WHAT BEFELL Mr. PICKWICK WHEN HE GOTINTO THE FLEET; WHAT PRISONERS HE SAWTHERE, AND HOW HE PASSED THE NIGHTr. Tom Roker, the gentleman who had accompanied Mr.

　　Pickwick into the prison, turned sharp round to theright when he got to the bottom of the little flight ofsteps, and led the way, through an iron gate which stood open, andup another short flight of steps, into a long narrow gallery, dirtyand low, paved with stone, and very dimly lighted by a window ateach remote end.

　　‘This,’ said the gentleman, thrusting his hands into his pockets,and looking carelessly over his shoulder to Mr. Pickwick―‘thishere is the hall flight.’

　　‘Oh,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, looking down a dark and filthystaircase, which appeared to lead to a range of damp and gloomystone vaults, beneath the ground, ‘and those, I suppose, are thelittle cellars where the prisoners keep their small quantities ofcoals. Unpleasant places to have to go down to; but veryconvenient, 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 saythat human 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, very often!’

　　replied Mr. Roker; ‘and what of that? Who’s got to say anythingagin it? Live down there! Yes, and a wery good place it is to live in,ain’t it?’

　　As Roker turned somewhat fiercely upon Mr. Pickwick insaying this, and moreover muttered in an excited fashion certainunpleasant invocations concerning his own eyes, limbs, andcirculating fluids, the latter gentleman deemed it advisable topursue the discourse no further. Mr. Roker then proceeded tomount another staircase, as dirty as that which led to the placewhich has just been the subject of discussion, in which ascent hewas closely followed by Mr. Pickwick and Sam.

　　‘There,’ said Mr. Roker, pausing for breath when they reachedanother gallery of the same dimensions as the one below, ‘this isthe coffee-room flight; the one above’s the third, and the one abovethat’s the top; and the room where you’re a-going to sleep to-nightis the warden’s room, and it’s this way―come on.’ Having said allthis in a breath, Mr. Roker mounted another flight of stairs withMr. Pickwick and Sam Weller following at his heels.

　　These staircases received light from sundry windows placed atsome little distance above the floor, and looking into a gravelledarea bounded by a high brick wall, with iron chevaux-de-frise atthe top. This area, it appeared from Mr. Roker’s statement, wasthe racket-ground; and it further appeared, on the testimony ofthe same gentleman, that there was a smaller area in that portionof the prison which was nearest Farringdon Street, denominatedand called ‘the Painted Ground,’ from the fact of its walls havingonce displayed the semblance of various men-of-war in full sail,and other artistical effects achieved in bygone times by someimprisoned draughtsman in his leisure hours.

　　Having communicated this piece of information, apparentlymore for the purpose of discharging his bosom of an importantfact, than with any specific view of enlightening Mr. Pickwick, theguide, having at length reached another gallery, led the way into asmall passage at the extreme end, opened a door, and disclosed anapartment of an appearance by no means inviting, containingeight or nine iron bedsteads.

　　‘There,’ said Mr. Roker, holding the door open, and lookingtriumphantly round at Mr. Pickwick, ‘there’s a room!’

　　Mr. Pickwick’s face, however, betokened such a very triflingportion of satisfaction at the appearance of his lodging, that Mr.

　　Roker looked, for a reciprocity of feeling, into the countenance ofSamuel 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 theFarringdon Hotel, would you?’ said Mr. Roker, with a complacentsmile.

　　To this Mr. Weller replied with an easy and unstudied closing ofone eye; which might be considered to mean, either that he wouldhave thought it, or that he would not have thought it, or that hehad never thought anything at all about it, as the observer’simagination suggested. Having executed this feat, and reopenedhis eye, Mr. Weller proceeded to inquire which was the individualbedstead that Mr. Roker had so flatteringly described as an out-and-outer to sleep in.

　　‘That’s it,’ replied Mr. Roker, pointing to a very rusty one in 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 inquestion with a look of excessive disgust―‘I should think poppieswas nothing to 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 determinationbeing shaken by what passed, ‘I s’pose the other gen’l’men assleeps here are gen’l’men.’

　　‘Nothing but it,’ said Mr. Roker. ‘One of ’em takes his twelvepints of ale a day, and never leaves off smoking even at his meals.’

　　‘He must be a first-rater,’ said Sam.

　　‘A1,’ replied Mr. Roker.

　　Nothing daunted, even by this intelligence, Mr. Pickwicksmilingly announced his determination to test the powers of thenarcotic bedstead for that night; and Mr. Roker, after informinghim that he could retire to rest at whatever hour he thoughtproper, without any further notice or formality, walked off, leavinghim standing with Sam in 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 theevening, which had set in outside. As it was rather warm, some ofthe tenants of the numerous little rooms which opened into thegallery on either hand, had set their doors ajar. Mr. Pickwickpeeped into them as he passed along, with great curiosity andinterest. Here, four or five great hulking fellows, just visiblethrough a cloud of tobacco smoke, were engaged in noisy andriotous conversation over half-emptied pots of beer, or playing atall-fours with a very greasy pack of cards. In the adjoining room,some solitary tenant might be seen poring, by the light of a feebletallow candle, over a bundle of soiled and tattered papers, yellowwith dust and dropping to pieces from age, writing, for thehundredth time, some lengthened statement of his grievances, forthe perusal of some great man whose eyes it would never reach, orwhose heart it would never touch. In a third, a man, with his wifeand a whole crowd of children, might be seen making up a scantybed on the ground, or upon a few chairs, for the younger ones topass the night in. And in a fourth, and a fifth, and a sixth, and aseventh, the noise, and the beer, and the tobacco smoke, and thecards, all came over again in greater force than before.

　　In the galleries themselves, and more especially on the stair-cases, there lingered a great number of people, who came there,some because their rooms were empty and lonesome, othersbecause their rooms were full and hot; the greater part becausethey were restless and uncomfortable, and not possessed of thesecret of exactly knowing what to do with themselves. There weremany classes of people here, from the labouring man in his fustianjacket, to the broken-down spendthrift in his shawl dressing-gown,most appropriately out at elbows; but there was the same air aboutthem all―a kind of listless, jail-bird, careless swagger, avagabondish who’s-afraid sort of bearing, which is whollyindescribable in words, but which any man can understand in onemoment if he wish, by setting foot in the nearest debtors’ prison,and looking at the very first group of people he sees there, with thesame interest as Mr. Pickwick did.

　　‘It strikes me, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, leaning over the ironrail at the stair-head, ‘it strikes me, Sam, that imprisonment fordebt is scarcely any punishment at all.’

　　‘Think not, sir?’ inquired Mr. Weller.

　　‘You see how these fellows drink, and smoke, and roar,’ repliedMr. 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 reg’lar holiday to them―all porter and skittles. It’sthe t’other vuns as gets done over vith this sort o’ thing; themdown-hearted fellers as can’t svig avay at the beer, nor play atskittles neither; them as vould pay if they could, and gets low bybeing 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 myfather used to say wen his grog worn’t made half-and-half: “it’sunekal, and that’s the fault on it.”’

　　‘I think you’re right, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, after a fewmoments’ 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 thebrown 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,’ repliedSam.

　　‘But what did he do?’

　　‘Wy, he did wot many men as has been much better know’d hasdone in their time, sir,’ replied Sam, ‘he run a match agin theconstable, and vun it.’

　　‘In other words, I suppose,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘he got into‘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 werestopped up vith the dirt, for both the dirty face and the brown coatwos just the same at the end o’ that time as they wos at thebeginnin’. He wos a wery peaceful, inoffendin’ little creetur, andwos alvays a-bustlin’ about for somebody, or playin’ rackets andnever 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, andtellin’ 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 saysall 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 marketoutside, Bill,” he says, “for seventeen year.” “I know you ain’t,”

　　says the turnkey, smoking his pipe. “I should like to see it for aminit, Bill,” he says. “Wery probable,” says the turnkey, smokinghis pipe wery fierce, and making believe he warn’t up to wot thelittle man wanted. “Bill,” says the little man, more abrupt thanafore, “I’ve got the fancy in my head. Let me see the public streetsonce more afore I die; and if I ain’t struck with apoplexy, I’ll beback in five minits by the clock.” “And wot ’ud become o’ me if youwos struck with apoplexy?” said the turnkey. “Wy,” says the littlecreetur, “whoever found me, ’ud bring me home, for I’ve got mycard in my pocket, Bill,” he says, “No. 20, Coffee-room Flight”: andthat wos true, sure enough, for wen he wanted to make theacquaintance of any new-comer, he used to pull out a little limpcard vith them words on it and nothin’ else; in consideration ofvich, he vos alvays called Number Tventy. The turnkey takes afixed 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 friendinto trouble.” “No, my boy; I hope I’ve somethin’ better behindhere,” says the little man; and as he said it he hit his little vesketwery hard, and then a tear started out o’ each eye, which wos weryextraordinary, 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 beennearly run over by a hackney-coach that he warn’t used to it; andhe was blowed if he wouldn’t write to the lord mayor. They gothim pacified at last; and for five years arter that, he never even somuch 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 andtaste the beer at a new public-house over the way, and it wos sucha wery nice parlour, that he took it into his head to go there everynight, which he did for a long time, always comin’ back reg’larabout a quarter of an hour afore the gate shut, which was all werysnug and comfortable. At last he began to get so precious jolly,that he used to forget how the time vent, or care nothin’ at allabout it, and he went on gettin’ later and later, till vun night hisold friend wos just a-shuttin’ the gate―had turned the key infact―wen he come up. “Hold hard, Bill,” he says. “Wot, ain’t youcome 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’ thegate wery slow and sulky, “it’s my ’pinion as you’ve got into badcompany o’ late, which I’m wery sorry to see. Now, I don’t wish todo nothing harsh,” he says, “but if you can’t confine yourself tosteady circles, and find your vay back at reg’lar hours, as sure asyou’re a-standin’ there, I’ll shut you out altogether!” The little manwas seized vith a wiolent fit o’ tremblin’, and never vent outsidethe prison walls artervards!’

　　As Sam concluded, Mr. Pickwick slowly retraced his stepsdownstairs. After a few thoughtful turns in the Painted Ground,which, as it was now dark, was nearly deserted, he intimated toMr. Weller that he thought it high time for him to withdraw for thenight; requesting him to seek a bed in some adjacent public-house,and return early in the morning, to make arrangements for theremoval of his master’s wardrobe from the George and Vulture.

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