[Illustration]
_Which is all about the Law, and sundry great Authorities learned
therein_
Scattered about, in various holes and corners of the Temple, are
certain dark and dirty chambers, in and out of which, all the morning
in Vacation, and half the evening too in Term times, there may be
seen constantly hurrying with bundles of papers under their arms, and
protruding from their pockets, an almost uninterrupted succession of
Lawyers' Clerks. There are several grades of Lawyers' Clerks. There
is the Articled Clerk, who has paid a premium, and is an attorney in
perspective, who runs a tailor's bill, receives invitations to parties,
knows a family in Gower Street, and another in Tavistock Square; who
goes out of town every Long Vacation to see his father, who keeps
live horses innumerable; and who is, in short, the very aristocrat
of clerks. There is the salaried clerk--out of door or in door, as
the case may be--who devotes the major part of his thirty shillings a
week to his personal pleasure and adornment, repairs half-price to the
Adelphi Theatre at least three times a week, dissipates majestically at
the cider cellars afterwards, and is a dirty caricature of the fashion
which expired six months ago. There is the middle-aged copying clerk,
with a large family, who is always shabby, and often drunk. And there
are the office lads in their first surtouts, who feel a befitting
contempt for boys at day-schools; club, as they go home at night, for
saveloys and porter; and think there's nothing like "life." There are
varieties of the genus, too numerous to recapitulate, but however
numerous they may be, they are all to be seen, at certain regulated
business hours, hurrying to and from the places we have just mentioned.
These sequestered nooks are the public offices of the legal profession,
where writs are issued, judgments signed, declarations filed, and
numerous other ingenious machines put in motion for the torture
and torment of His Majesty's liege subjects, and the comfort and
emolument of the practitioners of the law. They are, for the most part,
low-roofed, mouldy rooms, where innumerable rolls of parchment, which
have been perspiring in secret for the last century, send forth an
agreeable odour, which is mingled by day with the scent of the dry rot,
and by night with the various exhalations which arise from damp cloaks,
festering umbrellas, and the coarsest tallow candles.
About half-past seven o'clock in the evening, some ten days or a
fortnight after Mr. Pickwick and his friends returned to London, there
hurried into one of these offices, an individual in a brown coat and
brass buttons, whose long hair was scrupulously twisted round the rim
of his napless hat, and whose soiled drab trousers were so tightly
strapped over his Blucher boots, that his knees threatened every moment
to start from their concealment. He produced from his coat pocket a
long and narrow strip of parchment, on which the presiding functionary
impressed an illegible black stamp. He then drew forth four scraps of
paper, of similar dimensions, each containing a printed copy of the
strip of parchment with blanks for a name; and having filled up the
blanks, put all the five documents in his pocket, and hurried away.
The man in the brown coat, with the cabalistic documents in his pocket,
was no other than our old acquaintance Mr. Jackson, of the house of
Dodson and Fogg, Freeman's Court, Cornhill. Instead of returning to the
office from whence he came, however, he bent his steps direct to Sun
Court, and walking straight into the George and Vulture, demanded to
know whether one Mr. Pickwick was within.
"Call Mr. Pickwick's servant, Tom," said the barmaid of the George and
Vulture.
"Don't trouble yourself," said Mr. Jackson, "I've come on business. If
you'll show me Mr. Pickwick's room I'll step up myself."
"What name, sir?" said the waiter.
"Jackson," replied the clerk.
The waiter stepped up-stairs to announce Mr. Jackson; but Mr. Jackson
saved him the trouble by following close at his heels, and walking into
the apartment before he could articulate a syllable.
Mr. Pickwick had, that day, invited his three friends to dinner; they
were all seated round the fire, drinking their wine, when Mr. Jackson
presented himself, as above described.
"How de do, sir?" said Mr. Jackson, nodding to Mr. Pickwick.
That gentleman bowed, and looked somewhat surprised, for the
physiognomy of Mr. Jackson dwelt not on his recollection.
"I have called from Dodson and Fogg's," said Mr. Jackson, in an
explanatory tone.
Mr. Pickwick roused at the name. "I refer you to my attorney, sir: Mr.
Perker, of Gray's Inn," said he. "Waiter, show this gentleman out."
"Beg your pardon, Mr. Pickwick," said Jackson, deliberately depositing
his hat on the floor, and drawing from his pocket the strip of
parchment. "But personal service, by clerk or agent, in these cases,
you know, Mr. Pickwick--nothing like caution, sir, in all legal forms."
Here Mr. Jackson cast his eye on the parchment; and resting his hands
on the table, and looking round with a winning and persuasive smile,
said: "Now, come; don't let's have no words about such a little matter
as this. Which of you gentlemen's name's Snodgrass?"
At this inquiry Mr. Snodgrass gave such a very undisguised and palpable
start, that no further reply was needed.
"Ah! I thought so," said Mr. Jackson, more affably than before. "I've
got a little something to trouble you with, sir."
"Me!" exclaimed Mr. Snodgrass.
"It's only a _subpoena_ in Bardell and Pickwick on behalf of the
plaintiff," replied Mr. Jackson, singling out one of the slips of
paper, and producing a shilling from his waistcoat pocket. "It'll come
on, in the settens after Term; fourteenth of Febooary, we expect; we've
marked it a special jury cause, and it's only ten down the paper.
That's yours, Mr. Snodgrass." As Jackson said this he presented the
parchment before the eyes of Mr. Snodgrass, and slipped the paper and
the shilling into his hand.
Mr. Tupman had witnessed this process in silent astonishment, when
Jackson, turning sharply upon him, said:
"I think I ain't mistaken when I say your name's Tupman, am I?"
Mr. Tupman looked at Mr. Pickwick; but, perceiving no encouragement in
that gentleman's widely opened eyes to deny his name, said:
"Yes, my name _is_ Tupman, sir."
"And that other gentleman's Mr. Winkle, I think?" said Jackson.
Mr. Winkle faltered out a reply in the affirmative; and both gentlemen
were forthwith invested with a slip of paper, and a shilling each, by
the dexterous Mr. Jackson.
"Now," said Jackson, "I'm afraid you'll think me rather troublesome,
but I want somebody else, if it ain't inconvenient. I _have_ Samuel
Weller's name here, Mr. Pickwick."
"Send my servant here, waiter," said Mr. Pickwick. The waiter retired,
considerably astonished, and Mr. Pickwick motioned Jackson to a seat.
There was a painful pause, which was at length broken by the innocent
defendant.
"I suppose, sir," said Mr. Pickwick, his indignation rising while he
spoke; "I suppose, sir, that it is the intention of your employers to
seek to criminate me upon the testimony of my own friends?"
Mr. Jackson struck his forefinger several times against the left side
of his nose, to intimate that he was not there to disclose the secrets
of the prison-house, and playfully rejoined:
"Not knowin', can't say."
"For what other reason, sir," pursued Mr. Pickwick, "are these
subpoenas served upon them, if not for this?"
"Very good plant, Mr. Pickwick," replied Jackson, slowly shaking his
head. "But it won't do. No harm in trying, but there's little to be got
out of me."
Here Mr. Jackson smiled once more upon the company, and, applying his
left thumb to the tip of his nose, worked a visionary coffee-mill with
his right hand: thereby performing a very graceful piece of pantomime
(then much in vogue, but now, unhappily, almost obsolete) which was
familiarly denominated "taking a grinder."
"No, no, Mr. Pickwick," said Jackson, in conclusion; "Perker's people
must guess what we've served these subpoenas for. If they can't, they
must wait till the action comes on, and then they'll find out."
Mr. Pickwick bestowed a look of excessive disgust on his unwelcome
visitor, and would probably have hurled some tremendous anathema at the
heads of Messrs. Dodson and Fogg, had not Sam's entrance at the instant
interrupted him.
"Samuel Weller?" said Mr. Jackson, inquiringly.
"Vun o' the truest things as you've said for many a long year," replied
Sam, in a most composed manner.
"Here's a subpoena for you, Mr. Weller," said Jackson.
"What's that in English?" inquired Sam.
"Here's the original," said Jackson, declining the required explanation.
"Which?" said Sam.
"This," replied Jackson, shaking the parchment.
"Oh, that's the 'rig'nal, is it?" said Sam. "Well, I'm wery glad I've
seen the 'rig'nal, 'cos it's a gratifyin' sort o' thing, and eases
vun's mind so much."
"And here's the shilling," said Jackson. "It's from Dodson and Fogg's."
"And it's uncommon handsome o' Dodson and Fogg, as knows so little of
me, to come down vith a present," said Sam. "I feel it as a wery high
compliment, sir; it's a wery hon'rable thing to them, as they knows how
to reward merit werever they meets it. Besides wich, it's affectin' to
one's feelin's."
As Mr. Weller said this, he inflicted a little friction on his right
eyelid, with the sleeve of his coat, after the most approved manner of
actors when they are in domestic pathetics.
Mr. Jackson seemed rather puzzled by Sam's proceedings; but, as he had
served the subpoenas, and had nothing more to say, he made a feint of
putting on the one glove which he usually carried in his hand for the
sake of appearances; and returned to the office to report progress.
Mr. Pickwick slept little that night; his memory had received a very
disagreeable refresher on the subject of Mrs. Bardell's action. He
breakfasted betimes next morning, and, desiring Sam to accompany him,
set forth towards Gray's Inn Square.
"Sam!" said Mr. Pickwick, looking round, when they got to the end of
Cheapside.
"Sir?" said Sam, stepping up to his master.
"Which way?"
"Up Newgate Street."
Mr. Pickwick did not turn round immediately, but looked vacantly in
Sam's face for a few seconds, and heaved a deep sigh.
"What's the matter, sir?" inquired Sam.
"This action, Sam," said Mr. Pickwick, "is expected to come on on the
fourteenth of next month."
"Remarkable coin_ci_dence that 'ere, sir," replied Sam.
"Why remarkable, Sam?" inquired Mr. Pickwick.
"Walentine's day, sir," responded Sam; "reg'lar good day for a breach
o' promise trial."
Mr. Weller's smile awakened no gleam of mirth in his master's
countenance. Mr. Pickwick turned abruptly round, and led the way in
silence.
They had walked some distance: Mr. Pickwick trotting on before, plunged
in profound meditation, and Sam following behind, with a countenance
expressive of the most enviable and easy defiance of everything and
everybody: when the latter, who was always especially anxious to impart
to his master any exclusive information he possessed, quickened his
pace until he was close at Mr. Pickwick's heels; and, pointing up at a
house they were passing, said:
"Wery nice pork-shop that 'ere, sir."
"Yes, it seems so," said Mr. Pickwick.
"Celebrated sassage factory," said Sam.
"Is it?" said Mr. Pickwick.
"Is it!" reiterated Sam, with some indignation: "I should rayther
think it was. Why, sir, bless your innocent eyebrows, that's where the
mysterious disappearance of a 'spectable tradesman took place four year
ago."
"You don't mean to say he was burked, Sam?" said Mr. Pickwick, looking
hastily round.
"No, I don't indeed, sir," replied Mr. Weller, "I wish I did; far worse
than that. He was the master o' that 'ere shop, sir, and the inwenter
o' the patent never-leavin'-off sassage steam ingine, as 'ud swaller up
a pavin' stone if you put it too near, and grind it into sassages as
easy as if it was a tender young baby. Wery proud o' that machine he
was, as it was nat'ral he should be, and he'd stand down in the cellar
a lookin' at it wen it was in full play, till he got quite melancholy
with joy. A wery happy man he'd ha' been, sir, in the procession o'
that 'ere ingine and two more lovely hinfants besides, if it hadn't
been for his wife, who was a most ow-dacious wixin. She was always a
follerin' him about and dinnin' in his ears, till at last he couldn't
stand it no longer. 'I'll tell you what it is, my dear,' he says one
day; 'if you persewere in this here sort of amusement,' he says, 'I'm
blessed if I don't go away to 'Merriker; and that's all about it.'
'You're a idle willin,' says she, 'and I wish the 'Merrikins joy of
their bargain.' Arter wich she keeps on abusin' of him for half an
hour, and then runs into the little parlour behind the shop, sets to a
screamin', says he'll be the death on her, and falls in a fit, which
lasts for three good hours--one o' them fits wich is all screamin' and
kickin'. Well, next mornin', the husband was missin'. He hadn't taken
nothin' from the till--hadn't even put on his great-coat--so it was
quite clear he warn't gone to 'Merriker. Didn't come back next day;
didn't come back next week; Missis had bills printed, sayin' that,
if he'd come back, he should be forgiven everythin' (which was very
liberal, seein' that he hadn't done nothin' at all); the canals was
dragged, and for two months artervards, wenever a body turned up, it
was carried, as a reg'lar thing, straight off to the sassage shop.
Hows'ever, none on 'em answered; so they gave out that he'd run avay,
and she kep' on the bis'ness. One Saturday night, a little thin old
gen'l'm'n comes into the shop in a great passion and says, 'Are you
the missis o' this here shop?' 'Yes, I am,' says she. 'Well, ma'am,'
says he, 'then I've just looked in to say that me and my family ain't
a goin' to be choked for nothin'; and more than that, ma'am,' he says,
'you'll allow me to observe, that as you don't use the primest parts of
the meat in the manafacter o' sassages, I think you'd find beef come
nearly as cheap as buttons.' 'As buttons, sir!' says she. 'Buttons,
ma'am,' says the little old gen'l'm'n, unfolding a bit of paper,
and showing twenty or thirty halves o' buttons. 'Nice seasonin' for
sassages, is trousers buttons, ma'am.' 'They're my husband's buttons!'
says the widder, beginnin' to faint. 'What!' screams the little old
gen'l'm'n, turnin' wery pale. 'I see it all,' says the widder; 'in a
fit of temporary insanity he rashly converted his-self into sassages!'
And so he had, sir," said Mr. Weller, looking steadily into Mr.
Pickwick's horror-stricken countenance, "or else he'd been draw'd into
the ingine; but however that might ha' been, the little old gen'l'm'n,
who had been remarkably partial to sassages all his life, rushed out o'
the shop in a wild state, and was never heard on artervards!"
The relation of this affecting incident of private life brought master
and man to Mr. Perker's chambers. Lowten, holding the door half open,
was in conversation with a rustily-clad, miserable-looking man, in
boots without toes and gloves without fingers. There were traces of
privation and suffering--almost of despair--in his lank and careworn
countenance; he felt his poverty, for he shrunk to the dark side of the
staircase as Mr. Pickwick approached.
"It's very unfortunate," said the stranger, with a sigh.
"Very," said Lowten, scribbling his name on the door-post with his pen,
and rubbing it out again with the feather. "Will you leave a message
for him?"
"When do you think he'll be back?" inquired the stranger.
"Quite uncertain," replied Lowten, winking at Mr. Pickwick, as the
stranger cast his eyes towards the ground.
"You don't think it would be of any use my waiting for him?" said the
stranger, looking wistfully into the office.
"Oh no, I'm sure it wouldn't," replied the clerk, moving a little more
into the centre of the doorway. "He's certain not to be back this week,
and it's a chance whether he will be next; for when Perker once gets
out of town, he's never in a hurry to come back again."
"Out of town!" said Mr. Pickwick; "dear me, how unfortunate!"
"Don't go away, Mr. Pickwick," said Lowten, "I've got a letter for
you." The stranger seeming to hesitate, once more looked towards the
ground, and the clerk winked slily at Mr. Pickwick, as if to intimate
that some exquisite piece of humour was going forward, though what it
was Mr. Pickwick could not for the life of him divine.
"Step in, Mr. Pickwick," said Lowten. "Well, will you leave a message,
Mr. Watty, or will you call again?"
"Ask him to be so kind as to leave out word what has been done in my
business," said the man; "for God's sake don't neglect it, Mr. Lowten."
"No, no; I won't forget it," replied the clerk. "Walk in, Mr. Pickwick.
Good morning, Mr. Watty; it's a fine day for walking, isn't it?" Seeing
that the stranger still lingered, he beckoned Sam Weller to follow his
master in, and shut the door in his face.
"There never was such a pestering bankrupt as that since the world
began, I do believe!" said Lowten, throwing down his pen with the air
of an injured man. "His affairs haven't been in Chancery quite four
years yet, and I'm d--d if he don't come worrying here twice a week.
Step this way, Mr. Pickwick. Perker _is_ in, and he'll see you, I know.
Devilish cold," he added, pettishly, "standing at that door, wasting
one's time with such seedy vagabonds!" Having very vehemently stirred a
particularly large fire with a particularly small poker, the clerk led
the way to his principal's private room, and announced Mr. Pickwick.
"Ah, my dear sir," said little Mr. Perker, bustling up from his chair.
"Well, my dear sir, and what's the news about your matter, eh? Anything
more about our friends in Freeman's Court? They've not been sleeping,
_I_ know that. Ah, they're smart fellows; very smart indeed."
As the little man concluded, he took an emphatic pinch of snuff, as a
tribute to the smartness of Messrs. Dodson and Fogg.
"They are great scoundrels," said Mr. Pickwick.
"Aye, aye," said the little man; "that's a matter of opinion, you
know, and we won't dispute about terms; because of course you can't be
expected to view these subjects with a professional eye. Well, we've
done everything that's necessary. I have retained Serjeant Snubbin."
"Is he a good man?" inquired Mr. Pickwick.
"Good man!" replied Perker; "bless your heart and soul, my dear sir,
Serjeant Snubbin is at the very top of his profession. Gets treble
the business of any man in court--engaged in every case. You needn't
mention it abroad; but we say--we of the profession--that Serjeant
Snubbin leads the court by the nose."
The little man took another pinch of snuff as he made this
communication, and nodded mysteriously to Mr. Pickwick.
"They have subpoena'd my three friends," said Mr. Pickwick.
"Ah! of course they would," replied Perker. "Important witnesses; saw
you in a delicate situation."
"But she fainted of her own accord," said Mr. Pickwick. "She threw
herself into my arms."
"Very likely, my dear sir," replied Perker; "very likely and very
natural. Nothing more so, my dear sir, nothing. But who's to prove it?"
"They have subpoena'd my servant too," said Mr. Pickwick, quitting
the other point; for there Mr. Perker's question had somewhat staggered
him.
"Sam?" said Perker.
Mr. Pickwick replied in the affirmative.
"Of course, my dear sir; of course. I knew they would. I could have
told you that a month ago. You know, my dear sir, if you _will_ take
the management of your affairs into your own hands after intrusting
them to your solicitor, you must also take the consequences." Here Mr.
Perker drew himself up with conscious dignity, and brushed some stray
grains of snuff from his shirt frill.
"And what do they want him to prove?" asked Mr. Pickwick, after two or
three minutes' silence.
"That you sent him up to the plaintiff's to make some offer of a
compromise, I suppose," replied Perker. "It don't matter much, though;
I don't think many counsel could get a great deal out of _him_."
"I don't think they could," said Mr. Pickwick; smiling, despite his
vexation, at the idea of Sam's appearance as a witness. "What course do
we pursue?"
"We have only one to adopt, my dear sir," replied Perker; "cross-examine
the witnesses; trust to Snubbin's eloquence; throw dust in the eyes of
the judge; throw ourselves on the jury."
"And suppose the verdict is against me?" said Mr. Pickwick.
Mr. Perker smiled, took a very long pinch of snuff, stirred the fire,
shrugged his shoulders, and remained expressively silent.
"You mean that in that case I must pay the damages?" said Mr. Pickwick,
who had watched this telegraphic answer with considerable sternness.
Perker gave the fire another very unnecessary poke, and said, "I am
afraid so."
"Then I beg to announce to you, my unalterable determination to pay
no damages whatever," said Mr. Pickwick, most emphatically. "None,
Perker. Not a pound, not a penny, of my money, shall find its way into
the pockets of Dodson and Fogg. That is my deliberate and irrevocable
determination." Mr. Pickwick gave a heavy blow on the table before him,
in confirmation of the irrevocability of his intention.
"Very well, my dear sir, very well," said Perker. "You know best, of
course."
"Of course," replied Mr. Pickwick, hastily. "Where does Serjeant
Snubbin live?"
"In Lincoln's Inn Old Square," replied Perker.
"I should like to see him," said Mr. Pickwick.
"See Serjeant Snubbin, my dear sir!" rejoined Perker, in utter
amazement. "Pooh, pooh, my dear sir, impossible. See Serjeant Snubbin!
Bless you, my dear sir, such a thing was never heard of, without a
consultation fee being previously paid, and a consultation fixed. It
couldn't be done, my dear sir; it couldn't be done."
Mr. Pickwick, however, had made up his mind not only that it could be
done, but that it should be done; and the consequence was, that within
ten minutes after he had received the assurance that the thing was
impossible, he was conducted by his solicitor into the outer office of
the great Serjeant Snubbin himself.
It was an uncarpeted room of tolerable dimensions, with a large
writing-table drawn up near the fire: the baize top of which had long
since lost all claim to its original hue of green, and had gradually
grown grey with dust and age, except where all traces of its natural
colour were obliterated by ink-stains. Upon the table were numerous
little bundles of papers tied with red tape; and behind it sat an
elderly clerk, whose sleek appearance, and heavy gold watch-chain,
presented imposing indications of the extensive and lucrative practice
of Mr. Serjeant Snubbin.
"Is the Serjeant in his room, Mr. Mallard?" inquired Perker, offering
his box with all imaginable courtesy.
"Yes, he is," was the reply, "but he's very busy. Look here; not an
opinion given yet, on any one of these cases; and an expedition fee
paid with all of 'em." The clerk smiled as he said this, and inhaled a
pinch of snuff with a zest which seemed to be compounded of a fondness
for snuff and a relish for fees.
"Something like practice that," said Perker.
"Yes," said the barrister's clerk, producing his own box, and offering
it with the greatest cordiality; "and the best of it is, that as nobody
alive except myself can read the Serjeant's writing, they are obliged
to wait for the opinions, when he has given them, till I have copied
'em, ha--ha--ha!"
"Which makes good for we know who, besides the Serjeant, and draws a
little more out of the clients, eh?" said Perker; "Ha, ha, ha!" At this
the Serjeant's clerk laughed again; not a noisy boisterous laugh, but a
silent, internal chuckle, which Mr. Pickwick disliked to hear. When a
man bleeds inwardly, it is a dangerous thing for himself; but when he
laughs inwardly, it bodes no good to other people.
"You haven't made me out that little list of the fees that I'm in your
debt, have you?" said Perker.
"No, I have not," replied the clerk.
"I wish you would," said Perker. "Let me have them, and I'll send you
a cheque. But I suppose you're too busy pocketing the ready money,
to think of the debtors, eh? ha, ha, ha!" This sally seemed to tickle
the clerk amazingly, and he once more enjoyed a little quiet laugh to
himself.
"But, Mr. Mallard, my dear friend," said Perker, suddenly recovering
his gravity, and drawing the great man's great man into a corner, by
the lappel of his coat; "you must persuade the Serjeant to see me and
my client here."
"Come, come," said the clerk, "that's not bad either. See the Serjeant!
come, that's too absurd." Notwithstanding the absurdity of the
proposal, however, the clerk allowed himself to be gently drawn beyond
the hearing of Mr. Pickwick; and after a short conversation conducted
in whispers, walked softly down a little dark passage and disappeared
into the legal luminary's sanctum: whence he shortly returned on
tiptoe, and informed Mr. Perker and Mr. Pickwick that the Serjeant had
been prevailed upon, in violation of all established rules and customs,
to admit them at once.
Mr. Serjeant Snubbin was a lantern-faced, sallow-complexioned man,
of about five-and-forty, or--as the novels say--he might be fifty.
He had that dull-looking boiled eye which is often to be seen in
the heads of people who have applied themselves during many years
to a weary and laborious course of study; and which would have been
sufficient, without the additional eye-glass which dangled from a
broad black riband round his neck, to warn a stranger that he was very
near-sighted. His hair was thin and weak, which was partly attributable
to his having never devoted much time to its arrangement, and partly to
his having worn for five-and-twenty years the forensic wig which hung
on a block beside him. The marks of hair-powder on his coat-collar,
and the ill-washed and worse-tied white neckerchief round his throat,
showed that he had not found leisure since he left the court to make
any alteration in his dress: while the slovenly style of the remainder
of his costume warranted the inference that his personal appearance
would not have been very much improved if he had. Books of practice,
heaps of papers, and opened letters, were scattered over the table,
without any attempt at order or arrangement; the furniture of the room
was old and rickety; the doors of the bookcase were rotting in their
hinges; the dust flew out from the carpet in little clouds at every
step; the blinds were yellow with age and dirt; the state of everything
in the room showed, with a clearness not to be mistaken, that Mr.
Serjeant Snubbin was far too much occupied with his professional
pursuits to take any great heed or regard of his personal comforts.
The Serjeant was writing when his clients entered; he bowed abstractedly
when Mr. Pickwick was introduced by his solicitor; and then, motioning
them to a seat, put his pen carefully in the inkstand, nursed his left
leg, and waited to be spoken to.
"Mr. Pickwick is the defendant in Bardell and Pickwick, Serjeant
Snubbin," said Perker.
"I am retained in that, am I?" said the Serjeant.
"You are, sir," replied Perker.
The Serjeant nodded his head, and waited for something else.
"Mr. Pickwick was anxious to call upon you, Serjeant Snubbin," said
Perker, "to state to you, before you entered upon the case, that he
denies there being any ground or pretence whatever for the action
against him; and that unless he came into court with clean hands,
and without the most conscientious conviction that he was right in
resisting the plaintiff's demand, he would not be there at all. I
believe I state your views correctly; do not, my dear sir?" said the
little man, turning to Mr. Pickwick.
"Quite so," replied that gentleman.
Mr. Serjeant Snubbin unfolded his glasses, raised them to his eyes;
and, after looking at Mr. Pickwick for a few seconds with great
curiosity, turned to Mr. Perker, and said, smiling slightly as he spoke:
"Has Mr. Pickwick a strong case?"
The attorney shrugged his shoulders.
"Do you propose calling witnesses?"
"No."
The smile on the Serjeant's countenance became more defined; he rocked
his leg with increased violence; and, throwing himself back in his
easy-chair, coughed dubiously.
These tokens of the Serjeant's presentiments on the subject, slight as
they were, were not lost on Mr. Pickwick. He settled the spectacles,
through which he had attentively regarded such demonstrations of the
barrister's feelings as he had permitted himself to exhibit, more
firmly on his nose; and said with great energy, and in utter disregard
of all Mr. Perker's admonitory winkings and frownings:
"My wishing to wait upon you, for such a purpose as this, sir, appears,
I have no doubt, to a gentleman who sees so much of these matters as
you must necessarily do, a very extraordinary circumstance."
The Serjeant tried to look gravely at the fire, but the smile came back
again.
"Gentlemen of your profession, sir," continued Mr. Pickwick, "see the
worst side of human nature. All its disputes, all its ill-will and bad
blood, rise up before you. You know from your experience of juries (I
mean no disparagement to you, or them) how much depends upon _effect_:
and you are apt to attribute to others, a desire to use, for purposes
of deception and self-interest, the very instruments which you, in
pure honesty and honour of purpose, and with a laudable desire to do
your utmost for your client, know the temper and worth of so well,
from constantly employing them yourselves. I really believe that to
this circumstance may be attributed the vulgar but very general notion
of your being, as a body, suspicious, distrustful, and over-cautious.
Conscious as I am, sir, of the disadvantage of making such a
declaration to you, under such circumstances, I have come here, because
I wish you distinctly to understand, as my friend Mr. Perker has said,
that I am innocent of the falsehood laid to my charge; and although I
am very well aware of the inestimable value of your assistance, sir, I
must beg to add, that unless you sincerely believe this, I would rather
be deprived of the aid of your talents than have the advantage of them."
Long before the close of this address, which we are bound to say was
of a very prosy character for Mr. Pickwick, the Serjeant had relapsed
into a state of abstraction. After some minutes, however, during which
he had reassumed his pen, he appeared to be again aware of the presence
of his clients; raising his head from the paper, he said, rather
snappishly,
"Who is with me in this case?"
"Mr. Phunky, Serjeant Snubbin," replied the attorney.
"Phunky, Phunky," said the Serjeant, "I never heard the name before. He
must be a very young man."
"Yes, he is a very young man," replied the attorney. "He was only
called the other day. Let me see--he has not been at the Bar eight
years yet."
"Ah, I thought not," said the Serjeant, in that sort of pitying tone in
which ordinary folks would speak of a very helpless little child. "Mr.
Mallard, send round to Mr.--Mr.----"
"Phunky's--Holborn Court, Gray's Inn," interposed Perker. (Holborn
Court, by-the-bye, is South Square now). "Mr. Phunky, and say I should
be glad if he'd step here, a moment."
Mr. Mallard departed to execute his commission; and Serjeant Snubbin
relapsed into abstraction until Mr. Phunky himself was introduced.
Although an infant barrister, he was a full-grown man. He had a
very nervous manner, and a painful hesitation in his speech; it did
not appear to be a natural defect, but seemed rather the result of
timidity, arising from the consciousness of being "kept down" by want
of means, or interests, or connection, or impudence, as the case might
be. He was overawed by the Serjeant, and profoundly courteous to the
attorney.
"I have not had the pleasure of seeing you before, Mr. Phunky," said
Serjeant Snubbin, with a haughty condescension.
Mr. Phunky bowed. He _had_ had the pleasure of seeing the Serjeant, and
of envying him too, with all a poor man's envy, for eight years and a
quarter.
"You are with me in this case, I understand?" said the Serjeant.
If Mr. Phunky had been a rich man, he would have instantly sent for his
clerk to remind him; if he had been a wise one, he would have applied
his forefinger to his forehead, and endeavoured to recollect, whether,
in the multiplicity of his engagements, he had undertaken this one, or
not; but as he was neither rich nor wise (in this sense at all events)
he turned red, and bowed.
"Have you read the papers, Mr. Phunky?" inquired the Serjeant.
Here again, Mr. Phunky should have professed to have forgotten all
about the merits of the case; but as he had read such papers as had
been laid before him in the course of the action, and had thought of
nothing else, waking, or sleeping, throughout the two months during
which he had been retained as Mr. Serjeant Snubbin's junior, he turned
a deeper red, and bowed again.
"This is Mr. Pickwick," said the Serjeant, waving his pen in the
direction in which that gentleman was standing.
Mr. Phunky bowed to Mr. Pickwick with a reverence which a first client
must ever awaken; and again inclined his head towards his leader.
"Perhaps you will take Mr. Pickwick away," said the Serjeant,
"and--and--and--hear anything Mr. Pickwick may wish to communicate.
We shall have a consultation, of course." With this hint that he had
been interrupted quite long enough, Mr. Serjeant Snubbin, who had been
gradually growing more and more abstracted, applied his glass to his
eyes for an instant, bowed slightly round, and was once more deeply
immersed in the case before him: which arose out of an interminable
lawsuit, originating in the act of an individual, deceased a century
or so ago, who had stopped up a pathway leading from some place which
nobody ever came from, to some other place which nobody ever went to.
Mr. Phunky would not hear of passing through any door until Mr.
Pickwick and his solicitor had passed through before him, so it was
some time before they got into the Square; and when they did reach it,
they walked up and down, and held a long conference, the result of
which was, that it was a very difficult matter to say how the verdict
would go; that nobody could presume to calculate on the issue of an
action; that it was very lucky they had prevented the other party from
getting Serjeant Snubbin; and other topics of doubt and consolation,
common in such a position of affairs.
Mr. Weller was then roused by his master from a sweet sleep of an
hour's duration; and, bidding adieu to Lowten, they returned to the
City.