenly and so effectively, what could he do? He felt there must be some mistake, and that he ought to apologize. But the Lady Flora gave him no time; leaning forward, she held out her hand—

“Beg pardon, m’lady—thic—I—I.”

Then the Countess rose and smiled upon Mr. Bumpkin, and said she hoped he wouldn’t mind; her sister was of such a playful disposition.

The playful one here just touched Mr. Bumpkin under the chin with her forefinger, and again said he was a “perfect duck!”

“What be the manin’ o’ this?” said he. “I be off; come on, sir. This be quite enough for I.”

“Don’t go like that,” said Lady Flora. “Oh, dear, dear, what a cruel man!”

“Not a glass of wine,” said the Countess.

“Not one, Mr. Bumpkin!” urged Lady Flora.

Mr. Bumpkin had risen, and was angry: he was startled at his name being known: he looked to Horatio, hoping some explanation might come; but the pale youth had his back to him, and was preparing to leave the Hall. There were many curious eyes looking at them, and there was much laughter. Mr. Bumpkin’s appearance would alone have been sufficient to cause this: but his mind was to be farther enlightened as to the meaning of this extraordinary scene; and it happened in this wise. As he was proceeding between the rows of people, followed closely by those illustrious members of the aristocracy, the Countess and Lady Flora; while the waiters grinned and the people laughed, his eye caught sight of an object away over the front seat, which formed a right angle with the one he had been occupying; it was an object unattractive in itself but which, under the circumstances, fixed and riveted his attention; that object was Snooks, in the corner of the third row, with his sawpit mouth on the broadest grin.