Scattered2 about, in various holes and corners of the Temple, are certain dark and dirty chambers3, in and out of which, all the morning in vacation, and half the evening too in term time, there may be seen constantly hurrying with bundles of papers under their arms, and protruding4 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 premium5, 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 aristocrat6 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 adornments, repairs half-price to the Adelphi Theatre at least three times a week, dissipates majestically7 at the cider cellars afterwards, and is a dirty caricature of the fashion which expired six months ago. There is the middle-aged8 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 recapitulate9, 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 sequestered10 nooks are the public offices of the legal profession, where writs11 are issued, judgments12 signed, declarations filed, and numerous other ingenious machines put in motion for the torture and torment13 of His Majesty’s liege subjects, and the comfort and emolument14 of the practitioners15 of the law. They are, for the most part, low-roofed, mouldy rooms, where innumerable rolls of parchment, which have been perspiring16 in secret for the last century, send forth17 an agreeable odour, which is mingled18 by day with the scent19 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 brass20 buttons, whose long hair was scrupulously21 twisted round the rim22 of his napless hat, and whose soiled drab trousers were so tightly strapped23 over his Blucher boots, that his knees threatened every moment to start from their concealment24. He produced from his coat pockets a long and narrow strip of parchment, on which the presiding functionary25 impressed an illegible26 black stamp. He then drew forth four scraps27 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 & Fogg, Freeman’s Court, Cornhill. Instead of returning to the office whence he came, however, he bent29 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 upstairs 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 syllable30.
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 in 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, deliberately32 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 — eh?’
Here Mr. Jackson cast his eye on the parchment; and, resting his hands on the table, and looking round with a winning and persuasive33 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 inquiry34, 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 a little something to trouble you with, Sir.’
‘Me!‘exclaimed Mr. Snodgrass.
‘It’s only a subpoena35 in Bardell and Pickwick on behalf of the plaintiff,’ replied 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 astonishment36, 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 faltered37 out a reply in the affirmative; and both gentlemen were forthwith invested with a slip of paper, and a shilling each, by the dexterous38 Mr. Jackson.
‘Now,’ said Jackson, ‘I’m afraid you’ll think me rather troublesome, but I want somebody else, if it ain’t inconvenient39. I have Samuel Weller’s name here, Mr. Pickwick.’
‘Send my servant here, waiter,’ said Mr. Pickwick. The waiter retired40, considerably41 astonished, and Mr. Pickwick motioned Jackson to a seat.
There was a painful pause, which was at length broken by the innocent defendant42. ‘I suppose, Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, his indignation rising while he spoke43 —‘I suppose, Sir, that it is the intention of your employers to seek to criminate me upon the testimony45 of my own friends?’
Mr. Jackson struck his forefinger46 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 subpoenas47 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, thereby48 performing a very graceful49 piece of pantomime (then much in vogue50, 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 bestowed51 a look of excessive disgust on his unwelcome visitor, and would probably have hurled52 some tremendous anathema53 at the heads of Messrs. Dodson & 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 uncommon54 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 honorable thing to them, as they knows how to reward merit werever they meets it. Besides which, it’s affectin’ to one’s feelin’s.’
As Mr. Weller said this, he inflicted55 a little friction56 on his right eyelid57, 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 proceedings58; 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.’ ‘Remarkable59 coincidence that ‘ere, sir,’ replied Sam.
‘Why remarkable, Sam?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.
‘Walentine’s day, sir,’ responded Sam; ‘reg’lar good day for a breach60 o’ promise trial.’
Mr. Weller’s smile awakened61 no gleam of mirth in his master’s countenance63. Mr. Pickwick turned abruptly64 round, and led the way in silence.
They had walked some distance, Mr. Pickwick trotting65 on before, plunged66 in profound meditation67, and Sam following behind, with a countenance expressive68 of the most enviable and easy defiance69 of everything and everybody, when the latter, who was always especially anxious to impart to his master any exclusive information he possessed70, 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!’ reiterated71 Sam, with some indignation; ‘I should rayther think it was. Why, sir, bless your innocent eyebrows72, that’s where the mysterious disappearance73 of a ‘spectable tradesman took place four years 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 inwentor o’ the patent-never-leavin’-off sassage steam-ingin, 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 babby. Wery proud o’ that machine he was, as it was nat’ral he should be, and he’d stand down in the celler a-lookin’ at it wen it was in full play, till he got quite melancholy74 with joy. A wery happy man he’d ha’ been, Sir, in the procession o’ that ‘ere ingin and two more lovely hinfants besides, if it hadn’t been for his wife, who was a most owdacious 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 which 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 greatcoat — 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 arterwards, 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 away, 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’d think you’d find beef come nearly as cheap as buttons.” “As buttons, Sir!” says she. “Buttons, ma’am,” says the little, old gentleman, unfolding a bit of paper, and showin’ 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 insanity75 he rashly converted hisself into sassages!” And so he had, Sir,’ said Mr. Weller, looking steadily76 into Mr. Pickwick’s horror-stricken countenance, ‘or else he’d been draw’d into the ingin; but however that might ha’ been, the little, old gen’l’m’n, who had been remarkably77 partial to sassages all his life, rushed out o’ the shop in a wild state, and was never heerd on arterwards!’
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 lank28 and care-worn countenance; he felt his poverty, for he shrank to the dark side of the staircase as Mr. Pickwick approached.
‘It’s very unfortunate,’ said the stranger, with a sigh.
‘Very,’ said Lowten, scribbling78 his name on the doorpost 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, winking79 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 doorway80. ‘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 winked81 slyly at Mr. PickwiCK, as if to intimate that some exquisite82 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 beckoned83 Sam Weller to follow his master in, and shut the door in his face.
‘There never was such a pestering84 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 pettishly85, ‘standing86 at that door, wasting one’s time with such seedy vagabonds!’ Having very vehemently87 stirred a particularly large fire with a particularly small poker88, the clerk led the way to his principal’s private room, and announced Mr. Pickwick.
‘Ah, my dear Sir,’ said little Mr. Perker, bustling89 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 very smart fellows; very smart, indeed.’
As the little man concluded, he took an emphatic90 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 subpoenaed91 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 subpoenaed 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 entrusting92 them to your solicitor93, 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 eloquence94; 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, shrugged95 his shoulders, and remained expressively96 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 poke44, 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 confirmation97 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 amazement98. ‘Pooh, pooh, my dear Sir, impossible. See Serjeant Snubbin! Bless you, my dear Sir, such a thing was never heard of, without a consultation99 fee being previously100 paid, and a consultation fixed101. 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 drawn102 up near the fire, the baize top of which had long since lost all claim to its original hue103 of green, and had gradually grown gray with dust and age, except where all traces of its natural colour were obliterated104 by ink-stains. Upon the table were numerous little bundles of papers tied with red tape; and behind it, sat an elderly clerk, whose sleek105 appearance and heavy gold watch-chain presented imposing106 indications of the extensive and lucrative107 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 inhaled108 the pinch of snuff with a zest109 which seemed to be compounded of a fondness for snuff and a relish110 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 boisterous111 laugh, but a silent, internal chuckle112, which Mr. Pickwick disliked to hear. When a man bleeds inwardly, it is a dangerous thing for himself; but when he laughs inwardly, it bodes113 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 debtors114, eh? ha, ha, ha!’ This sally seemed to tickle115 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 absurdity116 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 violation117 of all established rules and customs, to admit them at once.
Mr. Serjeant Snubbins 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 applied118 themselves during many years to a weary and laborious119 course of study; and which would have been sufficient, without the additional eyeglass which dangled120 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 devoted121 much time to its arrangement, and partly to his having worn for five-and-twenty years the forensic122 wig123 which hung on a block beside him. The marks of hairpowder 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 alteration124 in his dress; while the slovenly125 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 book-case 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 heed126 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 pretence127 whatever for the action against him; and that unless he came into court with clean hands, and without the most conscientious128 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 I 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 dubiously129.
These tokens of the Serjeant’s presentiments130 on the subject, slight as they were, were not lost on Mr. Pickwick. He settled the spectacles, through which he had attentively131 regarded such demonstrations132 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 disparagement133 to you, or them) how much depends upon effect; and you are apt to attribute to others, a desire to use, for purposes of deception134 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 hesitation135 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 interest, or connection, or impudence136, as the case might be. He was overawed by the Serjeant, and profoundly courteous137 to the attorney.
‘I have not had the pleasure of seeing you before, Mr. Phunky,’ said Serjeant Snubbin, with haughty138 condescension139.
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 recollect31, 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 professed140 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 reverence141 which a first client must ever awaken62; 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 that 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 lawsuit142, 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 consolation143, 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.
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1
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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2
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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3
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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4
protruding
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的现在分词 )；凸 | |
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5
premium
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| n.加付款；赠品；adj.高级的；售价高的 | |
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6
aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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7
majestically
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| 雄伟地； 庄重地； 威严地； 崇高地 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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9
recapitulate
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| v.节述要旨，择要说明 | |
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10
sequestered
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| adj.扣押的；隐退的；幽静的；偏僻的v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 )；扣押 | |
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11
writs
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| n.书面命令，令状( writ的名词复数 ) | |
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12
judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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13
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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14
emolument
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| n.报酬，薪水 | |
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15
practitioners
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| n.习艺者，实习者( practitioner的名词复数 )；从业者（尤指医师） | |
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16
perspiring
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的现在分词 ) | |
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17
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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18
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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19
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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20
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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21
scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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22
rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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23
strapped
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| adj.用皮带捆住的，用皮带装饰的；身无分文的；缺钱；手头紧v.用皮带捆扎(strap的过去式和过去分词)；用皮带抽打；包扎；给…打绷带 | |
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24
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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25
functionary
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| n.官员；公职人员 | |
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26
illegible
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| adj.难以辨认的，字迹模糊的 | |
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27
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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28
lank
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| adj.瘦削的；稀疏的 | |
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29
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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30
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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31
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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32
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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33
persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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34
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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35
subpoena
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| n.（法律）传票；v.传讯 | |
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36
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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37
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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38
dexterous
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| adj.灵敏的；灵巧的 | |
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39
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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40
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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41
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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42
defendant
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| n.被告；adj.处于被告地位的 | |
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43
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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44
poke
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| n.刺，戳，袋；vt.拨开，刺，戳；vi.戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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45
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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46
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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47
subpoenas
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| n.（传唤出庭的）传票( subpoena的名词复数 )v.（用传票）传唤（某人）( subpoena的第三人称单数 ) | |
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48
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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49
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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50
Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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51
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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53
anathema
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| n.诅咒；被诅咒的人(物)，十分讨厌的人(物) | |
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54
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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55
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
friction
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| n.摩擦，摩擦力 | |
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57
eyelid
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| n.眼睑，眼皮 | |
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58
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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59
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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60
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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61
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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62
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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63
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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64
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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65
trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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66
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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67
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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68
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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69
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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70
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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71
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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73
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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74
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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75
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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76
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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77
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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78
scribbling
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| n.乱涂[写]胡[乱]写的文章[作品]v.潦草的书写( scribble的现在分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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79
winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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80
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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81
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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82
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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83
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
pestering
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| 使烦恼，纠缠( pester的现在分词 ) | |
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85
pettishly
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86
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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87
vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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88
poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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89
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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90
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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91
subpoenaed
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| v.（用传票）传唤（某人）( subpoena的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
entrusting
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的现在分词 ) | |
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93
solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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94
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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95
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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96
expressively
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| ad.表示(某事物)地；表达地 | |
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97
confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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98
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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99
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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100
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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101
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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102
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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103
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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104
obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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105
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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106
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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107
lucrative
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| adj.赚钱的，可获利的 | |
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108
inhaled
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| v.吸入( inhale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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110
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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113
bodes
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| v.预示，预告，预言( bode的第三人称单数 )；等待，停留( bide的过去分词 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待 | |
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debtors
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| n.债务人，借方( debtor的名词复数 ) | |
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115
tickle
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| v.搔痒，胳肢；使高兴；发痒；n.搔痒，发痒 | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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violation
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| n.违反(行为)，违背(行为)，侵犯 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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dangled
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| 悬吊着( dangle的过去式和过去分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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forensic
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| adj.法庭的，雄辩的 | |
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wig
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| n.假发 | |
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alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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slovenly
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| adj.懒散的，不整齐的，邋遢的 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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dubiously
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| adv.可疑地，怀疑地 | |
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130
presentiments
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| n.（对不祥事物的）预感( presentiment的名词复数 ) | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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demonstrations
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| 证明( demonstration的名词复数 )； 表明； 表达； 游行示威 | |
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disparagement
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| n.轻视，轻蔑 | |
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deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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lawsuit
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| n.诉讼，控诉 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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