'You see how these fellows drink, and smoke, and roar,' replied Mr.
Pickwick. 'It's quite impossible that they can mind it much.'
'Ah, that's just the wery thing, Sir,' rejoined Sam, 'they don't mind
it; it's a reg'lar holiday to them--all porter and skittles. It's
the t'other vuns as gets done over vith this sort o' thing; them
down-hearted fellers as can't svig avay at the beer, nor play at
skittles neither; them as vould pay if they could, and gets low by being
boxed up. I'll tell you wot it is, sir; them as is always a-idlin' in
public-houses it don't damage at all, and them as is alvays a-workin'
wen they can, it damages too much. "It's unekal," as my father used to
say wen his grog worn't made half-and-half: "it's unekal, and that's the
fault on it."'
'I think you're right, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, after a few moments'
reflection, 'quite right.'
'P'raps, now and then, there's some honest people as likes it,' observed
Mr. Weller, in a ruminative tone, 'but I never heerd o' one as I can
call to mind, 'cept the little dirty-faced man in the brown coat; and
that was force of habit.'
'And who was he?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.
'Wy, that's just the wery point as nobody never know'd,' replied Sam.
'But what did he do?'
'Wy, he did wot many men as has been much better know'd has done in
their time, Sir,' replied Sam, 'he run a match agin the constable, and
vun it.'
'In other words, I suppose,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'he got into debt.'
'Just that, Sir,' replied Sam, 'and in course o' time he come here in
consekens. It warn't much--execution for nine pound nothin', multiplied
by five for costs; but hows'ever here he stopped for seventeen year. If
he got any wrinkles in his face, they were stopped up vith the dirt, for
both the dirty face and the brown coat wos just the same at the end
o' that time as they wos at the beginnin'. He wos a wery peaceful,
inoffendin' little creetur, and wos alvays a-bustlin' about for
somebody, or playin' rackets and never vinnin'; till at last the
turnkeys they got quite fond on him, and he wos in the lodge ev'ry
night, a-chattering vith 'em, and tellin' stories, and all that 'ere.
Vun night he wos in there as usual, along vith a wery old friend of
his, as wos on the lock, ven he says all of a sudden, "I ain't seen the
market outside, Bill," he says (Fleet Market wos there at that time)--"I
ain't seen the market outside, Bill," he says, "for seventeen year." "I
know you ain't," says the turnkey, smoking his pipe. "I should like to
see it for a minit, Bill," he says. "Wery probable," says the turnkey,
smoking his pipe wery fierce, and making believe he warn't up to wot the
little man wanted. "Bill," says the little man, more abrupt than afore,
"I've got the fancy in my head. Let me see the public streets once more
afore I die; and if I ain't struck with apoplexy, I'll be back in five
minits by the clock." "And wot 'ud become o' me if you WOS struck with
apoplexy?" said the turnkey. "Wy," says the little creetur, "whoever
found me, 'ud bring me home, for I've got my card in my pocket, Bill,"
he says, "No. 20, Coffee-room Flight": and that wos true, sure enough,
for wen he wanted to make the acquaintance of any new-comer, he used to
pull out a little limp card vith them words on it and nothin' else; in
consideration of vich, he vos alvays called Number Tventy. The turnkey
takes a fixed look at him, and at last he says in a solemn manner,
"Tventy," he says, "I'll trust you; you Won't get your old friend into
trouble." "No, my boy; I hope I've somethin' better behind here," says
the little man; and as he said it he hit his little vesket wery hard,
and then a tear started out o' each eye, which wos wery extraordinary,
for it wos supposed as water never touched his face. He shook the
turnkey by the hand; out he vent--'
'And never came back again,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'Wrong for vunce, sir,' replied Mr. Weller, 'for back he come, two
minits afore the time, a-bilin' with rage, sayin' how he'd been nearly
run over by a hackney-coach that he warn't used to it; and he was blowed
if he wouldn't write to the lord mayor. They got him pacified at last;
and for five years arter that, he never even so much as peeped out o'
the lodge gate.'
'At the expiration of that time he died, I suppose,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'No, he didn't, Sir,' replied Sam. 'He got a curiosity to go and taste
the beer at a new public-house over the way, and it wos such a wery nice
parlour, that he took it into his head to go there every night, which
he did for a long time, always comin' back reg'lar about a quarter of
an hour afore the gate shut, which was all wery snug and comfortable. At
last he began to get so precious jolly, that he used to forget how the
time vent, or care nothin' at all about it, and he went on gettin'
later and later, till vun night his old friend wos just a-shuttin' the
gate--had turned the key in fact--wen he come up. "Hold hard, Bill,"
he says. "Wot, ain't you come home yet, Tventy?" says the turnkey, "I
thought you wos in, long ago." "No, I wasn't," says the little man,
with a smile. "Well, then, I'll tell you wot it is, my friend," says
the turnkey, openin' the gate wery slow and sulky, "it's my 'pinion as
you've got into bad company o' late, which I'm wery sorry to see. Now,
I don't wish to do nothing harsh," he says, "but if you can't confine
yourself to steady circles, and find your vay back at reg'lar hours,
as sure as you're a-standin' there, I'll shut you out altogether!" The
little man was seized vith a wiolent fit o' tremblin', and never vent
outside the prison walls artervards!'
As Sam concluded, Mr. Pickwick slowly retraced his steps downstairs.
After a few thoughtful turns in the Painted Ground, which, as it was now
dark, was nearly deserted, he intimated to Mr. Weller that he thought
it high time for him to withdraw for the night; requesting him to seek
a bed in some adjacent public-house, and return early in the morning,
to make arrangements for the removal of his master's wardrobe from the
George and Vulture. This request Mr. Samuel Weller prepared to obey,
with as good a grace as he could assume, but with a very considerable
show of reluctance nevertheless. He even went so far as to essay sundry
ineffectual hints regarding the expediency of stretching himself on the
gravel for that night; but finding Mr. Pickwick obstinately deaf to any
such suggestions, finally withdrew.
There is no disguising the fact that Mr. Pickwick felt very low-spirited
and uncomfortable--not for lack of society, for the prison was very
full, and a bottle of wine would at once have purchased the utmost
good-fellowship of a few choice spirits, without any more formal
ceremony of introduction; but he was alone in the coarse, vulgar crowd,
and felt the depression of spirits and sinking of heart, naturally
consequent on the reflection that he was cooped and caged up, without
a prospect of liberation. As to the idea of releasing himself by
ministering to the sharpness of Dodson & Fogg, it never for an instant
entered his thoughts.
In this frame of mind he turned again into the coffee-room gallery, and
walked slowly to and fro. The place was intolerably dirty, and the smell
of tobacco smoke perfectly suffocating. There was a perpetual slamming
and banging of doors as the people went in and out; and the noise of
their voices and footsteps echoed and re-echoed through the passages
constantly. A young woman, with a child in her arms, who seemed scarcely
able to crawl, from emaciation and misery, was walking up and down the
passage in conversation with her husband, who had no other place to
see her in. As they passed Mr. Pickwick, he could hear the female sob
bitterly; and once she burst into such a passion of grief, that she was
compelled to lean against the wall for support, while the man took the
child in his arms, and tried to soothe her.
Mr. Pickwick's heart was really too full to bear it, and he went
upstairs to bed.
Now, although the warder's room was a very uncomfortable one (being,
in every point of decoration and convenience, several hundred degrees
inferior to the common infirmary of a county jail), it had at present
the merit of being wholly deserted save by Mr. Pickwick himself. So, he
sat down at the foot of his little iron bedstead, and began to wonder
how much a year the warder made out of the dirty room. Having satisfied
himself, by mathematical calculation, that the apartment was about equal
in annual value to the freehold of a small street in the suburbs of
London, he took to wondering what possible temptation could have induced
a dingy-looking fly that was crawling over his pantaloons, to come into
a close prison, when he had the choice of so many airy situations--a
course of meditation which led him to the irresistible conclusion
that the insect was insane. After settling this point, he began to be
conscious that he was getting sleepy; whereupon he took his nightcap
out of the pocket in which he had had the precaution to stow it in
the morning, and, leisurely undressing himself, got into bed and fell
asleep.
'Bravo! Heel over toe--cut and shuffle--pay away at it, Zephyr! I'm
smothered if the opera house isn't your proper hemisphere. Keep it up!
Hooray!' These expressions, delivered in a most boisterous tone, and
accompanied with loud peals of laughter, roused Mr. Pickwick from one of
those sound slumbers which, lasting in reality some half-hour, seem to
the sleeper to have been protracted for three weeks or a month.
The voice had no sooner ceased than the room was shaken with such
violence that the windows rattled in their frames, and the bedsteads
trembled again. Mr. Pickwick started up, and remained for some minutes
fixed in mute astonishment at the scene before him.
On the floor of the room, a man in a broad-skirted green coat, with
corduroy knee-smalls and gray cotton stockings, was performing the most
popular steps of a hornpipe, with a slang and burlesque caricature of
grace and lightness, which, combined with the very appropriate character
of his costume, was inexpressibly absurd. Another man, evidently very
drunk, who had probably been tumbled into bed by his companions, was
sitting up between the sheets, warbling as much as he could recollect
of a comic song, with the most intensely sentimental feeling and
expression; while a third, seated on one of the bedsteads, was
applauding both performers with the air of a profound connoisseur, and
encouraging them by such ebullitions of feeling as had already roused
Mr. Pickwick from his sleep.
This last man was an admirable specimen of a class of gentry which never
can be seen in full perfection but in such places--they may be met
with, in an imperfect state, occasionally about stable-yards and
Public-houses; but they never attain their full bloom except in these
hot-beds, which would almost seem to be considerately provided by the
legislature for the sole purpose of rearing them.
He was a tall fellow, with an olive complexion, long dark hair, and very
thick bushy whiskers meeting under his chin. He wore no neckerchief, as
he had been playing rackets all day, and his Open shirt collar
displayed their full luxuriance. On his head he wore one of the common
eighteenpenny French skull-caps, with a gaudy tassel dangling therefrom,
very happily in keeping with a common fustian coat. His legs,
which, being long, were afflicted with weakness, graced a pair of
Oxford-mixture trousers, made to show the full symmetry of those
limbs. Being somewhat negligently braced, however, and, moreover, but
imperfectly buttoned, they fell in a series of not the most graceful
folds over a pair of shoes sufficiently down at heel to display a pair
of very soiled white stockings. There was a rakish, vagabond smartness,
and a kind of boastful rascality, about the whole man, that was worth a
mine of gold.
This figure was the first to perceive that Mr. Pickwick was looking
on; upon which he winked to the Zephyr, and entreated him, with mock
gravity, not to wake the gentleman. 'Why, bless the gentleman's honest
heart and soul!' said the Zephyr, turning round and affecting the
extremity of surprise; 'the gentleman is awake. Hem, Shakespeare! How do
you do, Sir? How is Mary and Sarah, sir? and the dear old lady at home,
Sir? Will you have the kindness to put my compliments into the first
little parcel you're sending that way, sir, and say that I would have
sent 'em before, only I was afraid they might be broken in the wagon,
sir?'
'Don't overwhelm the gentlemen with ordinary civilities when you see
he's anxious to have something to drink,' said the gentleman with the
whiskers, with a jocose air. 'Why don't you ask the gentleman what he'll
take?'
'Dear me, I quite forgot,' replied the other. 'What will you take, sir?
Will you take port wine, sir, or sherry wine, sir? I can recommend the
ale, sir; or perhaps you'd like to taste the porter, sir? Allow me to
have the felicity of hanging up your nightcap, Sir.'
With this, the speaker snatched that article of dress from Mr.
Pickwick's head, and fixed it in a twinkling on that of the drunken man,
who, firmly impressed with the belief that he was delighting a numerous
