Satire or irony is often in danger of being misunderstood by the simple-minded jury. Ridicule, to be effective, must be pointed, even extravagant.
In combating the defence of Act of God set up by an American advocate defending a client on the charge of arson, Governor Wisher, for the prosecution, disposed of the theory of spontaneous combustion, and succeeded in satisfying the jury of its absurdity: “It is said, gentlemen, that this was Act of God. It may be, gentlemen. I believe in the Almighty’s power to do it, but I never knew of His walking twice round a straw stack to find a dry place to fire it, with double-nailed boots on so exactly fitting the ones worn by the defendant.”
Bowen, on the Western Circuit, was less fortunate. Prosecuting a burglar caught red-handed on the roof of a house, he left the case to the jury in the following terms: “If you consider, gentlemen, that the accused was on the roof of the house for the purpose of enjoying the midnight breeze, and, by pure accident, happened to have about him the necessary tools of a housebreaker, with no dishonest intention of employing them, you will, of course, acquit him.” The simple sons of Wessex nodded complacently at counsel, and, accepting his invitation, acquitted the prisoner.
And as there is danger of satire being misunderstood, there is also a certain danger that an advocate, in an endeavour to shorten a case, may fail to drive home all the points he seeks to make. Modern advocates, however, are more likely to remind the Bench of Quintilian’s maxim, “There is not so much inconvenience in listening to superfluous matter as to be ignorant of such things as are necessary,” than to remember the more pertinent first principle of their own art that “brevity is the soul of wit.”
It has always been a reproach to our advocacy that it injured its clients by calculated circumlocution, an exuberance of verbosity, and a prolixity of style and method ruinous to the widows and the fatherless and the strangers that strayed within the gates of the temple.
Good advocacy displays the highest form of wit in an instinct for brevity. The healthy appetite of judge and advocate alike is shown in a keenness to “get through the rind of the orange and reach the pulp as soon as possible.” This wit and wisdom of Bramwell should be painted on the wall in bold letters of silver opposite every judge on the bench, and in larger letters of gold over every bench in the kingdom in the face of the nation’s advocates.
Judges are, indeed, a long-suffering race, but there are some advocates difficult to suffer gladly. Mr. Justice Wightman showed a Christian forbearance to Mr. Ribton, who, after pounding away for several hours, began repeating himself unto the third or fourth iteration.
“Really, Mr. Ribton, you know, you’ve said that before.”
“Have I, my lord? I am very sorry. I quite forgot it.”
“Don’t apologise,” said the mild old judge, patiently stifling a sigh. “I forgive you; for it was a very long time ago.”