The Pickwick Papers
dialogues which passed between the gentlemen who were waiting to see the
judge, a variety of personal squabbles ensued between the greater part
of those who had seen him, there was as much noise as could well be
raised in an apartment of such confined dimensions.
Nor were the conversations of these gentlemen the only sounds that broke
upon the ear. Standing on a box behind a wooden bar at another end of
the room was a clerk in spectacles who was ‘taking the affidavits’;
large batches of which were, from time to time, carried into the private
room by another clerk for the judge’s signature. There were a large
number of attorneys’ clerks to be sworn, and it being a moral
impossibility to swear them all at once, the struggles of these
gentlemen to reach the clerk in spectacles, were like those of a crowd
to get in at the pit door of a theatre when Gracious Majesty honours it
with its presence. Another functionary, from time to time, exercised his
lungs in calling over the names of those who had been sworn, for the
purpose of restoring to them their affidavits after they had been signed
by the judge, which gave rise to a few more scuffles; and all these
things going on at the same time, occasioned as much bustle as the most
active and excitable person could desire to behold. There were yet
another class of persons--those who were waiting to attend summonses
their employers had taken out, which it was optional to the attorney on
the opposite side to attend or not--and whose business it was, from time
to time, to cry out the opposite attorney’s name; to make certain that
he was not in attendance without their knowledge.
For example. Leaning against the wall, close beside the seat Mr.
Pickwick had taken, was an office-lad of fourteen, with a tenor voice;
near him a common-law clerk with a bass one.
A clerk hurried in with a bundle of papers, and stared about him.
‘Sniggle and Blink,’ cried the tenor.
‘Porkin and Snob,’ growled the bass.
‘Stumpy and Deacon,’ said the new-comer.
Nobody answered; the next man who came in, was bailed by the whole
three; and he in his turn shouted for another firm; and then somebody
else roared in a loud voice for another; and so forth.
All this time, the man in the spectacles was hard at work, swearing the
clerks; the oath being invariably administered, without any effort at
punctuation, and usually in the following terms:--
‘Take the book in your right hand this is your name and hand-writing you
swear that the contents of this your affidavit are true so help you God
a shilling you must get change I haven’t got it.’
‘Well, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘I suppose they are getting the _Habeas-
corpus_ ready?’
‘Yes,’ said Sam, ‘and I vish they’d bring out the have-his-carcase. It’s
wery unpleasant keepin’ us vaitin’ here. I’d ha’ got half a dozen have-
his-carcases ready, pack’d up and all, by this time.’
What sort of cumbrous and unmanageable machine, Sam Weller imagined a
habeas-corpus to be, does not appear; for Perker, at that moment, walked
up and took Mr. Pickwick away.
The usual forms having been gone through, the body of Samuel Pickwick
was soon afterwards confided to the custody of the tipstaff, to be by
him taken to the warden of the Fleet Prison, and there detained until
the amount of the damages and costs in the action of Bardell against
Pickwick was fully paid and satisfied.
‘And that,’ said Mr. Pickwick, laughing, ‘will be a very long time. Sam,
call another hackney-coach. Perker, my dear friend, good-bye.’
‘I shall go with you, and see you safe there,’ said Perker.
‘Indeed,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, ‘I would rather go without any other
attendant than Sam. As soon as I get settled, I will write and let you
know, and I shall expect you immediately. Until then, good-bye.’
As Mr. Pickwick said this, he got into the coach which had by this time
arrived, followed by the tipstaff. Sam having stationed himself on the
box, it rolled away.
‘A most extraordinary man that!’ said Perker, as he stopped to pull on
his gloves.
‘What a bankrupt he’d make, Sir,’ observed Mr. Lowten, who was standing
near. ‘How he would bother the commissioners! He’d set ‘em at defiance
if they talked of committing him, Sir.’
The attorney did not appear very much delighted with his clerk’s
professional estimate of Mr. Pickwick’s character, for he walked away
without deigning any reply.
The hackney-coach jolted along Fleet Street, as hackney-coaches usually
do. The horses ‘went better’, the driver said, when they had anything
before them (they must have gone at a most extraordinary pace when there
was nothing), and so the vehicle kept behind a cart; when the cart
stopped, it stopped; and when the cart went on again, it did the same.
Mr. Pickwick sat opposite the tipstaff; and the tipstaff sat with his
hat between his knees, whistling a tune, and looking out of the coach
window.
Time performs wonders. By the powerful old gentleman’s aid, even a
hackney-coach gets over half a mile of ground. They stopped at length,
and Mr. Pickwick alighted at the gate of the Fleet.
The tipstaff, just looking over his shoulder to see that his charge was
following close at his heels, preceded Mr. Pickwick into the prison;
turning to the left, after they had entered, they passed through an open
door into a lobby, from which a heavy gate, opposite to that by which
they had entered, and which was guarded by a stout turnkey with the key
in his hand, led at once into the interior of the prison.
Here they stopped, while the tipstaff delivered his papers; and here Mr.
Pickwick was apprised that he would remain, until he had undergone the
ceremony, known to the initiated as ‘sitting for your portrait.’
‘Sitting for my portrait?’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘Having your likeness taken, sir,’ replied the stout turnkey.
‘We’re capital hands at likenesses here. Take ‘em in no time, and always
exact. Walk in, sir, and make yourself at home.’
Mr. Pickwick complied with the invitation, and sat himself down; when
Mr. Weller, who stationed himself at the back of the chair, whispered
that the sitting was merely another term for undergoing an inspection by
the different turnkeys, in order that they might know prisoners from
visitors.
‘Well, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘then I wish the artists would come.
This is rather a public place.’
‘They von’t be long, Sir, I des-say,’ replied Sam. ‘There’s a Dutch
clock, sir.’
‘So I see,’ observed Mr. Pickwick.
‘And a bird-cage, sir,’ says Sam. ‘Veels vithin veels, a prison in a
prison. Ain’t it, Sir?’
As Mr. Weller made this philosophical remark, Mr. Pickwick was aware
that his sitting had commenced. The stout turnkey having been relieved
from the lock, sat down, and looked at him carelessly, from time to
time, while a long thin man who had relieved him, thrust his hands
beneath his coat tails, and planting himself opposite, took a good long
view of him. A third rather surly-looking gentleman, who had apparently
been disturbed at his tea, for he was disposing of the last remnant of a
crust and butter when he came in, stationed himself close to Mr.
Pickwick; and, resting his hands on his hips, inspected him narrowly;
while two others mixed with the group, and studied his features with
most intent and thoughtful faces. Mr. Pickwick winced a good deal under
the operation, and appeared to sit very uneasily in his chair; but he
made no remark to anybody while it was being performed, not even to Sam,
who reclined upon the back of the chair, reflecting, partly on the
situation of his master, and partly on the great satisfaction it would
have afforded him to make a fierce assault upon all the turnkeys there
assembled, one after the other, if it were lawful and peaceable so to
do.
At length the likeness was completed, and Mr. Pickwick was informed that
he might now proceed into the prison.
‘Where am I to sleep to-night?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.
‘Why, I don’t rightly know about to-night,’ replied the stout turnkey.
‘You’ll be chummed on somebody to-morrow, and then you’ll be all snug
and comfortable. The first night’s generally rather unsettled, but
you’ll be set all squares to-morrow.’
After some discussion, it was discovered that one of the turnkeys had a
bed to let, which Mr. Pickwick could have for that night. He gladly
agreed to hire it.
‘If you’ll come with me, I’ll show it you at once,’ said the man. ‘It
ain’t a large ‘un; but it’s an out-and-outer to sleep in. This way,
sir.’
They passed through the inner gate, and descended a short flight of
steps. The key was turned after them; and Mr. Pickwick found himself,
for the first time in his life, within the walls of a debtors’ prison.
CHAPTER XLI. WHAT BEFELL MR. PICKWICK WHEN HE GOT INTO THE FLEET; WHAT
PRISONERS HE SAW THERE, AND HOW HE PASSED THE NIGHT
Mr. Tom Roker, the gentleman who had accompanied Mr. Pickwick into the
prison, turned sharp round to the right when he got to the bottom of the
little flight of steps, and led the way, through an iron gate which
stood open, and up another short flight of steps, into a long narrow
gallery, dirty and low, paved with stone, and very dimly lighted by a
window at each remote end.
‘This,’ said the gentleman, thrusting his hands into his pockets, and
looking carelessly over his shoulder to Mr. Pickwick--‘this here is the
hall flight.’
‘Oh,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, looking down a dark and filthy staircase,
which appeared to lead to a range of damp and gloomy stone vaults,
beneath the ground, ‘and those, I suppose, are the little cellars where
the prisoners keep their small quantities of coals. Unpleasant places to
have to go down to; but very convenient, I dare say.’
‘Yes, I shouldn’t wonder if they was convenient,’ replied the gentleman,
‘seeing that a few people live there, pretty snug. That’s the Fair, that
is.’
‘My friend,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘you don’t really mean to say that human
beings live down in those wretched dungeons?’
‘Don’t I?’ replied Mr. Roker, with indignant astonishment; ‘why
shouldn’t I?’
‘Live!--live down there!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.
‘Live down there! Yes, and die down there, too, very often!’ replied Mr.
Roker; ‘and what of that? Who’s got to say anything agin it? Live down
there! Yes, and a wery good place it is to live in, ain’t it?’
As Roker turned somewhat fiercely upon Mr. Pickwick in saying this, and
moreover muttered in an excited fashion certain unpleasant invocations
concerning his own eyes, limbs, and circulating fluids, the latter
gentleman deemed it advisable to pursue the discourse no further. Mr.
Roker then proceeded to mount another staircase, as dirty as that which
led to the place which has just been the subject of discussion, in which
ascent he was closely followed by Mr. Pickwick and Sam.
‘There,’ said Mr. Roker, pausing for breath when they reached another
gallery of the same dimensions as the one below, ‘this is the coffee-
room flight; the one above’s the third, and the one above that’s the
top; and the room where you’re a-going to sleep to-night is the warden’s
room, and it’s this way--come on.’ Having said all this in a breath, Mr.
Roker mounted another flight of stairs with Mr. Pickwick and Sam Weller
following at his heels.
These staircases received light from sundry windows placed at some
little distance above the floor, and looking into a gravelled area
bounded by a high brick wall, with iron _chevaux-de-frise_ at the top.
This area, it appeared from Mr. Roker’s statement, was the racket-
ground; and it further appeared, on the testimony of the same gentleman,
that there was a smaller area in that portion of the prison which was
nearest Farringdon Street, denominated and called ‘the Painted Ground,’