Mr. Pickwick complied with the invitation, and sat himselfdown; when Mr. Weller, who stationed himself at the back of thechair, whispered that the sitting was merely another term forundergoing an inspection by the different turnkeys, in order thatthey might know prisoners from visitors.

'Well, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'then I wish the artists wouldcome. This is rather a public place.'

'They von't be long, Sir, I des-say,' replied Sam. 'There's aDutch clock, sir.'

'So I see,' observed Mr. Pickwick.

'And a bird-cage, sir,' says Sam. 'Veels vithin veels, a prison ina prison. Ain't it, Sir?'

As Mr. Weller made this philosophical remark, Mr. Pickwickwas aware that his sitting had commenced. The stout turnkeyhaving been relieved from the lock, sat down, and looked at himcarelessly, from time to time, while a long thin man who hadrelieved him, thrust his hands beneath his coat tails, and plantinghimself opposite, took a good long view of him. A third rathersurly-looking gentleman, who had apparently been disturbed athis tea, for he was disposing of the last remnant of a crust andbutter when he came in, stationed himself close to Mr. Pickwick;and, resting his hands on his hips, inspected him narrowly; whiletwo others mixed with the group, and studied his features withmost intent and thoughtful faces. Mr. Pickwick winced a gooddeal under the operation, and appeared to sit very uneasily in hischair; but he made no remark to anybody while it was beingperformed, not even to Sam, who reclined upon the back of thechair, reflecting, partly on the situation of his master, and partlyon the great satisfaction it would have afforded him to make afierce assault upon all the turnkeys there assembled, one after theother, if it were lawful and peaceable so to do.

At length the likeness was completed, and Mr. Pickwick wasinformed 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 stoutturnkey. 'You'll be chummed on somebody to-morrow, and thenyou'll be all snug and comfortable. The first night's generallyrather unsettled, but you'll be set all squares to-morrow.'

After some discussion, it was discovered that one of the turnkeyshad 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. Thisway, sir.'

They passed through the inner gate, and descended a short flightof steps. The key was turned after them; and Mr. Pickwick foundhimself, for the first time in his life, within the walls of a debtors'prison.

CHAPTER XLIWHAT BEFELL Mr. PICKWICK WHEN HE GOT INTO THEFLEET; WHAT PRISONERS HE SAW THERE, AND HOW HEPASSED THE NIGHT

Mr. Tom Roker, the gentleman who had accompanied Mr. Pickwick intothe prison, turned sharp round to the right when he got to thebottom of the little flight of steps, and led the way, through aniron gate which stood open, and up another short flight of steps,into a long narrow gallery, dirty and low, paved with stone, andvery 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--'thishere is the hall flight.'

'Oh,' replied Mr. Pickwick, looking down a dark and filthystaircase, which appeared to lead to a range of damp and gloomystone vaults, beneath the ground, 'and those, I suppose, are thelittle cellars where the prisoners keep their small quantities ofcoals. Unpleasant places to have to go down to; but veryconvenient, I dare say.'

'Yes, I shouldn't wonder if they was convenient,' replied thegentleman, '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 saythat 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 anythingagin it? Live down there! Yes, and a wery good place it is to livein, ain't it?'

As Roker turned somewhat fiercely upon Mr. Pickwick insaying this, and moreover muttered in an excited fashion certainunpleasant invocations concerning his own eyes, limbs, andcirculating fluids, the latter gentleman deemed it advisable topursue the discourse no further. Mr. Roker then proceeded tomount another staircase, as dirty as that which led to the placewhich has just been the subject of discussion, in which ascent hewas closely followed by Mr. Pickwick and Sam.

'There,' said Mr. Roker, pausing for breath when they reachedanother gallery of the same dimensions as the one below, 'this isthe coffee-room flight; the one above's the third, and the oneabove that's the top; and the room where you're a-going to sleepto-night is the warden's room, and it's this way--come on.'Having said all this in a breath, Mr. Roker mounted another flightof stairs with Mr. Pickwick and Sam Weller following at his heels.

These staircases received light from sundry windows placed atsome little distance above the floor, and looking into a gravelledarea bounded by a high brick wall, with iron CHEVAUX-DE-FRISE atthe top. This area, it appeared from Mr. Roker's statement, wasthe racket-ground; and it further appeared, on the testimonyof the same gentleman, that there was a smaller area in thatportion of the prison which was nearest Farringdon Street,denominated and called 'the Painted Ground,' from the fact ofits walls having once displayed the semblance of various men-of-war in full sail, and other artistical effects achieved inbygone times by some imprisoned draughtsman in his leisure hours.

Having communicated this piece of information, apparentlymore for the purpose of discharging his bosom of an importantfact, than with any specific view of enlightening Mr. Pickwick,the guide, having at length reached another gallery, led the wayinto a small passage at the extreme end, opened a door, anddisclosed an apartment of an appearance by no means inviting,containing eight or nine iron bedsteads.

'There,' said Mr. Roker, holding the door open, and lookingtriumphantly round at Mr. Pickwick, 'there's a room!'

Mr. Pickwick's face, however, betokened such a very triflingportion of satisfaction at the appearance of his lodging, thatMr. Roker looked, for a reciprocity of feeling, into the countenanceof 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 theFarringdon Hotel, would you?' said Mr. Roker, with acomplacent smile.

To this Mr. Weller replied with an easy and unstudied closingof one eye; which might be considered to mean, either that hewould have thought it, or that he would not have thought it, orthat he had never thought anything at all about it, as theobserver's imagination suggested. Having executed this feat, andreopened his eye, Mr. Weller proceeded to inquire which was theindividual bedstead that Mr. Roker had so flatteringly describedas an out-and-outer to sleep in.

'That's it,' replied Mr. Roker, pointing to a very rusty one in acorner. '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 inquestion with a look of excessive disgust--'I should think poppieswas 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 determinationbeing shaken by what passed, 'I s'pose the other gen'l'men assleeps here ARE gen'l'men.'

'Nothing but it,' said Mr. Roker. 'One of 'em takes his twelvepints 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. Pickwicksmilingly announced his determination to test the powers of thenarcotic bedstead for that night; and Mr. Roker, after informinghim that he could retire to rest at whatever hour he thoughtproper, 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 kindledin this place which was never light, by way of compliment to theevening, which had set in outside. As it was rather warm, some ofthe tenants of the numerous little rooms which opened into thegallery on either hand, had set their doors ajar. Mr. Pickwickpeeped into them as he passed along, with great curiosity andinterest. Here, four or five great hulking fellows, just visiblethrough a cloud of tobacco smoke, were engaged in noisy andriotous conversation over half-emptied pots of beer, or playingat all-fours with a very greasy pack of cards. In the adjoiningroom, some solitary tenant might be seen poring, by the light of afeeble tallow candle, over a bundle of soiled and tattered papers,yellow with dust and dropping to pieces from age, writing, for thehundredth time, some lengthened statement of his grievances, forthe perusal of some great man whose eyes it would never reach,or whose heart it would never touch. In a third, a man, with hiswife and a whole crowd of children, might be seen making up ascanty bed on the ground, or upon a few chairs, for the youngerones 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, andthe 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, othersbecause their rooms were full and hot; the greater part becausethey were restless and uncomfortable, and not possessed of thesecret of exactly knowing what to do with themselves. Therewere many classes of people here, from the labouring man in hisfustian jacket, to the broken-down spendthrift in his shawldressing-gown, most appropriately out at elbows; but there wasthe same air about them all--a kind of listless, jail-bird, carelessswagger, a vagabondish who's-afraid sort of bearing, which iswholly indescribable in words, but which any man can understandin one moment if he wish, by setting foot in the nearestdebtors' prison, and looking at the very first group of people hesees there, with the same interest as Mr. Pickwick did.

'It strikes me, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, leaning over the ironrail at the stair-head-'it strikes me, Sam, that imprisonment fordebt 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 mindit much.'

'Ah, that's just the wery thing, Sir,' rejoined Sam, 'they don'tmind 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 playat skittles neither; them as vould pay if they could, and gets lowby being boxed up. I'll tell you wot it is, sir; them as is alwaysa-idlin' in public-houses it don't damage at all, and them as isalvays a-workin' wen they can, it damages too much. "It'sunekal," 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 fewmoments' 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 thebrown 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'dhas done in their time, Sir,' replied Sam, 'he run a match agin theconstable, 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 comehere in consekens. It warn't much--execution for nine poundnothin', multiplied by five for costs; but hows'ever here hestopped for seventeen year. If he got any wrinkles in his face,they were stopped up vith the dirt, for both the dirty face and thebrown coat wos just the same at the end o' that time as they wosat the beginnin'. He wos a wery peaceful, inoffendin' littlecreetur, and wos alvays a-bustlin' about for somebody, or playin'rackets and never vinnin'; till at last the turnkeys they got quitefond on him, and he wos in the lodge ev'ry night, a-chatteringvith 'em, and tellin' stories, and all that 'ere. Vun night he wos inthere as usual, along vith a wery old friend of his, as wos on thelock, 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'tseen the market outside, Bill," he says, "for seventeen year.""I know you ain't," says the turnkey, smoking his pipe. "Ishould like to see it for a minit, Bill," he says. "Wery probable,"says the turnkey, smoking his pipe wery fierce, and makingbelieve he warn't up to wot the little man wanted. "Bill," saysthe little man, more abrupt than afore, "I've got the fancy in myhead. Let me see the public streets once more afore I die; and ifI ain't struck with apoplexy, I'll be back in five minits by theclock." "And wot 'ud become o' me if you WOS struck withapoplexy?" said the turnkey. "Wy," says the little creetur,"whoever found me, 'ud bring me home, for I've got my card inmy pocket, Bill," he says, "No. 20, Coffee-room Flight": andthat wos true, sure enough, for wen he wanted to make theacquaintance of any new-comer, he used to pull out a little limpcard vith them words on it and nothin' else; in consideration ofvich, he vos alvays called Number Tventy. The turnkey takes afixed 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 friendinto trouble." "No, my boy; I hope I've somethin' better behindhere," says the little man; and as he said it he hit his little vesketwery hard, and then a tear started out o' each eye, which woswery extraordinary, for it wos supposed as water never touchedhis face. He shook the turnkey by the hand; out he vent--'

Title: The Pickwick Papers
Author: Charles Dickens
Viewed 229587 times

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