Mr. Fillet no sooner appeared in the judgment-chamber of Justice Gobble, than Captain Crowe, seizing him by the hand, exclaimed, “Body o’ me! Doctor, thou’rt come up in the nick of time to lend us a hand in putting about.—We’re a little in the stays here—but howsomever we’ve got a good pilot, who knows the coast; and can weather the point, as the saying is. As for the enemy’s vessel, she has had a shot or two already athwart her forefoot; the next, I do suppose, will strike the hull, and then you will see her taken all a-back.” The doctor, who perfectly understood his dialect, assured him he might depend upon his assistance; and, advancing to the knight, accosted him in these words: “Sir Launcelot Greaves, your most humble servant—when I saw a crowd at the door, I little thought of finding you within, treated with such indignity—yet I can’t help being pleased with an opportunity of proving the esteem and veneration I have for your person and character.—You will do me particular pleasure in commanding my best services.”
Our adventurer thanked him for this instance of his friendship, which he told him he would use without hesitation; and desired he would procure immediate bail for him and his two friends, who had been imprisoned contrary to law, without any cause assigned.
During this short dialogue, the justice, who had heard of Sir Launcelot’s family and fortune, though an utter stranger to his person, was seized with such pangs of terror and compunction, as a grovelling mind may be supposed to have felt in such circumstances; and they seemed to produce the same unsavoury effects that are so humorously delineated by the inimitable Hogarth, in his print of Felix on his tribunal, done in the Dutch style. Nevertheless, seeing Fillet retire to execute the knight’s commands, he recollected himself so far as to tell the prisoners, there was no occasion to give themselves any farther trouble, for he would release them without bail or mainprise. Then discarding all the insolence from his features, and assuming an aspect of the most humble adulation, he begged the knight ten thousand pardons for the freedoms he had taken, which were entirely owing to his ignorance of Sir Launcelot’s quality.
“Yes, I’ll assure you, sir,” said the wife, “my husband would have bit off his tongue rather than say black is the white of your eye, if so be he had known your capacity.—Thank God, we have been used to deal with gentlefolks, and many’s the good pound we have lost by them; but what of that? Sure we know how to behave to our betters. Mr. Gobble, thanks be to God, can defy the whole world to prove that he ever said an uncivil word, or did a rude thing to a gentleman, knowing him to be a person of fortune. Indeed, as to your poor gentry and riffraff, your tag-rag and bob-tail, or such vulgar scoundrelly people, he has always behaved like a magistrate, and treated them with the rigger of authority.”—“In other words,” said the knight, “he has tyrannised over the poor, and connived at the vices of the rich. Your husband is little obliged to you for this confession, woman.”—“Woman!” cried Mrs. Gobble, impurpled with wrath, and fixing her hands on her sides by way of defiance, “I scorn your words.—Marry come up! woman, quotha! no more a woman than your worship.” Then bursting into tears, “Husband,” continued she, “if you had the soul of a louse, you would not suffer me to be abused at this rate; you would not sit still on the bench, and hear your spouse called such contemptible epitaphs.—Who cares for his title and his knightship? You and I, husband, knew a tailor that was made a knight; but thank God, I have noblemen to stand by me with their privileges and beroguetifs.”
At this instant Mr. Fillet returned with his friend, a practitioner in the law, who freely offered to join in bailing our adventurer, and the other two prisoners, for any sum that should be required. The justice perceiving the affair began to grow more and more serious, declared that he would discharge the warrants and dismiss the prisoners.
Here Mr. Clarke interposing, observed, that against the knight no warrant had been granted, nor any information sworn to; consequently, as the justice had not complied with the form of proceeding directed by statute, the imprisonment was coram non judice, void. “Right, sir,” said the other lawyer; “if a justice commits a felon for trial without binding over the prosecutor to the assizes, he shall be fined.”—“And again,” cried Clarke, “if a justice issues a warrant for commitment, where there is no accusation, action will lie against the justice.” “Moreover,” replied the stranger, “if a justice of peace is guilty of any misdemeanour in his office, information lies against him in Banco Regis, where he shall be punished by fine and imprisonment” “And, besides,” resumed the accurate Tom, “the same court will grant an information against a justice of peace, on motion, for sending even a servant to the house of correction or common jail without sufficient cause.”—“True!” exclaimed the other limb of the law, “and, for contempt of the law, attachment may be had against justices of peace in Banco Regis. A justice of the peace was fined a thousand marks for corrupt practices.”
With these words, advancing to Mr. Clarke, he shook him by the hand, with the appellation of brother, saying, “I doubt the justice has got into a cursed hovel.” Mr. Gobble himself seemed to be of the same opinion. He changed colour several times during the remarks which the lawyers had made; and now, declaring that the gentlemen were at liberty, begged, in the most humble phrase, that the company would eat a bit of mutton with him, and after dinner the affair might be amicably compromised.
To this proposal our adventurer replied, in a grave and resolute tone, “If your acting in the commission as a justice of the peace concerned my own particular only, perhaps I should waive any further inquiry, and resent your insolence no other way but by silent contempt. If I thought the errors of your administration proceeded from a good intention, defeated by want of understanding, I should pity your ignorance, and, in compassion, advise you to desist from acting a part for which you are so ill qualified; but the preposterous conduct of such a man deeply affects the interest of the community, especially that part of it, which, from its helpless situation, is the more entitled to your protection and assistance. I am, moreover, convinced that your misconduct is not so much the consequence of an uninformed head, as the poisonous issue of a malignant heart, devoid of humanity, inflamed with pride, and rankling with revenge. The common prison of this little town is filled with the miserable objects of your cruelty and oppression. Instead of protecting the helpless, restraining the hands of violence, preserving the public tranquillity, and acting as a father to the poor, according to the intent and meaning of that institution of which you are an unworthy member, you have distressed the widow and the orphan, given a loose to all the insolence of office, embroiled your neighbours by fomenting suits and animosities, and played the tyrant among the indigent and forlorn. You have abused the authority with which you were invested, entailed a reproach upon your office, and, instead of being revered as a blessing, you are detested as a curse among your fellow-creatures. This indeed is generally the case of low fellows, who are thrust into the magistracy without sentiment, education, or capacity.
“Among other instances of your iniquity, there is now in prison an unhappy woman, infinitely your superior in the advantages of birth, sense, and education, whom you have, even without provocation, persecuted to ruin and distraction, after having illegally and inhumanly kidnapped her only child, and exposed him to a violent death in a foreign land. Ah, caitiff! if you were to forego all the comforts of life, distribute your means among the poor, and do the severest penance that ever priestcraft prescribed for the rest of your days, you could not atone for the ruin of that hapless family; a family through whose sides you cruelly and perfidiously stabbed the heart of an innocent young woman, to gratify the pride and diabolical malice of that wretched lowbred woman, who now sits at your right hand as the associate of power and presumption. Oh! if such a despicable reptile shall annoy mankind with impunity, if such a contemptible miscreant shall have it in his power to do such deeds of inhumanity and oppression, what avails the law? Where is our admired constitution, the freedom, the security of the subject, the boasted humanity of the British nation! Sacred Heaven! if there was no human institution to take cognisance of such atrocious crimes, I would listen to the dictates of eternal justice, and, arming myself with the right of nature, exterminate such villains from the face of the earth!”
These last words he pronounced in such a strain, while his eyes lightened with indignation, that Gobble and his wife underwent the most violent agitation; the constable’s teeth chattered in his head, the jailor trembled, and the whole audience was overwhelmed with consternation.
After a short pause, Sir Launcelot proceeded in a milder strain: “Thank Heaven, the laws of this country have exempted me from the disagreeable task of such an execution. To them we shall have immediate recourse, in three separate actions against you for false imprisonment; and any other person who has been injured by your arbitrary and wicked proceedings, in me shall find a warm protector, until you shall be expunged from the commission with disgrace, and have made such retaliation as your circumstances will allow for the wrongs you have done the community.”
In order to complete the mortification and terror of the justice, the lawyer, whose name was Fenton, declared that, to his certain knowledge, these actions would be reinforced with divers prosecutions for corrupt practices, which had lain dormant until some person of courage and influence should take the lead against Justice Gobble, who was the more dreaded, as he acted under the patronage of Lord Sharpington. By this time fear had deprived the justice and his helpmate of the faculty of speech. They were indeed almost petrified with dismay, and made no effort to speak, when Mr. Fillet, in the rear of the knight, as he retired with his company, took his leave of them in these words: “And now, Mr. Justice, to dinner with what appetite you may.”
Our adventurer, though warmly invited to Mr. Fenton’s house, repaired to a public inn, where he thought he should be more at his ease, fully determined to punish and depose Gobble from his magistracy, to effect a general jail-delivery of all the debtors whom he had found in confinement, and in particular to rescue poor Mrs. Oakley from the miserable circumstances in which she was involved.
In the meantime he insisted upon entertaining his friends at dinner, during which many sallies of sea-wit and good humour passed between Captain Crowe and Dr. Fillet, which last had just returned from a neighbouring village, whither he was summoned to fish a man’s yard-arm, which had snapt in the slings. Their enjoyment, however, was suddenly interrupted by a loud scream from the kitchen, whither Sir Launcelot immediately sprung, with equal eagerness and agility. There he saw the landlady, who was a woman in years, embracing a man dressed in a sailor’s jacket, while she exclaimed, “It is thy own flesh and blood, so sure as I’m a living soul.—Ah! poor Greaves, poor Greaves, many a poor heart has grieved for thee!” To this salutation the youth replied, “I’m sorry for that, mistress.—How does poor mother? how does Suky Sedgemoor?”
The good woman of the house could not help shedding tears at these interrogations; while Sir Launcelot, interposing, said, not without emotion, “I perceive you are the son of Mrs. Oakley.—Your mother is in a bad state of health, but in me you will find a real parent.” Perceiving that the young man eyed him with astonishment, he gave him to understand that his name was Launcelot Greaves.
Oakley no sooner heard these words pronounced, than he fell upon his knees, and seizing the knight’s hand, kissed it eagerly, crying, “God for ever bless your honour, I am your name-son, sure enough—but what of that? I can earn my bread without being beholden to any man.”
When the knight raised him up, he turned to the woman of the house, saying, “I want to see mother. I’m afraid as how times are hard with her; and I have saved some money for her use.” This instance of filial duty brought tears into the eyes of our adventurer, who assured him his mother should be carefully attended, and want for nothing; but that it would be very improper to see her at present, as the surprise might shock her too much, considering that she believed him dead. “Ey, indeed,” cried the landlady, “we were all of the same opinion, being as the report went, that poor Greaves Oakley was killed in battle.” “Lord, mistress,” said Oakley, “there wan’t a word of truth in it, I’ll assure you.—What, d’ye think I’d tell a lie about the matter? Hurt I was, to be sure, but that don’t signify; we gave ‘em as good as they brought, and so parted.— Well, if so be I can’t see mother, I’ll go and have some chat with Suky. —What d’ye look so glum for? she an’t married, is she?” “No, no,” replied the woman, “not married, but almost heart-broken. Since thou wast gone she has done nothing but sighed, and wept, and pined herself into a decay. I’m afraid thou hast come too late to save her life.”
Oakley’s heart was not proof against this information. Bursting into tears, he exclaimed, “O my dear, sweet, gentle Suky! Have I then lived to be the death of her whom I loved more than the whole world?” He would have gone instantly to her father’s house, but was restrained by the knight and his company, who had now joined him in the kitchen.
The young man was seated at table, and gave them to understand, that the ship to which he belonged having arrived in England, he was indulged with a month’s leave to see his relations; and that he had received about fifty pounds in wages and prize-money. After dinner, just as they began to deliberate upon the measures to be taken against Gobble, that gentleman arrived at the inn, and humbly craved admittance. Mr. Fillet, struck with a sudden idea, retired into another apartment with the young farmer; while the justice, being admitted to the company, declared that he came to propose terms of accommodation. He accordingly offered to ask pardon of Sir Launcelot in the public papers, and pay fifty pounds to the poor of the parish, as an atonement for his misbehaviour, provided the knight and his friends would grant him a general release. Our adventurer told him, he would willingly waive all personal concessions; but, as the case concerned the community, he insisted upon his leaving off acting in the commission, and making satisfaction to the parties he had injured and oppressed. This declaration introduced a discussion, in the course of which the justice’s petulance began to revive; when Fillet, entering the room, told them he had a reconciling measure to propose, if Mr. Gobble would for a few minutes withdraw.
He rose up immediately, and was shown into the room which Fillet had prepared for his reception. While he sat musing on this untoward adventure, so big with disgrace and disappointment, young Oakley, according to the instructions he had received, appeared all at once before him, pointing to a ghastly wound, which the doctor had painted on his forehead. The apparition no sooner presented itself to the eyes of Gobble, than, taking it for granted it was the spirit of the young farmer whose death he had occasioned, he roared aloud, “Lord have mercy upon us!” and fell insensible on the floor. There being found by the company, to whom Fillet had communicated his contrivance, he was conveyed to bed, where he lay some time before he recovered the perfect use of his senses. Then he earnestly desired to see the knight, and assured him he was ready to comply with his terms, inasmuch as he believed he had not long to live. Advantage was immediately taken of this salutary disposition. He bound himself not to act as a justice of the peace, in any part of Great Britain, under the penalty of five thousand pounds. He burnt Mrs. Oakley’s note; paid the debts of the shopkeeper; undertook to compound those of the publican, and to settle him again in business; and, finally, discharged them all from prison, paying the dues out of his own pocket. These steps being taken with peculiar eagerness, he was removed to his own house, where he assured his wife he had seen a vision that prognosticated his death; and had immediate recourse to the curate of the parish for spiritual consolation.
The most interesting part of the task that now remained was to make the widow Oakley acquainted with her good fortune, in such a manner as might least disturb her spirits, already but too much discomposed. For this purpose they chose the landlady, who, after having received proper directions how to regulate her conduct, visited her in person that same evening. Finding her quite calm, and her reflection quite restored, she began with exhorting her to put her trust in Providence, which would never forsake the cause of the injured widow and fatherless. She promised to assist and befriend her on all occasions, as far as her abilities would reach. She gradually turned the conversation upon the family of the Greaves; and by degrees informed her, that Sir Launcelot, having learned her situation, was determined to extricate her from all her troubles. Perceiving her astonished, and deeply affected at this intimation, she artfully shifted the discourse, recommended resignation to the divine will, and observed, that this circumstance seemed to be an earnest of further happiness.
“Oh! I’m incapable of receiving more!” cried the disconsolate widow, with streaming eyes.—“Yet I ought not to be surprised at any blessing that flows from that quarter. The family of Greaves were always virtuous, humane, and benevolent. This young gentleman’s mother was my dear lady and benefactress:—he himself was suckled at these breasts. Oh! he was the sweetest, comeliest, best-conditioned babe!—I loved not my own Greaves with greater affection—but he, alas! is now no more!” “Have patience, good neighbour,” said the landlady of the White Hart, “that is more than you have any right to affirm—all that you know of the matter is by common report, and common report is commonly false; besides, I can tell you I have seen a list of the men that were killed in Admiral P——‘s ship, when he fought the French in the East Indies, and your son was not in the number.” To this intimation she replied, after a considerable pause, “Don’t, my good neighbour, don’t feed me with false hope.—My poor Greaves too certainly perished in a foreign land—yet he is happy;—had he lived to see me in this condition, grief would soon have put a period to his days.” “I tell you then,” cried the visitant, “he is not dead. I have seen a letter that mentions his being well since the battle. You shall come along with me—you are no longer a prisoner, but shall live at my house comfortably, till your affairs are settled to your wish.” The poor widow followed her in silent astonishment, and was immediately accommodated with necessaries.
Next morning her hostess proceeded with her in the same cautious manner, until she was assured that her son had returned. Being duly prepared, she was blest with a sight of poor Greaves, and fainted away in his arms. We shall not dwell upon this tender scene, because it is but of a secondary concern in the history of our knight-errant. Let it suffice to say, their mutual happiness was unspeakable. She was afterwards visited by Sir Launcelot, whom she no sooner beheld, than springing forwards with all the eagerness of maternal affection, she clasped him to her breast, crying, “My dear child! my Launcelot! my pride! my darling! my kind benefactor! This is not the first time I have hugged you in these arms! Oh! you are the very image of Sir Everhard in his youth; but you have got the eyes, the complexion, the sweetness, and complacency of my dear and ever-honoured lady.” This was not in the strain of hireling praise; but the genuine tribute of esteem and admiration. As such, it could not but be agreeable to our hero, who undertook to procure Oakley’s discharge, and settle him in a comfortable farm on his own estate.
In the meantime Greaves went with a heavy heart to the house of Farmer Sedgemoor, where he found Suky, who had been prepared for his reception, in a transport of joy, though very weak, and greatly emaciated. Nevertheless, the return of her sweetheart had such an happy effect on her constitution, that in a few weeks her health was perfectly restored.
This adventure of our knight was crowned with every happy circumstance that could give pleasure to a generous mind. The prisoners were released, and reinstated in their former occupations. The justice performed his articles from fear; and afterwards turned over a new leaf from remorse. Young Oakley was married to Suky, with whom he received a considerable portion. The new-married couple found a farm ready stocked for them on the knight’s estate; and the mother enjoyed a happy retreat in the character of housekeeper at Greavesbury Hall.
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