Buzfuz's great speech is one of the happiest parodies in the language.
Never was the forensic jargon and treatment so humorously set forth--and
this because of the perfect _sincerity_ and earnestness with which it was
done. There is none of the far-fetched, impossible exaggeration--the
form of burlesque which Theodore Hook or Albert Smith might have
attempted. It is, in fact, a real speech, which might have been
delivered to a dull-headed audience without much impairing credibility.
Apart from this it is a most effective harangue and most plausible
statement of the Plaintiff's case.
A little professional touch, which is highly significant as part of the
pantomine, and which Boz made very effective at the reading, was the
Serjeant's dramatic preparation for his speech. "Having whispered to
Dodson and conferred briefly with Fogg, _he pulled his gown over his
shoulders_, _settled his wig_, and addressed the Jury." Who has not seen
this bit of business?
Again, Juries may have noted that the Junior as he rises to speak,
mumbles something that is quite inaudible, and which nobody attends to.
This is known as "opening the pleadings."
The ushers again called silence, and Mr. Skimpin proceeded to 'open
the case;' and the case appeared to have very little inside it when
he had opened it, for he kept such particulars as he knew, completely
to himself, and sat down, after a lapse of three minutes, leaving the
jury in precisely the same advanced stage of wisdom as they were in
before.
Serjeant Buzfuz then rose with all the majesty and dignity which the
grave nature of the proceedings demanded, and having whispered to
Dodson, and conferred briefly with Fogg, pulled his gown over his
shoulders, settled his wig, and addressed the jury.
A most delightful legal platitude, as one might call it, is to be found
in the opening of the learned Sergeant's speech. It is a familiar,
transparent thing, often used to impose on the Jury. As Boz says of
another topic, "Counsel often begins in this way because it makes the
jury think what sharp fellows they must be." "You have heard from my
learned friend, gentlemen," continued the Serjeant, well knowing that
from the learned friend alluded to they had heard just nothing at all,
"you have heard from my learned friend, that this is an action for Breach
of Promise of Marriage, in which the damages are laid at 1,500 pounds.
But you have _not heard from my learned friend_, _inasmuch as it did not
lie within my learned friend's province to tell you_, what are the facts
and circumstances of the case." This rich bit of circumlocution is
simple nonsense, in rotund phrase, and meant to suggest the imposing
majesty of legal process. The Jury knew perfectly beforehand what they
were going to try: but were to be impressed by the magnifying agency of
legal processes, and would be awe stricken accordingly. The passage,
"inasmuch as it did not lie within my learned friend's province to tell
you," is a delightful bit of cant. In short, the Jury was thus admitted
to the secret legal arena, and into community with the learned friends
themselves, and were persuaded that they were very sharp fellows indeed.
What pleasant satire is here, on the mellifluous "openings" of Counsel,
the putting a romantic gloss on the most prosaic incidents.
A sucking Barrister might well study this speech of Buzfuz as a guide to
the conducting of a case, and above all of rather a "shaky" one. Not
less excellent is his smooth and plausible account of Mrs. Bardell's
setting up in lodging letting. He really makes it "interesting." One
thinks of some fluttering, helpless young widow, setting out in the
battle of life.
He describes the poor innocent lady putting a bill in her window, "and
let me entreat the attention of the Jury to the wording of this
document--'Apartments furnished for a single gentleman!' Mrs. Bardell's
opinions of the opposite sex, gentlemen, were derived from a long
contemplation of the inestimable qualities of her lost husband. She had
no fear--she had no distrust--she had no suspicion--all was confidence
and reliance. 'Mr. Bardell,' said the widow: 'Mr. Bardell was a man of
honour--Mr. Bardell was a man of his word--Mr. Bardell was no
deceiver--Mr. Bardell was once a single gentleman himself; to single
gentlemen I look for protection, for assistance, for comfort, and for
consolation--in single gentlemen I shall perpetually see something to
remind me of what Mr. Bardell was, when he first won my young and untried
affections; to a single gentleman, then, shall my lodgings be let.'
Actuated by this beautiful and touching impulse (among the best impulses
of our imperfect nature, gentlemen), the lonely and desolate widow dried
her tears, furnished her first floor, caught her innocent boy to her
maternal bosom, and put the bill up in her parlour window. Did it remain
there long? No. The serpent was on the watch, the train was laid, the
mine was preparing, the sapper and miner was at work. Before the bill
had been in the parlour window three days--three days, gentlemen--a
being, erect upon two legs, and bearing all the outward semblance of a
man, and not of a monster, knocked at the door of Mrs. Bardell's house.
He enquired within."
Those who attended the Reading will recall the admirable briskness, and
more admirable spirit with which Boz delivered the passage "by the
evidence of the unimpeachable female whom I shall place in that"--here he
brought down his palm with a mighty slap on the desk, and added, after a
moment's pause, "_Box_ before you." It was that _preceding_ of the
stroke that told. So real was it, one fancied oneself listening to some
obstreperous counsel. In all true acting--notably on the French
boards--the gesture should a little precede the utterance. So the
serjeant knew something of art.
When Mr. Pickwick gave an indignant start on hearing himself described as
a heartless villain how cleverly does the capable Buzfuz turn the
incident to profit.
[Picture: Mr. Pickwick as a Monster]
'I say systematic villany, gentlemen,' said Serjeant Buzfuz, looking
through Mr. Pickwick, and talking _at_ him; 'and when I say
systematic villiany, let me tell the defendant, Pickwick, if he be in
court, as I am informed he is, that it would have been more decent in
him, more becoming, in better judgment and in better taste, if he had
stopped away. Let me tell him, gentlemen, that any gestures of
dissent or disapprobation in which he may indulge in this court will
not go down with you; that you will know how to value, and to
appreciate them; and let me tell him further, as my lord will tell
you, gentlemen, that a counsel, in the discharge of his duty to his
client, is neither to be intimidated nor bullied, nor put down; and
that any attempt to do either the one or the other, or the first or
the last, will recoil on the head of the attempter, be he plaintiff
or be he defendant, be his name Pickwick, or Noakes, or Stoakes, or
Stiles, or Brown, or Thompson.'
This little divergence from the subject in hand, had of course the
intended effect of turning all eyes to Mr. Pickwick.
We relish, too, another "common form." When the Serjeant found that his
jest as to "greasing the wheels of Mr. Pickwick's slow-coach" had
somewhat missed fire--a thing that often unaccountably happens, in the
case of the "twelve intelligent men," the Serjeant knew how to adroitly
recover himself.
He paused in this place to see whether the jury smiled at his joke;
but as nobody took it but the greengrocer, whose sensitiveness on the
subject was very probably occasioned by his having subjected a
chaise-cart to the process in question on that identical morning, the
learned Serjeant considered it advisable to undergo a slight relapse
into the dismals before he concluded.
'But enough of this, gentlemen,' said Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz, 'it is
difficult to smile with an aching heart; it is ill jesting when our
deepest sympathies are awakened. My client's hopes and prospects are
ruined, and it is no figure of speech to say that her occupation is
gone indeed. The bill is down--but there is no tenant. Eligible
single gentlemen pass and repass--but there is no invitation for them
to enquire within or without. All is gloom and silence in the house;
even the voice of the child is hushed; his infant sports are
disregarded when his mother weeps; his "alley tors" and his
"commoneys" are alike neglected; he forgets the long familiar cry of
"knuckle down," and at tip-cheese, or odd and even, his hand is out.
But Pickwick, gentlemen, Pickwick, the ruthless destroyer of this
domestic oasis in the desert of Goswell Street--Pickwick, who has
choked up the well, and thrown ashes on the sward--Pickwick, who
comes before you to-day with his heartless tomato sauce and
warming-pans--Pickwick still rears his head with unblushing
effrontery, and gazes without a sigh on the ruin he has made.
Damages, gentlemen--heavy damages is the only punishment with which
you can visit him.'