Farewell.

The last chapter of a book must always possess a special and melancholy interest for the author. He gives his words reluctantly, almost grudgingly, like one who is spending his last coins and will soon be left penniless upon the world. Or like one who is passing his last moments at the house of a friend whom he may see no more for ever. The author is taking farewell of his characters and his readers, and therefore his regret is twofold; added to which is the doubt as to whether, judged by the severe standard of Public Opinion, he has been faithful to both. Thought is large, and may fill the world, permeating every class and every section of society; it may be circumscribed, and operate only upon some infinitesimal proportion of mankind: but whether great or small, for good or evil, it is published, and a corresponding responsibility devolves upon the writer. I record my dream faithfully, and am therefore exonerated, in my conscience, from responsibility in its effect.

How shall I describe the closing scene of this eventful story? I will imagine nothing; I will exaggerate nothing; for, during the whole progress of the story, it has been my constant care not to give the most captious critic the opportunity of saying that I have exaggerated a single incident. I will relate faithfully what I saw in my dream, and that only; diminishing nothing, and adding nothing.

In my waking moments my wife said it was very wrong of Mr. Bumpkin, after all that Mr. Prigg had done for him, to be so rude. I agreed that it was: but said, great allowance must be made for Mr. Bumpkin’s want of education. Then said my wife, “Will not some shallow-minded persons say that your story attacks the administration of justice?” To which I replied that it did not matter what shallow-minded persons said, but that in fact I had in no way attacked the administration of justice; nor had I in the least degree reflected on the great body of respectable solicitors who had in their hands the interests of the country, and faithfully discharged their duties. And then I stood up, and putting forth my hand in imitation of Pitt’s statue in the corridor of the House of Commons, I said, “Justice is Divine, not Human; and you cannot detract from anything that is Divine, any more than you can lessen the brilliancy of the sun. You may obscure its splendour to mortal eyes, but its effulgence is the same. Man may so ostensibly assert his own dignity, or the dignity of a perishable system, that it may temporarily veil the beauty of a Divine attribute; but Justice must still remain the untarnished glory of Divine wisdom. It is not the pomp of position or the majesty of office that imparts dignity to Justice.”

Here, exhausted with my effort, and with my wife’s applause ringing in my ears, I fell asleep again, and dreamed that I saw Bumpkin sadly wandering about the old farm; his faithful wife following, and never for one moment ceasing to cheer him up. It was a fine bright morning in October as they wandered forth. There wasn’t a living thing about the farm except the birds, and even they seemed sad in their twittering. Could it be possible that they knew of poor Bumpkin’s miserable condition?

There was an old jackdaw that certainly did; for he hopped and hopped along after the master with the saddest expression I ever saw bird wear. But the master took no notice. On and on he wandered, seemingly unconscious of the presence even of his wife.

“Tom!” she said, “Tom, where beest thee gwine?”

Bumpkin started; turned round, and said:

“Nancy! what, be it thee, lassie?”

“Ay, Tom, sure enough it be I. Let’s cheer up, Tom. If the worst come to the worst—we can but goo to Union.”

“The wust have come to th’ wust, Nancy; we be ruined! Look at this ’ere farm—all be bare—all be lost, Nancy. Hark how silent it all be!”

“Never mind, Tom; never mind. I wish Joe wur here.”

“Ah! Joe, yes. I wonder where Joe be; praps he be out here in th’ six akre.”

“No, no, Tom, he be gwine for a sojer; but I’ve a mind he’ll come back. And who knows, we may be ’appy yet! We’ve worked hard, Tom, together these five-and-thirty year, and sure we can trudge on t’ th’ end. Come, let’s goo in and ave some breakfast.”

But Tom kept on walking and looking round the fields after his old manner.

“I think we’ll ave wuts here,” said he.

“So ur will, Tom, but let’s have breakfast fust. Come, lad.”

They wandered still through the quiet fields, and the old man’s mind seemed giving way. But I saw that Mrs. Bumpkin kept up with him and cheered him whenever she could put in a word of comfort, cold and hopeless as it was. And so the day was spent, and the night came, and they entered their home for the last time. It was a terribly sad night; but the Vicar came and sat up late with the old people, and talked to them and read and cried with them, until at last Tom said:

“I zee it, sir, thee hast showed I; thank God for thy words. Yes, yes, we maun leave t’ morrer, and we’ll call on thee, and maybe thou’lt goo to th’ Squire wi’ us and explaain to un how we can’t pay our rent, and may be th’ Squire’ll let I work un out. If we could only work un out, I’d be ’appy.”

“Ay, Tom,” said Mrs. Bumpkin, “an I’ll work too; thee knows that.”

“Thee wast allays a good wife, Nancy; and I’ll allays say’t, come what wooll.”

“Yes,” said the Vicar, “to-morrow we will go—”

“I don’t want un to forgive I th’ rent,” said Tom; “only to gie us time, and Nancy and I’ll work un out.” And so it was arranged that the next morning the old home was to be left for ever. It was no longer home, for every article of furniture, every tool, every scrap that was of any value had been ruthlessly seized by the heartless money-lender whom the Law permitted to rob under the name of a bill of sale. The man was in possession to take away their bed and the few other articles that were left for their accommodation till the morrow.

And on the morrow I saw the last of poor Bumpkin that I shall ever see. In the beautiful sunshine of that October morning, just by the old oak, he was leaning over the gate looking his last at the dear old fields and the old farm-house where so many happy years had been spent. By his side was his wife, with her hand shading her eyes; the old dog was between them, looking into the face now of Tom and then of his wife. Mr. Bumpkin’s arms were resting on the gate, and his old ash stick that he used to walk with over the fields was in his hand. They stood there for a long, long time as though they could never leave it. And I saw the tears trickle down the old man’s face as Mrs. Bumpkin, letting fall the corner of her apron, which she had held to her eyes, and placing her arm through his, said in a faltering voice:—

“Come, Tom, we must goo.”

THE END.