by
Charles Dickens

Mrs. Bardell as illustrated by ‘Kyd’ (c1890)

On the morning of the trial of the great action for breach of promise of marriage — Bardell against Pickwick — the defendant, Mr. Pickwick, being escorted into conrt, stood up in a state of agitation, and took a glance around him. There were already a pretty large sprinkling of spectators in the gallery, and a numerous muster of gentlemen in wigs in the barristers’ seat; who presented, as a body, all that pleasing and extensive variety of nose and whisker for which the bar of England is justly celebrated. Such of the gentlemen as had a brief to carry carried it in as conspicuous a manner as possible, and occasionally scratched their noses with it, to impress it more strongly on the observation of the spectators; other gentlemen, who had no briefs, carried under their arms goodly octavos, with a red label behind, and that under-done-pie-crust-coloured cover which is technically known as “law-calf.” Others, who had neither briefs nor books, thrust their hands into their pockets, and looked as wise as they could. The whole, to the great wonderment of Mr. Pickwick, were divided into little groups, who were chatting and discussing the news of the day in the most unfeeling manner possible, just as if no trial at all were coming on.

A loud cry of “Silence!” announced the entrance of the judge, who was most particularly short, and so fat that he seemed all face and waistcoat. He rolled in upon two little turned legs; and, having bobbed to the bar, who bobbed to him, put his little legs underneath his table, and his little threeomered hat upon it. A sensation was then perceptible in the body of the court; and immediately afterwards Mrs. Bardell, the plaintiff, supported by Mrs. Gluppins, her bosom friend number one, was led in, in a drooping state. An extra-sized umbrella was then handed in by Mr. Dodson, and a pair of pattens by Mr. Fogg (Dodson and Fogg being the plaintiff’s attorneys), each of whom had prepared a sympathizing and melancholy face for the occasion. Mrs. Sanders, bosom friend number two, then appeared, leading in Master Bardell, whom she placed on the floor of the court in front of his hysterical mother, — a commanding position, in which he could not fail to awaken the sympathy of both judge and jury. This was not done without considerable opposition on the part of the young gentleman himself, who had misgivings that his being placed in the full glare of the judge’s eye was only a formal prelude to his being inunediately ordered away for instant execution.

“I am for the plaintiff, my Lord,” said Mr. Sergeant Buzfuz.

Court. “Who is with you, brother Buzfuz?” Mr. Skimpin bowed, to intimate that he was.

“I appear for the defendant, my Lord,” said Mr. Sergeant Snubbin.

Court. “Anybody with you, brother Snubbin?”

“Mr. Phunky, my Lord.”

Court. “Go on.”

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.

Sergeant 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.

Sergeant Buzfuz began by saying that never, in the whole course of his professional experience, — never, from the very first moment of his applying himself to the study and practice of the law, had he approached a case with such a heavy sense of the responsibility imposed upon him, — a responsibility he could never have supported, were he not buoyed up and sustained by a conviction, so strong that it amounted to positive certainty, that the cause of truth and justice, or, in other words, the cause of his much-injured and most oppressed client, must prevail with the high-minded and intelligent dozen of men whom he now saw in that box before him.

Counsel always begin in this way, because it puts the jury on the best terms with themselves, and makes them think what sharp fellows they must be. A visible effect was produced immediately, several jurymen beginning to take voluminous notes.

“You have heard from my learned friend, gentlemen,” continued Sergeant Buzfuz, well knowing that from the learned friend alluded to the gentlemen of the jury had heard nothing at all, — “you have heard from my learned friend, gentlemen, that this is an action for a breach of promise of marriage, in which the damages are laid at £1,500. But you have not heard from my learned friend, inasmuch as it did not come within my learned friend’s province to tell you, what are the facts and circumstances of this case. Those facts and circumstances, gentlemen, you shall hear detailed by me, and proved by the unimpeachable female whom I will place in that box before you. The plaintiff is a widow; yes, gentlemen, a widow. The late Mr. Bardell, after enjoying, for many years, the esteem and confidence of his sovereign, as one of the guardians of his royal revenues, glided almost imperceptibly from the world, to seek elsewhere for that repose and peace which a custom-house can never afford.”

This was a pathetic description of the decease of Mr. Bardelly who had been knocked on the head with a quart-pot in a public-house cellar.

“Some time before Mr. Bardell’s death, he had stamped his likeness upon a little boy. With this little boy, the only pledge of her departed exciseman, Mrs. Bardell shrunk from the world, and courted the retirement and tranquillity of Goswell Street; and here she placed in her front parlour window a written placard, bearing this inscription; ‘Apartments furnished for a single gentleman. Inquire within.’” Here Sergeant Buzfuz paused, while several gentlemen of the jury took a note of the document.

“There is no date to that, is there, sir?” inquired a juror.

“There is no date, gentlemen; but I am instructed to say that it was put in the plaintiff’s parlour window just this time three years. Now I entreat the attention of the jury to the wording of this document, — ‘Apartments furnished for a single gentleman!’ ‘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; 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 shall my lodgings be let’ Actuated by this beautiful and touching impulse (among the best impulses of our imperfect nature, gentlemen), the 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. 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 Mrs. Bardell’s door. He inquired within; he took the lodgings; and on the very next day he entered into possession of them. This man was Pickwick — Pickwick, the defendant.”

Sergeant Buzfuz here paused for breath. The silence awoke Mr. Justice Stareleigh, who immediately wrote down something with a pen without any ink in it, and looked unusually profound, to impress the jury with the belief that he always thought most deeply with his eyes shut.

“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 villany.”

Here Mr. Pickwick, who had been writhing in silence, gave a violent start, as if some vagne idea of assaulting Sergeant Buzfuz, in the august presence of justice and law, suggested itself to his mind.

“I say systematic villany, gentlemen,” said Sergeant Buzfuz, looking through Mr. Pickwick, and talking at him; “and when I say systematic villany, 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.

“I shall show you, gentlemen, that for two years Pickwick continued to reside without interruption or intermission at Mrs. Bardell’s house. 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 any 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, 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.

“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. Let me read the first: — ‘Garraway’s, twelve o’clock. Dear Mrs. B. — Chops and Tomato sauce. Tours, Pickwick.’ Gentlemen, what does this mean? 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?’ Why, gentlemen, who does trouble himself about a warming-pan? Why is Mrs. Bardell so earnestly entreated not to agitate herself about this waiming-pan, unless it is, as I assert it to be, a mere cover for hidden fire, — a mere substitute for some endearing word or 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?

“Enough of this. My client’s hopes and prospects are ruined. 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, are 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 sympathizing, a contemplative jury of her civilized countrymen.”

With this beautiful peroration, Mr. Sergeant Buzfuz sat down, and Mr. Justice Stareleigh woke up.

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

“Do you recollect, Mrs. Cluppins — 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.”

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

“Yes, it were, sir.”

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

“My Lord and jury, I will not deceive yon.”

Court, “You had better not, ma’am.”

“I was there 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.”

Court. “On the what?”

“Partly open, my Lord.”

Court. “She said on the jar.”

“It’s all the same, my Lord.”

The little judge looked doubtful, and said he’d make a note of it.

“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?”

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, 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 those 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 she had heard. Which, like many other conversations repeated under such circumstances, or, indeed, like many other conversations repeated under any circumstances, was of the smallest possible importance in itself, but looked big now.

Mrs. Cluppins, having 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 worthy lady was taken out of court.

“Nathaniel Winkle!” said Mr. Skimpin.

“Here!” Mr. Winkle entered the witness-box, and, having been duly sworn, bowed to the judge, who acknowledged the compliment by saying: —

Court. “Don’t look at me, sir; look at the jury.”

Mr. Winkle obeyed the mandate, and looked at the place where he thought the jury might be.

Mr. Winkle was then examined by Mr. Skimpin.

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

“Winkle.”

Court. “Have you any Christian name, sir?”

“Nathaniel, sir.”

Court. “Daniel, — any other name?”