CHAPTER XIII
_What Befell Mr. Pickwick when he got into the Fleet: what Prisoners he Saw there; and how he Passed the Night_
Mr. Tom Roker, the gentleman who had accompanied Mr. Pickwick into theprison, turned sharp round to the right when he got to the bottom ofthe little flight of steps, and led the way, through an iron gate whichstood open, and up another short flight of steps, into a long narrowgallery, dirty and low, paved with stone, and very dimly lighted by awindow at each remote end.
"This," said the gentleman, thrusting his hands into his pockets, andlooking carelessly over his shoulder to Mr. Pickwick, "this here is thehall flight."
"Oh," replied Mr. Pickwick, looking down a dark and filthy staircase,which appeared to lead to a range of damp and gloomy stone vaults,beneath the ground, "and those, I suppose, are the little cellars wherethe prisoners keep their small quantities of coals. Unpleasant placesto have to go down to; but very convenient, I dare say."
"Yes, I shouldn't wonder if they was convenient," replied thegentleman, "seeing that a few people live there, pretty snug. That'sthe Fair, that is."
"My friend," said Mr. Pickwick, "you don't really mean to say thathuman beings live down in those wretched dungeons?"
"Don't I?" replied Mr. Roker, with indignant astonishment; "whyshouldn't I?"
"Live! Live down there!" exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.
"Live down there! Yes, and die down there, too, wery often!" repliedMr. Roker; "and what of that? Who's got to say anything agin it? Livedown there! Yes, and a wery good place it is to live in, ain't it?"
As Roker turned somewhat fiercely upon Mr. Pickwick in saying this,and, moreover, muttered in an excited fashion certain unpleasantinvocations concerning his own eyes, limbs, and circulating fluids,the latter gentleman deemed it advisable to pursue the discourse nofurther. Mr. Roker then proceeded to mount another staircase, as dirtyas that which led to the place which had just been the subject ofdiscussion, in which ascent he was closely followed by Mr. Pickwick andSam.
"There," said Mr. Roker, pausing for breath when they reached anothergallery of the same dimensions as the one below, "this is thecoffee-room flight; the one above's the third, and the one above that'sthe top; and the room where you're a-going to sleep to-night is thewarden's room, and it's this way--come on." Having said all this in abreath, Mr. Roker mounted another flight of stairs, with Mr. Pickwickand Sam Weller following at his heels.
These staircases received light from sundry windows placed at somelittle distance above the floor, and looking into a gravelled areabounded by a high brick wall, with iron _chevaux-de-frise_ at thetop. This area, it appeared from Mr. Roker's statement, was theracket-ground; and it further appeared, on the testimony of the samegentleman, that there was a smaller area in that portion of the prisonwhich was nearest Farringdon Street, denominated and called the"Painted Ground," from the fact of its walls having once displayed thesemblances of various men-of-war in full sail, and other artisticaleffects achieved in bygone times by some imprisoned draughtsman in hisleisure hours.
Having communicated this piece of information, apparently more forthe purpose of discharging his bosom of an important fact, than withany specific view of enlightening Mr. Pickwick, the guide, having atlength reached another gallery, led the way into a small passage at theextreme end: opened a door: and disclosed an apartment of an appearanceby no means inviting, containing eight or nine iron bedsteads.
"There," said Mr. Roker, holding the door open, and looking triumphantlyround at Mr. Pickwick, "there's a room!"
Mr. Pickwick's face, however, betokened such a very trifling portion ofsatisfaction at the appearance of his lodging, that Mr. Roker lookedfor a reciprocity of feeling into the countenance of Samuel Weller,who, until now, had observed a dignified silence.
"There's a room, young man," observed Mr. Roker.
"I see it," replied Sam, with a placid nod of the head.
"You wouldn't think to find such a room as this in the FarringdonHotel, would you?" said Mr. Roker, with a complacent smile.
To this Mr. Weller replied with an easy and unstudied closing of oneeye; which might be considered to mean, either that he would havethought it, or that he would not have thought it, or that he hadnever thought anything at all about it: as the observer's imaginationsuggested. Having executed this feat, and re-opened his eye, Mr. Wellerproceeded to inquire which was the individual bedstead that Mr. Rokerhad so flatteringly described as an out-and-outer to sleep in.
"That's it," replied Mr. Roker, pointing to a very rusty one in acorner. "It would make any one go to sleep, that bedstead would,whether they wanted to or not."
"I should think," said Sam, eyeing the piece of furniture in questionwith a look of excessive disgust, "I should think poppies was nothingto it."
"Nothing at all," said Mr. Roker.
"And I s'pose," said Sam, with a sidelong glance at his master, asif to see whether there were any symptoms of his determination beingshaken by what passed, "I s'pose the other gen'l'm'n as sleeps here,_are_ gen'l'm'n."
"Nothing but it," said Mr. Roker. "One of 'em takes his twelve pints ofale a-day, and never leaves off smoking even at his meals."
"He must be a first-rater," said Sam.
"A 1," replied Mr. Roker.
Nothing daunted, even by this intelligence, Mr. Pickwick smilinglyannounced his determination to test the powers of the narcoticbedstead for that night; and Mr. Roker, after informing him that hecould retire to rest at whatever hour he thought proper, without anyfurther notice or formality, walked off, leaving him standing with Samin the gallery.
It was getting dark; that is to say, a few gas jets were kindled inthis place which was never light, by way of compliment to the evening,which had set in outside. As it was rather warm, some of the tenantsof the numerous little rooms which opened into the gallery on eitherhand, had set their doors ajar. Mr. Pickwick peeped into them as hepassed along, with great curiosity and interest. Here four or fivegreat hulking fellows, just visible through a cloud of tobacco-smoke,were engaged in noisy and riotous conversation over half-emptied potsof beer, or playing at all-fours with a very greasy pack of cards. Inthe adjoining room, some solitary tenant might be seen, poring, by thelight of a feeble tallow candle, over a bundle of soiled and tatteredpapers, yellow with dust and dropping to pieces from age: writing,for the hundredth time, some lengthened statement of his grievances,for the perusal of some great man whose eyes it would never reach, orwhose heart it would never touch. In a third, a man, with his wife anda whole crowd of children, might be seen making up a scanty bed on theground, or upon a few chairs, for the younger ones to pass the nightin. And in a fourth, and a fifth, and a sixth, and a seventh, the noiseand the beer, and the tobacco-smoke, and the cards, all came over againin greater force than before.
In the galleries themselves, and more especially on the staircases,there lingered a great number of people, who came there, some becausetheir rooms were empty and lonesome, others because their roomswere full and hot: the greater part because they were restless anduncomfortable, and not possessed of the secret of exactly knowing whatto do with themselves. There were many classes of people here, from thelabouring man in his fustian jacket, to the broken-down spendthriftin his shawl dressing-gown, most appropriately out at elbows; butthere was the same air about them all--a listless, jail-bird, carelessswagger, a vagabondish who's-afraid sort of bearing, which is whollyindescribable in words, but which any man can understand in one momentif he wish, by setting foot in the nearest debtor's prison, and lookingat the very first group of people he sees there, with the same interestas Mr. Pickwick did.
"It strikes me, Sam," said Mr. Pickwick, leaning over the iron railat the stair-head--"it strikes me, Sam, that imprisonment for debt isscarcely any punishment at all."
"Think not, sir?" inquired Mr. Weller.
"You see how these fellows drink, and smoke, and roar," replied Mr.Pickwick. "It's quite impossible that they can mind it much."
"
Ah, that's just the wery thing, sir," rejoined Sam, "_they_ don'tmind it; it's a regular holiday to them--all porter and skittles.It's the t'other vuns as gets done over, vith this sort o' thing:them down-hearted fellers as can't svig avay at the beer, nor playat skittles neither; them as vould pay if they could, and gets lowby being boxed up. I'll tell you wot it is, sir; them as is alvays aidlin' in public-houses it don't damage at all, and them as is alvays aworkin' ven they can, it damages too much. 'It's unekal,' as my fatherused to say ven his grog worn't made half-and-half. It's unekal, andthat's the fault on it."
"I think you're right, Sam," said Mr. Pickwick, after a few moments'reflection, "quite right."
"P'raps, now and then, there's some honest people as likes it,"observed Mr. Weller, in a ruminative tone, "but I never heerd o' one asI can call to mind, 'cept the little dirty-faced man in the brown coat;and that wos force of habit."
"And who was he?" inquired Mr. Pickwick.
"Vy, that's just the wery point as nobody never know'd," replied Sam.
"But what did he do?"
"Vy, he did wot many men as has been much better know'd has done intheir time, sir," replied Sam, "he run a match agin the constable, andvun it."
"In other words, I suppose," said Mr. Pickwick, "he got into debt?"
"Just that, sir," replied Sam, "and in course o' time he come herein consekens. It warn't much--execution for nine pound nothin',multiplied by five for costs; but hows'ever here he stopped forseventeen year. If he got any wrinkles in his face, they wos stoppedup vith the dirt, for both the dirty face and the brown coat wos justthe same at the end o' that time as they wos at the beginnin'. He wosa wery peaceful inoffendin' little creetur, and wos alvays a bustlin'about for somebody, or playin' rackets and never vinnin'; till at lastthe turnkeys they got quite fond on him, and he wos in the lodge ev'rynight, a chattering vith 'em, and tellin' stories, and all that 'ere.Vun night he wos in there as usual, along vith a wery old friend ofhis, as wos on the lock, ven he says all of a sudden, 'I ain't seenthe market outside, Bill,' he says (Fleet Market wos there at thattime)--'I ain't seen the market outside, Bill,' he says, 'for seventeenyear.' 'I know you ain't,' says the turnkey, smoking his pipe. 'Ishould like to see it for a minit, Bill,' he says. 'Wery probable,'says the turnkey, smoking his pipe wery fierce, and making believehe warn't up to what the little man wanted. 'Bill,' says the littleman, more abrupt than afore, 'I've got the fancy in my head. Let mesee the public streets once more afore I die; and if I ain't struckwith apoplexy, I'll be back in five minits by the clock.' 'And wot 'udbecome o' me if you _wos_ struck with apoplexy?' said the turnkey.'Vy,' says the little creetur, 'whoever found me, 'ud bring me home,for I've got my card in my pocket, Bill,' he says, 'No. 20, Coffee-roomFlight:' and that wos true, sure enough, for ven he wanted to make theacquaintance of any new comer, he used to pull out a little limp cardvith them words on it and nothin' else; in consideration of vich, hewos alvays called Number Tventy. The turnkey takes a fixed look athim, and at last he says in a solemn manner, 'Tventy,' he says, 'I'lltrust you; you won't get your old friend into trouble?' 'No, my boy; Ihope I've somethin' better behind here,' says the little man; and ashe said it he hit his little veskit wery hard, and then a tear startedout o' each eye, which wos wery extraordinary, for it was supposed aswater never touched his face. He shook the turnkey by the hand; out hevent----"
"And never came back again?" said Mr. Pickwick.
"Wrong for vunce, sir," replied Mr. Weller, "for back he come, twominits afore the time, a bilin' with rage: sayin' how he'd been nearlyrun over by a hackney-coach: that he warn't used to it: and he wosblowed if he wouldn't write to the Lord Mayor. They got him pacified atlast; and for five years arter that, he never even so much as peepedout o' the lodge gate."
"At the expiration of that time he died, I suppose?" said Mr. Pickwick.
"No, he didn't, sir," replied Sam. "He got a curiosity to go and tastethe beer at a new public-house over the way, and it wos such a werynice parlour, that he took it into his head to go there every night,vich he did for a long time, always comin' back reg'lar about a quarterof an hour afore the gate shut, vich wos all wery snug and comfortable.At last he began to get so precious jolly, that he used to forget howthe time vent, or care nothin' at all about it, and he vent on gettin'later and later, till vun night his old friend wos just a shuttin' thegate--had turned the key in fact--ven he come up. 'Hold hard, Bill,'he says. 'Wot, ain't you come home yet, Tventy?' says the turnkey; 'Ithought you wos in, long ago.' 'No, I wasn't,' says the little man,vith a smile. 'Well then, I'll tell you wot it is, my friend,' saysthe turnkey, openin' the gate wery slow and sulky, 'it's my 'pinion asyou've got into bad company o' late, which I'm wery sorry to see. Now,I don't wish to do nothing harsh,' he says, 'but if you can't confineyourself to steady circles, and find your vay back at reg'lar hours,as sure as you're a standin' there, I'll shut you out altogether!' Thelittle man was seized vith a wiolent fit o' tremblin', and never ventoutside the prison walls artervards!"
As Sam concluded, Mr. Pickwick slowly retraced his steps down-stairs.After a few thoughtful turns in the Painted Ground, which, as it wasnow dark, was nearly deserted, he intimated to Mr. Weller that hethought it high time for him to withdraw for the night; requesting himto seek a bed in some adjacent public-house, and return early in themorning, to make arrangements for the removal of his master's wardrobefrom the George and Vulture. This request Mr. Samuel Weller preparedto obey, with as good a grace as he could assume, but with a veryconsiderable show of reluctance nevertheless. He even went so far as toessay sundry ineffectual hints regarding the expediency of stretchinghimself on the gravel for that night; but finding Mr. Pickwickobstinately deaf to any such suggestions, finally withdrew.
There is no disguising the fact that Mr. Pickwick felt very low-spiritedand uncomfortable; not for lack of society, for the prison was veryfull, and a bottle of wine would at once have purchased the utmostgood-fellowship of a few choice spirits, without any more formalceremony of introduction; but he was alone in the coarse, vulgar crowd,and felt the depression of spirit and sinking of heart, naturallyconsequent on the reflection that he was cooped and caged up, withouta prospect of liberation. As to the idea of releasing himself byministering to the sharpness of Dodson and Fogg, it never for aninstant entered his thoughts.
In this frame of mind he turned again into the coffee-room gallery,and walked slowly to and fro. The place was intolerably dirty, and thesmell of tobacco-smoke perfectly suffocating. There was a perpetualslamming and banging of doors as the people went in and out; and thenoise of their voices and footsteps echoed and re-echoed through thepassages constantly. A young woman, with a child in her arms, whoseemed scarcely able to crawl, from emaciation and misery, was walkingup and down the passage in conversation with her husband, who had noother place to see her in. As they passed Mr. Pickwick, he could hearthe female sob; and once she burst into such a passion of grief, thatshe was compelled to lean against the wall for support, while the mantook the child in his arms, and tried to soothe her.
Mr. Pickwick's heart was really too full to bear it, and he wentup-stairs to bed.
Now, although the warden's room was a very uncomfortable one (being,in every point of decoration and convenience, several hundred degreesinferior to the common infirmary of a county gaol), it had at presentthe merit of being wholly deserted save by Mr. Pickwick himself. So, hesat down at the foot of his little iron bedstead, and began to wonderhow much a year the warden made out of the dirty room. Having satisfiedhimself, by mathematical calculation, that the apartment was aboutequal in annual value to the freehold of a small street in the suburbsof London, he took to wondering what possible temptation could haveinduced a dingy-looking fly that was crawling over his pantaloons,to come into a close prison, when he had the choice of so many airysituations--a course of meditation which led him to the irresistibleconclusion that the insect was mad. After settling this point, he beganto be conscious that he was getting sleepy; whereupon he took hisnightc
ap out of the pocket in which he had had the precaution to stowit in the morning, and, leisurely undressing himself, got into bed, andfell asleep.
"Bravo! Heel over toe--cut and shuffle--pay away at it, Zephyr! I'msmothered if the Opera House isn't your proper hemisphere. Keep it up!Hooray!" These expressions, delivered in a most boisterous tone, andaccompanied with loud peals of laughter, roused Mr. Pickwick from oneof those sound slumbers which, lasting in reality some half-hour, seemto the sleeper to have been protracted for three weeks or a month.
The voice had no sooner ceased than the room was shaken with suchviolence that the windows rattled in their frames, and the bedsteadstrembled again. Mr. Pickwick started up, and remained for some minutesfixed in mute astonishment at the scene before him.
On the floor of the room, a man in a broad-skirted green coat, withcorduroy knee smalls and grey cotton stockings, was performing the mostpopular steps of a hornpipe, with a slang and burlesque caricatureof grace and lightness, which, combined with the very appropriatecharacter of his costume, was inexpressibly absurd. Another man,evidently very drunk, who had probably been tumbled into bed by hiscompanions, was sitting up between the sheets, warbling as much as hecould recollect of a comic song, with the most intensely sentimentalfeeling and expression; while a third, seated on one of the bedsteads,was applauding both performers with the air of a profound connoisseur,and encouraging them by such ebullitions of feeling as had alreadyroused Mr. Pickwick from his sleep.
This last man was an admirable specimen of a class of gentry whichnever can be seen in full perfection but in such places;--they may bemet with, in an imperfect state, occasionally about stable-yards andpublic-houses; but they never attain their full bloom except in thesehot-beds, which would almost seem to be considerately provided by theLegislature for the sole purpose of rearing them.
He was a tall fellow, with an olive complexion, long dark hair,and very thick bushy whiskers meeting under his chin. He wore noneckerchief, as he had been playing rackets all day, and his openshirt-collar displayed their full luxuriance. On his head he wore oneof the common eighteenpenny French skull-caps, with a gaudy tasseldangling therefrom, very happily in keeping with a common fustian coat.His legs: which, being long, were afflicted with weakness: graceda pair of Oxford-mixture trousers, made to show the full symmetryof those limbs. Being somewhat negligently braced, however, and,moreover, but imperfectly buttoned, they fell in a series of not themost graceful folds over a pair of shoes sufficiently down at the heelto display a pair of very soiled white stockings. There was a rakish,vagabond smartness, and a kind of boastful rascality, about the wholeman, that was worth a mine of gold.
This figure was the first to perceive that Mr. Pickwick was lookingon; upon which he winked to the Zephyr, and entreated him, with mockgravity, not to wake the gentleman.
"Why, bless the gentleman's honest heart and soul!" said the Zephyr,turning round and affecting the extremity of surprise; "the gentleman_is_ awake. Hem, Shakespeare! How do you do, sir? How is Mary andSarah, sir? and the dear old lady at home, sir? Will you have thekindness to put my compliments into the first little parcel you'resending that way, sir, and say that I would have sent 'em before, onlyI was afraid they might be broken in the waggon, sir?"
"Don't overwhelm the gentleman with ordinary civilities when you seehe's anxious to have something to drink," said the gentleman with thewhiskers, with a jocose air. "Why don't you ask the gentleman whathe'll take?"
"Dear me, I quite forgot," replied the other. "What _will_ you take,sir? Will you take port wine, sir, or sherry wine, sir? I can recommendthe ale, sir; or perhaps you'd like to taste the porter, sir? Allow meto have the felicity of hanging up your nightcap, sir."
With this, the speaker snatched that article of dress from Mr.Pickwick's head, and fixed it in a twinkling on that of the drunkenman, who, firmly impressed with the belief that he was delighting anumerous assembly, continued to hammer away at the comic song in themost melancholy strains imaginable.
Taking a man's nightcap from his brow by violent means, and adjustingit on the head of an unknown gentleman of dirty exterior, howeveringenious a witticism in itself, is unquestionably one of those whichcome under the denomination of practical jokes. Viewing the matterprecisely in this light, Mr. Pickwick, without the slightest intimationof his purpose, sprang vigorously out of bed, struck the Zephyr sosmart a blow in the chest as to deprive him of a considerable portionof the commodity which sometimes bears his name, and then, recapturinghis nightcap, boldly placed himself in an attitude of defence.
"Now," said Mr. Pickwick, gasping no less from excitement than fromthe expenditure of so much energy, "come on--both of you--both ofyou!" With this liberal invitation the worthy gentleman communicateda revolving motion to his clenched fists, by way of appalling hisantagonists with a display of science.
"_Come on--both of you_"]
It might have been Mr. Pickwick's very unexpected gallantry, or itmight have been the complicated manner in which he had got himself outof bed, and fallen all in a mass upon the hornpipe man, that touchedhis adversaries. Touched they were; for, instead of then and theremaking an attempt to commit manslaughter, as Mr. Pickwick implicitlybelieved they would have done, they paused, stared at each other ashort time, and finally laughed outright.
"Well; you're a trump, and I like you all the better for it," said theZephyr. "Now jump into bed again, or you'll catch the rheumatics. Nomalice, I hope?" said the man, extending a hand the size of the yellowclump of fingers which sometimes swings over a glover's door.
"Certainly not," said Mr. Pickwick, with great alacrity; for now thatthe excitement was over, he began to feel rather cool about the legs.
"Allow me the _h_onour," said the gentleman with the whiskers,presenting his dexter hand, and aspirating the h.
"With much pleasure, sir," said Mr. Pickwick; and having executed avery long and solemn shake, he got into bed again.
"My name is Smangle, sir," said the man with the whiskers.
"Oh," said Mr. Pickwick.
"Mine is Mivins," said the man in the stockings.
"I am delighted to hear it, sir," said Mr. Pickwick.
"Hem," coughed Mr. Smangle.
"Did you speak, sir?" said Mr. Pickwick.
"No, I did not, sir," said Mr. Smangle.
"I thought you did, sir," said Mr. Pickwick.
All this was very genteel and pleasant; and to make matters still morecomfortable, Mr. Smangle assured Mr. Pickwick a great many times thathe entertained a very high respect for the feelings of a gentleman;which sentiment, indeed, did him infinite credit, as he could be in nowise supposed to understand them.
"Are you going through the court, sir?" inquired Mr. Smangle.
"Through the what?" said Mr. Pickwick.
"Through the Court--Portugal Street--the Court for the Relief of--youknow."
"Oh no," replied Mr. Pickwick. "No, I am not."
"Going out, perhaps?" suggested Mivins.
"I fear not," replied Mr. Pickwick. "I refuse to pay some damages, andam here in consequence."
"Ah," said Mr. Smangle, "paper has been my ruin."
"A stationer, I presume, sir?" said Mr. Pickwick, innocently.
"Stationer! No, no; confound and curse me! Not so low as that. Notrade. When I say paper, I mean bills."
"Oh, you use the word in that sense. I see," said Mr. Pickwick.
"Damme! A gentleman must expect reverses," said Smangle. "What of that?Here am I in the Fleet Prison. Well; good. What then? I'm none theworse for that, am I?"
"Not a bit," replied Mr. Mivins. And he was quite right; for, so farfrom Mr. Smangle being any the worse for it, he was something thebetter, inasmuch as to qualify himself for the place, he had obtainedgratuitous possession of certain articles of jewellery, which, longbefore that, had found their way to the pawnbroker's.
"Well; but come," said Mr. Smangle; "this is dry work. Let's rinse ourmouths with a drop of burnt sherry; the last comer shall stand it,Mivins sha
ll fetch it, and I'll help to drink it. That's a fair andgentlemanlike division of labour, anyhow. Curse me!"
Unwilling to hazard another quarrel, Mr. Pickwick gladly assented tothe proposition, and consigned the money to Mr. Mivins, who, as it wasnearly eleven o'clock, lost no time in repairing to the coffee-room onhis errand.
"I say," whispered Smangle, the moment his friend had left the room;"what did you give him?"
"Half a sovereign," said Mr. Pickwick.
"He's a devilish pleasant gentlemanly dog," said Mr. Smangle;--"infernalpleasant. I don't know anybody more so, but--" Here Mr. Smangle stoppedshort, and shook his head dubiously.
"You don't think there is any probability of his appropriating themoney to his own use?" said Mr. Pickwick.
"Oh no! Mind, I don't say that; I expressly say that he's a devilishgentlemanly fellow," said Mr. Smangle. "But I think, perhaps, ifsomebody went down, just to see that he didn't dip his beak into thejug by accident, or make some confounded mistake in losing the moneyas he came up-stairs, it would be as well. Here, you sir, just rundown-stairs, and look after that gentleman, will you?"
This request was addressed to a little timid-looking, nervous man,whose appearance bespoke great poverty, and who had been crouching onhis bedstead all this while, apparently stupefied by the novelty of hissituation.
"You know where the coffee-room is," said Smangle; "just run down,and tell that gentleman you've come to help him up with the jug.Or--stop--I'll tell you what--I'll tell you how we'll do him," saidSmangle, with a cunning look.
"How?" said Mr. Pickwick.
"Send down word that he's to spend the change in cigars. Capitalthought. Run and tell him that; d'ye hear? They shan't be wasted,"continued Smangle, turning to Mr. Pickwick. "_I'll_ smoke 'em."
This manoeuvring was so exceedingly ingenious, and, withal, performedwith such immovable composure and coolness, that Mr. Pickwick wouldhave had no wish to disturb it, even if he had had the power. In ashort time Mr. Mivins returned, bearing the sherry, which Mr. Smangledispensed in two little cracked mugs; considerately remarking, withreference to himself, that a gentleman must not be particular undersuch circumstances, and that, for his part, he was not too proud todrink out of the jug. In which, to show his sincerity, he forthwithpledged the company in a draught which half emptied it.
An excellent understanding having been by these means promoted, Mr.Smangle proceeded to entertain his hearers with a relation of diversromantic adventures in which he had been from time to time engaged,involving various interesting anecdotes of a thorough-bred horse, and amagnificent Jewess, both of surpassing beauty, and much coveted by thenobility and gentry of these kingdoms.
Long before these elegant extracts from the biography of a gentlemanwere concluded, Mr. Mivins had betaken himself to bed, and had set insnoring for the night: leaving the timid stranger and Mr. Pickwick tothe full benefit of Mr. Smangle's experiences.
Nor were the two last-named gentlemen as much edified as they mighthave been, by the moving passages narrated. Mr. Pickwick had been ina state of slumber for some time, when he had a faint perception ofthe drunken man bursting out afresh with the comic song, and receivingfrom Mr. Smangle a gentle intimation, through the medium of the waterjug, that his audience were not musically disposed. Mr. Pickwick thenonce again dropped off to sleep, with a confused consciousness that Mr.Smangle was still engaged in relating a long story, the chief point ofwhich appeared to be, that on some occasion particularly stated and setforth, he had "done" a bill and a gentleman at the same time.