Chapter: When Mr. Pickwick opened his eyes next morning, the first object upon
which they rested was Samuel Weller, seated upon a small black
portmanteau, intently regarding, apparently in a condition of profound
abstraction, the stately figure of the dashing Mr. Smangle; while Mr.
Smangle himself, who was already partially dressed, was seated on his
bedstead, occupied in the desperately hopeless attempt of staring Mr.
Weller out of countenance. We say desperately hopeless, because Sam,
with a comprehensive gaze which took in Mr. Smangle's cap, feet, head,
face, legs, and whiskers, all at the same time, continued to look
steadily on, with every demonstration of lively satisfaction, but with
no more regard to Mr. Smangle's personal sentiments on the subject than
he would have displayed had he been inspecting a wooden statue, or a
straw-embowelled Guy Fawkes.

'Well; will you know me again?' said Mr. Smangle, with a frown.

'I'd svear to you anyveres, Sir,' replied Sam cheerfully.

'Don't be impertinent to a gentleman, Sir,' said Mr. Smangle.

'Not on no account,' replied Sam. 'If you'll tell me wen he wakes, I'll
be upon the wery best extra-super behaviour!' This observation, having a
remote tendency to imply that Mr. Smangle was no gentleman, kindled his
ire.

'Mivins!' said Mr. Smangle, with a passionate air.

'What's the office?' replied that gentleman from his couch.

'Who the devil is this fellow?'

''Gad,' said Mr. Mivins, looking lazily out from under the bed-clothes,
'I ought to ask _you _that. Hasn't he any business here?'

'No,' replied Mr. Smangle.

'Then knock him downstairs, and tell him not to presume to get up till I
come and kick him,' rejoined Mr. Mivins; with this prompt advice that
excellent gentleman again betook himself to slumber.

The conversation exhibiting these unequivocal symptoms of verging on the
personal, Mr. Pickwick deemed it a fit point at which to interpose.

'Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'Sir,' rejoined that gentleman.

'Has anything new occurred since last night?'

'Nothin' partickler, sir,' replied Sam, glancing at Mr. Smangle's
whiskers; 'the late prewailance of a close and confined atmosphere has
been rayther favourable to the growth of veeds, of an alarmin' and
sangvinary natur; but vith that 'ere exception things is quiet enough.'

'I shall get up,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'give me some clean things.'

Whatever hostile intentions Mr. Smangle might have entertained, his
thoughts were speedily diverted by the unpacking of the portmanteau; the
contents of which appeared to impress him at once with a most favourable
opinion, not only of Mr. Pickwick, but of Sam also, who, he took an
early opportunity of declaring in a tone of voice loud enough for that
eccentric personage to overhear, was a regular thoroughbred original,
and consequently the very man after his own heart. As to Mr. Pickwick,
the affection he conceived for him knew no limits.

'Now is there anything I can do for you, my dear Sir?' said Smangle.

'Nothing that I am aware of, I am obliged to you,' replied Mr. Pickwick.

'No linen that you want sent to the washerwoman's? I know a delightful
washerwoman outside, that comes for my things twice a week; and, by
Jove!--how devilish lucky!--this is the day she calls. Shall I put any
of those little things up with mine? Don't say anything about the
trouble. Confound and curse it! if one gentleman under a cloud is not to
put himself a little out of the way to assist another gentleman in the
same condition, what's human nature?'

Thus spake Mr. Smangle, edging himself meanwhile as near as possible to
the portmanteau, and beaming forth looks of the most fervent and
disinterested friendship.

'There's nothing you want to give out for the man to brush, my dear
creature, is there?' resumed Smangle.

'Nothin' whatever, my fine feller,' rejoined Sam, taking the reply into
his own mouth. 'P'raps if vun of us wos to brush, without troubling the
man, it 'ud be more agreeable for all parties, as the schoolmaster said
when the young gentleman objected to being flogged by the butler.'

'And there's nothing I can send in my little box to the washer-woman's,
is there?' said Smangle, turning from Sam to Mr. Pickwick, with an air
of some discomfiture.

'Nothin' whatever, Sir,' retorted Sam; 'I'm afeered the little box must
be chock full o' your own as it is.'

This speech was accompanied with such a very expressive look at that
particular portion of Mr. Smangle's attire, by the appearance of which
the skill of laundresses in getting up gentlemen's linen is generally
tested, that he was fain to turn upon his heel, and, for the present at
any rate, to give up all design on Mr. Pickwick's purse and wardrobe. He
accordingly retired in dudgeon to the racket-ground, where he made a
light and whole-some breakfast on a couple of the cigars which had been
purchased on the previous night.

Mr. Mivins, who was no smoker, and whose account for small articles of
chandlery had also reached down to the bottom of the slate, and been
'carried over' to the other side, remained in bed, and, in his own
words, 'took it out in sleep.'

After breakfasting in a small closet attached to the coffee-room, which
bore the imposing title of the Snuggery, the temporary inmate of which,
in consideration of a small additional charge, had the unspeakable
advantage of overhearing all the conversation in the coffee-room
aforesaid; and, after despatching Mr. Weller on some necessary errands,
Mr. Pickwick repaired to the lodge, to consult Mr. Roker concerning his
future accommodation.

'Accommodation, eh?' said that gentleman, consulting a large book.
'Plenty of that, Mr. Pickwick. Your chummage ticket will be on twenty-
seven, in the third.'

'Oh,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'My what, did you say?'

'Your chummage ticket,' replied Mr. Roker; 'you're up to that?'

'Not quite,' replied Mr. Pickwick, with a smile.

'Why,' said Mr. Roker, 'it's as plain as Salisbury. You'll have a
chummage ticket upon twenty-seven in the third, and them as is in the
room will be your chums.'

'Are there many of them?' inquired Mr. Pickwick dubiously.

'Three,' replied Mr. Roker.

Mr. Pickwick coughed.

'One of 'em's a parson,' said Mr. Roker, filling up a little piece of
paper as he spoke; 'another's a butcher.'

'Eh?' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

'A butcher,' repeated Mr. Roker, giving the nib of his pen a tap on the
desk to cure it of a disinclination to mark. 'What a thorough-paced goer
he used to be sure-ly! You remember Tom Martin, Neddy?' said Roker,
appealing to another man in the lodge, who was paring the mud off his
shoes with a five-and-twenty-bladed pocket-knife.

'I should think so,' replied the party addressed, with a strong emphasis
on the personal pronoun.

'Bless my dear eyes!' said Mr. Roker, shaking his head slowly from side
to side, and gazing abstractedly out of the grated windows before him,
as if he were fondly recalling some peaceful scene of his early youth;
'it seems but yesterday that he whopped the coal-heaver down Fox-under-
the-Hill by the wharf there. I think I can see him now, a-coming up the
Strand between the two street-keepers, a little sobered by the bruising,
with a patch o' winegar and brown paper over his right eyelid, and that
'ere lovely bulldog, as pinned the little boy arterwards, a-following at
his heels. What a rum thing time is, ain't it, Neddy?'

The gentleman to whom these observations were addressed, who appeared of
a taciturn and thoughtful cast, merely echoed the inquiry; Mr. Roker,
shaking off the poetical and gloomy train of thought into which he had
been betrayed, descended to the common business of life, and resumed his
pen.

'Do you know what the third gentlemen is?' inquired Mr. Pickwick, not
very much gratified by this description of his future associates.

'What is that Simpson, Neddy?' said Mr. Roker, turning to his companion.

'What Simpson?' said Neddy.

'Why, him in twenty-seven in the third, that this gentleman's going to
be chummed on.'

'Oh, him!' replied Neddy; 'he's nothing exactly. He _was _a horse
chaunter: he's a leg now.'

'Ah, so I thought,' rejoined Mr. Roker, closing the book, and placing
the small piece of paper in Mr. Pickwick's hands. 'That's the ticket,
sir.'

Very much perplexed by this summary disposition of this person, Mr.
Pickwick walked back into the prison, revolving in his mind what he had
better do. Convinced, however, that before he took any other steps it
would be advisable to see, and hold personal converse with, the three
gentlemen with whom it was proposed to quarter him, he made the best of
his way to the third flight.

After groping about in the gallery for some time, attempting in the dim
light to decipher the numbers on the different doors, he at length
appealed to a pot-boy, who happened to be pursuing his morning
occupation of gleaning for pewter.

'Which is twenty-seven, my good fellow?' said Mr. Pickwick.

'Five doors farther on,' replied the pot-boy. 'There's the likeness of a
man being hung, and smoking the while, chalked outside the door.'

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.


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

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!'

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.


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.


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.

'None o' that, I say, young feller,' repeated Sam firmly. 'No man serves
him but me. And now we're upon it, I'll let you into another secret
besides that,' said Sam, as he paid for the beer. 'I never heerd, mind
you, or read of in story-books, nor see in picters, any angel in tights
and gaiters--not even in spectacles, as I remember, though that may ha'
been done for anythin' I know to the contrairey--but mark my vords, Job
Trotter, he's a reg'lar thoroughbred angel for all that; and let me see
the man as wenturs to tell me he knows a better vun.' With this
defiance, Mr. Weller buttoned up his change in a side pocket, and, with
many confirmatory nods and gestures by the way, proceeded in search of
the subject of discourse.

They found Mr. Pickwick, in company with Jingle, talking very earnestly,
and not bestowing a look on the groups who were congregated on the
racket-ground; they were very motley groups too, and worth the looking
at, if it were only in idle curiosity.

'Well,' said Mr. Pickwick, as Sam and his companion drew nigh, 'you will
see how your health becomes, and think about it meanwhile. Make the
statement out for me when you feel yourself equal to the task, and I
will discuss the subject with you when I have considered it. Now, go to
your room. You are tired, and not strong enough to be out long.'

Mr. Alfred Jingle, without one spark of his old animation--with nothing
even of the dismal gaiety which he had assumed when Mr. Pickwick first
stumbled on him in his misery--bowed low without speaking, and,
motioning to Job not to follow him just yet, crept slowly away.

'Curious scene this, is it not, Sam?' said Mr. Pickwick, looking good-
humouredly round.

'Wery much so, Sir,' replied Sam. 'Wonders 'ull never cease,' added Sam,
speaking to himself. 'I'm wery much mistaken if that 'ere Jingle worn't
a-doin somethin' in the water-cart way!'

The area formed by the wall in that part of the Fleet in which Mr.
Pickwick stood was just wide enough to make a good racket-court; one
side being formed, of course, by the wall itself, and the other by that
portion of the prison which looked (or rather would have looked, but for
the wall) towards St. Paul's Cathedral. Sauntering or sitting about, in
every possible attitude of listless idleness, were a great number of
debtors, the major part of whom were waiting in prison until their day
of 'going up' before the Insolvent Court should arrive; while others had
been remanded for various terms, which they were idling away as they
best could. Some were shabby, some were smart, many dirty, a few clean;
but there they all lounged, and loitered, and slunk about with as little
spirit or purpose as the beasts in a menagerie.

Lolling from the windows which commanded a view of this promenade were a
number of persons, some in noisy conversation with their acquaintance
below, others playing at ball with some adventurous throwers outside,
others looking on at the racket-players, or watching the boys as they
cried the game. Dirty, slipshod women passed and repassed, on their way
to the cooking-house in one corner of the yard; children screamed, and
fought, and played together, in another; the tumbling of the skittles,
and the shouts of the players, mingled perpetually with these and a
hundred other sounds; and all was noise and tumult--save in a little
miserable shed a few yards off, where lay, all quiet and ghastly, the
body of the Chancery prisoner who had died the night before, awaiting
the mockery of an inquest. The body! It is the lawyer's term for the
restless, whirling mass of cares and anxieties, affections, hopes, and
griefs, that make up the living man. The law had his body; and there it
lay, clothed in grave-clothes, an awful witness to its tender mercy.

'Would you like to see a whistling-shop, Sir?' inquired Job Trotter.

'What do you mean?' was Mr. Pickwick's counter inquiry.

'A vistlin' shop, Sir,' interposed Mr. Weller.

'What is that, Sam?--A bird-fancier's?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.

'Bless your heart, no, Sir,' replied Job; 'a whistling-shop, Sir, is
where they sell spirits.' Mr. Job Trotter briefly explained here, that
all persons, being prohibited under heavy penalties from conveying
spirits into debtors' prisons, and such commodities being highly prized
by the ladies and gentlemen confined therein, it had occurred to some
speculative turnkey to connive, for certain lucrative considerations, at
two or three prisoners retailing the favourite article of gin, for their
own profit and advantage.

'This plan, you see, Sir, has been gradually introduced into all the
prisons for debt,' said Mr. Trotter.

'And it has this wery great advantage,' said Sam, 'that the turnkeys
takes wery good care to seize hold o' ev'rybody but them as pays 'em,
that attempts the willainy, and wen it gets in the papers they're
applauded for their wigilance; so it cuts two ways--frightens other
people from the trade, and elewates their own characters.'

'Exactly so, Mr. Weller,' observed Job.

'Well, but are these rooms never searched to ascertain whether any
spirits are concealed in them?' said Mr. Pickwick.

'Cert'nly they are, Sir,' replied Sam; 'but the turnkeys knows
beforehand, and gives the word to the wistlers, and you may wistle for
it wen you go to look.'

By this time, Job had tapped at a door, which was opened by a gentleman
with an uncombed head, who bolted it after them when they had walked in,
and grinned; upon which Job grinned, and Sam also; whereupon Mr.
Pickwick, thinking it might be expected of him, kept on smiling to the
end of the interview.

The gentleman with the uncombed head appeared quite satisfied with this
mute announcement of their business, and, producing a flat stone bottle,
which might hold about a couple of quarts, from beneath his bedstead,
filled out three glasses of gin, which Job Trotter and Sam disposed of
in a most workmanlike manner.

'Any more?' said the whistling gentleman.

'No more,' replied Job Trotter.

Mr. Pickwick paid, the door was unbolted, and out they came; the
uncombed gentleman bestowing a friendly nod upon Mr. Roker, who happened
to be passing at the moment.

From this spot, Mr. Pickwick wandered along all the galleries, up and
down all the staircases, and once again round the whole area of the
yard. The great body of the prison population appeared to be Mivins, and
Smangle, and the parson, and the butcher, and the leg, over and over,
and over again. There were the same squalor, the same turmoil and noise,
the same general characteristics, in every corner; in the best and the
worst alike. The whole place seemed restless and troubled; and the
people were crowding and flitting to and fro, like the shadows in an
uneasy dream.

'I have seen enough,' said Mr. Pickwick, as he threw himself into a
chair in his little apartment. 'My head aches with these scenes, and my
heart too. Henceforth I will be a prisoner in my own room.'

And Mr. Pickwick steadfastly adhered to this determination. For three
long months he remained shut up, all day; only stealing out at night to
breathe the air, when the greater part of his fellow-prisoners were in
bed or carousing in their rooms. His health was beginning to suffer from
the closeness of the confinement, but neither the often-repeated
entreaties of Perker and his friends, nor the still more frequently-
repeated warnings and admonitions of Mr. Samuel Weller, could induce him
to alter one jot of his inflexible resolution.

 Sam arrives with Mr. Pickwick's wardrobe the next morning and is about to come to blows with Smangle, when Smangle sees the clothes and craftily tries to obtain some. Determined to change rooms, Mr. Pickwick goes to see Tom Roker, who assigns him to a room with three dirty, sloppy ruffians. Mr. Pickwick learns from these three men that he can have a room to himself if he has the money. So he goes back to Roker and sublets a room from an embittered Chancery prisoner whose money has been drained off by the law courts. Having leased the cell, Mr. Pickwick goes to the poor prisoners' section to see about getting a man to run errands. There, among other specimens of dire misery, he encounters Alfred Jingle and Job Trotter. In extreme poverty they are shadows of their former selves. Mr. Pickwick is touched by their want and gives his former enemies some money. Returning to his room, Mr. Pickwick finds Sam waiting for him. Thinking that prison was no place for a young man, Mr. Pickwick tries to dismiss Sam but to continue his wages. While Sam disapproves of Mr. Pickwick's decision to go to prison, he refuses to hear of being dismissed and leaves quickly. At the Insolvent Court, Tony Weller and his companions stop by to see an old friend tried. Tony converses with a seedy, self-advertising lawyer named Sol Pell. While jostling for position in the courtroom, Tony comes upon his son, Sam. Sam informs him that his wife is showing the effects of too much liquor. Tony replies that Stiggins is suffering the same complaint. Sam also tells him of Mr. Pickwick's decision to dismiss him. Both men think that Mr. Pickwick will be plucked clean unless Sam assists him. So Sam borrows 25 pounds from his father and gets Tony to file suit against him in order to be jailed for debt with Mr. Pickwick. Solomon Pell handles the case. And Sam goes off to prison, celebrating along the way with Tony and his friends. Then Sam confronts Mr. Pickwick with the news that he, too, has been imprisoned for debt. Mr. Pickwick insists on learning who Sam's creditor is, but Sam refuses to tell and diverts him with a long, absurd anecdote about a man who destroyed himself on principle. Sam is given a room with a good-humored cobbler, who tells how he was imprisoned because of legal squabbles over an inheritance. Smangle goes to Mr. Pickwick's room soon after this, announces that three friends have come to visit, and obtains money. Tupman, Snodgrass, and Winkle enter the room in a sad mood. Winkle has something on his mind which is agitating him. The Pickwickians enjoy a substantial meal with several bottles of wine. As Tupman and Snodgrass prepare to leave, Winkle tries to say something to Mr. Pickwick but cannot get the words out. Sam, however, asks a favor of Winkle, fully aware of what Winkle is up to. Later Tom Roker, the warder, announces to Mr. Pickwick that the Chancery prisoner from whom he obtained the room is about to die. Pickwick goes to see the man and finds him, in his dying moments, hoping that the Lord will remember his suffering. In a few days Tony Weller brings his wife and Reverend Stiggins to see Sam. Tony is very mirthful, having shaken Stiggins up considerably during the coach ride. Stiggins and Mrs. Weller settle down to an afternoon of heavy drinking, as they moralize on Sam's condition. On leaving, Tony whispers to Sam that he has a plan for smuggling Mr. Pickwick out in a piano and shipping him to America. Sam finds Mr. Pickwick with Jingle and Job Trotter and is surprised to find them in such a wretched state. While Mr. Pickwick proposes something to Jingle, Sam treats Job Trotter to drink, over which Job expresses his admiration for Mr. Pickwick. Later, in the prison yard, Mr. Pickwick becomes very distressed by the repetitive spectacle of misery, noise, dirt, squalor, and roughness of prison life. He decides to keep to his room, except for evening walks. And he keeps to this resolution for three months, while his friends try to persuade him to pay the damages.

