"Sir," added Sylvester, addressing the reverend gentleman, "I should be utterly ashamed of myself if even I felt that I could."
The pastor, notwithstanding the resemblance was still in his judgment amazing, was now inspired by Sylvester's tranquil bearing, with the conviction that he must be mistaken, and tried to innoculate Jones with the same conviction; but Jones would not have it. He knew what he knew!—he knew that the youth who stood before him, and the youth who was on the wall, were one and the same youth! and said so! and stuck to it firmly!—indeed so firmly, that the reverend gentleman at length desired him to leave the room.
Now it happened that Judkins, Aunt Eleanor's gardener—who, conceiving that Jones had come there with a view to supplant him, had kept an exceedingly sharp look out—was at hand; and it also happened that Judkins had a great contempt for Jones, seeing that Jones, at the last horticultural meeting of the county, had gained the first prize for carrots: while Jones had as great a contempt for Judkins, seeing that Judkins had gained the first prize for onions, whereas Jones knew that his onions were superior to those which Judkins had produced, while, in Judkins's judgment, his carrots were finer than any which Jones had the nous to raise. Their hatred of each other was therefore rooted; and, as Judkins had heard the substance of all that had been said about the peaches, he taunted Jones severely on his being desired to leave the room; and as Jones most vehemently retorted and maintained still that Sylvester was the youth by whom his master's peaches had been stolen, Judkins said something very severe about Jones's carrots, and invited him to the meadow, with the view of deciding whether Sylvester was the youth in question or not. At this Jones was nothing daunted: he accepted the challenge; and when Judkins had called a mutual friend from the road, for the purpose of seeing fair-play, they repaired to the meadow with bosoms fraught with disgust.
There have always been, even from the most remote period of which history takes cognizance, advocates for that grand social scheme which comprehends trial by battle. Some have chosen clubs for these trials, some axes, some daggers, some spears, while others have preferred rifles, pistols, and swords; but a far more civilised mode of deciding thus the merits of a case in dispute is, unquestionably, that which was in this particular instance adopted by Judkins and Jones.
Certainly, the practice of doing battle with the fists was the first step to civilisation. When men began to substitute the weapons with which Nature had provided them for battle-axes, tomahawks, and knives, society made a most important stride towards perfection. As civilisation progresses, men will substitute the use of the tongue for that of the fist: when that has been sufficiently practised, the use of the brow will supersede that of the tongue; and when we shall have reached the perfection of civilisation, men will merely treat with contempt those whom they know to be unworthy of respect. At the period of Judkins's and Jones's battle, civilisation had made but that one important stride; and as they were not behind the age in which they lived, they—repudiating pistols, knives, and swords—repaired to the meadow and stripped.
