THE STORY OF LONDON: Charles Dickens' Perspective in 11 Novels & 80+ Short Stories (Illustrated Edition). Charles Dickens
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In the galleries themselves, and more especially on the staircases, there lingered a great number of people, who came there, some because their rooms were empty and lonesome, others because their rooms were full and hot; the greater part because they were restless and uncomfortable, and not possessed of the secret of exactly knowing what to do with themselves. There were many classes of people here, from the labouring man in his fustian jacket, to the broken-down spendthrift in his shawl dressing-gown, most appropriately out at elbows; but there was the same air about them all — a kind of listless, jailbird, careless swagger, a vagabondish who’s-afraid sort of bearing, which is wholly indescribable in words, but which any man can understand in one moment if he wish, by setting foot in the nearest debtors’ prison, and looking at the very first group of people he sees there, with the same interest as Mr. Pickwick did.
‘It strikes me, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, leaning over the iron rail at the stair-head-’it strikes me, Sam, that imprisonment for debt is scarcely any punishment at all.’
‘Think not, sir?’ inquired Mr. Weller.
‘You see how these fellows drink, and smoke, and roar,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘It’s quite impossible that they can mind it much.’
‘Ah, that’s just the wery thing, Sir,’ rejoined Sam, ‘they don’t mind it; it’s a reg’lar holiday to them — all porter and skittles. It’s the t’other vuns as gets done over vith this sort o’ thing; them downhearted fellers as can’t svig avay at the beer, nor play at skittles neither; them as vould pay if they could, and gets low by being boxed up. I’ll tell you wot it is, sir; them as is always a-idlin’ in public-houses it don’t damage at all, and them as is alvays a-workin’ wen they can, it damages too much. “It’s unekal,” as my father used to say wen his grog worn’t made half-and-half: “it’s unekal, and that’s the fault on it.”‘
‘I think you’re right, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, after a few moments’ reflection, ‘quite right.’
‘P’raps, now and then, there’s some honest people as likes it,’ observed Mr. Weller, in a ruminative tone, ‘but I never heerd o’ one as I can call to mind, ‘cept the little dirty-faced man in the brown coat; and that was force of habit.’
‘And who was he?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.
‘Wy, that’s just the wery point as nobody never know’d,’ replied Sam.
‘But what did he do?’
‘Wy, he did wot many men as has been much better know’d has done in their time, Sir,’ replied Sam, ‘he run a match agin the constable, and vun it.’
‘In other words, I suppose,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘he got into debt.’
‘Just that, Sir,’ replied Sam, ‘and in course o’ time he come here in consekens. It warn’t much — execution for nine pound nothin’, multiplied by five for costs; but hows’ever here he stopped for seventeen year. If he got any wrinkles in his face, they were stopped up vith the dirt, for both the dirty face and the brown coat wos just the same at the end o’ that time as they wos at the beginnin’. He wos a wery peaceful, inoffendin’ little creetur, and wos alvays a-bustlin’ about for somebody, or playin’ rackets and never vinnin’; till at last the turnkeys they got quite fond on him, and he wos in the lodge ev’ry night, a-chattering vith ‘em, and tellin’ stories, and all that ‘ere. Vun night he wos in there as usual, along vith a wery old friend of his, as wos on the lock, ven he says all of a sudden, “I ain’t seen the market outside, Bill,” he says (Fleet Market wos there at that time) — “I ain’t seen the market outside, Bill,” he says, “for seventeen year.” “I know you ain’t,” says the turnkey, smoking his pipe. “I should like to see it for a minit, Bill,” he says. “Wery probable,” says the turnkey, smoking his pipe wery fierce, and making believe he warn’t up to wot the little man wanted. “Bill,” says the little man, more abrupt than afore, “I’ve got the fancy in my head. Let me see the public streets once more afore I die; and if I ain’t struck with apoplexy, I’ll be back in five minits by the clock.” “And wot ‘ud become o’ me if you WOS struck with apoplexy?” said the turnkey. “Wy,” says the little creetur, “whoever found me, ‘ud bring me home, for I’ve got my card in my pocket, Bill,” he says, “No. 20, Coffee-room Flight”: and that wos true, sure enough, for wen he wanted to make the acquaintance of any newcomer, he used to pull out a little limp card vith them words on it and nothin’ else; in consideration of vich, he vos alvays called Number Tventy. The turnkey takes a fixed look at him, and at last he says in a solemn manner, “Tventy,” he says, “I’ll trust you; you Won’t get your old friend into trouble.” “No, my boy; I hope I’ve somethin’ better behind here,” says the little man; and as he said it he hit his little vesket wery hard, and then a tear started out o’ each eye, which wos wery extraordinary, for it wos supposed as water never touched his face. He shook the turnkey by the hand; out he vent — ‘
‘And never came back again,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘Wrong for vunce, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller, ‘for back he come, two minits afore the time, a-bilin’ with rage, sayin’ how he’d been nearly run over by a hackney-coach that he warn’t used to it; and he was blowed if he wouldn’t write to the lord mayor. They got him pacified at last; and for five years arter that, he never even so much as peeped out o’ the lodge gate.’
‘At the expiration of that time he died, I suppose,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘No, he didn’t, Sir,’ replied Sam. ‘He got a curiosity to go and taste the beer at a new public-house over the way, and it wos such a wery nice parlour, that he took it into his head to go there every night, which he did for a long time, always comin’ back reg’lar about a quarter of an hour afore the gate shut, which was all wery snug and comfortable. At last he began to get so precious jolly, that he used to forget how the time vent, or care nothin’ at all about it, and he went on gettin’ later and later, till vun night his old friend wos just a-shuttin’ the gate — had turned the key in fact — wen he come up. “Hold hard, Bill,” he says. “Wot, ain’t you come home yet, Tventy?” says the turnkey, “I thought you wos in, long ago.” “No, I wasn’t,” says the little man, with a smile. “Well, then, I’ll tell you wot it is, my friend,” says the turnkey, openin’ the gate wery slow and sulky, “it’s my ‘pinion as you’ve got into bad company o’ late, which I’m wery sorry to see. Now, I don’t wish to do nothing harsh,” he says, “but if you can’t confine yourself to steady circles, and find your vay back at reg’lar hours, as sure as you’re a-standin’ there, I’ll shut you out altogether!” The little man was seized vith a wiolent fit o’ tremblin’, and never vent outside the prison walls artervards!’
As Sam concluded, Mr. Pickwick slowly retraced his steps downstairs. After a few thoughtful turns in the Painted Ground, which, as it was now dark, was nearly deserted, he intimated to Mr. Weller that he thought it high time for him to withdraw for the night; requesting him to seek a bed in some adjacent public-house, and return early in the morning, to make arrangements for the removal of his master’s wardrobe from the George and Vulture. This request Mr. Samuel Weller prepared to obey, with as good a grace as he could assume, but with a very considerable show of reluctance nevertheless. He even went so far as to essay sundry ineffectual hints regarding the expediency of stretching himself on the gravel for that night; but finding Mr. Pickwick obstinately deaf to any such suggestions, finally withdrew.
There is no disguising the fact that Mr. Pickwick felt very low-spirited and uncomfortable — not for lack of society, for the prison was very full, and a bottle of wine would at once have purchased the utmost goodfellowship of a few choice spirits, without any more formal ceremony of introduction; but he was alone in the coarse, vulgar crowd, and felt the depression of spirits and sinking of heart, naturally consequent on the reflection that he was cooped and caged up, without a prospect of liberation. As to the idea of releasing himself by ministering to the sharpness of Dodson & Fogg, it never for an instant entered his thoughts.
In this frame of mind he turned again into the coffee-room gallery,