In which the Magistrate is fuddled by the Baronet.
"Ah! Wittingham! Wittingham!" cried the baronet, stretching forth his
hand without rising, as the servant introduced the worthy magistrate,
"is that you, my old buck? If you haven't come in pudding-time,
you have come in wine-time, and will get what so few men get in
life,--your dessert. Sit down and pledge me, old fellow. What shall it
be in? Here's port that was bottled when I came of age, so you may
judge that it is good old stuff! Madeira that has made more voyages
than Cook, Comet Claret of 1811, and a bottle of Burgundy that smells
under my nose like oil of violets."
"Why, Sir John," replied Mr. Wittingham, taking the seat just left
vacant by Mrs. Clifford, and very well pleased with so familiar a
reception, when he expected quite the reverse; for to say the truth,
although some circumstances had happened to make him resolve upon
taking the bull by the horns, and visiting the old lion of Tarningham
Park in his den, it was nevertheless with great pain and difficulty
that he had screwed his courage to the sticking-point, "why, Sir John,
I come upon business, and it is better to transact affairs of
importance with a clear head."
"Pooh, nonsense!" exclaimed the baronet; "no man ever did business
well without being half drunk. Look at my old friend Pitt, poor
fellow! and Charley Fox, too, Sir William Scott, and Dundas, and all
of them, not a set of jollier topers in the world than they were, and
are still--what are left of them. Well, here's health to the living
and peace to the dead--Burgundy, eh?" and he filled a glass for Mr.
Wittingham to the brim.
The worthy magistrate took it, and drinking Sir John Slingsby's toast
was about to proceed to business, when the baronet again interrupted
him, saying, "Let me introduce you to my friends, Wittingham; there's
no fun in drinking with men you don't know. Dr. Miles you are
acquainted, this is my friend Mr. Beauchamp, and this my friend,
Captain Hayward. Gentlemen both, know, esteem, and admire Henry
Wittingham, Esq., one of the ornaments of the bench of the county
of ----, one of the trustees of the turnpike roads, a very active
magistrate, and a very honest man. Sink the shop, Witty," he
continued, in a friendly whisper to his companion, for Sir John seldom
if ever allowed Mr. Wittingham to escape without some allusion to his
previous occupations, which naturally made that gentleman hate him
mortally. "But before we have another glass, my good friend, I must
make you acquainted with these gentlemen's high qualities," proceeded
the baronet. "Here's Ned Hayward, the most deadly shot in Europe,
whether with pistol, rifle, or fowling-piece, nothing escapes him,
from the human form divine down to a cock-sparrow. The best angler in
England, too; would throw a fly into a tea-spoon at fifty yards
distance. He has come down for an interminable number of months to
catch my trout, kill my game, and drink my Claret. Then there is my
friend Mr. Beauchamp, more sentimentally given, a very learned man and
profound, loves poetry and solitary walks, and is somewhat for musing
melancholy made; but is a good hand at a trigger, too, I can tell
you--a light finger and a steady aim; ha! Beauchamp," and the baronet
winked his eye and laughed.
Beauchamp smiled good-humouredly, and in order to change the course of
the conversation, which was not exactly what suited him, he said that
he had the pleasure of a slight acquaintance with Mr. Wittingham.
Ned Hayward however, somewhat to Beauchamp's surprise, seemed
determined to encourage their host in his light and rattling talk, and
taking the latter up where Sir John had left it, he said, "Oh dear
yes, I dare say we shall have capital sport down here. The old work of
the 51st, Sir John; clearing all the fences, galloping over all the
turnips, riding down the young wheat, forgetting the limits of the
manor, letting the beasts out of the pound, making a collection of
knockers and bell-pulls, fighting the young men, and making love to
the young women--Mr. Wittingham, the wine stands with you."
Mr. Wittingham filled his glass and drank, saying with a grave and
somewhat alarmed air, "I don't think that would exactly do in this
county, Sir; the magistrates are rather strict here."
"The devil they are," said Ned Hayward, with a good deal of emphasis,
the meaning of which Mr. Wittingham could not well help understanding;
but the next moment the young gentleman went on: "but who cares a pin
for magistrates, Mr. Wittingham? They're nothing but a parcel of old
women."
"Halo, halo, Ned," cried Sir John, "you forget in whose presence you
are speaking; reverence the bench, young man, reverence the bench;
and if you can't do that, reverence the colonel."
"Oh, you're a great exception to the general rule," replied Captain
Hayward, "but what I say is very true, nevertheless: and as I like to
define my positions, I will give you a lexicographical description of
the magistrates. They should be called in any dictionary, a body
of men selected from the most ignorant of the people, for the
mal-administration of good laws."
"Bravo, bravo," shouted Sir John Slingsby, roaring with laughter, and
even Dr. Miles nodded his head with a grave smile, saying, "Too just a
definition indeed."
Mr. Wittingham looked confounded, but Sir John passed him the bottle,
and for relief he again fell to his glass and emptied it. Now to men
not quite sure of their position, there is nothing so completely
overpowering as jest and merriment with a dash of sarcasm. In grave
argument, where they have their own vanity for their backer, they will
always venture to meet men both of superior abilities and superior
station, whether in so doing they expose themselves or not; for in
that case their notions are generally formed beforehand, and they are
fully convinced that those notions are just; but in a combat of the
wit, it requires to be a very ready man, and also to have all those
habits of society which enable one to make the reply tart enough, with
every semblance of courtesy. On the bench and in the justice-room Mr.
Wittingham would often venture to spar with Sir John Slingsby, and
sometimes with a good deal of success; for although the baronet had
much greater natural abilities and information, yet he had so many
foibles and failings, and occasionally such a degree of perversity,
that from time to time his adversary would get hold of a weak point,
and drive him into a corner. It always ended, however, by Sir John
coming off triumphant; for when he found that argument failed him he
had recourse to ridicule, and in two minutes would utterly confound
his antagonist, and overwhelm him amidst peals of laughter.
In the present instance Mr. Wittingham found that Sir John was in one
of his jocular moods, and scarcely dared to say a word lest he should
bring some of his hard jests upon his head, especially when he had the
strong support which Ned Hayward seemed capable of giving. He was
therefore anxious to proceed to the business that brought him as
speedily as possible; and giving up the defence of the magistracy
after a momentary pause, he said, "Really, Sir John, as I must get
home soon--"
"Not till you have finished your bottle, man," cried Sir John
Slingsby, pushing the Burgundy to him; "whoever comes to see me after
dinner, must fight me or drink a bottle with me; so here's to your
health, Witty--a bumper, a bumper, and no heel-taps."
Now the glasses at Sir John Slingsby's table might well be called
wine-glasses, for they seldom had any other liquor in them; but at the
same time, in size they were not much less than those vessels which
are named tumblers, I suppose from their being less given to tumbling
than any other sort of glass. Mr. Wittingham had drank three already,
besides the moderate portion which he had taken at his own dinner; but
in order to get rid of the subject, he swallowed another of strong
Burgundy, and then commenced again, saying, "Really, Sir John, we must
go to business. We can sip your good wine while we are talking the
affair over."
"Sip it!" exclaimed his host, "whoever heard of a man sipping such
stuff as this? Nobody ever sips his wine but some lackadaisical,
lovelorn swain, with a piece of Cheshire cheese before him, making
verses all the time upon pouting lips and rounded hips, and sparkling
eyes and fragrant sighs, and pearly teeth and balmy breath, and
slender nose and cheek that glows, and all the O's! and all the I's!
that ever were twisted into bad metre and had sense; or else the
reformed toper, who is afraid of exceeding the stint that his doctors
have allowed him, and lingers out every drop with the memory of many a
past carouse before his eyes. No, no, such wine as this is made to be
swallowed at a mouthful, washing the lips with a flood of enjoyment,
stimulating the tongue, spreading a glow over the palate, and cooling
the tonsils and the throat only to inflame them again with fresh
appetite for the following glass--sip it! why hang it, Wittingham, it
is to insult a good bottle of wine, and I trust that you may be shot
dead by a Champagne cork to teach you better manners."
"Well, then," cried Mr. Wittingham, stimulated to _répartee_ by
impatience, "I will say, Sir John, that we can swill your wine while
we are talking of business."
"Ay, that's something like," cried Sir John Slingsby, not at all
discomposed, "you shall swill the wine, and I will drink it, that'll
suit us both. Beauchamp we will let off, because he's puny, and Doctor
Miles because he's reverend; Ned Hayward will do us justice, glass for
glass, I'll answer for it. So another bumper, and then to business;
but first we'll have lights, your worship, for it's growing dusky,"
and Sir John rose to ring the bell.
Scarcely, however, had he quitted his seat, when there was heard a
loud report. One of the panes of glass in the window flew in shining
splinters into the room, and a ball whistling through, passed close to
the head of Mr. Wittingham, knocked off his wig, and lodged in the eye
of a Cupid who was playing with his mother in a large picture on the
other side of the room.
"Zounds!" cried Sir John Slingsby.