Mr. Bumpkin is congratulated by his neighbours and friends in the market place and sells his corn.

What a lovely peace there was again over the farm! It was true Mr. Bumpkin had not obtained as large a measure of damages as his solicitor had led him to anticipate, but he was triumphant, and that over a man like Snooks was something. So the damages were forgotten beneath that peaceful August sky. How bright the corn looked! There was not a particle of “smut” in the whole field. And it was a good breadth of wheat this year for Southwood Farm. The barley too, was evidently fit for malting, and would be sure to fetch a decent price: especially as they seemed to say there was not much barley this year that was quite up to the mark for malting. The swedes, too, were coming on apace, and a little rain by and by would make them swell considerably. So everything looked exceedingly prosperous, except perhaps the stock. There certainly were not so many pigs. Out of a stye of eleven there was only one left. The sow was nowhere to be seen. She had been sold, it appeared, so no more were to be expected from that quarter. When Mr. Bumpkin asked where “old Jack” was (that was the donkey), he was informed that “the man” had fetched it. “The man” it appeared was always fetching something. Yesterday it was pigs; the day before it was ducks; the day before that it was geese; and about a week ago it was a stack of this year’s hay: a stack of very prime clover indeed. Then “the man” took a fancy to some cheeses which Mrs. Bumpkin had in the dairy, some of her very finest make. She remonstrated, but “the man” was peremptory. But what most surprised Mr. Bumpkin, and drew tears from Mrs. Bumpkin’s eyes, was when the successful litigant enquired how the bull was.

Mrs. Bumpkin had invented many plans with a view to “breaking this out” to her husband: and now that the time had come every plan was a failure. The tears betrayed her.

“What, be he dead?” enquired Mr. Bumpkin.

“O, no, Tom—no, no—”

“Well, what then?”

“The man!”

“The man! The devil’s in thic man, who be he? Where do ur come from? I’ll bring an action agin him as sure’s he’s alive or shoot un dead wi my gun;” here Mr. Bumpkin, in a great rage, got up and went to the beam which ran across the kitchen ceiling, and formed what is called the roof-tree of the house, by the side of which the gun was suspended by two loops.

“No, no, Tom, don’t—don’t—we have never wronged any one yet, and don’t—don’t now.”

“But I wool,” said Bumpkin; “what! be I to be stripped naaked and not fight for th’ cloathes—who be thic feller as took the bull?”

Mrs. Bumpkin was holding her apron to her eyes, and for a long while could say nothing.

“Who be he, Nancy?”

“I don’t know, Tom—but he held a paper in his hand writ all over as close as the stubble-rows in the field, and he said thee had signed un.”

“Lord! lord!” exclaimed Mr. Bumpkin, and then sat down on the settle and looked at the fire as though it threw a light over his past actions. He couldn’t speak for a long time, not till Mrs. Bumpkin went up to him and laid her hand upon his shoulder, and said:

“Tom! Tom! thee ha winned the case.”

“Aye, aye,” said Bumpkin, starting up as from a reverie. “I ha winned, Nancy. I ha beat thic there Snooks; ur wont snigger now when ur gooes by—lor, lor,—our counsellor put it into un straight, Nancy.”

“Did ur, Tom?—well, I be proud.”

“Ah!” said Bumpkin, “and what d’ye think?—it wornt our counsellor, that is the Queen’s Counsellor nuther; he wornt there although I paid un, but I spoase he’ll gie up the money, Nancy?”

“Were it much, Tom?”

“Farty guineas!”

“Farty guineas, Tom! Why, it wur enough to set up housekeepin wi—and thee only winned twenty-five, Tom; why thic winnin were a heavy loss I think.”

“Now, lookee ere,” said Bumpkin; “I oughter had five undered, as Laryer Prigg said, our case were that good, but lor it baint sartain: gie I a little gin and water, Nancy—thee ain’t asked I to have a drap since I bin oame.”

“Lor, Tom, thee knows I be all for thee, and that all be thine.”

“It beant much, it strikes me; lor, lor, whatever shall us do wirout pigs and sheep, and wirout thic bull. I be fit to cry, Nancy, although I winned the case.”

Tom had his gin and water and smoked his pipe, and went to bed and dreamed of all that had taken place. He rose with the lark and went into the fields and enjoyed once again the fresh morning air, and the sweet scent of the new hayrick in the yard; and, without regarding it, the song of the lark as it shot heavenward and poured down its stream of glad music: but there was amidst all a sadness of spirit and a feeling of desolation. It was not like the old times when everything seemed to welcome him about the farm wherever he went. The work of “the man” was everywhere. But the harvest was got in, and a plentiful harvest it was: the corn was threshed, and one day Mr. Bumpkin went to market with his little bags of samples of the newly-housed grain. Everybody was glad to see him, for he was known everywhere as a regular upright and down-straight man. Every farmer and every corn-dealer and cattle-dealer congratulated him in his homely way on his success. They looked at his samples and acknowledged they were very bright and weighty. “I never liked that Snooks feller,” was the general cry, and at the farmers’ ordinary, which was held every market day at the “Plough,” every one who knew Bumpkin shook hands and wished him well, and after dinner, before they broke up, Farmer Gosling proposed his health, and said how proud he “were that his old neighbour had in the beautiful words o’ the National Anthem, ‘confounded their politicks’: and he hoped that the backbone o’ old England, which were the farmers, wornt gwine to be broked jist yet awhile. Farmin might be bad, but yet wi little cheaper rents and a good deal cheaper rates and taxes, there’d be good farmin and good farmers in England yit.”

Now this speech, I saw in my dream, brought down the house. Everyone said it was more to the point than the half-mile speeches which took up so much of the newspapers to the exclusion of murders, burglaries and divorces. And in truth, now I come to look at it in my waking moments, I respectfully commend it to our legislators, or what is better, to their constituencies, as embodying on this subject both the principles of true conservatism and true liberalism: and I don’t see what the most exacting of politicians can require more than that.

Mr. Bumpkin made a suitable reply—that is to say, “he wur mighty proud o’ their neighbourliness—he wur a plaain man, as had made his own way in the world, or leastwise tried to do un by ard work and uprightedness and downstraightedness; tried to be straight forrerd, and nobody as he knowed of could ax un for a shillin’. But,” he added: “I be praisin oop myself, neighbours, I be afeard, and I doant wish to do thic, only to put I straaight afore thee. I beant dead yit, and I hope we shall all be friends and neighbours, and meet many moore times at this ornary together.”

And so, delighted with one another, after a glass or two, and a song or two, the party broke up, all going to their several farms. Mr. Bumpkin was particularly well pleased, for he had sold twenty quarters of wheat at forty-nine shillings a quarter; which, as times went, was a very considerable increase, showing the excellent quality of the samples.

Sooner or later, however, it must be told, that when Bumpkin reached his quiet farm, a strange and sad scene presented itself. Evidences of “the man” were in all directions. He had been at work while Mr. Bumpkin in his convivial moments was protesting that he did not owe anyone a shilling. Alas! how little the best of as know how much we owe!

Mrs. Bumpkin, who had borne up like a true woman through all the troubles that had come upon her home,—borne up for his sake, hoping for better days, and knowing nothing of the terrible net that had been spread around them by the wily fowler, at length gave way, as she saw “the man” loading his cart with her husband’s wheat; the wheat he had gone that day to sell. Bitterly she wrung her hands, and begged him to spare her husband that last infliction. Was there anything that she could do or give to save him this blow? No, no; the man was obstinate in the performance of his duty; “right was right, and wrong was no man’s right!”

So when Mr. Bumpkin returned, the greater part of his wheat was gone, and the rest was being loaded. The beautiful rick of hay too, which had not yet ceased to give out the fresh scent that a new rick yields, were being cut and bound into trusses.

Poor Tom was fairly beside himself, but Mrs. Bumpkin had taken the precaution to hide the gun and the powder-flask, for she could not tell what her husband might do in his distraction. Possibly she was right. Tom’s rage knew no bounds. Youth itself seemed to be restored in the strength of his fury. He saw dimly the men standing around looking on; he saw, as in a dream, the man cutting on the rick, and he uttered incoherent sentences which those only understood who were accustomed to his provincial accent.

“Tom, Tom,” said Mrs. Bumpkin, “don’t be in a rage.”

“Who be thic feller on my rick?”

“I beant any more a feller nor thee, Maister Boompkin; it aint thy rick nuther.”

“Then in the name of h—, whose be it?”

“It be Maister Skinalive’s; thee can’t have t’ cake an eat un; thee sowled it to un.”

“It be a lie, a --- lie; come down!”

“Noa, noa, I beant coomin doon till I coot all t’ hay; it be good hay an all, as sweet as a noot.”

“Where is thy master?” enquired Mrs. Bumpkin.

“I dooant rightly knoo, missus, where ur be; but I think if thee could see un, he’d poot it right if thee wanted time loike, and so on, for he be a kind-hearted man enoo.”

“Can we find un, do ur think?” asked Mrs. Bumpkin.

“If thee do, missus, it wur moor un I bin able to do for the last three moonths.”

“I’ll find some un,” said Mr. Bumpkin; “here, goo and fetch a pleeceman.”

This was said to a small boy who did the bird-minding, and was now looking on with his mouth wide open, and his eyes actually shedding tears.

“Ah, fetch a pleeceman an all,” said the man, thrusting the big hay-knife down into the centre of the rick; “but take a soop o’ cyder, maister; I dessay thee feels a bit out o’ sorts loike.”

“Thee darn thief; it be my cyder, too, I’ve a notion.”

“How can it be thine, maister, when thee ha’ sowled un?” said the man with his unanswerable logic: “haw! haw! haw!”

Mrs. Bumpkin held her husband’s hand, and tried her hardest to keep him from using violence towards the man. She felt the convulsive twitches of his strong muscles, and the inward struggle that was shaking his stalwart frame. “Come away, Tom; come away; let un do as they like, we’ll have them as will see us righted yet. There’s law for un, surely.”

“It beant no use to kick, maister,” said the man, again ramming the knife down into the rick as though he were cutting Mr. Bumpkin himself in half, and were talking to him the while; “it beant no use to kick, maister. Here thee be; thee owes the man the money, and can’t pay, so ur does this out of kindness to prevent thee being sowled oop loike.”

“Here be the pleeceman,” said Mrs. Bumpkin.

Mr. Bumpkin turned suddenly, and shouted, “Tak thic thief into custody.”

The policeman, albeit a country constable, was a very sensible man; and seeing how matters stood, he very wisely set himself to the better task of taking Mr. Bumpkin into custody without appearing to do so, and without Mr. Bumpkin knowing it.

“Now,” said he, “if so be as you will come indoors, Mr. Bumpkin, I think we can put our heads together and see what can be done in this ’ere case; if it’s stealing let him steal, and I’ll have him nicely; but if it ain’t stealing, then I woant have him at all.” (A pause.)

“For why?” (A pause.)

“Because the law gives you other remedies.”

“That be right, pleeceman,” said Bumpkin; “I’ll goo wi’ thee. Now then, Nancy, let’s goo; and look ’ere, thee thief, I’ll ha’ thee in th’ jail yet.”

The man grinned with a mouth that seemed to have been cut with his own hay-knife, so large was it, and went on with his work, merely saying: “I dooant charge thee nothin for cootin’ nor yet for bindin, maister; I does it all free graatis, loike.”

“Thee d--- thief, thee’ll be paid.”

So they went in, and the policeman was quite a comforter to the poor old man. He talked to him about what the law was on this point and that point, and how a trespass was one thing, and a breach of the peace another; and how he mustn’t take a man up for felony just because somebody charged him: otherwise, the man on the rick might have charged Mr. Bumpkin, and so on; till he got the old man into quite a discussion on legal points. But meanwhile he had given him another piece of advice, which was also much to his credit, and that was to send to his solicitor, Mr. Prigg. Mr. Prigg was accordingly sent for; but, like most good men, was very scarce. Nowhere could Mr. Prigg be found. But it was well known, for it was advertised everywhere on large bills, that the excellent gentleman would take the chair at a meeting, to be held in the schoolroom in the evening, for the propagation of Christianity among the Jews. The policeman would be on duty at that meeting, and he would be sure to see Mr. Prigg, and tell him Mr. Bumpkin was very desirous to see him as early as possible on the following day. Mr. Bumpkin was thankful, and to some extent pacified. As the policeman wished them goodnight, Mrs. Bumpkin accompanied him to the door, and begged, if he wouldn’t mind, that he would look in to-morrow, for he seemed a kind of protection for them.

It was about three in the afternoon of the following day when good Mr. Prigg drove up to Mr. Bumpkin’s door; he drove up with the mare that had been Mr. Bumpkin’s cow.

“Here he be,” said Mrs. Bumpkin; and if Mr. Prigg had been an angel from heaven, his presence could not have been more welcome. Oh, what sunshine he seemed to bring! Was it a rainbow round his face, or was it only his genial Christian smile? His collar was perfect, so was his tie; his head immoveable, so were his principles. “Dear, dear!” said Mrs. Bumpkin, “I be so glad thee be come, Mr. Prigg—here be master takin’ on so as never was; I never see’d anything like it.”

“What’s the matter, my dear lady?” inquired the good man.

“Be that loryer Prigg?” shouted a voice from the inner room.

“Aye, aye, Tom, it be Mr. Prigg.”

“Come in, zur,” said the voice, “come in; I be mighty glad to see thee. Why dam—”

“Hush!” remonstrated the diffuser of Christianity among the Jews; “hush!” and his hands were softly raised in gentle protest—albeit his head never turned so much as a hair’s breadth. “Let us be calm, my dear sir, let us be calm. We win by being calm.”

“Ah, we winned the lawsuit; didn’t us, sir?”

“Ah, that thee did, Tom!” exclaimed Mrs. Bumpkin, delighted at this momentary gleam of gladness in her husband’s broken heart.

“Of course we won,” said Mr. Prigg. “Did I ever entertain a doubt from the first about the merits of that case?”

“Thee did not, sir,” said Tom; “but lookee ’ere, sir,” he continued, in almost a whisper, “I dreamt last night as we lost un; and I see thic Snooks a sniggering as plaain as ever I see’d anybody in my life.”

“My dear sir, what matters your dream? We won, sir. And as for Snooks’ sniggering, I am sorry to say he is sold up.”

“Sold oop!” exclaimed Bumpkin. “Sorry! why beest thee sorry for un—beant thee sorry for I?”

“Sorry you’ve won, Mr. Bumpkin? No; but, I’m sorry for Snooks, because we lose our costs. Oh, that Locust is the greatest dodger I ever met.”

“I don’t understand thee, sir,” said Bumpkin. “What d’ye mean by not getting costs—won’t ur pay?”

“I fear not,” said Mr. Prigg, rubbing his hands. “I am surprised, too, that he should not have waited until the rule for a new trial was argued.”

“What the devil be the meaning o’ all this?” exclaimed Bumpkin.

“Really, really,” said the pious diffuser of Christianity, “we must exercise patience; we may get more damages if there should be another trial.”

“This be trial enough,” said Mr. Bumpkin; “and after all it were a trumpery case about a pig.”

“Quite so, quite so,” said the lawyer, rubbing his hands; “but you see, my dear sir, it’s not so much the pig.”

“No, no,” said Mr. Bumpkin, “it beant so much th’ pig; it be the hoarses moore, and the hayricks, and the whate, and—where be all my fowls and dooks?”

“The fowls—quite so! Let me see,” said the meditative man, pressing the head of his gold pencil-case against his forehead, “the fowls—let me see—oh, I know, they did the pleadings—so they did.”

“And thic sow o’ mine?”

“Yes, yes; I think she made an affidavit, if I remember rightly. Yes, yes—and the bacon,” said he, elevating his left hand, “six flitches I think there were; they used to be in this very room—”

“Ay, sure did ur,” said Mr. Bumpkin.

“Well I remember; they made a very splendid affidavit too: I have a note of all of them in my memory.”

“What coomed o’ the cows?”

“Cows? Yes—I have it—our leading counsel had them; and the calf, if I remember rightly, went to the junior.”

‘“Who had the cheeses?” inquired Mr. Bumpkin.

“Cheeses!” said the good man. “Oh, yes, the cheeses; they went in refreshers.”

“And the poor old donkey?” asked Mrs. Bumpkin.

“Ah, where be Jock?” said Mr. Bumpkin.

“Went for the opinion,” answered the lawyer.

“Where be thic bull o’ mine?” said Tom. “He wur the finest bull in all thic county, woren’t he, Nancy?”

“Ay,” answered Mrs. Bumpkin, “and ur follered I about, Tom, jist like a Christian.”

“So ur did, Nancy. Dost thee mind, when ur got through thic gap into Squire Stucky’s meadow, ’mong the cows?”

“Ay, Tom; and thee went and whistled un; but ur wouldn’t come for thy whistlin; and Joe, poor Joe! went and got a great stick.”

“There I mind un,” said Bumpkin; “what coomed of un, Master Prigg?”

“Quite so,” said Mr. Prigg; “quite so; let me see.” And again the gold pencil-case was pressed against his respectable forehead in placid cogitation. “Yes, that bull argued the appeal.”

“Hem!” said Mr. Bumpkin; “argied appeal, did ur? Well, I tell ee what, Master Prigg, if that air bull ’ad knowed what I knows now, he’d a gi’en them jusseses a bit o’ his mind, and thee too.”

“Dear me,” said Mr. Prigg; “you entirely mis-apprehend—”

“Well, lookee ’ere,” said Tom, “it beant no use to mince matters wi’ ee. What I wants to know is as this; I winned my case—”

“Quite so,” said Prigg.

“And ’ow be it then that all my sheep and things be took off the farm?”

“Dear me!” said Mr. Prigg, in the tone of an injured man; “I think, of all men, clients are the most ungrateful. I have worked night and day to serve you; I have sacrificed my pleasures, which I do not reckon—my home comforts—”

“But who be thic feller that steals my corn an’ hay, and pigs?”

“Really, Mr. Bumpkin, this is language which I did not expect from you.”

“But ’ow comes my farm stripped, Maister Prigg? tell I thic.”

“I suppose you have given a bill of sale, Mr. Bumpkin. You are aware that a lawsuit cannot be carried on without means, and you should have calculated the cost before going to war. I think there is Scripture authority for that.”

“Then have this Skinalive feller the right to take un?”

“I presume so,” said Prigg; “I know he’s a most respectable man.”

“A friend o’ thine, I s’poase?”

“Well,” said Prigg, hesitating, “I may even go so far as to say that.”

“Then I be gwine so fur as to say thee be a damned rogue!” said Mr. Bumpkin, rising, and thumping the table with great vehemence.

You might have knocked Mr. Prigg down with a feather, certainly with a bludgeon; such a shock he had never received at the hands of a client in the whole course of his professional experience. He rose and drew from his pocket an envelope, a very large official-looking envelope, such as no man twice in his life would like to see, even if he could be said to enjoy the prospect once.

It is not usual for respectable solicitors to carry about their bills of costs in their pockets, and why Mr. Prigg should have done so on this occasion I am not aware. I merely saw in my dream that he did so. There was not a change in his countenance; his piety was intact; there was not even a suffusion of colour. Placid, sweet-tempered, and urbane, as a Christian should be, he looked pityingly towards the hot and irascible Bumpkin, as though he should say, “You have smitten me on this cheek, now smite me on that!” and placed the great envelope on the table before the ungrateful man.

“What be thic?” inquired Mr. Bumpkin.

“A list of my services, sir,” said Prigg, meekly: “You will see there, ungrateful man, the sacrifices I have made on your behalf; the journeyings oft; the hunger, and, I may say, thirst; the perils of robbers, the perils amongst false friends, the—”

“I doant understand, sir,” said Bumpkin.

“Because darkness hath blinded your eyes,” said the pious lawyer; “but I leave you, Mr. Bumpkin, and I will ask you, since you no longer repose confidence in my judgment and integrity, to obtain the services of some other professional gentleman, who will conduct your case with more zeal and fidelity than you think I have shown; I who have carried your cause to a triumphant issue; and may be said to have established the grand principle that an Englishman’s house is his castle.”

And with this the good man, evidently affected by deep emotion, shook hands silently with Mrs. Bumpkin, and disappeared for ever from my view.

Never in any dream have I beheld that man again. Never, surely, under any form of humanity have so many virtues been concealed. I have looked for him in daily life, about the Courts of Justice and in the political arena, but his equal for simplicity of character, for unaffected piety, and purity of motive, have I never discovered, although I have seen many, who, without his talents, have vainly endeavoured to emulate his virtues.

Mrs. Bumpkin examined the document he had left, and found a most righteous statement of the services rendered by this great and good man; which, after giving credit to Mr. Bumpkin for cash received from Mr. Skinalive, Mr. Prigg’s friend, of seven hundred and twenty-two pounds, six shillings and eightpence-half-penny, left a balance due to Honest Lawyer Prigg of three hundred and twenty-eight pounds, seven shillings and threepence,—subject, of course, to be reduced on taxation.