The Pickwick Papers
from the fact of its walls having once displayed the semblance of
various men-of-war in full sail, and other artistical effects achieved
in bygone times by some imprisoned draughtsman in his leisure hours.
Having communicated this piece of information, apparently more for the
purpose of discharging his bosom of an important fact, than with any
specific view of enlightening Mr. Pickwick, the guide, having at length
reached another gallery, led the way into a small passage at the extreme
end, opened a door, and disclosed an apartment of an appearance by no
means inviting, containing eight or nine iron bedsteads.
‘There,’ said Mr. Roker, holding the door open, and looking triumphantly
round at Mr. Pickwick, ‘there’s a room!’
Mr. Pickwick’s face, however, betokened such a very trifling portion of
satisfaction at the appearance of his lodging, that Mr. Roker looked,
for a reciprocity of feeling, into the countenance of Samuel Weller,
who, until now, had observed a dignified silence.
‘There’s a room, young man,’ observed Mr. Roker.
‘I see it,’ replied Sam, with a placid nod of the head.
‘You wouldn’t think to find such a room as this in the Farringdon Hotel,
would you?’ said Mr. Roker, with a complacent smile.
To this Mr. Weller replied with an easy and unstudied closing of one
eye; which might be considered to mean, either that he would have
thought it, or that he would not have thought it, or that he had never
thought anything at all about it, as the observer’s imagination
suggested. Having executed this feat, and reopened his eye, Mr. Weller
proceeded to inquire which was the individual bedstead that Mr. Roker
had so flatteringly described as an out-and-outer to sleep in.
‘That’s it,’ replied Mr. Roker, pointing to a very rusty one in a
corner. ‘It would make any one go to sleep, that bedstead would, whether
they wanted to or not.’
‘I should think,’ said Sam, eyeing the piece of furniture in question
with a look of excessive disgust--‘I should think poppies was nothing to
it.’
‘Nothing at all,’ said Mr. Roker.
‘And I s’pose,’ said Sam, with a sidelong glance at his master, as if to
see whether there were any symptoms of his determination being shaken by
what passed, ‘I s’pose the other gen’l’men as sleeps here _are
_gen’l’men.’
‘Nothing but it,’ said Mr. Roker. ‘One of ‘em takes his twelve pints of
ale a day, and never leaves off smoking even at his meals.’
‘He must be a first-rater,’ said Sam.
‘A1,’ replied Mr. Roker.
Nothing daunted, even by this intelligence, Mr. Pickwick smilingly
announced his determination to test the powers of the narcotic bedstead
for that night; and Mr. Roker, after informing him that he could retire
to rest at whatever hour he thought proper, without any further notice
or formality, walked off, leaving him standing with Sam in the gallery.
It was getting dark; that is to say, a few gas jets were kindled in this
place which was never light, by way of compliment to the evening, which
had set in outside. As it was rather warm, some of the tenants of the
numerous little rooms which opened into the gallery on either hand, had
set their doors ajar. Mr. Pickwick peeped into them as he passed along,
with great curiosity and interest. Here, four or five great hulking
fellows, just visible through a cloud of tobacco smoke, were engaged in
noisy and riotous conversation over half-emptied pots of beer, or
playing at all-fours with a very greasy pack of cards. In the adjoining
room, some solitary tenant might be seen poring, by the light of a
feeble tallow candle, over a bundle of soiled and tattered papers,
yellow with dust and dropping to pieces from age, writing, for the
hundredth time, some lengthened statement of his grievances, for the
perusal of some great man whose eyes it would never reach, or whose
heart it would never touch. In a third, a man, with his wife and a whole
crowd of children, might be seen making up a scanty bed on the ground,
or upon a few chairs, for the younger ones to pass the night in. And in
a fourth, and a fifth, and a sixth, and a seventh, the noise, and the
beer, and the tobacco smoke, and the cards, all came over again in
greater force than before.
In the galleries themselves, and more especially on the stair-cases,
there lingered a great number of people, who came there, some because
their rooms were empty and lonesome, others because their rooms were
full and hot; the greater part because they were restless and
uncomfortable, and not possessed of the secret of exactly knowing what
to do with themselves. There were many classes of people here, from the
labouring man in his fustian jacket, to the broken-down spendthrift in
his shawl dressing-gown, most appropriately out at elbows; but there was
the same air about them all--a kind of listless, jail-bird, careless
swagger, a vagabondish who’s-afraid sort of bearing, which is wholly
indescribable in words, but which any man can understand in one moment
if he wish, by setting foot in the nearest debtors’ prison, and looking
at the very first group of people he sees there, with the same interest
as Mr. Pickwick did.
‘It strikes me, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, leaning over the iron rail at
the stair-head, ‘it strikes me, Sam, that imprisonment for debt is
scarcely any punishment at all.’
‘Think not, sir?’ inquired Mr. Weller.
‘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.