“Really, my love, what a very vulgar-looking creechar!”
“Not nearly so vulgar as Locust’s client,” rejoined her husband. “You should see him.”
“Thank you, my love, it is quite enough to catch a glimpse of the superior person of the two.”
Mr. Prigg seemed to think it a qualifying circumstance that Snooks was a more vulgar-looking man than Bumpkin, whereas a moment’s consideration showed Mrs. Prigg how illogical that was. It is the intrinsic and personal value that one has to measure things by. This value could not be heightened by contrast. Mrs. Prigg’s curiosity, however, naturally led her to inquire who the other creechar was? As if she had never heard of _Bumpkin_ v. _Snooks_, although she had actually got the case on four wheels and was riding in it at that very moment; as if in fact she was not practically all Bumpkin, as a silkworm may be said to be all mulberry leaves. As if she knew nothing of her husband’s business! Her ideas were not of this world. Give her a church to build, she’d harass people for subscriptions; or let it be a meeting to clothe the naked savage, Mrs. Prigg would be there. She knew nothing of clothing Bumpkin! But she did interest herself sufficiently in her husband’s conversation to ask, in answer to his reference to Locust’s disreputable client,
“My darling,” said Prigg, “you must have heard of Snooks?”
“Oh,” drawled Mrs. Prigg, “do you mean the creechar who sells coals?”
“And are you engaged against _that_ man? How very dreadful!”
“My darling,” observed Mr. Prigg, “it is not for us to choose our opponents; nor indeed, for the matter of that, our clients.”
“I can quite perceive that,” returned the lady, “or you would never have chosen such men—dear me!”
“We are like physicians,” returned Mr. Prigg, “called in in case of need.”
“And the healing virtues of your profession must not be confined to rich patients,” said Mrs. Prigg, in her jocular manner.
“By no means,” was the good man’s reply; “justice is as much the right of the poor as the rich—so is the air we breathe—so is everything.” And he put his fingers together again, as was his wont whenever he uttered a philosophical or moral platitude.
So I saw in my dream that the good man and his ladylike wife rode through the beautiful lanes, and over the breezy common on that lovely summer afternoon, and as they drew up on the summit of a hill which gave a view of the distant landscape, there was a serenity in the scene which could only be compared to the serenity of Mr. Prigg’s benevolent countenance; and there was a calm, deeply, sweetly impressive, which could only be appreciated by a mind at peace with itself in particular, and with the world in general. Then came from a neighbouring wood the clear voice of the cuckoo. It seemed to sing purposely in honour of the good man; and I fancied I could see a ravenous hawk upon a tree, abashed at Mr. Prigg’s presence and superior ability; and a fluttering timid lark seemed to shriek, “Wicked bird, live and let live;” but it was the last word the silly lark uttered, for the hawk was upon him in a moment, and the little innocent songster was crushed in its ravenous beak. Still the cuckoo sang on in praise of Mr. Prigg, with now and then a little note for Mrs. Prigg; for the cuckoo is a very gallant little bird, and Mrs. Prigg was such a heavenly creature that no cuckoo could be conscious of her presence without hymning her praise.