“Of this man Pickwick I will say little; the subject presents but few attractions; and I, gentlemen, am not the man, nor are you, gentlemen, the men, to delight in the contemplation of revolting heartlessness, and of systematic villainy.”

Here Mr. Pickwick, who had been writhing in silence for some time, gave a violent start, as if some vague idea of assaulting Serjeant Buzfuz, in the august presence of justice and law, suggested itself to his mind. An admonitory gesture from Perker restrained him, and he listened to the learned gentleman’s continuation with a look of indignation, which contrasted forcibly with the admiring faces of Mrs. Cluppins and Mrs. Sanders.

“I say systematic villainy, gentlemen,” said Serjeant Buzfuz, looking through Mr. Pickwick and talking at him; “and when I say systematic villainy, 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 how 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. Serjeant Buzfuz, having partially recovered from the state of moral elevation into which he had lashed himself, resumed:

“I shall show you, gentlemen, that for two years Pickwick continued to reside constantly, and without interruption or intermission, at Mrs. Bardell’s house. I shall show you that Mrs. Bardell, during the whole of that time, waited on him, attended to his comforts, cooked his meals, looked out his linen for the washerwoman when it went abroad, darned, aired, and prepared it for wear, when it came home, and, in short, enjoyed his fullest trust and confidence. I shall show you that, on many occasions, he gave halfpence, and on some occasions even sixpences, to her little boy; and I shall prove to you, by a witness whose testimony it will be impossible for my learned friend to weaken or controvert, that on one occasion he patted the boy on the head, and, after inquiring whether he had won alley tors or commoneys lately (both of which I understand to be a particular species of marbles much prized by the youth of this town), made use of this remarkable expression: ‘How should you like to have another father?’ I shall prove to you, gentlemen, that about a year ago, Pickwick suddenly began to absent himself from home, during long intervals, as if with the intention of gradually breaking off from my client; but I shall show you also, that his resolution was not at that time sufficiently strong, or that his better feelings conquered, if better feelings he has, or that the charms and accomplishments of my client prevailed against his unmanly intentions; by proving to you, that on one occasion, when he returned from the country, he distinctly and in terms, offered her marriage: previously, however, taking special care that there should be no witness to their solemn contract; and I am in a situation to prove to you, on the testimony of three of his own friends – most unwilling witnesses, gentlemen – most unwilling witnesses – that on that morning he was discovered by them holding the plaintiff in his arms, and soothing her agitation by his caresses and endearments.”

A visible impression was produced upon the auditors by this part of the learned serjeant’s address. Drawing forth two very small scraps of paper, he proceeded:

“And now, gentlemen, but one word more. Two letters have passed between these parties, letters which are admitted to be in the handwriting of the defendant, and which speak volumes indeed. These letters, too, bespeak the character of the man. They are not open, fervent, eloquent epistles, breathing nothing but the language of affectionate attachment. They are covert, sly, underhanded communications, but, fortunately, far more conclusive than if couched in the most glowing language and the most poetic imagery – letters that must be viewed with a cautious and suspicious eye – letters that were evidently intended at the time, by Pickwick, to mislead and delude any third parties into whose hands they might fall. Let me read the first: – ‘Garraway’s, twelve o’clock. Dear Mrs. B. – Chops and Tomato sauce. Yours, Pickwick.’ Gentlemen, what does this mean? ‘Chops and Tomato sauce. Yours, Pickwick!’ Chops! Gracious heavens! and Tomato sauce! Gentlemen, is the happiness of a sensitive and confiding female to be trifled away by such shallow artifices as these? The next has no date whatever, which is in itself suspicious. ‘Dear Mrs. B., I shall not be at home till to-morrow. Slow coach.’ And then follows this very remarkable expression. ‘Don’t trouble yourself about the warming-pan.’ The warming-pan! Why, gentlemen, who does trouble himself about a warming-pan? When was the peace of mind of man or woman broken or disturbed by a warming-pan, which is in itself a harmless, a useful, and I will add, gentlemen, a comforting article of domestic furniture? Why is Mrs. Bardell so earnestly entreated not to agitate herself about this warming-pan, unless (as is no doubt the case) it is a mere cover for hidden fire – a mere substitute for some endearing word of promise, agreeably to a preconcerted system of correspondence, artfully contrived by Pickwick with a view to his contemplated desertion, and which I am not in a condition to explain? And what does this allusion to the slow coach mean? For aught I know, it may be a reference to Pickwick himself, who has most unquestionably been a criminally slow coach during the whole of this transaction, but whose speed will now be very unexpectedly accelerated, and whose wheels, gentlemen, as he will find to his cost, will very soon be greased by you!”

Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz 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 inquire 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; the only recompense you can award to my client. And for those damages she now appeals to an enlightened, a high-minded, a right-feeling, a conscientious, a dispassionate, a sympathising, a contemplative jury of her civilised countrymen.” With this beautiful peroration, Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz sat down, and Mr. Justice Stareleigh woke up.

“Call Elizabeth Cluppins,” said Serjeant Buzfuz, rising a minute afterwards, with renewed vigour.

The nearest usher called for Elizabeth Tuppins; another one, at a little distance off, demanded Elizabeth Jupkins; and a third rushed in a breathless state into King Street, and screamed for Elizabeth Muffins till he was hoarse.

Meanwhile Mrs. Cluppins, with the combined assistance of Mrs. Bardell, Mrs. Sanders, Mr. Dodson, and Mr. Fogg, was hoisted into the witness-box; and when she was safely perched on the top step, Mrs. Bardell stood on the bottom one, with the pocket-handkerchief and pattens in one hand, and a glass bottle that might hold about a quarter of a pint of smelling salts in the other, ready for any emergency. Mrs. Sanders, whose eyes were intently fixed on the judge’s face, planted herself close by, with the large umbrella: keeping her right thumb pressed on the spring with an earnest countenance, as if she were fully prepared to put it up at a moment’s notice.

“Mrs. Cluppins,” said Serjeant Buzfuz, “pray compose yourself, ma’am.” Of course, directly Mrs. Cluppins was desired to compose herself she sobbed with increased vehemence, and gave divers alarming manifestations of an approaching fainting fit, or, as she afterwards said, of her feelings being too many for her.

“Do you recollect, Mrs. Cluppins,” said Serjeant Buzfuz, after a few unimportant questions, “do you recollect being in Mrs. Bardell’s back one pair of stairs, on one particular morning in July last, when she was dusting Pickwick’s apartment?”

“Yes, my Lord and Jury, I do,” replied Mrs. Cluppins.

“Mr. Pickwick’s sitting-room was the first-floor front, I believe?”

“Yes, it were, sir,” replied Mrs. Cluppins.

“What were you doing in the back room, ma’am?” inquired the little judge.

“My Lord and Jury,” said Mrs. Cluppins, with interesting agitation, “I will not deceive you.”

“You had better not, ma’am,” said the little judge.

“I was there,” resumed Mrs. Cluppins, “unbeknown to Mrs. Bardell; I had been out with a little basket, gentlemen, to buy three pound of red kidney purtaties, which was three pound tuppense ha’penny, when I see Mrs. Bardell’s street door on the jar.”

“On the what?” exclaimed the little judge.

“Partly open, my Lord,” said Serjeant Snubbin.

“She said on the jar,” said the little judge, with a cunning look.

“It’s all the same, my Lord,” said Serjeant Snubbin. The little judge looked doubtful and said he’d make a note of it. Mrs. Cluppins then resumed:

“I walked in, gentlemen, just to say good mornin’, and went, in a permiscuous manner, up-stairs, and into the back room. Gentlemen, there was the sound of voices in the front room, and – ”

“And you listened, I believe, Mrs. Cluppins?” said Serjeant Buzfuz.

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” replied Mrs. Cluppins, in a majestic manner, “I would scorn the haction. The voices was very loud, sir, and forced themselves upon my ear.”

“Well, Mrs. Cluppins, you were not listening, but you heard the voices. Was one of these voices Pickwick’s?”

“Yes, it were, sir.”

And Mrs. Cluppins, after distinctly stating that Mr. Pickwick addressed himself to Mrs. Bardell, repeated by slow degrees, and by dint of many questions, the conversation with which our readers are already acquainted.

The jury looked suspicious, and Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz smiled and sat down. They looked positively awful when Serjeant Snubbin intimated that he should not cross-examine the witness, for Mr. Pickwick wished it to be distinctly stated that it was due to her to say, that her account was in substance correct.

Mrs. Cluppins having once broken the ice, thought it a favourable opportunity for entering into a short dissertation on her own domestic affairs; so, she straightway proceeded to inform the court that she was the mother of eight children at that present speaking, and that she entertained confident expectations of presenting Mr. Cluppins with a ninth, somewhere about that day six months. At this interesting point, the little judge interposed most irascibly; and the effect of the interposition was, that both the worthy lady and Mrs. Sanders were politely taken out of court, under the escort of Mr. Jackson, without further parley.

“Nathaniel Winkle!” said Mr. Skimpin.

“Here!” replied a feeble voice. Mr. Winkle entered the witness-box, and having been duly sworn, bowed to the judge with considerable deference.

“Don’t look at me, sir,” said the judge, sharply, in acknowledgment of the salute; “look at the jury.”

Mr. Winkle obeyed the mandate, and looked at the place where he thought it most probable the jury might be; for seeing anything in his then state of intellectual complication was wholly out of the question.

Mr. Winkle was then examined by Mr. Skimpin, who, being a promising young man of two or three and forty, was of course anxious to confuse a witness who was notoriously predisposed in favour of the other side, as much as he could.

“Now, sir,” said Mr. Skimpin, “have the goodness to let his Lordship and the jury know what your name is, will you?” and Mr. Skimpin inclined his head on one side to listen with great sharpness to the answer, and glanced at the jury meanwhile, as if to imply that he rather expected Mr. Winkle’s natural taste for perjury would induce him to give some name which did not belong to him.

“Winkle,” replied the witness.

“What’s your Christian name, sir?” angrily inquired the little judge.

“Nathaniel, sir.”

“Daniel, – any other name?”

“Nathaniel, sir – my Lord, I mean.”

“Nathaniel Daniel, or Daniel Nathaniel?”

“No, my Lord, only Nathaniel; not Daniel at all.”

“What did you tell me it was Daniel for, then, sir?” inquired the judge.

“I didn’t, my Lord,” replied Mr. Winkle.

“You did, sir,” replied the judge, with a severe frown. “How could I have got Daniel on my notes, unless you told me so, sir?”

This argument was, of course, unanswerable.

“Mr. Winkle has rather a short memory, my Lord,” interposed Mr. Skimpin, with another glance at the jury. “We shall find means to refresh it before we have quite done with him, I dare say.”

“You had better be careful, sir,” said the little judge, with a sinister look at the witness.

Poor Mr. Winkle bowed, and endeavoured to feign an easiness of manner which, in his then state of confusion, gave him rather the air of a disconcerted pickpocket.

“Now, Mr. Winkle,” said Mr. Skimpin, “attend to me, if you please, sir; and let me recommend you, for your own sake, to bear in mind his Lordship’s injunction to be careful. I believe you are a particular friend of Pickwick, the defendant, are you not?”

“I have known Mr. Pickwick now, as well as I recollect at this moment, nearly – ”

“Pray, Mr. Winkle, do not evade the question. Are you, or are you not, a particular friend of the defendant’s?”

“I was just about to say that – ”

“Will you, or will you not, answer my question, sir?”

“If you don’t answer the question you’ll be committed, sir,” interposed the little judge, looking over his note-book.

“Come, sir,” said Mr. Skimpin, “yes or no, if you please.”

“Yes, I am,” replied Mr. Winkle.

“Yes, you are. And why couldn’t you say that at once, sir? Perhaps you know the plaintiff, too? Eh, Mr. Winkle?”

“I don’t know her; I’ve seen her.”

“Oh, you don’t know her, but you’ve seen her? Now, have the goodness to tell the gentlemen of the jury what you mean by that, Mr. Winkle.”

“I mean that I am not intimate with her, but I have seen her when I went to call on Mr. Pickwick in Goswell Street.”

“How often have you seen her, sir?”

“How often?”

“Yes, Mr. Winkle, how often? I’ll repeat the question for you a dozen times if you require it, sir.” And the learned gentleman, with a firm and steady frown, placed his hands on his hips, and smiled suspiciously at the jury.

On this question there arose the edifying brow-beating, customary on such points. First of all, Mr. Winkle said it was quite impossible for him to say how many times he had seen Mrs. Bardell. Then he was asked if he had seen her twenty times, to which he replied, “Certainly, – more than that.” Then he was asked whether he hadn’t seen her a hundred times – whether he couldn’t swear that he had seen her more than fifty times – whether he didn’t know that he had seen her at least seventy-five times – and so forth; the satisfactory conclusion which was arrived at, at last, being, that he had better take care of himself, and mind what he was about. The witness having been by these means reduced to the requisite ebb of nervous perplexity, the examination was continued as follows:

“Pray Mr. Winkle, do you remember calling on the defendant Pickwick at these apartments in the plaintiff’s house in Goswell Street, on one particular morning, in the month of July last?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Were you accompanied on that occasion by a friend of the name of Tupman, and another of the name of Snodgrass?”

“Yes, I was.”

“Are they here?”

“Yes, they are,” replied Mr. Winkle, looking very earnestly towards the spot where his friends were stationed.

“Pray attend to me, Mr. Winkle, and never mind your friends,” said Mr. Skimpin, with another expressive look at the jury. “They must tell their stories without any previous consultation with you, if none has yet taken place (another look at the jury). Now, sir, tell the gentlemen of the jury what you saw on entering the defendant’s room, on this particular morning. Come; out with it, sir: we must have it, sooner or later.”

“The defendant, Mr. Pickwick, was holding the plaintiff in his arms, with his hands clasping her waist,” replied Mr. Winkle, with natural hesitation, “and the plaintiff appeared to have fainted away.”

“Did you hear the defendant say anything?”

“I heard him call Mrs. Bardell a good creature, and I heard him ask her to compose herself, for what a situation it was, if anybody should come, or words to that effect.”