Guided by this direction, Mr. Pickwick proceeded slowly along the

gallery until he encountered the ‘portrait of a gentleman,’ above

described, upon whose countenance he tapped, with the knuckle of his

forefinger--gently at first, and then audibly. After repeating this

process several times without effect, he ventured to open the door and

peep in.

There was only one man in the room, and he was leaning out of window as

far as he could without overbalancing himself, endeavouring, with great

perseverance, to spit upon the crown of the hat of a personal friend on

the parade below. As neither speaking, coughing, sneezing, knocking, nor

any other ordinary mode of attracting attention, made this person aware

of the presence of a visitor, Mr. Pickwick, after some delay, stepped up

to the window, and pulled him gently by the coat tail. The individual

brought in his head and shoulders with great swiftness, and surveying

Mr. Pickwick from head to foot, demanded in a surly tone what the--

something beginning with a capital H--he wanted.

‘I believe,’ said Mr. Pickwick, consulting his ticket--‘I believe this

is twenty-seven in the third?’

‘Well?’ replied the gentleman.

‘I have come here in consequence of receiving this bit of paper,’

rejoined Mr. Pickwick.

‘Hand it over,’ said the gentleman.

Mr. Pickwick complied.

‘I think Roker might have chummed you somewhere else,’ said Mr. Simpson

(for it was the leg), after a very discontented sort of a pause.

Mr. Pickwick thought so also; but, under all the circumstances, he

considered it a matter of sound policy to be silent.

Mr. Simpson mused for a few moments after this, and then, thrusting his

head out of the window, gave a shrill whistle, and pronounced some word

aloud, several times. What the word was, Mr. Pickwick could not

distinguish; but he rather inferred that it must be some nickname which

distinguished Mr. Martin, from the fact of a great number of gentlemen

on the ground below, immediately proceeding to cry ‘Butcher!’ in

imitation of the tone in which that useful class of society are wont,

diurnally, to make their presence known at area railings.

Subsequent occurrences confirmed the accuracy of Mr. Pickwick’s

impression; for, in a few seconds, a gentleman, prematurely broad for

his years, clothed in a professional blue jean frock and top-boots with

circular toes, entered the room nearly out of breath, closely followed

by another gentleman in very shabby black, and a sealskin cap. The

latter gentleman, who fastened his coat all the way up to his chin by

means of a pin and a button alternately, had a very coarse red face, and

looked like a drunken chaplain; which, indeed, he was.

These two gentlemen having by turns perused Mr. Pickwick’s billet, the

one expressed his opinion that it was ‘a rig,’ and the other his

conviction that it was ‘a go.’ Having recorded their feelings in these

very intelligible terms, they looked at Mr. Pickwick and each other in

awkward silence.

‘It’s an aggravating thing, just as we got the beds so snug,’ said the

chaplain, looking at three dirty mattresses, each rolled up in a

blanket; which occupied one corner of the room during the day, and

formed a kind of slab, on which were placed an old cracked basin, ewer,

and soap-dish, of common yellow earthenware, with a blue flower--‘very

aggravating.’

Mr. Martin expressed the same opinion in rather stronger terms; Mr.

Simpson, after having let a variety of expletive adjectives loose upon

society without any substantive to accompany them, tucked up his

sleeves, and began to wash the greens for dinner.

While this was going on, Mr. Pickwick had been eyeing the room, which

was filthily dirty, and smelt intolerably close. There was no vestige of

either carpet, curtain, or blind. There was not even a closet in it.

Unquestionably there were but few things to put away, if there had been

one; but, however few in number, or small in individual amount, still,

remnants of loaves and pieces of cheese, and damp towels, and scrags of

meat, and articles of wearing apparel, and mutilated crockery, and

bellows without nozzles, and toasting-forks without prongs, do present

somewhat of an uncomfortable appearance when they are scattered about

the floor of a small apartment, which is the common sitting and sleeping

room of three idle men.

‘I suppose this can be managed somehow,’ said the butcher, after a

pretty long silence. ‘What will you take to go out?’

I beg your pardon,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘What did you say? I hardly

understand you.’

‘What will you take to be paid out?’ said the butcher. ‘The regular

chummage is two-and-six. Will you take three bob?’

‘And a bender,’ suggested the clerical gentleman.

‘Well, I don’t mind that; it’s only twopence a piece more,’ said Mr.

Martin. ‘What do you say, now? We’ll pay you out for three-and-sixpence

a week. Come!’

‘And stand a gallon of beer down,’ chimed in Mr. Simpson. ‘There!’

‘And drink it on the spot,’ said the chaplain. ‘Now!’

‘I really am so wholly ignorant of the rules of this place,’ returned

Mr. Pickwick, ‘that I do not yet comprehend you. Can I live anywhere

else? I thought I could not.’

At this inquiry Mr. Martin looked, with a countenance of excessive

surprise, at his two friends, and then each gentleman pointed with his

right thumb over his left shoulder. This action imperfectly described in

words by the very feeble term of ‘over the left,’ when performed by any

number of ladies or gentlemen who are accustomed to act in unison, has a

very graceful and airy effect; its expression is one of light and

playful sarcasm.

‘_Can _you!’ repeated Mr. Martin, with a smile of pity.

‘Well, if I knew as little of life as that, I’d eat my hat and swallow

the buckle whole,’ said the clerical gentleman.

‘So would I,’ added the sporting one solemnly.

After this introductory preface, the three chums informed Mr. Pickwick,

in a breath, that money was, in the Fleet, just what money was out of

it; that it would instantly procure him almost anything he desired; and

that, supposing he had it, and had no objection to spend it, if he only

signified his wish to have a room to himself, he might take possession

of one, furnished and fitted to boot, in half an hour’s time.

With this the parties separated, very much to their common satisfaction;

Mr. Pickwick once more retracing his steps to the lodge, and the three

companions adjourning to the coffee-room, there to spend the five

shillings which the clerical gentleman had, with admirable prudence and

foresight, borrowed of him for the purpose.

‘I knowed it!’ said Mr. Roker, with a chuckle, when Mr. Pickwick stated

the object with which he had returned. ‘Didn’t I say so, Neddy?’

The philosophical owner of the universal penknife growled an

affirmative.

‘I knowed you’d want a room for yourself, bless you!’ said Mr. Roker.

‘Let me see. You’ll want some furniture. You’ll hire that of me, I

suppose? That’s the reg’lar thing.’

‘With great pleasure,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

‘There’s a capital room up in the coffee-room flight, that belongs to a

Chancery prisoner,’ said Mr. Roker. ‘It’ll stand you in a pound a week.

I suppose you don’t mind that?’

‘Not at all,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Just step there with me,’ said Roker, taking up his hat with great

alacrity; ‘the matter’s settled in five minutes. Lord! why didn’t you

say at first that you was willing to come down handsome?’

The matter was soon arranged, as the turnkey had foretold. The Chancery

prisoner had been there long enough to have lost his friends, fortune,

home, and happiness, and to have acquired the right of having a room to

himself. As he laboured, however, under the inconvenience of often

wanting a morsel of bread, he eagerly listened to Mr. Pickwick’s

proposal to rent the apartment, and readily covenanted and agreed to

yield him up the sole and undisturbed possession thereof, in

consideration of the weekly payment of twenty shillings; from which fund

he furthermore contracted to pay out any person or persons that might be

chummed upon it.

As they struck the bargain, Mr. Pickwick surveyed him with a painful

interest. He was a tall, gaunt, cadaverous man, in an old greatcoat and

slippers, with sunken cheeks, and a restless, eager eye. His lips were

bloodless, and his bones sharp and thin. God help him! the iron teeth of

confinement and privation had been slowly filing him down for twenty

years.

‘And where will you live meanwhile, Sir?’ said Mr. Pickwick, as he laid

the amount of the first week’s rent, in advance, on the tottering table.

The man gathered up the money with a trembling hand, and replied that he

didn’t know yet; he must go and see where he could move his bed to.

‘I am afraid, sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, laying his hand gently and

compassionately on his arm--‘I am afraid you will have to live in some

noisy, crowded place. Now, pray, consider this room your own when you

want quiet, or when any of your friends come to see you.’

‘Friends!’ interposed the man, in a voice which rattled in his throat.

‘if I lay dead at the bottom of the deepest mine in the world; tight

screwed down and soldered in my coffin; rotting in the dark and filthy

ditch that drags its slime along, beneath the foundations of this

prison; I could not be more forgotten or unheeded than I am here. I am a

dead man; dead to society, without the pity they bestow on those whose

souls have passed to judgment. Friends to see me! My God! I have sunk,

from the prime of life into old age, in this place, and there is not one

to raise his hand above my bed when I lie dead upon it, and say, “It is

a blessing he is gone!”’

The excitement, which had cast an unwonted light over the man’s face,

while he spoke, subsided as he concluded; and pressing his withered

hands together in a hasty and disordered manner, he shuffled from the

room.

‘Rides rather rusty,’ said Mr. Roker, with a smile. ‘Ah! they’re like

the elephants. They feel it now and then, and it makes ‘em wild!’

Having made this deeply-sympathising remark, Mr. Roker entered upon his

arrangements with such expedition, that in a short time the room was

furnished with a carpet, six chairs, a table, a sofa bedstead, a tea-

kettle, and various small articles, on hire, at the very reasonable rate

of seven-and-twenty shillings and sixpence per week.

‘Now, is there anything more we can do for you?’ inquired Mr. Roker,

looking round with great satisfaction, and gaily chinking the first

week’s hire in his closed fist.

‘Why, yes,’ said Mr. Pickwick, who had been musing deeply for some time.

‘Are there any people here who run on errands, and so forth?’

‘Outside, do you mean?’ inquired Mr. Roker.

‘Yes. I mean who are able to go outside. Not prisoners.’

‘Yes, there is,’ said Roker. ‘There’s an unfortunate devil, who has got

a friend on the poor side, that’s glad to do anything of that sort. He’s

been running odd jobs, and that, for the last two months. Shall I send

him?’

‘If you please,’ rejoined Mr. Pickwick. ‘Stay; no. The poor side, you

say? I should like to see it. I’ll go to him myself.’

The poor side of a debtor’s prison is, as its name imports, that in

which the most miserable and abject class of debtors are confined. A

prisoner having declared upon the poor side, pays neither rent nor

chummage. His fees, upon entering and leaving the jail, are reduced in

amount, and he becomes entitled to a share of some small quantities of

food: to provide which, a few charitable persons have, from time to

time, left trifling legacies in their wills. Most of our readers will

remember, that, until within a very few years past, there was a kind of

iron cage in the wall of the Fleet Prison, within which was posted some

man of hungry looks, who, from time to time, rattled a money-box, and

exclaimed in a mournful voice, ‘Pray, remember the poor debtors; pray

remember the poor debtors.’ The receipts of this box, when there were

any, were divided among the poor prisoners; and the men on the poor side

relieved each other in this degrading office.

Although this custom has been abolished, and the cage is now boarded up,

the miserable and destitute condition of these unhappy persons remains

the same. We no longer suffer them to appeal at the prison gates to the

charity and compassion of the passersby; but we still leave unblotted

the leaves of our statute book, for the reverence and admiration of

succeeding ages, the just and wholesome law which declares that the

sturdy felon shall be fed and clothed, and that the penniless debtor

shall be left to die of starvation and nakedness. This is no fiction.

Not a week passes over our head, but, in every one of our prisons for

debt, some of these men must inevitably expire in the slow agonies of

want, if they were not relieved by their fellow-prisoners.

Turning these things in his mind, as he mounted the narrow staircase at

the foot of which Roker had left him, Mr. Pickwick gradually worked

himself to the boiling-over point; and so excited was he with his

reflections on this subject, that he had burst into the room to which he

had been directed, before he had any distinct recollection, either of

the place in which he was, or of the object of his visit.

The general aspect of the room recalled him to himself at once; but he

had no sooner cast his eye on the figure of a man who was brooding over

the dusty fire, than, letting his hat fall on the floor, he stood

perfectly fixed and immovable with astonishment.

Yes; in tattered garments, and without a coat; his common calico shirt,

yellow and in rags; his hair hanging over his face; his features changed

with suffering, and pinched with famine--there sat Mr. Alfred Jingle;

his head resting on his hands, his eyes fixed upon the fire, and his

whole appearance denoting misery and dejection!

Near him, leaning listlessly against the wall, stood a strong-built

countryman, flicking with a worn-out hunting-whip the top-boot that

adorned his right foot; his left being thrust into an old slipper.

Horses, dogs, and drink had brought him there, pell-mell. There was a

rusty spur on the solitary boot, which he occasionally jerked into the

empty air, at the same time giving the boot a smart blow, and muttering

some of the sounds by which a sportsman encourages his horse. He was

riding, in imagination, some desperate steeplechase at that moment. Poor

wretch! He never rode a match on the swiftest animal in his costly stud,

with half the speed at which he had torn along the course that ended in

the Fleet.

On the opposite side of the room an old man was seated on a small wooden

box, with his eyes riveted on the floor, and his face settled into an

expression of the deepest and most hopeless despair. A young girl--his

little grand-daughter--was hanging about him, endeavouring, with a

thousand childish devices, to engage his attention; but the old man

neither saw nor heard her. The voice that had been music to him, and the

eyes that had been light, fell coldly on his senses. His limbs were

shaking with disease, and the palsy had fastened on his mind.

There were two or three other men in the room, congregated in a little

knot, and noiselessly talking among themselves. There was a lean and

haggard woman, too--a prisoner’s wife--who was watering, with great

solicitude, the wretched stump of a dried-up, withered plant, which, it

was plain to see, could never send forth a green leaf again--too true an

emblem, perhaps, of the office she had come there to discharge.

Such were the objects which presented themselves to Mr. Pickwick’s view,

as he looked round him in amazement. The noise of some one stumbling

hastily into the room, roused him. Turning his eyes towards the door,

they encountered the new-comer; and in him, through his rags and dirt,

he recognised the familiar features of Mr. Job Trotter.

‘Mr. Pickwick!’ exclaimed Job aloud.

‘Eh?’ said Jingle, starting from his seat.

‘Mr ----! So it is--queer place--strange things--serves me right--very.’

Mr. Jingle thrust his hands into the place where his trousers pockets

used to be, and, dropping his chin upon his breast, sank back into his

chair.

Mr. Pickwick was affected; the two men looked so very miserable. The

sharp, involuntary glance Jingle had cast at a small piece of raw loin

of mutton, which Job had brought in with him, said more of their reduced

state than two hours’ explanation could have done. Mr. Pickwick looked

mildly at Jingle, and said--

‘I should like to speak to you in private. Will you step out for an

instant?’

‘Certainly,’ said Jingle, rising hastily. ‘Can’t step far--no danger of

overwalking yourself here--spike park--grounds pretty--romantic, but not

extensive--open for public inspection--family always in town--

housekeeper desperately careful--very.’

‘You have forgotten your coat,’ said Mr. Pickwick, as they walked out to

the staircase, and closed the door after them.

‘Eh?’ said Jingle. ‘Spout--dear relation--uncle Tom--couldn’t help it--

must eat, you know. Wants of nature--and all that.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Gone, my dear sir--last coat--can’t help it. Lived on a pair of boots,

whole fortnight. Silk umbrella--ivory handle--week--fact--honour--ask

Job--knows it.’

‘Lived for three weeks upon a pair of boots, and a silk umbrella with an

ivory handle!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, who had only heard of such things

in shipwrecks or read of them in Constable’s Miscellany.

‘True,’ said Jingle, nodding his head. ‘Pawnbroker’s shop--duplicates

here--small sums--mere nothing--all rascals.’

‘Oh,’ said Mr. Pickwick, much relieved by this explanation; ‘I

understand you. You have pawned your wardrobe.’

‘Everything--Job’s too--all shirts gone--never mind--saves washing.

Nothing soon--lie in bed--starve--die--inquest--little bone-house--poor

prisoner--common necessaries--hush it up--gentlemen of the jury--

warden’s tradesmen--keep it snug--natural death--coroner’s order--

workhouse funeral--serve him right--all over--drop the curtain.’

Jingle delivered this singular summary of his prospects in life, with

his accustomed volubility, and with various twitches of the countenance

to counterfeit smiles. Mr. Pickwick easily perceived that his

recklessness was assumed, and looking him full, but not unkindly, in the

face, saw that his eyes were moist with tears.

‘Good fellow,’ said Jingle, pressing his hand, and turning his head

away. ‘Ungrateful dog--boyish to cry--can’t help it--bad fever--weak--

ill--hungry. Deserved it all--but suffered much--very.’ Wholly unable to

keep up appearances any longer, and perhaps rendered worse by the effort

he had made, the dejected stroller sat down on the stairs, and, covering

his face with his hands, sobbed like a child.

‘Come, come,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with considerable emotion, ‘we will see

what can be done, when I know all about the matter. Here, Job; where is

that fellow?’

‘Here, sir,’ replied Job, presenting himself on the staircase. We have

described him, by the bye, as having deeply-sunken eyes, in the best of

times. In his present state of want and distress, he looked as if those

features had gone out of town altogether.

‘Here, sir,’ cried Job.

‘Come here, sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, trying to look stern, with four

large tears running down his waistcoat. ‘Take that, sir.’

Take what? In the ordinary acceptation of such language, it should have

been a blow. As the world runs, it ought to have been a sound, hearty

cuff; for Mr. Pickwick had been duped, deceived, and wronged by the

destitute outcast who was now wholly in his power. Must we tell the

truth? It was something from Mr. Pickwick’s waistcoat pocket, which

chinked as it was given into Job’s hand, and the giving of which,

somehow or other imparted a sparkle to the eye, and a swelling to the

heart, of our excellent old friend, as he hurried away.

Sam had returned when Mr. Pickwick reached his own room, and was

inspecting the arrangements that had been made for his comfort, with a

kind of grim satisfaction which was very pleasant to look upon. Having a

decided objection to his master’s being there at all, Mr. Weller

appeared to consider it a high moral duty not to appear too much pleased

with anything that was done, said, suggested, or proposed.

‘Well, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Well, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘Pretty comfortable now, eh, Sam?’

‘Pretty vell, sir,’ responded Sam, looking round him in a disparaging

manner.

‘Have you seen Mr. Tupman and our other friends?’

‘Yes, I _have _seen ‘em, sir, and they’re a-comin’ to-morrow, and wos

wery much surprised to hear they warn’t to come to-day,’ replied Sam.

‘You have brought the things I wanted?’

Mr. Weller in reply pointed to various packages which he had arranged,

as neatly as he could, in a corner of the room.

‘Very well, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, after a little hesitation; ‘listen

to what I am going to say, Sam.’

‘Cert’nly, Sir,’ rejoined Mr. Weller; ‘fire away, Sir.’

‘I have felt from the first, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with much

solemnity, ‘that this is not the place to bring a young man to.’

‘Nor an old ‘un neither, Sir,’ observed Mr. Weller.

‘You’re quite right, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘but old men may come here

through their own heedlessness and unsuspicion, and young men may be

brought here by the selfishness of those they serve. It is better for

those young men, in every point of view, that they should not remain

here. Do you understand me, Sam?’

‘Vy no, Sir, I do _not_,’ replied Mr. Weller doggedly.

‘Try, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Vell, sir,’ rejoined Sam, after a short pause, ‘I think I see your

drift; and if I do see your drift, it’s my ‘pinion that you’re a-comin’

it a great deal too strong, as the mail-coachman said to the snowstorm,

ven it overtook him.’

‘I see you comprehend me, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Independently of my

wish that you should not be idling about a place like this, for years to

come, I feel that for a debtor in the Fleet to be attended by his

manservant is a monstrous absurdity. Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘for a

time you must leave me.’

‘Oh, for a time, eh, sir?’ rejoined Mr. Weller rather sarcastically.

‘Yes, for the time that I remain here,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Your wages I

shall continue to pay. Any one of my three friends will be happy to take

you, were it only out of respect to me. And if I ever do leave this

place, Sam,’ added Mr. Pickwick, with assumed cheerfulness--‘if I do, I

pledge you my word that you shall return to me instantly.’

‘Now I’ll tell you wot it is, Sir,’ said Mr. Weller, in a grave and

solemn voice. ‘This here sort o’ thing won’t do at all, so don’t let’s

hear no more about it.’

I am serious, and resolved, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘You air, air you, sir?’ inquired Mr. Weller firmly. ‘Wery good, Sir;

then so am I.’

Thus speaking, Mr. Weller fixed his hat on his head with great

precision, and abruptly left the room.

‘Sam!’ cried Mr. Pickwick, calling after him, ‘Sam! Here!’

But the long gallery ceased to re-echo the sound of footsteps. Sam

Weller was gone.

CHAPTER XLIII. SHOWING HOW MR. SAMUEL WELLER GOT INTO DIFFICULTIES

In a lofty room, ill-lighted and worse ventilated, situated in Portugal

Street, Lincoln’s Inn Fields, there sit nearly the whole year round,

one, two, three, or four gentlemen in wigs, as the case may be, with

little writing-desks before them, constructed after the fashion of those

used by the judges of the land, barring the French polish. There is a

box of barristers on their right hand; there is an enclosure of

insolvent debtors on their left; and there is an inclined plane of most

especially dirty faces in their front. These gentlemen are the

Commissioners of the Insolvent Court, and the place in which they sit,

is the Insolvent Court itself.

It is, and has been, time out of mind, the remarkable fate of this court

to be, somehow or other, held and understood, by the general consent of

all the destitute shabby-genteel people in London, as their common

resort, and place of daily refuge. It is always full. The steams of beer

and spirits perpetually ascend to the ceiling, and, being condensed by

the heat, roll down the walls like rain; there are more old suits of

clothes in it at one time, than will be offered for sale in all

Houndsditch in a twelvemonth; more unwashed skins and grizzly beards

than all the pumps and shaving-shops between Tyburn and Whitechapel

could render decent, between sunrise and sunset.

It must not be supposed that any of these people have the least shadow

of business in, or the remotest connection with, the place they so

indefatigably attend. If they had, it would be no matter of surprise,

and the singularity of the thing would cease. Some of them sleep during

the greater part of the sitting; others carry small portable dinners

wrapped in pocket-handkerchiefs or sticking out of their worn-out

pockets, and munch and listen with equal relish; but no one among them

was ever known to have the slightest personal interest in any case that

was ever brought forward. Whatever they do, there they sit from the

first moment to the last. When it is heavy, rainy weather, they all come

in, wet through; and at such times the vapours of the court are like

those of a fungus-pit.

A casual visitor might suppose this place to be a temple dedicated to

the Genius of Seediness. There is not a messenger or process-server

attached to it, who wears a coat that was made for him; not a tolerably

fresh, or wholesome-looking man in the whole establishment, except a

little white-headed apple-faced tipstaff, and even he, like an ill-

conditioned cherry preserved in brandy, seems to have artificially dried

and withered up into a state of preservation to which he can lay no

natural claim. The very barristers’ wigs are ill-powdered, and their

curls lack crispness.

But the attorneys, who sit at a large bare table below the

commissioners, are, after all, the greatest curiosities. The

professional establishment of the more opulent of these gentlemen,

consists of a blue bag and a boy; generally a youth of the Jewish

persuasion. They have no fixed offices, their legal business being

transacted in the parlours of public-houses, or the yards of prisons,

whither they repair in crowds, and canvass for customers after the

manner of omnibus cads. They are of a greasy and mildewed appearance;

and if they can be said to have any vices at all, perhaps drinking and

cheating are the most conspicuous among them. Their residences are

usually on the outskirts of ‘the Rules,’ chiefly lying within a circle

of one mile from the obelisk in St. George’s Fields. Their looks are not

prepossessing, and their manners are peculiar.

Mr. Solomon Pell, one of this learned body, was a fat, flabby, pale man,

in a surtout which looked green one minute, and brown the next, with a

velvet collar of the same chameleon tints. His forehead was narrow, his

face wide, his head large, and his nose all on one side, as if Nature,

indignant with the propensities she observed in him in his birth, had

given it an angry tweak which it had never recovered. Being short-necked

and asthmatic, however, he respired principally through this feature;

so, perhaps, what it wanted in ornament, it made up in usefulness.

‘I’m sure to bring him through it,’ said Mr. Pell.

‘Are you, though?’ replied the person to whom the assurance was pledged.

‘Certain sure,’ replied Pell; ‘but if he’d gone to any irregular

practitioner, mind you, I wouldn’t have answered for the consequences.’

‘Ah!’ said the other, with open mouth.

‘No, that I wouldn’t,’ said Mr. Pell; and he pursed up his lips,

frowned, and shook his head mysteriously.

Now, the place where this discourse occurred was the public-house just

opposite to the Insolvent Court; and the person with whom it was held

was no other than the elder Mr. Weller, who had come there, to comfort

and console a friend, whose petition to be discharged under the act, was

to be that day heard, and whose attorney he was at that moment

consulting.

‘And vere is George?’ inquired the old gentleman.

Mr. Pell jerked his head in the direction of a back parlour, whither Mr.

Weller at once repairing, was immediately greeted in the warmest and

most flattering manner by some half-dozen of his professional brethren,

in token of their gratification at his arrival. The insolvent gentleman,

who had contracted a speculative but imprudent passion for horsing long

stages, which had led to his present embarrassments, looked extremely

well, and was soothing the excitement of his feelings with shrimps and

porter.

The salutation between Mr. Weller and his friends was strictly confined

to the freemasonry of the craft; consisting of a jerking round of the

right wrist, and a tossing of the little finger into the air at the same

time. We once knew two famous coachmen (they are dead now, poor fellows)

who were twins, and between whom an unaffected and devoted attachment

existed. They passed each other on the Dover road, every day, for

twenty-four years, never exchanging any other greeting than this; and

yet, when one died, the other pined away, and soon afterwards followed

him!

‘Vell, George,’ said Mr. Weller senior, taking off his upper coat, and

seating himself with his accustomed gravity. ‘How is it? All right

behind, and full inside?’

‘All right, old feller,’ replied the embarrassed gentleman.

‘Is the gray mare made over to anybody?’ inquired Mr. Weller anxiously.

George nodded in the affirmative.

‘Vell, that’s all right,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘Coach taken care on, also?’

‘Con-signed in a safe quarter,’ replied George, wringing the heads off

half a dozen shrimps, and swallowing them without any more ado.

‘Wery good, wery good,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘Alvays see to the drag ven you

go downhill. Is the vay-bill all clear and straight for’erd?’

‘The schedule, sir,’ said Pell, guessing at Mr. Weller’s meaning, ‘the

schedule is as plain and satisfactory as pen and ink can make it.’

Mr. Weller nodded in a manner which bespoke his inward approval of these

arrangements; and then, turning to Mr. Pell, said, pointing to his

friend George--

‘Ven do you take his cloths off?’

‘Why,’ replied Mr. Pell, ‘he stands third on the opposed list, and I

should think it would be his turn in about half an hour. I told my clerk

to come over and tell us when there was a chance.’

Mr. Weller surveyed the attorney from head to foot with great

admiration, and said emphatically--

‘And what’ll you take, sir?’

‘Why, really,’ replied Mr. Pell, ‘you’re very--. Upon my word and

honour, I’m not in the habit of--. It’s so very early in the morning,

that, actually, I am almost--. Well, you may bring me threepenn’orth of

rum, my dear.’

The officiating damsel, who had anticipated the order before it was

given, set the glass of spirits before Pell, and retired.

‘Gentlemen,’ said Mr. Pell, looking round upon the company, ‘success to

your friend! I don’t like to boast, gentlemen; it’s not my way; but I

can’t help saying, that, if your friend hadn’t been fortunate enough to

fall into hands that--But I won’t say what I was going to say.

Gentlemen, my service to you.’ Having emptied the glass in a twinkling,

Mr. Pell smacked his lips, and looked complacently round on the

assembled coachmen, who evidently regarded him as a species of divinity.

‘Let me see,’ said the legal authority. ‘What was I a-saying,

gentlemen?’

‘I think you was remarkin’ as you wouldn’t have no objection to another

o’ the same, Sir,’ said Mr. Weller, with grave facetiousness.

‘Ha, ha!’ laughed Mr. Pell. ‘Not bad, not bad. A professional man, too!

At this time of the morning, it would be rather too good a--Well, I

don’t know, my dear--you may do that again, if you please. Hem!’

This last sound was a solemn and dignified cough, in which Mr. Pell,

observing an indecent tendency to mirth in some of his auditors,

considered it due to himself to indulge.

‘The late Lord Chancellor, gentlemen, was very fond of me,’ said Mr.

Pell.

‘And wery creditable in him, too,’ interposed Mr. Weller.

‘Hear, hear,’ assented Mr. Pell’s client. ‘Why shouldn’t he be?

‘Ah! Why, indeed!’ said a very red-faced man, who had said nothing yet,

and who looked extremely unlikely to say anything more. ‘Why shouldn’t

he?’

A murmur of assent ran through the company.

‘I remember, gentlemen,’ said Mr. Pell, ‘dining with him on one

occasion; there was only us two, but everything as splendid as if twenty

people had been expected--the great seal on a dumb-waiter at his right

hand, and a man in a bag-wig and suit of armour guarding the mace with a

drawn sword and silk stockings--which is perpetually done, gentlemen,

night and day; when he said, “Pell,” he said, “no false delicacy, Pell.

You’re a man of talent; you can get anybody through the Insolvent Court,

Pell; and your country should be proud of you.” Those were his very

words. “My Lord,” I said, “you flatter me.”--“Pell,” he said, “if I do,

I’m damned.”’

‘Did he say that?’ inquired Mr. Weller.

‘He did,’ replied Pell.

‘Vell, then,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘I say Parliament ought to ha’ took it

up; and if he’d been a poor man, they would ha’ done it.’

‘But, my dear friend,’ argued Mr. Pell, ‘it was in confidence.’

‘In what?’ said Mr. Weller.

‘In confidence.’

‘Oh! wery good,’ replied Mr. Weller, after a little reflection. ‘If he

damned hisself in confidence, o’ course that was another thing.’

‘Of course it was,’ said Mr. Pell. ‘The distinction’s obvious, you will

perceive.’

‘Alters the case entirely,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘Go on, Sir.’

No, I will not go on, Sir,’ said Mr. Pell, in a low and serious tone.

‘You have reminded me, Sir, that this conversation was private--private

and confidential, gentlemen. Gentlemen, I am a professional man. It may

be that I am a good deal looked up to, in my profession--it may be that

I am not. Most people know. I say nothing. Observations have already

been made, in this room, injurious to the reputation of my noble friend.

You will excuse me, gentlemen; I was imprudent. I feel that I have no

right to mention this matter without his concurrence. Thank you, Sir;

thank you.’ Thus delivering himself, Mr. Pell thrust his hands into his

pockets, and, frowning grimly around, rattled three halfpence with

terrible determination.

This virtuous resolution had scarcely been formed, when the boy and the

blue bag, who were inseparable companions, rushed violently into the

room, and said (at least the boy did, for the blue bag took no part in

the announcement) that the case was coming on directly. The intelligence

was no sooner received than the whole party hurried across the street,

and began to fight their way into court--a preparatory ceremony, which

has been calculated to occupy, in ordinary cases, from twenty-five

minutes to thirty.

Mr. Weller, being stout, cast himself at once into the crowd, with the

desperate hope of ultimately turning up in some place which would suit

him. His success was not quite equal to his expectations; for having

neglected to take his hat off, it was knocked over his eyes by some

unseen person, upon whose toes he had alighted with considerable force.

Apparently this individual regretted his impetuosity immediately

afterwards, for, muttering an indistinct exclamation of surprise, he

dragged the old man out into the hall, and, after a violent struggle,

released his head and face.

‘Samivel!’ exclaimed Mr. Weller, when he was thus enabled to behold his

rescuer.

Sam nodded.

‘You’re a dutiful and affectionate little boy, you are, ain’t you,’ said

Mr. Weller, ‘to come a-bonnetin’ your father in his old age?’

‘How should I know who you wos?’ responded the son. ‘Do you s’pose I wos

to tell you by the weight o’ your foot?’

‘Vell, that’s wery true, Sammy,’ replied Mr. Weller, mollified at once;

‘but wot are you a-doin’ on here? Your gov’nor can’t do no good here,

Sammy. They won’t pass that werdick, they won’t pass it, Sammy.’ And Mr.

Weller shook his head with legal solemnity.

‘Wot a perwerse old file it is!’ exclaimed Sam, ‘always a-goin’ on about

werdicks and alleybis and that. Who said anything about the werdick?’

Mr. Weller made no reply, but once more shook his head most learnedly.

‘Leave off rattlin’ that ‘ere nob o’ yourn, if you don’t want it to come

off the springs altogether,’ said Sam impatiently, ‘and behave

reasonable. I vent all the vay down to the Markis o’ Granby, arter you,

last night.’

‘Did you see the Marchioness o’ Granby, Sammy?’ inquired Mr. Weller,

with a sigh.

‘Yes, I did,’ replied Sam.

‘How wos the dear creetur a-lookin’?’

‘Wery queer,’ said Sam. ‘I think she’s a-injurin’ herself gradivally

vith too much o’ that ‘ere pine-apple rum, and other strong medicines of

the same natur.’

‘You don’t mean that, Sammy?’ said the senior earnestly.

‘I do, indeed,’ replied the junior.

Mr. Weller seized his son’s hand, clasped it, and let it fall. There was

an expression on his countenance in doing so--not of dismay or

apprehension, but partaking more of the sweet and gentle character of

hope. A gleam of resignation, and even of cheerfulness, passed over his

face too, as he slowly said, ‘I ain’t quite certain, Sammy; I wouldn’t

like to say I wos altogether positive, in case of any subsekent

disappointment, but I rayther think, my boy, I rayther think, that the

shepherd’s got the liver complaint!’

‘Does he look bad?’ inquired Sam.

‘He’s uncommon pale,’ replied his father, ‘’cept about the nose, which

is redder than ever. His appetite is wery so-so, but he imbibes

wonderful.’

Some thoughts of the rum appeared to obtrude themselves on Mr. Weller’s

mind, as he said this; for he looked gloomy and thoughtful; but he very

shortly recovered, as was testified by a perfect alphabet of winks, in

which he was only wont to indulge when particularly pleased.

‘Vell, now,’ said Sam, ‘about my affair. Just open them ears o’ yourn,

and don’t say nothin’ till I’ve done.’ With this preface, Sam related,

as succinctly as he could, the last memorable conversation he had had

with Mr. Pickwick.

‘Stop there by himself, poor creetur!’ exclaimed the elder Mr. Weller,

‘without nobody to take his part! It can’t be done, Samivel, it can’t be

done.’

‘O’ course it can’t,’ asserted Sam: ‘I know’d that, afore I came.’

Why, they’ll eat him up alive, Sammy,’ exclaimed Mr. Weller.

Sam nodded his concurrence in the opinion.

‘He goes in rayther raw, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller metaphorically, ‘and

he’ll come out, done so ex-ceedin’ brown, that his most formiliar

friends won’t know him. Roast pigeon’s nothin’ to it, Sammy.’

Again Sam Weller nodded.

‘It oughtn’t to be, Samivel,’ said Mr. Weller gravely.

‘It mustn’t be,’ said Sam.

‘Cert’nly not,’ said Mr. Weller.

‘Vell now,’ said Sam, ‘you’ve been a-prophecyin’ away, wery fine, like a

red-faced Nixon, as the sixpenny books gives picters on.’

‘Who wos he, Sammy?’ inquired Mr. Weller.

‘Never mind who he was,’ retorted Sam; ‘he warn’t a coachman; that’s

enough for you.’

I know’d a ostler o’ that name,’ said Mr. Weller, musing.

‘It warn’t him,’ said Sam. ‘This here gen’l’m’n was a prophet.’

‘Wot’s a prophet?’ inquired Mr. Weller, looking sternly on his son.

‘Wy, a man as tells what’s a-goin’ to happen,’ replied Sam.

‘I wish I’d know’d him, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘P’raps he might ha’

throw’d a small light on that ‘ere liver complaint as we wos a-speakin’

on, just now. Hows’ever, if he’s dead, and ain’t left the bisness to

nobody, there’s an end on it. Go on, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, with a

sigh.

‘Well,’ said Sam, ‘you’ve been a-prophecyin’ avay about wot’ll happen to

the gov’ner if he’s left alone. Don’t you see any way o’ takin’ care on

him?’

‘No, I don’t, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, with a reflective visage.

‘No vay at all?’ inquired Sam.

‘No vay,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘unless’--and a gleam of intelligence lighted

up his countenance as he sank his voice to a whisper, and applied his

mouth to the ear of his offspring--‘unless it is getting him out in a

turn-up bedstead, unbeknown to the turnkeys, Sammy, or dressin’ him up

like a old ‘ooman vith a green wail.’

Sam Weller received both of these suggestions with unexpected contempt,

and again propounded his question.

‘No,’ said the old gentleman; ‘if he von’t let you stop there, I see no

vay at all. It’s no thoroughfare, Sammy, no thoroughfare.’

‘Well, then, I’ll tell you wot it is,’ said Sam, ‘I’ll trouble you for

the loan of five-and-twenty pound.’

‘Wot good’ll that do?’ inquired Mr. Weller.

‘Never mind,’ replied Sam. ‘P’raps you may ask for it five minits

arterwards; p’raps I may say I von’t pay, and cut up rough. You von’t

think o’ arrestin’ your own son for the money, and sendin’ him off to

the Fleet, will you, you unnat’ral wagabone?’

At this reply of Sam’s, the father and son exchanged a complete code of

telegraph nods and gestures, after which, the elder Mr. Weller sat

himself down on a stone step and laughed till he was purple.

‘Wot a old image it is!’ exclaimed Sam, indignant at this loss of time.

‘What are you a-settin’ down there for, con-wertin’ your face into a

street-door knocker, wen there’s so much to be done. Where’s the money?’

‘In the boot, Sammy, in the boot,’ replied Mr. Weller, composing his

features. ‘Hold my hat, Sammy.’

Having divested himself of this encumbrance, Mr. Weller gave his body a

sudden wrench to one side, and by a dexterous twist, contrived to get

his right hand into a most capacious pocket, from whence, after a great

deal of panting and exertion, he extricated a pocket-book of the large

octavo size, fastened by a huge leathern strap. From this ledger he drew

forth a couple of whiplashes, three or four buckles, a little sample-bag

of corn, and, finally, a small roll of very dirty bank-notes, from which

he selected the required amount, which he handed over to Sam.

‘And now, Sammy,’ said the old gentleman, when the whip-lashes, and the

buckles, and the samples, had been all put back, and the book once more

deposited at the bottom of the same pocket, ‘now, Sammy, I know a

gen’l’m’n here, as’ll do the rest o’ the bisness for us, in no time--a

limb o’ the law, Sammy, as has got brains like the frogs, dispersed all

over his body, and reachin’ to the wery tips of his fingers; a friend of

the Lord Chancellorship’s, Sammy, who’d only have to tell him what he

wanted, and he’d lock you up for life, if that wos all.’

‘I say,’ said Sam, ‘none o’ that.’

‘None o’ wot?’ inquired Mr. Weller.

‘Wy, none o’ them unconstitootional ways o’ doin’ it,’ retorted Sam.

‘The have-his-carcass, next to the perpetual motion, is vun of the

blessedest things as wos ever made. I’ve read that ‘ere in the

newspapers wery of’en.’

‘Well, wot’s that got to do vith it?’ inquired Mr. Weller.

‘Just this here,’ said Sam, ‘that I’ll patronise the inwention, and go

in, that vay. No visperin’s to the Chancellorship--I don’t like the

notion. It mayn’t be altogether safe, vith reference to gettin’ out

agin.’

Deferring to his son’s feeling upon this point, Mr. Weller at once

sought the erudite Solomon Pell, and acquainted him with his desire to

issue a writ, instantly, for the _sum _of twenty-five pounds, and costs

of process; to be executed without delay upon the body of one Samuel

Weller; the charges thereby incurred, to be paid in advance to Solomon

Pell.

The attorney was in high glee, for the embarrassed coach-horser was

ordered to be discharged forthwith. He highly approved of Sam’s

attachment to his master; declared that it strongly reminded him of his

own feelings of devotion to his friend, the Chancellor; and at once led

the elder Mr. Weller down to the Temple, to swear the affidavit of debt,

which the boy, with the assistance of the blue bag, had drawn up on the

spot.

Meanwhile, Sam, having been formally introduced to the whitewashed

gentleman and his friends, as the offspring of Mr. Weller, of the Belle

Savage, was treated with marked distinction, and invited to regale

himself with them in honour of the occasion--an invitation which he was

by no means backward in accepting.

The mirth of gentlemen of this class is of a grave and quiet character,

usually; but the present instance was one of peculiar festivity, and

they relaxed in proportion. After some rather tumultuous toasting of the

Chief Commissioner and Mr. Solomon Pell, who had that day displayed such

transcendent abilities, a mottled-faced gentleman in a blue shawl

proposed that somebody should sing a song. The obvious suggestion was,

that the mottled-faced gentleman, being anxious for a song, should sing

it himself; but this the mottled-faced gentleman sturdily, and somewhat

offensively, declined to do. Upon which, as is not unusual in such

cases, a rather angry colloquy ensued.

‘Gentlemen,’ said the coach-horser, ‘rather than disturb the harmony of

this delightful occasion, perhaps Mr. Samuel Weller will oblige the

company.’

‘Raly, gentlemen,’ said Sam, ‘I’m not wery much in the habit o’ singin’

without the instrument; but anythin’ for a quiet life, as the man said

wen he took the sitivation at the lighthouse.’

With this prelude, Mr. Samuel Weller burst at once into the following

wild and beautiful legend, which, under the impression that it is not

generally known, we take the liberty of quoting. We would beg to call

particular attention to the monosyllable at the end of the second and

fourth lines, which not only enables the singer to take breath at those

points, but greatly assists the metre.

ROMANCE

I

Bold Turpin vunce, on Hounslow Heath, His bold mare Bess bestrode--er;

Ven there he see’d the Bishop’s coach A-coming along the road--er. So he

gallops close to the ‘orse’s legs, And he claps his head vithin; And the

Bishop says, ‘Sure as eggs is eggs, This here’s the bold Turpin!’

CHORUS

And the Bishop says, ‘Sure as eggs is eggs, This here’s the bold

Turpin!’

II

Says Turpin, ‘You shall eat your words, With a sarse of leaden bul--

let;’ So he puts a pistol to his mouth, And he fires it down his gul--

let. The coachman he not likin’ the job, Set off at full gal-lop, But

Dick put a couple of balls in his nob, And perwailed on him to stop.

CHORUS (sarcastically)

But Dick put a couple of balls in his nob, And perwailed on him to stop.

‘I maintain that that ‘ere song’s personal to the cloth,’ said the

mottled-faced gentleman, interrupting it at this point. ‘I demand the

name o’ that coachman.’

‘Nobody know’d,’ replied Sam. ‘He hadn’t got his card in his pocket.’

‘I object to the introduction o’ politics,’ said the mottled-faced

gentleman. ‘I submit that, in the present company, that ‘ere song’s

political; and, wot’s much the same, that it ain’t true. I say that that

coachman did not run away; but that he died game--game as pheasants; and

I won’t hear nothin’ said to the contrairey.’

As the mottled-faced gentleman spoke with great energy and

determination, and as the opinions of the company seemed divided on the

subject, it threatened to give rise to fresh altercation, when Mr.

Weller and Mr. Pell most opportunely arrived.

‘All right, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller.

‘The officer will be here at four o’clock,’ said Mr. Pell. ‘I suppose

you won’t run away meanwhile, eh? Ha! ha!’

‘P’raps my cruel pa ‘ull relent afore then,’ replied Sam, with a broad

grin.

‘Not I,’ said the elder Mr. Weller.

‘Do,’ said Sam.

‘Not on no account,’ replied the inexorable creditor.

‘I’ll give bills for the amount, at sixpence a month,’ said Sam.

‘I won’t take ‘em,’ said Mr. Weller.

‘Ha, ha, ha! very good, very good,’ said Mr. Solomon Pell, who was

making out his little bill of costs; ‘a very amusing incident indeed!

Benjamin, copy that.’ And Mr. Pell smiled again, as he called Mr.

Weller’s attention to the amount.

‘Thank you, thank you,’ said the professional gentleman, taking up

another of the greasy notes as Mr. Weller took it from the pocket-book.

‘Three ten and one ten is five. Much obliged to you, Mr. Weller. Your

son is a most deserving young man, very much so indeed, Sir. It’s a very

pleasant trait in a young man’s character, very much so,’ added Mr.

Pell, smiling smoothly round, as he buttoned up the money.

‘Wot a game it is!’ said the elder Mr. Weller, with a chuckle. ‘A

reg’lar prodigy son!’

‘Prodigal--prodigal son, Sir,’ suggested Mr. Pell, mildly.

‘Never mind, Sir,’ said Mr. Weller, with dignity. ‘I know wot’s o’clock,

Sir. Wen I don’t, I’ll ask you, Sir.’

By the time the officer arrived, Sam had made himself so extremely

popular, that the congregated gentlemen determined to see him to prison

in a body. So off they set; the plaintiff and defendant walking arm in

arm, the officer in front, and eight stout coachmen bringing up the

rear. At Serjeant’s Inn Coffee-house the whole party halted to refresh,

and, the legal arrangements being completed, the procession moved on

again.

Some little commotion was occasioned in Fleet Street, by the pleasantry

of the eight gentlemen in the flank, who persevered in walking four

abreast; it was also found necessary to leave the mottled-faced

gentleman behind, to fight a ticket-porter, it being arranged that his

friends should call for him as they came back. Nothing but these little

incidents occurred on the way. When they reached the gate of the Fleet,

the cavalcade, taking the time from the plaintiff, gave three tremendous

cheers for the defendant, and, after having shaken hands all round, left

him.

Sam, having been formally delivered into the warder’s custody, to the

intense astonishment of Roker, and to the evident emotion of even the

phlegmatic Neddy, passed at once into the prison, walked straight to his

master’s room, and knocked at the door.

‘Come in,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

Sam appeared, pulled off his hat, and smiled.

‘Ah, Sam, my good lad!’ said Mr. Pickwick, evidently delighted to see

his humble friend again; ‘I had no intention of hurting your feelings

yesterday, my faithful fellow, by what I said. Put down your hat, Sam,

and let me explain my meaning, a little more at length.’

‘Won’t presently do, sir?’ inquired Sam.

‘Certainly,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘but why not now?’

‘I’d rayther not now, sir,’ rejoined Sam.

‘Why?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

‘’Cause--’ said Sam, hesitating.

‘Because of what?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick, alarmed at his follower’s

manner. ‘Speak out, Sam.’

‘’Cause,’ rejoined Sam--‘’cause I’ve got a little bisness as I want to

do.’

‘What business?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick, surprised at Sam’s confused

manner.

‘Nothin’ partickler, Sir,’ replied Sam.

‘Oh, if it’s nothing particular,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with a smile, ‘you

can speak with me first.’

‘I think I’d better see arter it at once,’ said Sam, still hesitating.

Mr. Pickwick looked amazed, but said nothing.

‘The fact is--’ said Sam, stopping short.

‘Well!’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Speak out, Sam.’

‘Why, the fact is,’ said Sam, with a desperate effort, ‘perhaps I’d

better see arter my bed afore I do anythin’ else.’

‘_Your bed!_’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, in astonishment.

‘Yes, my bed, Sir,’ replied Sam, ‘I’m a prisoner. I was arrested this

here wery arternoon for debt.’

‘You arrested for debt!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, sinking into a chair.

‘Yes, for debt, Sir,’ replied Sam. ‘And the man as puts me in, ‘ull

never let me out till you go yourself.’

‘Bless my heart and soul!’ ejaculated Mr. Pickwick. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Wot I say, Sir,’ rejoined Sam. ‘If it’s forty years to come, I shall be

a prisoner, and I’m very glad on it; and if it had been Newgate, it

would ha’ been just the same. Now the murder’s out, and, damme, there’s

an end on it!’

With these words, which he repeated with great emphasis and violence,

Sam Weller dashed his hat upon the ground, in a most unusual state of

excitement; and then, folding his arms, looked firmly and fixedly in his

master’s face.

CHAPTER XLIV. TREATS OF DIVERS LITTLE MATTERS WHICH OCCURRED IN THE

FLEET, AND OF MR. WINKLE’S MYSTERIOUS BEHAVIOUR; AND SHOWS HOW THE POOR

CHANCERY PRISONER OBTAINED HIS RELEASE AT LAST

Mr. Pickwick felt a great deal too much touched by the warmth of Sam’s

attachment, to be able to exhibit any manifestation of anger or

displeasure at the precipitate course he had adopted, in voluntarily

consigning himself to a debtor’s prison for an indefinite period. The

only point on which he persevered in demanding an explanation, was, the

name of Sam’s detaining creditor; but this Mr. Weller as perseveringly

withheld.

‘It ain’t o’ no use, sir,’ said Sam, again and again; ‘he’s a malicious,

bad-disposed, vorldly-minded, spiteful, windictive creetur, with a hard

heart as there ain’t no soft’nin’, as the wirtuous clergyman remarked of

the old gen’l’m’n with the dropsy, ven he said, that upon the whole he

thought he’d rayther leave his property to his vife than build a chapel

vith it.’

‘But consider, Sam,’ Mr. Pickwick remonstrated, ‘the sum is so small

that it can very easily be paid; and having made up my mind that you

shall stop with me, you should recollect how much more useful you would

be, if you could go outside the walls.’

Wery much obliged to you, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller gravely; ‘but I’d

rayther not.’

‘Rather not do what, Sam?’

‘Wy, I’d rayther not let myself down to ask a favour o’ this here

unremorseful enemy.’

‘But it is no favour asking him to take his money, Sam,’ reasoned Mr.

Pickwick.

‘Beg your pardon, sir,’ rejoined Sam, ‘but it ‘ud be a wery great favour

to pay it, and he don’t deserve none; that’s where it is, sir.’

Here Mr. Pickwick, rubbing his nose with an air of some vexation, Mr.

Weller thought it prudent to change the theme of the discourse.

‘I takes my determination on principle, Sir,’ remarked Sam, ‘and you

takes yours on the same ground; wich puts me in mind o’ the man as

killed his-self on principle, wich o’ course you’ve heerd on, Sir.’ Mr.

Weller paused when he arrived at this point, and cast a comical look at

his master out of the corners of his eyes.

‘There is no “of course” in the case, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, gradually

breaking into a smile, in spite of the uneasiness which Sam’s obstinacy

had given him. ‘The fame of the gentleman in question, never reached my

ears.’

‘No, sir!’ exclaimed Mr. Weller. ‘You astonish me, Sir; he wos a clerk

in a gov’ment office, sir.’

‘Was he?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Yes, he wos, Sir,’ rejoined Mr. Weller; ‘and a wery pleasant gen’l’m’n

too--one o’ the precise and tidy sort, as puts their feet in little

India-rubber fire-buckets wen it’s wet weather, and never has no other

bosom friends but hare-skins; he saved up his money on principle, wore a

clean shirt ev’ry day on principle; never spoke to none of his relations

on principle, ‘fear they shou’d want to borrow money of him; and wos

altogether, in fact, an uncommon agreeable character. He had his hair

cut on principle vunce a fortnight, and contracted for his clothes on

the economic principle--three suits a year, and send back the old uns.

Being a wery reg’lar gen’l’m’n, he din’d ev’ry day at the same place,

where it was one-and-nine to cut off the joint, and a wery good one-and-

nine’s worth he used to cut, as the landlord often said, with the tears

a-tricklin’ down his face, let alone the way he used to poke the fire in

the vinter time, which wos a dead loss o’ four-pence ha’penny a day, to

say nothin’ at all o’ the aggrawation o’ seein’ him do it. So uncommon

grand with it too! “_Post _arter the next gen’l’m’n,” he sings out ev’ry

day ven he comes in. “See arter the TIMES, Thomas; let me look at the

MORNIN’ HERALD, when it’s out o’ hand; don’t forget to bespeak the

CHRONICLE; and just bring the ‘TIZER, vill you:” and then he’d set vith

his eyes fixed on the clock, and rush out, just a quarter of a minit

‘fore the time to waylay the boy as wos a-comin’ in with the evenin’

paper, which he’d read with sich intense interest and persewerance as

worked the other customers up to the wery confines o’ desperation and

insanity, ‘specially one i-rascible old gen’l’m’n as the vaiter wos

always obliged to keep a sharp eye on, at sich times, fear he should be

tempted to commit some rash act with the carving-knife. Vell, Sir, here

he’d stop, occupyin’ the best place for three hours, and never takin’

nothin’ arter his dinner, but sleep, and then he’d go away to a coffee-

house a few streets off, and have a small pot o’ coffee and four

crumpets, arter wich he’d walk home to Kensington and go to bed. One

night he wos took very ill; sends for a doctor; doctor comes in a green

fly, with a kind o’ Robinson Crusoe set o’ steps, as he could let down

wen he got out, and pull up arter him wen he got in, to perwent the

necessity o’ the coachman’s gettin’ down, and thereby undeceivin’ the

public by lettin’ ‘em see that it wos only a livery coat as he’d got on,

and not the trousers to match. “Wot’s the matter?” says the doctor.

“Wery ill,” says the patient. “Wot have you been a-eatin’ on?” says the

doctor. “Roast weal,” says the patient. “Wot’s the last thing you

dewoured?” says the doctor. “Crumpets,” says the patient. “That’s it!”

says the doctor. “I’ll send you a box of pills directly, and don’t you

never take no more of ‘em,” he says. “No more o’ wot?” says the patient-

-“pills?” “No; crumpets,” says the doctor. “Wy?” says the patient,

starting up in bed; “I’ve eat four crumpets, ev’ry night for fifteen

year, on principle.” “Well, then, you’d better leave ‘em off, on

principle,” says the doctor. “Crumpets is _not _wholesome, Sir,” says

the doctor, wery fierce. “But they’re so cheap,” says the patient,

comin’ down a little, “and so wery fillin’ at the price.” “They’d be

dear to you, at any price; dear if you wos paid to eat ‘em,” says the

doctor. “Four crumpets a night,” he says, “vill do your business in six

months!” The patient looks him full in the face, and turns it over in

his mind for a long time, and at last he says, “Are you sure o’ that

‘ere, Sir?” “I’ll stake my professional reputation on it,” says the

doctor. “How many crumpets, at a sittin’, do you think ‘ud kill me off

at once?” says the patient. “I don’t know,” says the doctor. “Do you

think half-a-crown’s wurth ‘ud do it?” says the patient. “I think it

might,” says the doctor. “Three shillins’ wurth ‘ud be sure to do it, I

s’pose?” says the patient. “Certainly,” says the doctor. “Wery good,”

says the patient; “good-night.” Next mornin’ he gets up, has a fire lit,

orders in three shillins’ wurth o’ crumpets, toasts ‘em all, eats ‘em

all, and blows his brains out.’

‘What did he do that for?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick abruptly; for he was

considerably startled by this tragical termination of the narrative.

‘Wot did he do it for, Sir?’ reiterated Sam. ‘Wy, in support of his

great principle that crumpets wos wholesome, and to show that he

wouldn’t be put out of his way for nobody!’

With such like shiftings and changings of the discourse, did Mr. Weller

meet his master’s questioning on the night of his taking up his

residence in the Fleet. Finding all gentle remonstrance useless, Mr.

Pickwick at length yielded a reluctant consent to his taking lodgings by

the week, of a bald-headed cobbler, who rented a small slip room in one

of the upper galleries. To this humble apartment Mr. Weller moved a

mattress and bedding, which he hired of Mr. Roker; and, by the time he

lay down upon it at night, was as much at home as if he had been bred in

the prison, and his whole family had vegetated therein for three

generations.

‘Do you always smoke arter you goes to bed, old cock?’ inquired Mr.

Weller of his landlord, when they had both retired for the night.

‘Yes, I does, young bantam,’ replied the cobbler.

‘Will you allow me to in-quire wy you make up your bed under that ‘ere

deal table?’ said Sam.

‘’Cause I was always used to a four-poster afore I came here, and I find

the legs of the table answer just as well,’ replied the cobbler.

‘You’re a character, sir,’ said Sam.

‘I haven’t got anything of the kind belonging to me,’ rejoined the

cobbler, shaking his head; ‘and if you want to meet with a good one, I’m

afraid you’ll find some difficulty in suiting yourself at this register

office.’

The above short dialogue took place as Mr. Weller lay extended on his

mattress at one end of the room, and the cobbler on his, at the other;

the apartment being illumined by the light of a rush-candle, and the

cobbler’s pipe, which was glowing below the table, like a red-hot coal.

The conversation, brief as it was, predisposed Mr. Weller strongly in

his landlord’s favour; and, raising himself on his elbow, he took a more

lengthened survey of his appearance than he had yet had either time or

inclination to make.

He was a sallow man--all cobblers are; and had a strong bristly beard--

all cobblers have. His face was a queer, good-tempered, crooked-featured

piece of workmanship, ornamented with a couple of eyes that must have

worn a very joyous expression at one time, for they sparkled yet. The

man was sixty, by years, and Heaven knows how old by imprisonment, so

that his having any look approaching to mirth or contentment, was

singular enough. He was a little man, and, being half doubled up as he

lay in bed, looked about as long as he ought to have been without his

legs. He had a great red pipe in his mouth, and was smoking, and staring

at the rush-light, in a state of enviable placidity.

‘Have you been here long?’ inquired Sam, breaking the silence which had

lasted for some time.

‘Twelve year,’ replied the cobbler, biting the end of his pipe as he

spoke.

‘Contempt?’ inquired Sam.

The cobbler nodded.

‘Well, then,’ said Sam, with some sternness, ‘wot do you persevere in

bein’ obstinit for, vastin’ your precious life away, in this here

magnified pound? Wy don’t you give in, and tell the Chancellorship that

you’re wery sorry for makin’ his court contemptible, and you won’t do so

no more?’

The cobbler put his pipe in the corner of his mouth, while he smiled,

and then brought it back to its old place again; but said nothing.

‘Wy don’t you?’ said Sam, urging his question strenuously.

‘Ah,’ said the cobbler, ‘you don’t quite understand these matters. What

do you suppose ruined me, now?’

‘Wy,’ said Sam, trimming the rush-light, ‘I s’pose the beginnin’ wos,

that you got into debt, eh?’

‘Never owed a farden,’ said the cobbler; ‘try again.’

‘Well, perhaps,’ said Sam, ‘you bought houses, wich is delicate English

for goin’ mad; or took to buildin’, wich is a medical term for bein’

incurable.’

The cobbler shook his head and said, ‘Try again.’

‘You didn’t go to law, I hope?’ said Sam suspiciously.

‘Never in my life,’ replied the cobbler. ‘The fact is, I was ruined by

having money left me.’

‘Come, come,’ said Sam, ‘that von’t do. I wish some rich enemy ‘ud try

to vork my destruction in that ‘ere vay. I’d let him.’

‘Oh, I dare say you don’t believe it,’ said the cobbler, quietly smoking

his pipe. ‘I wouldn’t if I was you; but it’s true for all that.’

‘How wos it?’ inquired Sam, half induced to believe the fact already, by

the look the cobbler gave him.

‘Just this,’ replied the cobbler; ‘an old gentleman that I worked for,

down in the country, and a humble relation of whose I married--she’s

dead, God bless her, and thank Him for it!--was seized with a fit and

went off.’

‘Where?’ inquired Sam, who was growing sleepy after the numerous events

of the day.

‘How should I know where he went?’ said the cobbler, speaking through

his nose in an intense enjoyment of his pipe. ‘He went off dead.’

‘Oh, that indeed,’ said Sam. ‘Well?’

‘Well,’ said the cobbler, ‘he left five thousand pound behind him.’

‘And wery gen-teel in him so to do,’ said Sam.

‘One of which,’ continued the cobbler, ‘he left to me, ‘cause I married

his relation, you see.’

‘Wery good,’ murmured Sam.

‘And being surrounded by a great number of nieces and nevys, as was

always quarrelling and fighting among themselves for the property, he

makes me his executor, and leaves the rest to me in trust, to divide it

among ‘em as the will prowided.’

‘Wot do you mean by leavin’ it on trust?’ inquired Sam, waking up a

little. ‘If it ain’t ready-money, were’s the use on it?’

‘It’s a law term, that’s all,’ said the cobbler.

‘I don’t think that,’ said Sam, shaking his head. ‘There’s wery little

trust at that shop. Hows’ever, go on.’

Well,’ said the cobbler, ‘when I was going to take out a probate of the

will, the nieces and nevys, who was desperately disappointed at not

getting all the money, enters a caveat against it.’

What’s that?’ inquired Sam.

‘A legal instrument, which is as much as to say, it’s no go,’ replied

the cobbler.

‘I see,’ said Sam, ‘a sort of brother-in-law o’ the have-his-carcass.

Well.’

‘But,’ continued the cobbler, ‘finding that they couldn’t agree among

themselves, and consequently couldn’t get up a case against the will,

they withdrew the caveat, and I paid all the legacies. I’d hardly done

it, when one nevy brings an action to set the will aside. The case comes

on, some months afterwards, afore a deaf old gentleman, in a back room

somewhere down by Paul’s Churchyard; and arter four counsels had taken a

day a-piece to bother him regularly, he takes a week or two to consider,

and read the evidence in six volumes, and then gives his judgment that

how the testator was not quite right in his head, and I must pay all the

money back again, and all the costs. I appealed; the case come on before

three or four very sleepy gentlemen, who had heard it all before in the

other court, where they’re lawyers without work; the only difference

being, that, there, they’re called doctors, and in the other place

delegates, if you understand that; and they very dutifully confirmed the

decision of the old gentleman below. After that, we went into Chancery,

where we are still, and where I shall always be. My lawyers have had all

my thousand pound long ago; and what between the estate, as they call

it, and the costs, I’m here for ten thousand, and shall stop here, till

I die, mending shoes. Some gentlemen have talked of bringing it before

Parliament, and I dare say would have done it, only they hadn’t time to

come to me, and I hadn’t power to go to them, and they got tired of my

long letters, and dropped the business. And this is God’s truth, without

one word of suppression or exaggeration, as fifty people, both in this

place and out of it, very well know.’

The cobbler paused to ascertain what effect his story had produced on

Sam; but finding that he had dropped asleep, knocked the ashes out of

his pipe, sighed, put it down, drew the bed-clothes over his head, and

went to sleep, too.

Mr. Pickwick was sitting at breakfast, alone, next morning (Sam being

busily engaged in the cobbler’s room, polishing his master’s shoes and

brushing the black gaiters) when there came a knock at the door, which,

before Mr. Pickwick could cry ‘Come in!’ was followed by the appearance

of a head of hair and a cotton-velvet cap, both of which articles of

dress he had no difficulty in recognising as the personal property of

Mr. Smangle.

‘How are you?’ said that worthy, accompanying the inquiry with a score

or two of nods; ‘I say--do you expect anybody this morning? Three men--

devilish gentlemanly fellows--have been asking after you downstairs, and

knocking at every door on the hall flight; for which they’ve been most

infernally blown up by the collegians that had the trouble of opening

‘em.’

‘Dear me! How very foolish of them,’ said Mr. Pickwick, rising. ‘Yes; I

have no doubt they are some friends whom I rather expected to see,

yesterday.’

‘Friends of yours!’ exclaimed Smangle, seizing Mr. Pickwick by the hand.

‘Say no more. Curse me, they’re friends of mine from this minute, and

friends of Mivins’s, too. Infernal pleasant, gentlemanly dog, Mivins,

isn’t he?’ said Smangle, with great feeling.

‘I know so little of the gentleman,’ said Mr. Pickwick, hesitating,

‘that I--’

‘I know you do,’ interrupted Smangle, clasping Mr. Pickwick by the

shoulder. ‘You shall know him better. You’ll be delighted with him. That

man, Sir,’ said Smangle, with a solemn countenance, ‘has comic powers

that would do honour to Drury Lane Theatre.’

‘Has he indeed?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Ah, by Jove he has!’ replied Smangle. ‘Hear him come the four cats in

the wheel-barrow--four distinct cats, sir, I pledge you my honour. Now

you know that’s infernal clever! Damme, you can’t help liking a man,

when you see these traits about him. He’s only one fault--that little

failing I mentioned to you, you know.’

As Mr. Smangle shook his head in a confidential and sympathising manner

at this juncture, Mr. Pickwick felt that he was expected to say

something, so he said, ‘Ah!’ and looked restlessly at the door.

‘Ah!’ echoed Mr. Smangle, with a long-drawn sigh. ‘He’s delightful

company, that man is, sir. I don’t know better company anywhere; but he

has that one drawback. If the ghost of his grandfather, Sir, was to rise

before him this minute, he’d ask him for the loan of his acceptance on

an eightpenny stamp.’

Dear me!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

‘Yes,’ added Mr. Smangle; ‘and if he’d the power of raising him again,

he would, in two months and three days from this time, to renew the

bill!’

‘Those are very remarkable traits,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘but I’m afraid

that while we are talking here, my friends may be in a state of great

perplexity at not finding me.’

‘I’ll show ‘em the way,’ said Smangle, making for the door. ‘Good-day. I

won’t disturb you while they’re here, you know. By the bye--’

As Smangle pronounced the last three words, he stopped suddenly,

reclosed the door which he had opened, and, walking softly back to Mr.

Pickwick, stepped close up to him on tiptoe, and said, in a very soft

whisper--

‘You couldn’t make it convenient to lend me half-a-crown till the latter

end of next week, could you?’

Mr. Pickwick could scarcely forbear smiling, but managing to preserve

his gravity, he drew forth the coin, and placed it in Mr. Smangle’s

palm; upon which, that gentleman, with many nods and winks, implying

profound mystery, disappeared in quest of the three strangers, with whom

he presently returned; and having coughed thrice, and nodded as many

times, as an assurance to Mr. Pickwick that he would not forget to pay,

he shook hands all round, in an engaging manner, and at length took

himself off.

‘My dear friends,’ said Mr. Pickwick, shaking hands alternately with Mr.

Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass, who were the three visitors in

question, ‘I am delighted to see you.’

The triumvirate were much affected. Mr. Tupman shook his head

deploringly, Mr. Snodgrass drew forth his handkerchief, with undisguised

emotion; and Mr. Winkle retired to the window, and sniffed aloud.

‘Mornin’, gen’l’m’n,’ said Sam, entering at the moment with the shoes

and gaiters. ‘Avay vith melincholly, as the little boy said ven his

schoolmissus died. Velcome to the college, gen’l’m’n.’

‘This foolish fellow,’ said Mr. Pickwick, tapping Sam on the head as he

knelt down to button up his master’s gaiters--‘this foolish fellow has

got himself arrested, in order to be near me.’

‘What!’ exclaimed the three friends.

‘Yes, gen’l’m’n,’ said Sam, ‘I’m a--stand steady, sir, if you please--

I’m a prisoner, gen’l’m’n. Con-fined, as the lady said.’

‘A prisoner!’ exclaimed Mr. Winkle, with unaccountable vehemence.

‘Hollo, sir!’ responded Sam, looking up. ‘Wot’s the matter, Sir?’

‘I had hoped, Sam, that--Nothing, nothing,’ said Mr. Winkle

precipitately.

There was something so very abrupt and unsettled in Mr. Winkle’s manner,

that Mr. Pickwick involuntarily looked at his two friends for an

explanation.

‘We don’t know,’ said Mr. Tupman, answering this mute appeal aloud. ‘He

has been much excited for two days past, and his whole demeanour very

unlike what it usually is. We feared there must be something the matter,

but he resolutely denies it.’

‘No, no,’ said Mr. Winkle, colouring beneath Mr. Pickwick’s gaze; ‘there

is really nothing. I assure you there is nothing, my dear sir. It will

be necessary for me to leave town, for a short time, on private

business, and I had hoped to have prevailed upon you to allow Sam to

accompany me.’

Mr. Pickwick looked more astonished than before.

‘I think,’ faltered Mr. Winkle, ‘that Sam would have had no objection to

do so; but, of course, his being a prisoner here, renders it impossible.

So I must go alone.’

As Mr. Winkle said these words, Mr. Pickwick felt, with some

astonishment, that Sam’s fingers were trembling at the gaiters, as if he

were rather surprised or startled. Sam looked up at Mr. Winkle, too,

when he had finished speaking; and though the glance they exchanged was

instantaneous, they seemed to understand each other.

‘Do you know anything of this, Sam?’ said Mr. Pickwick sharply.

‘No, I don’t, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller, beginning to button with

extraordinary assiduity.

‘Are you sure, Sam?’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘Wy, sir,’ responded Mr. Weller; ‘I’m sure so far, that I’ve never heerd

anythin’ on the subject afore this moment. If I makes any guess about

it,’ added Sam, looking at Mr. Winkle, ‘I haven’t got any right to say

what it is, ‘fear it should be a wrong ‘un.’

‘I have no right to make any further inquiry into the private affairs of

a friend, however intimate a friend,’ said Mr. Pickwick, after a short

silence; ‘at present let me merely say, that I do not understand this at

all. There. We have had quite enough of the subject.’

Thus expressing himself, Mr. Pickwick led the conversation to different

topics, and Mr. Winkle gradually appeared more at ease, though still

very far from being completely so. They had all so much to converse

about, that the morning very quickly passed away; and when, at three

o’clock, Mr. Weller produced upon the little dining-table, a roast leg

of mutton and an enormous meat-pie, with sundry dishes of vegetables,

and pots of porter, which stood upon the chairs or the sofa bedstead, or

where they could, everybody felt disposed to do justice to the meal,

notwithstanding that the meat had been purchased, and dressed, and the

pie made, and baked, at the prison cookery hard by.

To these succeeded a bottle or two of very good wine, for which a

messenger was despatched by Mr. Pickwick to the Horn Coffee-house, in

Doctors’ Commons. The bottle or two, indeed, might be more properly

described as a bottle or six, for by the time it was drunk, and tea

over, the bell began to ring for strangers to withdraw.

But, if Mr. Winkle’s behaviour had been unaccountable in the morning, it

became perfectly unearthly and solemn when, under the influence of his

feelings, and his share of the bottle or six, he prepared to take leave

of his friend. He lingered behind, until Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass

had disappeared, and then fervently clenched Mr. Pickwick’s hand, with

an expression of face in which deep and mighty resolve was fearfully

blended with the very concentrated essence of gloom.

‘Good-night, my dear Sir!’ said Mr. Winkle between his set teeth.

‘Bless you, my dear fellow!’ replied the warm-hearted Mr. Pickwick, as

he returned the pressure of his young friend’s hand.

‘Now then!’ cried Mr. Tupman from the gallery.

‘Yes, yes, directly,’ replied Mr. Winkle. ‘Good-night!’

‘Good-night,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

There was another good-night, and another, and half a dozen more after

that, and still Mr. Winkle had fast hold of his friend’s hand, and was

looking into his face with the same strange expression.

‘Is anything the matter?’ said Mr. Pickwick at last, when his arm was

quite sore with shaking.

‘Nothing,’ said Mr. Winkle.

‘Well then, good-night,’ said Mr. Pickwick, attempting to disengage his

hand.

‘My friend, my benefactor, my honoured companion,’ murmured Mr. Winkle,

catching at his wrist. ‘Do not judge me harshly; do not, when you hear

that, driven to extremity by hopeless obstacles, I--’

‘Now then,’ said Mr. Tupman, reappearing at the door. ‘Are you coming,

or are we to be locked in?’

‘Yes, yes, I am ready,’ replied Mr. Winkle. And with a violent effort he

tore himself away.

As Mr. Pickwick was gazing down the passage after them in silent

astonishment, Sam Weller appeared at the stair-head, and whispered for

one moment in Mr. Winkle’s ear.

‘Oh, certainly, depend upon me,’ said that gentleman aloud.

‘Thank’ee, sir. You won’t forget, sir?’ said Sam.

‘Of course not,’ replied Mr. Winkle.

‘Wish you luck, Sir,’ said Sam, touching his hat. ‘I should very much

liked to ha’ joined you, Sir; but the gov’nor, o’ course, is paramount.’

‘It is very much to your credit that you remain here,’ said Mr. Winkle.

With these words they disappeared down the stairs.

‘Very extraordinary,’ said Mr. Pickwick, going back into his room, and

seating himself at the table in a musing attitude. ‘What can that young

man be going to do?’

He had sat ruminating about the matter for some time, when the voice of

Roker, the turnkey, demanded whether he might come in.

‘By all means,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘I’ve brought you a softer pillow, Sir,’ said Mr. Roker, ‘instead of the

temporary one you had last night.’

‘Thank you,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Will you take a glass of wine?’

‘You’re wery good, Sir,’ replied Mr. Roker, accepting the proffered

glass. ‘Yours, sir.’

‘Thank you,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘I’m sorry to say that your landlord’s wery bad to-night, Sir,’ said

Roker, setting down the glass, and inspecting the lining of his hat

preparatory to putting it on again.

‘What! The Chancery prisoner!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

‘He won’t be a Chancery prisoner wery long, Sir,’ replied Roker, turning

his hat round, so as to get the maker’s name right side upwards, as he

looked into it.

‘You make my blood run cold,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘What do you mean?’

‘He’s been consumptive for a long time past,’ said Mr. Roker, ‘and he’s

taken wery bad in the breath to-night. The doctor said, six months ago,

that nothing but change of air could save him.’

‘Great Heaven!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick; ‘has this man been slowly

murdered by the law for six months?’

‘I don’t know about that,’ replied Roker, weighing the hat by the brim

in both hands. ‘I suppose he’d have been took the same, wherever he was.

He went into the infirmary, this morning; the doctor says his strength

is to be kept up as much as possible; and the warden’s sent him wine and

broth and that, from his own house. It’s not the warden’s fault, you

know, sir.’

‘Of course not,’ replied Mr. Pickwick hastily.

‘I’m afraid, however,’ said Roker, shaking his head, ‘that it’s all up

with him. I offered Neddy two six-penn’orths to one upon it just now,

but he wouldn’t take it, and quite right. Thank’ee, Sir. Good-night,

sir.’

‘Stay,’ said Mr. Pickwick earnestly. ‘Where is this infirmary?’

‘Just over where you slept, sir,’ replied Roker. ‘I’ll show you, if you

like to come.’ Mr. Pickwick snatched up his hat without speaking, and

followed at once.

The turnkey led the way in silence; and gently raising the latch of the

room door, motioned Mr. Pickwick to enter. It was a large, bare,

desolate room, with a number of stump bedsteads made of iron, on one of

which lay stretched the shadow of a man--wan, pale, and ghastly. His

breathing was hard and thick, and he moaned painfully as it came and

went. At the bedside sat a short old man in a cobbler’s apron, who, by

the aid of a pair of horn spectacles, was reading from the Bible aloud.

It was the fortunate legatee.

The sick man laid his hand upon his attendant’s arm, and motioned him to

stop. He closed the book, and laid it on the bed.

‘Open the window,’ said the sick man.

He did so. The noise of carriages and carts, the rattle of wheels, the

cries of men and boys, all the busy sounds of a mighty multitude

instinct with life and occupation, blended into one deep murmur, floated

into the room. Above the hoarse loud hum, arose, from time to time, a

boisterous laugh; or a scrap of some jingling song, shouted forth, by

one of the giddy crowd, would strike upon the ear, for an instant, and

then be lost amidst the roar of voices and the tramp of footsteps; the

breaking of the billows of the restless sea of life, that rolled heavily

on, without. These are melancholy sounds to a quiet listener at any

time; but how melancholy to the watcher by the bed of death!

‘There is no air here,’ said the man faintly. ‘The place pollutes it. It

was fresh round about, when I walked there, years ago; but it grows hot

and heavy in passing these walls. I cannot breathe it.’

‘We have breathed it together, for a long time,’ said the old man.

‘Come, come.’

There was a short silence, during which the two spectators approached

the bed. The sick man drew a hand of his old fellow-prisoner towards

him, and pressing it affectionately between both his own, retained it in

his grasp.

‘I hope,’ he gasped after a while, so faintly that they bent their ears

close over the bed to catch the half-formed sounds his pale lips gave

vent to--‘I hope my merciful Judge will bear in mind my heavy punishment

on earth. Twenty years, my friend, twenty years in this hideous grave!

My heart broke when my child died, and I could not even kiss him in his

little coffin. My loneliness since then, in all this noise and riot, has

been very dreadful. May God forgive me! He has seen my solitary,

lingering death.’

He folded his hands, and murmuring something more they could not hear,

fell into a sleep--only a sleep at first, for they saw him smile.

They whispered together for a little time, and the turnkey, stooping

over the pillow, drew hastily back. ‘He has got his discharge, by G--!’

said the man.

He had. But he had grown so like death in life, that they knew not when

he died.

CHAPTER XLV. DESCRIPTIVE OF AN AFFECTING INTERVIEW BETWEEN MR. SAMUEL

WELLER AND A FAMILY PARTY. MR. PICKWICK MAKES A TOUR OF THE DIMINUTIVE

WORLD HE INHABITS, AND RESOLVES TO MIX WITH IT, IN FUTURE, AS LITTLE AS

POSSIBLE

A few mornings after his incarceration, Mr. Samuel Weller, having

arranged his master’s room with all possible care, and seen him

comfortably seated over his books and papers, withdrew to employ himself

for an hour or two to come, as he best could. It was a fine morning, and

it occurred to Sam that a pint of porter in the open air would lighten

his next quarter of an hour or so, as well as any little amusement in

which he could indulge.

Having arrived at this conclusion, he betook himself to the tap. Having

purchased the beer, and obtained, moreover, the day-but-one-before-

yesterday’s paper, he repaired to the skittle-ground, and seating

himself on a bench, proceeded to enjoy himself in a very sedate and

methodical manner.

First of all, he took a refreshing draught of the beer, and then he

looked up at a window, and bestowed a platonic wink on a young lady who

was peeling potatoes thereat. Then he opened the paper, and folded it so

as to get the police reports outwards; and this being a vexatious and

difficult thing to do, when there is any wind stirring, he took another

draught of the beer when he had accomplished it. Then, he read two lines

of the paper, and stopped short to look at a couple of men who were

finishing a game at rackets, which, being concluded, he cried out ‘wery

good,’ in an approving manner, and looked round upon the spectators, to

ascertain whether their sentiments coincided with his own. This involved

the necessity of looking up at the windows also; and as the young lady

was still there, it was an act of common politeness to wink again, and

to drink to her good health in dumb show, in another draught of the

beer, which Sam did; and having frowned hideously upon a small boy who

had noted this latter proceeding with open eyes, he threw one leg over

the other, and, holding the newspaper in both hands, began to read in

real earnest.

He had hardly composed himself into the needful state of abstraction,

when he thought he heard his own name proclaimed in some distant

passage. Nor was he mistaken, for it quickly passed from mouth to mouth,

and in a few seconds the air teemed with shouts of ‘Weller!’

Here!’ roared Sam, in a stentorian voice. ‘Wot’s the matter? Who wants

him? Has an express come to say that his country house is afire?’

‘Somebody wants you in the hall,’ said a man who was standing by.

‘Just mind that ‘ere paper and the pot, old feller, will you?’ said Sam.

‘I’m a-comin’. Blessed, if they was a-callin’ me to the bar, they

couldn’t make more noise about it!’

Accompanying these words with a gentle rap on the head of the young

gentleman before noticed, who, unconscious of his close vicinity to the

person in request, was screaming ‘Weller!’ with all his might, Sam

hastened across the ground, and ran up the steps into the hall. Here,

the first object that met his eyes was his beloved father sitting on a

bottom stair, with his hat in his hand, shouting out ‘Weller!’ in his

very loudest tone, at half-minute intervals.

‘Wot are you a-roarin’ at?’ said Sam impetuously, when the old gentleman

had discharged himself of another shout; ‘making yourself so precious

hot that you looks like a aggrawated glass-blower. Wot’s the matter?’

‘Aha!’ replied the old gentleman, ‘I began to be afeerd that you’d gone

for a walk round the Regency Park, Sammy.’

‘Come,’ said Sam, ‘none o’ them taunts agin the wictim o’ avarice, and

come off that ‘ere step. Wot are you a-settin’ down there for? I don’t

live there.’

‘I’ve got such a game for you, Sammy,’ said the elder Mr. Weller,

rising.

‘Stop a minit,’ said Sam, ‘you’re all vite behind.’

‘That’s right, Sammy, rub it off,’ said Mr. Weller, as his son dusted

him. ‘It might look personal here, if a man walked about with vitevash

on his clothes, eh, Sammy?’

As Mr. Weller exhibited in this place unequivocal symptoms of an

approaching fit of chuckling, Sam interposed to stop it.

‘Keep quiet, do,’ said Sam, ‘there never vos such a old picter-card

born. Wot are you bustin’ vith, now?’

‘Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, wiping his forehead, ‘I’m afeerd that vun o’

these days I shall laugh myself into a appleplexy, my boy.’

‘Vell, then, wot do you do it for?’ said Sam. ‘Now, then, wot have you

got to say?’

‘Who do you think’s come here with me, Samivel?’ said Mr. Weller,

drawing back a pace or two, pursing up his mouth, and extending his

eyebrows.

‘Pell?’ said Sam.

Mr. Weller shook his head, and his red cheeks expanded with the laughter

that was endeavouring to find a vent.

‘Mottled-faced man, p’raps?’ asked Sam.

Again Mr. Weller shook his head.

‘Who then?’asked Sam.

‘Your mother-in-law,’ said Mr. Weller; and it was lucky he did say it,

or his cheeks must inevitably have cracked, from their most unnatural

distension.

‘Your mother-in-law, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘and the red-nosed man, my

boy; and the red-nosed man. Ho! ho! ho!’

With this, Mr. Weller launched into convulsions of laughter, while Sam

regarded him with a broad grin gradually over-spreading his whole

countenance.

‘They’ve come to have a little serious talk with you, Samivel,’ said Mr.

Weller, wiping his eyes. ‘Don’t let out nothin’ about the unnat’ral

creditor, Sammy.’

‘Wot, don’t they know who it is?’ inquired Sam.

‘Not a bit on it,’ replied his father.

‘Vere are they?’ said Sam, reciprocating all the old gentleman’s grins.

‘In the snuggery,’ rejoined Mr. Weller. ‘Catch the red-nosed man a-goin’

anyvere but vere the liquors is; not he, Samivel, not he. Ve’d a wery

pleasant ride along the road from the Markis this mornin’, Sammy,’ said

Mr. Weller, when he felt himself equal to the task of speaking in an

articulate manner. ‘I drove the old piebald in that ‘ere little chay-

cart as belonged to your mother-in-law’s first wenter, into vich a harm-

cheer wos lifted for the shepherd; and I’m blessed,’ said Mr. Weller,

with a look of deep scorn--‘I’m blessed if they didn’t bring a portable

flight o’ steps out into the road a-front o’ our door for him, to get up

by.’

‘You don’t mean that?’ said Sam.

‘I do mean that, Sammy,’ replied his father, ‘and I vish you could ha’

seen how tight he held on by the sides wen he did get up, as if he wos

afeerd o’ being precipitayted down full six foot, and dashed into a

million hatoms. He tumbled in at last, however, and avay ve vent; and I

rayther think--I say I rayther think, Samivel--that he found his-self a

little jolted ven ve turned the corners.’

‘Wot, I s’pose you happened to drive up agin a post or two?’ said Sam.

‘I’m afeerd,’ replied Mr. Weller, in a rapture of winks--‘I’m afeerd I

took vun or two on ‘em, Sammy; he wos a-flyin’ out o’ the arm-cheer all

the way.’

Here the old gentleman shook his head from side to side, and was seized

with a hoarse internal rumbling, accompanied with a violent swelling of

the countenance, and a sudden increase in the breadth of all his

features; symptoms which alarmed his son not a little.

‘Don’t be frightened, Sammy, don’t be frightened,’ said the old

gentleman, when by dint of much struggling, and various convulsive

stamps upon the ground, he had recovered his voice. ‘It’s only a kind o’

quiet laugh as I’m a-tryin’ to come, Sammy.’

‘Well, if that’s wot it is,’ said Sam, ‘you’d better not try to come it

agin. You’ll find it rayther a dangerous inwention.’

‘Don’t you like it, Sammy?’ inquired the old gentleman.

‘Not at all,’ replied Sam.

‘Well,’ said Mr. Weller, with the tears still running down his cheeks,

‘it ‘ud ha’ been a wery great accommodation to me if I could ha’ done

it, and ‘ud ha’ saved a good many vords atween your mother-in-law and

me, sometimes; but I’m afeerd you’re right, Sammy, it’s too much in the

appleplexy line--a deal too much, Samivel.’

This conversation brought them to the door of the snuggery, into which

Sam--pausing for an instant to look over his shoulder, and cast a sly

leer at his respected progenitor, who was still giggling behind--at once

led the way.

‘Mother-in-law,’ said Sam, politely saluting the lady, ‘wery much

obliged to you for this here wisit.--Shepherd, how air you?’

‘Oh, Samuel!’ said Mrs. Weller. ‘This is dreadful.’

‘Not a bit on it, mum,’ replied Sam.--‘Is it, shepherd?’

Mr. Stiggins raised his hands, and turned up his eyes, until the whites-

-or rather the yellows--were alone visible; but made no reply in words.

‘Is this here gen’l’m’n troubled with any painful complaint?’ said Sam,

looking to his mother-in-law for explanation.

‘The good man is grieved to see you here, Samuel,’ replied Mrs. Weller.

‘Oh, that’s it, is it?’ said Sam. ‘I was afeerd, from his manner, that

he might ha’ forgotten to take pepper vith that ‘ere last cowcumber he

eat. Set down, Sir, ve make no extra charge for settin’ down, as the

king remarked wen he blowed up his ministers.’

‘Young man,’ said Mr. Stiggins ostentatiously, ‘I fear you are not

softened by imprisonment.’

‘Beg your pardon, Sir,’ replied Sam; ‘wot wos you graciously pleased to

hobserve?’

‘I apprehend, young man, that your nature is no softer for this

chastening,’ said Mr. Stiggins, in a loud voice.

‘Sir,’ replied Sam, ‘you’re wery kind to say so. I hope my natur is _NOT

_ a soft vun, Sir. Wery much obliged to you for your good opinion, Sir.’

At this point of the conversation, a sound, indecorously approaching to

a laugh, was heard to proceed from the chair in which the elder Mr.

Weller was seated; upon which Mrs. Weller, on a hasty consideration of

all the circumstances of the case, considered it her bounden duty to

become gradually hysterical.

‘Weller,’ said Mrs. W. (the old gentleman was seated in a corner);

‘Weller! Come forth.’

‘Wery much obleeged to you, my dear,’ replied Mr. Weller; ‘but I’m quite

comfortable vere I am.’

Upon this, Mrs. Weller burst into tears.

‘Wot’s gone wrong, mum?’ said Sam.

‘Oh, Samuel!’ replied Mrs. Weller, ‘your father makes me wretched. Will

nothing do him good?’

‘Do you hear this here?’ said Sam. ‘Lady vants to know vether nothin’

‘ull do you good.’

‘Wery much indebted to Mrs. Weller for her po-lite inquiries, Sammy,’

replied the old gentleman. ‘I think a pipe vould benefit me a good deal.

Could I be accommodated, Sammy?’

Here Mrs. Weller let fall some more tears, and Mr. Stiggins groaned.

‘Hollo! Here’s this unfortunate gen’l’m’n took ill agin,’ said Sam,

looking round. ‘Vere do you feel it now, sir?’

‘In the same place, young man,’ rejoined Mr. Stiggins, ‘in the same

place.’

‘Vere may that be, Sir?’ inquired Sam, with great outward simplicity.

‘In the buzzim, young man,’ replied Mr. Stiggins, placing his umbrella

on his waistcoat.

At this affecting reply, Mrs. Weller, being wholly unable to suppress

her feelings, sobbed aloud, and stated her conviction that the red-nosed

man was a saint; whereupon Mr. Weller, senior, ventured to suggest, in

an undertone, that he must be the representative of the united parishes

of St. Simon Without and St. Walker Within.

‘I’m afeered, mum,’ said Sam, ‘that this here gen’l’m’n, with the twist

in his countenance, feels rather thirsty, with the melancholy spectacle

afore him. Is it the case, mum?’

The worthy lady looked at Mr. Stiggins for a reply; that gentleman, with

many rollings of the eye, clenched his throat with his right hand, and

mimicked the act of swallowing, to intimate that he was athirst.

‘I am afraid, Samuel, that his feelings have made him so indeed,’ said

Mrs. Weller mournfully.

‘Wot’s your usual tap, sir?’ replied Sam.

‘Oh, my dear young friend,’ replied Mr. Stiggins, ‘all taps is

vanities!’

‘Too true, too true, indeed,’ said Mrs. Weller, murmuring a groan, and

shaking her head assentingly.

‘Well,’ said Sam, ‘I des-say they may be, sir; but wich is your

partickler wanity? Wich wanity do you like the flavour on best, sir?’

‘Oh, my dear young friend,’ replied Mr. Stiggins, ‘I despise them all.

If,’ said Mr. Stiggins--‘if there is any one of them less odious than

another, it is the liquor called rum. Warm, my dear young friend, with

three lumps of sugar to the tumbler.’

‘Wery sorry to say, sir,’ said Sam, ‘that they don’t allow that

particular wanity to be sold in this here establishment.’

‘Oh, the hardness of heart of these inveterate men!’ ejaculated Mr.

Stiggins. ‘Oh, the accursed cruelty of these inhuman persecutors!’

With these words, Mr. Stiggins again cast up his eyes, and rapped his

breast with his umbrella; and it is but justice to the reverend

gentleman to say, that his indignation appeared very real and unfeigned

indeed.

After Mrs. Weller and the red-nosed gentleman had commented on this

inhuman usage in a very forcible manner, and had vented a variety of

pious and holy execrations against its authors, the latter recommended a

bottle of port wine, warmed with a little water, spice, and sugar, as

being grateful to the stomach, and savouring less of vanity than many

other compounds. It was accordingly ordered to be prepared, and pending

its preparation the red-nosed man and Mrs. Weller looked at the elder W.

and groaned.

‘Well, Sammy,’ said the gentleman, ‘I hope you’ll find your spirits rose

by this here lively wisit. Wery cheerful and improvin’ conwersation,

ain’t it, Sammy?’

‘You’re a reprobate,’ replied Sam; ‘and I desire you won’t address no

more o’ them ungraceful remarks to me.’

So far from being edified by this very proper reply, the elder Mr.

Weller at once relapsed into a broad grin; and this inexorable conduct

causing the lady and Mr. Stiggins to close their eyes, and rock

themselves to and fro on their chairs, in a troubled manner, he

furthermore indulged in several acts of pantomime, indicative of a

desire to pummel and wring the nose of the aforesaid Stiggins, the

performance of which, appeared to afford him great mental relief. The

old gentleman very narrowly escaped detection in one instance; for Mr.

Stiggins happening to give a start on the arrival of the negus, brought

his head in smart contact with the clenched fist with which Mr. Weller

had been describing imaginary fireworks in the air, within two inches of

his ear, for some minutes.

‘Wot are you a-reachin’ out, your hand for the tumbler in that ‘ere

sawage way for?’ said Sam, with great promptitude. ‘Don’t you see you’ve

hit the gen’l’m’n?’

‘I didn’t go to do it, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller, in some degree abashed

by the very unexpected occurrence of the incident.

‘Try an in’ard application, sir,’ said Sam, as the red-nosed gentleman

rubbed his head with a rueful visage. ‘Wot do you think o’ that, for a

go o’ wanity, warm, Sir?’

Mr. Stiggins made no verbal answer, but his manner was expressive. He

tasted the contents of the glass which Sam had placed in his hand, put

his umbrella on the floor, and tasted it again, passing his hand

placidly across his stomach twice or thrice; he then drank the whole at

a breath, and smacking his lips, held out the tumbler for more.

Nor was Mrs. Weller behind-hand in doing justice to the composition. The

good lady began by protesting that she couldn’t touch a drop--then took

a small drop--then a large drop--then a great many drops; and her

feelings being of the nature of those substances which are powerfully

affected by the application of strong waters, she dropped a tear with

every drop of negus, and so got on, melting the feelings down, until at

length she had arrived at a very pathetic and decent pitch of misery.

The elder Mr. Weller observed these signs and tokens with many

manifestations of disgust, and when, after a second jug of the same, Mr.

Stiggins began to sigh in a dismal manner, he plainly evinced his

disapprobation of the whole proceedings, by sundry incoherent ramblings

of speech, among which frequent angry repetitions of the word ‘gammon’

were alone distinguishable to the ear.

‘I’ll tell you wot it is, Samivel, my boy,’ whispered the old gentleman

into his son’s ear, after a long and steadfast contemplation of his lady

and Mr. Stiggins; ‘I think there must be somethin’ wrong in your mother-

in-law’s inside, as vell as in that o’ the red-nosed man.’

‘Wot do you mean?’ said Sam.

‘I mean this here, Sammy,’ replied the old gentleman, ‘that wot they

drink, don’t seem no nourishment to ‘em; it all turns to warm water, and

comes a-pourin’ out o’ their eyes. ‘Pend upon it, Sammy, it’s a

constitootional infirmity.’

Mr. Weller delivered this scientific opinion with many confirmatory

frowns and nods; which, Mrs. Weller remarking, and concluding that they

bore some disparaging reference either to herself or to Mr. Stiggins, or

to both, was on the point of becoming infinitely worse, when Mr.

Stiggins, getting on his legs as well as he could, proceeded to deliver

an edifying discourse for the benefit of the company, but more

especially of Mr. Samuel, whom he adjured in moving terms to be upon his

guard in that sink of iniquity into which he was cast; to abstain from

all hypocrisy and pride of heart; and to take in all things exact

pattern and copy by him (Stiggins), in which case he might calculate on

arriving, sooner or later at the comfortable conclusion, that, like him,

he was a most estimable and blameless character, and that all his

acquaintances and friends were hopelessly abandoned and profligate

wretches. Which consideration, he said, could not but afford him the

liveliest satisfaction.

He furthermore conjured him to avoid, above all things, the vice of

intoxication, which he likened unto the filthy habits of swine, and to

those poisonous and baleful drugs which being chewed in the mouth, are

said to filch away the memory. At this point of his discourse, the

reverend and red-nosed gentleman became singularly incoherent, and

staggering to and fro in the excitement of his eloquence, was fain to

catch at the back of a chair to preserve his perpendicular.

Mr. Stiggins did not desire his hearers to be upon their guard against

those false prophets and wretched mockers of religion, who, without

sense to expound its first doctrines, or hearts to feel its first

principles, are more dangerous members of society than the common

criminal; imposing, as they necessarily do, upon the weakest and worst

informed, casting scorn and contempt on what should be held most sacred,

and bringing into partial disrepute large bodies of virtuous and well-

conducted persons of many excellent sects and persuasions. But as he

leaned over the back of the chair for a considerable time, and closing

one eye, winked a good deal with the other, it is presumed that he

thought all this, but kept it to himself.

During the delivery of the oration, Mrs. Weller sobbed and wept at the

end of the paragraphs; while Sam, sitting cross-legged on a chair and

resting his arms on the top rail, regarded the speaker with great

suavity and blandness of demeanour; occasionally bestowing a look of

recognition on the old gentleman, who was delighted at the beginning,

and went to sleep about half-way.

‘Brayvo; wery pretty!’ said Sam, when the red-nosed man having finished,

pulled his worn gloves on, thereby thrusting his fingers through the

broken tops till the knuckles were disclosed to view. ‘Wery pretty.’

‘I hope it may do you good, Samuel,’ said Mrs. Weller solemnly.

‘I think it vill, mum,’ replied Sam.

‘I wish I could hope that it would do your father good,’ said Mrs.

Weller.

‘Thank’ee, my dear,’ said Mr. Weller, senior. ‘How do you find yourself

arter it, my love?’

‘Scoffer!’ exclaimed Mrs. Weller.

‘Benighted man!’ said the Reverend Mr. Stiggins.

‘If I don’t get no better light than that ‘ere moonshine o’ yourn, my

worthy creetur,’ said the elder Mr. Weller, ‘it’s wery likely as I shall

continey to be a night coach till I’m took off the road altogether. Now,

Mrs. We, if the piebald stands at livery much longer, he’ll stand at

nothin’ as we go back, and p’raps that ‘ere harm-cheer ‘ull be tipped

over into some hedge or another, with the shepherd in it.’

At this supposition, the Reverend Mr. Stiggins, in evident

consternation, gathered up his hat and umbrella, and proposed an

immediate departure, to which Mrs. Weller assented. Sam walked with them

to the lodge gate, and took a dutiful leave.

‘A-do, Samivel,’ said the old gentleman.

‘Wot’s a-do?’ inquired Sammy.

‘Well, good-bye, then,’ said the old gentleman.

‘Oh, that’s wot you’re aimin’ at, is it?’ said Sam. ‘Good-bye!’

‘Sammy,’ whispered Mr. Weller, looking cautiously round; ‘my duty to

your gov’nor, and tell him if he thinks better o’ this here bis’ness, to

com-moonicate vith me. Me and a cab’net-maker has dewised a plan for

gettin’ him out. A pianner, Samivel--a pianner!’ said Mr. Weller,

striking his son on the chest with the back of his hand, and falling

back a step or two.

‘Wot do you mean?’ said Sam.

‘A pianner-forty, Samivel,’ rejoined Mr. Weller, in a still more

mysterious manner, ‘as he can have on hire; vun as von’t play, Sammy.’

‘And wot ‘ud be the good o’ that?’ said Sam.

‘Let him send to my friend, the cabinet-maker, to fetch it back, Sammy,’

replied Mr. Weller. ‘Are you avake, now?’

‘No,’ rejoined Sam.

‘There ain’t no vurks in it,’ whispered his father. ‘It ‘ull hold him

easy, vith his hat and shoes on, and breathe through the legs, vich his

holler. Have a passage ready taken for ‘Merriker. The ‘Merrikin gov’ment

will never give him up, ven vunce they find as he’s got money to spend,

Sammy. Let the gov’nor stop there, till Mrs. Bardell’s dead, or Mr.

Dodson and Fogg’s hung (wich last ewent I think is the most likely to

happen first, Sammy), and then let him come back and write a book about

the ‘Merrikins as’ll pay all his expenses and more, if he blows ‘em up

enough.’

Mr. Weller delivered this hurried abstract of his plot with great

vehemence of whisper; and then, as if fearful of weakening the effect of

the tremendous communication by any further dialogue, he gave the

coachman’s salute, and vanished.

Sam had scarcely recovered his usual composure of countenance, which had

been greatly disturbed by the secret communication of his respected

relative, when Mr. Pickwick accosted him.

‘Sam,’ said that gentleman.

‘Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller.

‘I am going for a walk round the prison, and I wish you to attend me. I

see a prisoner we know coming this way, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick,

smiling.

‘Wich, Sir?’ inquired Mr. Weller; ‘the gen’l’m’n vith the head o’ hair,

or the interestin’ captive in the stockin’s?’

‘Neither,’ rejoined Mr. Pickwick. ‘He is an older friend of yours, Sam.’

‘O’ mine, Sir?’ exclaimed Mr. Weller.

‘You recollect the gentleman very well, I dare say, Sam,’ replied Mr.

Pickwick, ‘or else you are more unmindful of your old acquaintances than

I think you are. Hush! not a word, Sam; not a syllable. Here he is.’

As Mr. Pickwick spoke, Jingle walked up. He looked less miserable than

before, being clad in a half-worn suit of clothes, which, with Mr.

Pickwick’s assistance, had been released from the pawnbroker’s. He wore

clean linen too, and had had his hair cut. He was very pale and thin,

however; and as he crept slowly up, leaning on a stick, it was easy to

see that he had suffered severely from illness and want, and was still

very weak. He took off his hat as Mr. Pickwick saluted him, and seemed

much humbled and abashed at the sight of Sam Weller.

Following close at his heels, came Mr. Job Trotter, in the catalogue of

whose vices, want of faith and attachment to his companion could at all

events find no place. He was still ragged and squalid, but his face was

not quite so hollow as on his first meeting with Mr. Pickwick, a few

days before. As he took off his hat to our benevolent old friend, he

murmured some broken expressions of gratitude, and muttered something

about having been saved from starving.

‘Well, well,’ said Mr. Pickwick, impatiently interrupting him, ‘you can

follow with Sam. I want to speak to you, Mr. Jingle. Can you walk

without his arm?’

‘Certainly, sir--all ready--not too fast--legs shaky--head queer--round

and round--earthquaky sort of feeling--very.’

‘Here, give me your arm,’ said Mr. Pickwick.

‘No, no,’ replied Jingle; ‘won’t indeed--rather not.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘lean upon me, I desire, Sir.’

Seeing that he was confused and agitated, and uncertain what to do, Mr.

Pickwick cut the matter short by drawing the invalided stroller’s arm

through his, and leading him away, without saying another word about it.

During the whole of this time the countenance of Mr. Samuel Weller had

exhibited an expression of the most overwhelming and absorbing

astonishment that the imagination can portray. After looking from Job to

Jingle, and from Jingle to Job in profound silence, he softly ejaculated

the words, ‘Well, I _am_ damn’d!’ which he repeated at least a score of

times; after which exertion, he appeared wholly bereft of speech, and

again cast his eyes, first upon the one and then upon the other, in mute

perplexity and bewilderment.

‘Now, Sam!’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking back.

‘I’m a-comin’, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller, mechanically following his

master; and still he lifted not his eyes from Mr. Job Trotter, who

walked at his side in silence.

Job kept his eyes fixed on the ground for some time. Sam, with his glued

to Job’s countenance, ran up against the people who were walking about,

and fell over little children, and stumbled against steps and railings,

without appearing at all sensible of it, until Job, looking stealthily

up, said--

‘How do you do, Mr. Weller?’

‘It _is_ him!’ exclaimed Sam; and having established Job’s identity

beyond all doubt, he smote his leg, and vented his feelings in a long,

shrill whistle.

‘Things has altered with me, sir,’ said Job.

‘I should think they had,’ exclaimed Mr. Weller, surveying his

companion’s rags with undisguised wonder. ‘This is rayther a change for

the worse, Mr. Trotter, as the gen’l’m’n said, wen he got two doubtful

shillin’s and sixpenn’orth o’ pocket-pieces for a good half-crown.’

‘It is indeed,’ replied Job, shaking his head. ‘There is no deception

now, Mr. Weller. Tears,’ said Job, with a look of momentary slyness--

‘tears are not the only proofs of distress, nor the best ones.’

‘No, they ain’t,’ replied Sam expressively.

‘They may be put on, Mr. Weller,’ said Job.

‘I know they may,’ said Sam; ‘some people, indeed, has ‘em always ready

laid on, and can pull out the plug wenever they likes.’

‘Yes,’ replied Job; ‘but these sort of things are not so easily

counterfeited, Mr. Weller, and it is a more painful process to get them

up.’ As he spoke, he pointed to his sallow, sunken cheeks, and, drawing

up his coat sleeve, disclosed an arm which looked as if the bone could

be broken at a touch, so sharp and brittle did it appear, beneath its

thin covering of flesh.

‘Wot have you been a-doin’ to yourself?’ said Sam, recoiling.

‘Nothing,’ replied Job.

‘Nothin’!’ echoed Sam.

‘I have been doin’ nothing for many weeks past,’ said Job; and eating

and drinking almost as little.’

Sam took one comprehensive glance at Mr. Trotter’s thin face and

wretched apparel; and then, seizing him by the arm, commenced dragging

him away with great violence.

‘Where are you going, Mr. Weller?’ said Job, vainly struggling in the

powerful grasp of his old enemy.

‘Come on,’ said Sam; ‘come on!’ He deigned no further explanation till

they reached the tap, and then called for a pot of porter, which was

speedily produced.

‘Now,’ said Sam, ‘drink that up, ev’ry drop on it, and then turn the pot

upside down, to let me see as you’ve took the medicine.’

‘But, my dear Mr. Weller,’ remonstrated Job.

‘Down vith it!’ said Sam peremptorily.

Thus admonished, Mr. Trotter raised the pot to his lips, and, by gentle

and almost imperceptible degrees, tilted it into the air. He paused

once, and only once, to draw a long breath, but without raising his face

from the vessel, which, in a few moments thereafter, he held out at

arm’s length, bottom upward. Nothing fell upon the ground but a few

particles of froth, which slowly detached themselves from the rim, and

trickled lazily down.

‘Well done!’ said Sam. ‘How do you find yourself arter it?’

‘Better, Sir. I think I am better,’ responded Job.

‘O’ course you air,’ said Sam argumentatively. ‘It’s like puttin’ gas in

a balloon. I can see with the naked eye that you gets stouter under the

operation. Wot do you say to another o’ the same dimensions?’

‘I would rather not, I am much obliged to you, Sir,’ replied Job--‘much

rather not.’

‘Vell, then, wot do you say to some wittles?’ inquired Sam.

‘Thanks to your worthy governor, Sir,’ said Mr. Trotter, ‘we have half a

leg of mutton, baked, at a quarter before three, with the potatoes under

it to save boiling.’

‘Wot! Has _he_ been a-purwidin’ for you?’ asked Sam emphatically.

‘He has, Sir,’ replied Job. ‘More than that, Mr. Weller; my master being

very ill, he got us a room--we were in a kennel before--and paid for it,

Sir; and come to look at us, at night, when nobody should know. Mr.

Weller,’ said Job, with real tears in his eyes, for once, ‘I could serve

that gentleman till I fell down dead at his feet.’

‘I say!’ said Sam, ‘I’ll trouble you, my friend! None o’ that!’

Job Trotter looked amazed.