[Illustration]
_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, wery 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 had 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," from the fact of its walls having once displayed the
semblances 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 re-opened 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'm'n as sleeps here,
_are_ gen'l'm'n."
"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.
"A 1," 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 staircases,
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 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 debtor's 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 regular 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 alvays a
idlin' in public-houses it don't damage at all, and them as is alvays a
workin' ven they can, it damages too much. 'It's unekal,' as my father
used to say ven 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 wos force of habit."
"And who was he?" inquired Mr. Pickwick.
"Vy, that's just the wery point as nobody never know'd," replied Sam.
"But what did he do?"
"Vy, 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 wos 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 what 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.
'Vy,' 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 ven 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
wos 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 veskit wery hard, and then a tear started
out o' each eye, which wos wery extraordinary, for it was 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 wos
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,
vich he did for a long time, always comin' back reg'lar about a quarter
of an hour afore the gate shut, vich wos 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 vent on gettin'
later and later, till vun night his old friend wos just a shuttin' the
gate--had turned the key in fact--ven 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,
vith 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 down-stairs.
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 spirit 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 and 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; 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
up-stairs to bed.
Now, although the warden'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 gaol), 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 warden 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 mad. 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 grey 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 the 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 waggon, sir?"
"Don't overwhelm the gentleman 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 assembly, continued to hammer away at the comic song in the
most melancholy strains imaginable.
Taking a man's nightcap from his brow by violent means, and adjusting
it on the head of an unknown gentleman of dirty exterior, however
ingenious a witticism in itself, is unquestionably one of those which
come under the denomination of practical jokes. Viewing the matter
precisely in this light, Mr. Pickwick, without the slightest intimation
of his purpose, sprang vigorously out of bed, struck the Zephyr so
smart a blow in the chest as to deprive him of a considerable portion
of the commodity which sometimes bears his name, and then, recapturing
his nightcap, boldly placed himself in an attitude of defence.
"Now," said Mr. Pickwick, gasping no less from excitement than from
the expenditure of so much energy, "come on--both of you--both of
you!" With this liberal invitation the worthy gentleman communicated
a revolving motion to his clenched fists, by way of appalling his
antagonists with a display of science.
[Illustration: "_Come on--both of you_"]
It might have been Mr. Pickwick's very unexpected gallantry, or it
might have been the complicated manner in which he had got himself out
of bed, and fallen all in a mass upon the hornpipe man, that touched
his adversaries. Touched they were; for, instead of then and there
making an attempt to commit manslaughter, as Mr. Pickwick implicitly
believed they would have done, they paused, stared at each other a
short time, and finally laughed outright.
"Well; you're a trump, and I like you all the better for it," said the
Zephyr. "Now jump into bed again, or you'll catch the rheumatics. No
malice, I hope?" said the man, extending a hand the size of the yellow
clump of fingers which sometimes swings over a glover's door.
"Certainly not," said Mr. Pickwick, with great alacrity; for now that
the excitement was over, he began to feel rather cool about the legs.
"Allow me the _h_onour," said the gentleman with the whiskers,
presenting his dexter hand, and aspirating the h.
"With much pleasure, sir," said Mr. Pickwick; and having executed a
very long and solemn shake, he got into bed again.
"My name is Smangle, sir," said the man with the whiskers.
"Oh," said Mr. Pickwick.
"Mine is Mivins," said the man in the stockings.
"I am delighted to hear it, sir," said Mr. Pickwick.
"Hem," coughed Mr. Smangle.
"Did you speak, sir?" said Mr. Pickwick.
"No, I did not, sir," said Mr. Smangle.
"I thought you did, sir," said Mr. Pickwick.
All this was very genteel and pleasant; and to make matters still more
comfortable, Mr. Smangle assured Mr. Pickwick a great many times that
he entertained a very high respect for the feelings of a gentleman;
which sentiment, indeed, did him infinite credit, as he could be in no
wise supposed to understand them.
"Are you going through the court, sir?" inquired Mr. Smangle.
"Through the what?" said Mr. Pickwick.
"Through the Court--Portugal Street--the Court for the Relief of--you
know."
"Oh no," replied Mr. Pickwick. "No, I am not."
"Going out, perhaps?" suggested Mivins.
"I fear not," replied Mr. Pickwick. "I refuse to pay some damages, and
am here in consequence."
"Ah," said Mr. Smangle, "paper has been my ruin."
"A stationer, I presume, sir?" said Mr. Pickwick, innocently.
"Stationer! No, no; confound and curse me! Not so low as that. No
trade. When I say paper, I mean bills."
"Oh, you use the word in that sense. I see," said Mr. Pickwick.
"Damme! A gentleman must expect reverses," said Smangle. "What of that?
Here am I in the Fleet Prison. Well; good. What then? I'm none the
worse for that, am I?"
"Not a bit," replied Mr. Mivins. And he was quite right; for, so far
from Mr. Smangle being any the worse for it, he was something the
better, inasmuch as to qualify himself for the place, he had obtained
gratuitous possession of certain articles of jewellery, which, long
before that, had found their way to the pawnbroker's.
"Well; but come," said Mr. Smangle; "this is dry work. Let's rinse our
mouths with a drop of burnt sherry; the last comer shall stand it,
Mivins shall fetch it, and I'll help to drink it. That's a fair and
gentlemanlike division of labour, anyhow. Curse me!"
Unwilling to hazard another quarrel, Mr. Pickwick gladly assented to
the proposition, and consigned the money to Mr. Mivins, who, as it was
nearly eleven o'clock, lost no time in repairing to the coffee-room on
his errand.
"I say," whispered Smangle, the moment his friend had left the room;
"what did you give him?"
"Half a sovereign," said Mr. Pickwick.
"He's a devilish pleasant gentlemanly dog," said Mr. Smangle;--"infernal
pleasant. I don't know anybody more so, but--" Here Mr. Smangle stopped
short, and shook his head dubiously.
"You don't think there is any probability of his appropriating the
money to his own use?" said Mr. Pickwick.
"Oh no! Mind, I don't say that; I expressly say that he's a devilish
gentlemanly fellow," said Mr. Smangle. "But I think, perhaps, if
somebody went down, just to see that he didn't dip his beak into the
jug by accident, or make some confounded mistake in losing the money
as he came up-stairs, it would be as well. Here, you sir, just run
down-stairs, and look after that gentleman, will you?"
This request was addressed to a little timid-looking, nervous man,
whose appearance bespoke great poverty, and who had been crouching on
his bedstead all this while, apparently stupefied by the novelty of his
situation.
"You know where the coffee-room is," said Smangle; "just run down,
and tell that gentleman you've come to help him up with the jug.
Or--stop--I'll tell you what--I'll tell you how we'll do him," said
Smangle, with a cunning look.
"How?" said Mr. Pickwick.
"Send down word that he's to spend the change in cigars. Capital
thought. Run and tell him that; d'ye hear? They shan't be wasted,"
continued Smangle, turning to Mr. Pickwick. "_I'll_ smoke 'em."
This manoeuvring was so exceedingly ingenious, and, withal, performed
with such immovable composure and coolness, that Mr. Pickwick would
have had no wish to disturb it, even if he had had the power. In a
short time Mr. Mivins returned, bearing the sherry, which Mr. Smangle
dispensed in two little cracked mugs; considerately remarking, with
reference to himself, that a gentleman must not be particular under
such circumstances, and that, for his part, he was not too proud to
drink out of the jug. In which, to show his sincerity, he forthwith
pledged the company in a draught which half emptied it.
An excellent understanding having been by these means promoted, Mr.
Smangle proceeded to entertain his hearers with a relation of divers
romantic adventures in which he had been from time to time engaged,
involving various interesting anecdotes of a thorough-bred horse, and a
magnificent Jewess, both of surpassing beauty, and much coveted by the
nobility and gentry of these kingdoms.
Long before these elegant extracts from the biography of a gentleman
were concluded, Mr. Mivins had betaken himself to bed, and had set in
snoring for the night: leaving the timid stranger and Mr. Pickwick to
the full benefit of Mr. Smangle's experiences.
Nor were the two last-named gentlemen as much edified as they might
have been, by the moving passages narrated. Mr. Pickwick had been in
a state of slumber for some time, when he had a faint perception of
the drunken man bursting out afresh with the comic song, and receiving
from Mr. Smangle a gentle intimation, through the medium of the water
jug, that his audience were not musically disposed. Mr. Pickwick then
once again dropped off to sleep, with a confused consciousness that Mr.
Smangle was still engaged in relating a long story, the chief point of
which appeared to be, that on some occasion particularly stated and set
forth, he had "done" a bill and a gentleman at the same time.