“Your worship is perfectly in rule,” said another voice, which, from its pert conceited accent, might be that of the clerk, “and the party must be conformable; he hath canet written on his face in court hand.”

“Up with it, then,” said the Justice, “or, by St. Christopher, you shall crack the cocoa-nut full of salt-and- water, according to the statute for such effect made and provided.”

Thus exhorted and threatened, my quondam fellow-traveller, for I could no longer doubt that he was the recusant in question, uplifted, with a voice similar to that of a criminal singing his last psalm on the scaffold, a most doleful stave to the following effect:

“Good people all, I pray give ear,

A woeful story you shall hear,

’Tis of a robber as stout as ever

Bade a true man stand and deliver.

With his foodle doo fa loodle loo.

“This knave, most worthy of a cord,

Being arm’d with pistol and with sword,

’Twixt Kensington and Brentford then

Did boldly stop six honest men.

With his foodle doo, &c.

“These honest men did at Brentford dine,

Having drank each man his pint of wine,

When this bold thief, with many curses,

Did say, You dogs, your lives or purses.

With his foodle doo,” &c.

I question if the honest men, whose misfortune is commemorated in this pathetic ditty, were more startled at the appearance of the bold thief, than the songster was at mine; for, tired of waiting for some one to announce me, and finding my situation as a listener rather awkward, I presented myself to the company just as my friend Mr. Morris, for such, it seems, was his name, was uplifting the fifth stave of his doleful ballad. The high tone, with which the tune started, died away in a quaver of consternation, on finding himself so near one whose character he supposed to be little less suspicious than that of the hero of his madrigal, and he remained silent, with a mouth gaping as if I had brought the Gorgon’s head in my hand.

The Justice, whose eyes had closed under the influence of the somniferous lullaby of the song, started up in his chair as it suddenly ceased, and stared with wonder at the unexpected addition which the company had received, while his organs of sight were in abeyance. The clerk, as I conjectured him to be from his appearance, was also commoved; for, sitting opposite to Mr. Morris, that honest gentleman’s terror communicated itself to him, though he wotted not why.

I broke the silence of surprise occasioned by my abrupt entrance.—“My name, Mr. Inglewood, is Francis Osbaldistone; I understand that some scoundrel has brought a complaint before you, charging me with being concerned in a loss which he says he has sustained.”

“Sir,” said the Justice, somewhat peevishly, “these are matters I never enter upon after dinner—there is a time for everything, and a justice of peace must eat as well as other folks.”

The goodly person of Mr. Inglewood, by the way, seemed by no means to have suffered by any fasts, whether in the service of the law or of religion.

“I beg pardon for an ill-timed visit, sir; but as my reputation is concerned, and as the dinner appears to be concluded—”

“It is not concluded, sir,” replied the magistrate; “man requires digestion as well as food, and I protest I cannot have benefit from my victuals, unless I am allowed two hours of quiet leisure, intermixed with harmless mirth, and a moderate circulation of the bottle.”

“If your honour will forgive me,” said Mr. Jobson, who had produced and arranged his writing implements in the brief space that our conversation afforded; “as this is a case of felony, and the gentleman seems something impatient, the charge is contra pacem domini regis—”

“D—n dominie regis!” said the impatient Justice—“I hope it’s no treason to say so;—but it’s enough to make one mad to be worried in this way—have I a moment of my life quiet, for warrants, orders, directions, acts, bails, bonds, and recognisances?—I pronounce to you, Mr. Jobson, that I shall send you and the justiceship to the devil one of these days.”