Chapter XLI

WHAT BEFELL Mr. PICKWICK WHEN HE GOT

INTO THE FLEET; WHAT PRISONERS HE SAW

THERE, AND HOW HE PASSED THE NIGHT

r. Tom Roker, the gentleman who had accompanied Mr.

Pickwick into the prison, turned sharp round to the

right when he got to the bottom of the little flight of

steps, and led the way, through an iron gate which stood open, and

up another short flight of steps, into a long narrow gallery, dirty

and low, paved with stone, and very dimly lighted by a window at

each remote end.

'This,' said the gentleman, thrusting his hands into his pockets,

and looking carelessly over his shoulder to Mr. Pickwick―'this

here is the hall 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 where the prisoners keep their small quantities of

coals. Unpleasant places to have to go down to; but very

convenient, I dare say.'

'Yes, I shouldn't wonder if they was convenient,' replied the

gentleman, 'seeing that a few people live there, pretty snug. That's

the Fair, that is.'

'My friend,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'you don't really mean to say

that human beings live down in those wretched dungeons?'

'Don't I?' replied Mr. Roker, with indignant astonishment; 'why

shouldn'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 anything

agin 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 in

saying this, and moreover muttered in an excited fashion certain

unpleasant invocations concerning his own eyes, limbs, and

circulating fluids, the latter gentleman deemed it advisable to

pursue the discourse no further. Mr. Roker then proceeded to

mount another staircase, as dirty as that which led to the place

which has just been the subject of discussion, in which ascent he

was closely followed by Mr. Pickwick and Sam.

'There,' said Mr. Roker, pausing for breath when they reached

another gallery of the same dimensions as the one below, 'this is

the coffee-room flight; the one above's the third, and the one above

that's the top; and the room where you're a-going to sleep to-night

is the warden's room, and it's this way―come on.' Having said all

this in a breath, Mr. Roker mounted another flight of stairs with

Mr. Pickwick and Sam Weller following at his heels.

These staircases received light from sundry windows placed at

some little distance above the floor, and looking into a gravelled

area bounded by a high brick wall, with iron chevaux-de-frise at

the top. This area, it appeared from Mr. Roker's statement, was

the racket-ground; and it further appeared, on the testimony of

the same gentleman, that there was a smaller area in that portion

of the prison which was nearest Farringdon Street, denominated

and called 'the Painted Ground,' from the fact of its walls having

once displayed the semblance of various men-of-war in full sail,

and other artistical effects achieved in bygone times by some

imprisoned draughtsman in his leisure hours.

Having communicated this piece of information, apparently

more for the purpose of discharging his bosom of an important

fact, than with any specific view of enlightening Mr. Pickwick, the

guide, having at length reached another gallery, led the way into a

small passage at the extreme end, opened a door, and disclosed an

apartment of an appearance by no means inviting, containing

eight or nine iron bedsteads.

'There,' said Mr. Roker, holding the door open, and looking

triumphantly round at Mr. Pickwick, 'there's a room!'

Mr. Pickwick's face, however, betokened such a very trifling

portion of satisfaction at the appearance of his lodging, that Mr.

Roker looked, for 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

Farringdon Hotel, would you?' said Mr. Roker, with a complacent

smile.

To this Mr. Weller replied with an easy and unstudied closing of

one eye; which might be considered to mean, either that he would

have thought it, or that he would not have thought it, or that he

had never thought anything at all about it, as the observer's

imagination suggested. Having executed this feat, and reopened

his eye, Mr. Weller proceeded to inquire which was the individual

bedstead 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 a

corner. '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

question with a look of excessive disgust―'I should think poppies

was nothing to it.'

'Nothing at all,' said Mr. Roker.

'And I s'pose,' said Sam, with a sidelong glance at his master, as

if to see whether there were any symptoms of his determination

being shaken by what passed, 'I s'pose the other gen'l'men as

sleeps here are gen'l'men.'

'Nothing but it,' said Mr. Roker. 'One of 'em takes his twelve

pints 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. Pickwick

smilingly announced his determination to test the powers of the

narcotic bedstead for that night; and Mr. Roker, after informing

him that he could retire to rest at whatever hour he thought

proper, without any further notice or formality, walked off, leaving

him standing with Sam in the gallery.

It was getting dark; that is to say, a few gas jets were kindled in

this 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 tenants of the numerous little rooms which opened into the

gallery on either hand, had set their doors ajar. Mr. Pickwick

peeped into them as he passed along, with great curiosity and

interest. Here, four or five great hulking fellows, just visible

through a cloud of tobacco smoke, were engaged in noisy and

riotous conversation over half-emptied pots of beer, or playing at

all-fours with a very greasy pack of cards. In the adjoining room,

some solitarytenant might be seen poring, by the light of a feeble

tallow candle, over a bundle of soiled and tattered papers, 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, or

whose heart it would never touch. In a third, a man, with his wife

and a whole crowd of children, might be seen making up a scanty

bed on the ground, or upon a few chairs, for the younger ones to

pass the night in. And in a fourth, and a fifth, and a sixth, and a

seventh, the noise, and the beer, and the tobacco smoke, and the

cards, 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, 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, jail-bird, 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

down-hearted 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

'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 new-comer, 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 good-fellowship 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, and walked slowly to and fro. The place was intolerably

dirty, and the smell of tobacco smoke perfectly suffocating. There

was a perpetual slamming and banging of doors as the people

went in and out; and the noise of their voices and footsteps echoed

and re-echoed through the passages constantly. A young woman,

with a child in her arms, who seemed scarcely able to crawl, from

emaciation and misery, was walking up and down the passage in

conversation with her husband, who had no other place to see her

in. As they passed Mr. Pickwick, he could hear the female sob