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 places tohave 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, thatis.'

'My friend,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'you don't really mean to say that humanbeings 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 anything agin it? Live downthere! 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, andmoreover muttered in an excited fashion certain unpleasant invocationsconcerning his own eyes, limbs, and circulating fluids, the lattergentleman deemed it advisable to pursue the discourse no further. Mr.Roker then proceeded to mount another staircase, as dirty as that whichled to the place which has just been the subject of discussion, in whichascent he was 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 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. Pickwick andSam 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 PaintedGround,' from the fact of its walls having once displayed the semblanceof various men-of-war in full sail, and other artistical effectsachieved in bygone times by some imprisoned draughtsman in his leisurehours.

Having communicated this piece of information, apparently more for thepurpose of discharging his bosom of an important fact, than with anyspecific view of enlightening Mr. Pickwick, the guide, having at lengthreached another gallery, led the way into a small passage at the extremeend, opened a door, and disclosed an apartment of an appearance by nomeans 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 looked,for a reciprocity of feeling, into the countenance of Samuel Weller,who, until now, had observed a dignified silence. 'There's a room, youngman,' 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 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 reopened 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, whetherthey 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 nothing toit.'

'Nothing at all,' said Mr. Roker.

'And I s'pose,' said Sam, with a sidelong glance at his master, as if tosee whether there were any symptoms of his determination being shakenby what passed, 'I s'pose the other gen'l'men as sleeps here AREgen'l'men.'

'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.

'A1,' replied Mr. Roker.

Nothing daunted, even by this intelligence, Mr. Pickwick smilinglyannounced his determination to test the powers of the narcotic bedsteadfor that night; and Mr. Roker, after informing him that he could retireto rest at whatever hour he thought proper, without any further noticeor 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 thisplace which was never light, by way of compliment to the evening, whichhad set in outside. As it was rather warm, some of the tenants of thenumerous little rooms which opened into the gallery on either hand, hadset their doors ajar. Mr. Pickwick peeped into them as he passed along,with great curiosity and interest. Here, four or five great hulkingfellows, just visible through a cloud of tobacco smoke, were engagedin noisy and riotous conversation over half-emptied pots of beer, orplaying at all-fours with a very greasy pack of cards. In the adjoiningroom, some solitary tenant might be seen poring, by the light of afeeble tallow candle, over a bundle of soiled and tattered papers,yellow with dust and dropping to pieces from age, writing, for thehundredth time, some lengthened statement of his grievances, for theperusal of some great man whose eyes it would never reach, or whoseheart it would never touch. In a third, a man, with his wife and a wholecrowd 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 ina fourth, and a fifth, and a sixth, and a seventh, the noise, and thebeer, and the tobacco smoke, and the cards, all came over again ingreater 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 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 spendthrift inhis shawl dressing-gown, most appropriately out at elbows; but therewas the same air about them all--a kind of 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 debtors' 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't mindit; 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 by beingboxed up. I'll tell you wot it is, sir; them as is always a-idlin' inpublic-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 tosay wen his grog worn't made half-and-half: "it's unekal, and that's thefault 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,' observedMr. Weller, in a ruminative tone, 'but I never heerd o' one as I cancall to mind, 'cept the little dirty-faced man in the brown coat; andthat 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 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 here inconsekens. It warn't much--execution for nine pound nothin', multipliedby five for costs; but hows'ever here he stopped for seventeen year. Ifhe got any wrinkles in his face, they were stopped up vith the dirt, forboth the dirty face and the brown coat wos just the same at the endo' that time as they wos at the beginnin'. He wos a wery peaceful,inoffendin' little creetur, and wos alvays a-bustlin' about forsomebody, or playin' rackets and never vinnin'; till at last theturnkeys 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 seen themarket outside, Bill," he says (Fleet Market wos there at that time)--"Iain't seen the market outside, Bill," he says, "for seventeen year." "Iknow you ain't," says the turnkey, smoking his pipe. "I should like tosee 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 thelittle 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 moreafore I die; and if I ain't struck with apoplexy, I'll be back in fiveminits by the clock." "And wot 'ud become o' me if you WOS struck withapoplexy?" said the turnkey. "Wy," says the little creetur, "whoeverfound 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 topull out a little limp card vith them words on it and nothin' else; inconsideration of vich, he vos alvays called Number Tventy. The turnkeytakes 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 intotrouble." "No, my boy; I hope I've somethin' better behind here," saysthe 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 theturnkey 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, 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 was blowedif 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 tastethe beer at a new public-house over the way, and it wos such a wery niceparlour, that he took it into his head to go there every night, whichhe did for a long time, always comin' back reg'lar about a quarter ofan hour afore the gate shut, which was all wery snug and comfortable. Atlast he began to get so precious jolly, that he used to forget how thetime 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' thegate--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, "Ithought 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," 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 downstairs.After a few thoughtful turns in the Painted Ground, which, as it was nowdark, was nearly deserted, he intimated to Mr. Weller that he thoughtit high time for him to withdraw for the night; requesting him to seeka bed in some adjacent public-house, and return early in the morning,to make arrangements for the removal of his master's wardrobe from theGeorge and Vulture. This request Mr. Samuel Weller prepared to obey,with as good a grace as he could assume, but with a very considerableshow of reluctance nevertheless. He even went so far as to essay sundryineffectual hints regarding the expediency of stretching himself on thegravel for that night; but finding Mr. Pickwick obstinately deaf to anysuch 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 spirits 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 & Fogg, it never for an instantentered his thoughts.

In this frame of mind he turned again into the coffee-room gallery, andwalked slowly to and fro. The place was intolerably dirty, and the smellof tobacco smoke perfectly suffocating. There was a perpetual slammingand banging of doors as the people went in and out; and the noise oftheir voices and footsteps echoed and re-echoed through the passagesconstantly. A young woman, with a child in her arms, who seemed scarcelyable to crawl, from emaciation and misery, was walking up and down thepassage in conversation with her husband, who had no other place tosee her in. As they passed Mr. Pickwick, he could hear the female sobbitterly; and once she burst into such a passion of grief, that she wascompelled to lean against the wall for support, while the man took thechild in his arms, and tried to soothe her.

Mr. Pickwick's heart was really too full to bear it, and he wentupstairs to bed.

Now, although the warder'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 jail), 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 warder made out of the dirty room. Having satisfiedhimself, by mathematical calculation, that the apartment was about equalin annual value to the freehold of a small street in the suburbs ofLondon, he took to wondering what possible temptation could have induceda dingy-looking fly that was crawling over his pantaloons, to come intoa close prison, when he had the choice of so many airy situations--acourse of meditation which led him to the irresistible conclusionthat the insect was insane. After settling this point, he began to beconscious that he was getting sleepy; whereupon he took his nightcapout of the pocket in which he had had the precaution to stow it inthe morning, and, leisurely undressing himself, got into bed and fellasleep.

'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 one ofthose sound slumbers which, lasting in reality some half-hour, seem tothe 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 gray cotton stockings, was performing the mostpopular steps of a hornpipe, with a slang and burlesque caricature ofgrace and lightness, which, combined with the very appropriate characterof his costume, was inexpressibly absurd. Another man, evidently verydrunk, who had probably been tumbled into bed by his companions, wassitting up between the sheets, warbling as much as he could recollectof a comic song, with the most intensely sentimental feeling andexpression; while a third, seated on one of the bedsteads, wasapplauding both performers with the air of a profound connoisseur, andencouraging them by such ebullitions of feeling as had already rousedMr. Pickwick from his sleep.

This last man was an admirable specimen of a class of gentry which nevercan be seen in full perfection but in such places--they may be metwith, 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 verythick bushy whiskers meeting under his chin. He wore no neckerchief, ashe had been playing rackets all day, and his Open shirt collardisplayed their full luxuriance. On his head he wore one of the commoneighteenpenny French skull-caps, with a gaudy tassel dangling therefrom,very happily in keeping with a common fustian coat. His legs,which, being long, were afflicted with weakness, graced a pair ofOxford-mixture trousers, made to show the full symmetry of thoselimbs. Being somewhat negligently braced, however, and, moreover, butimperfectly buttoned, they fell in a series of not the most gracefulfolds over a pair of shoes sufficiently down at heel to display a pairof very soiled white stockings. There was a rakish, vagabond smartness,and a kind of boastful rascality, about the whole man, that was worth amine 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 honestheart and soul!' said the Zephyr, turning round and affecting theextremity of surprise; 'the gentleman is awake. Hem, Shakespeare! How doyou do, Sir? How is Mary and Sarah, sir? and the dear old lady at home,Sir? Will you have the kindness to put my compliments into the firstlittle parcel you're sending that way, sir, and say that I would havesent 'em before, only I was afraid they might be broken in the wagon,sir?'

'Don't overwhelm the gentlemen 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 what he'lltake?'

'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 recommend theale, sir; or perhaps you'd like to taste the porter, sir? Allow me tohave 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 drunken man,who, firmly impressed with the belief that he was delighting a numerousassembly, continued to hammer away at the comic song in the mostmelancholy 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 so smarta blow in the chest as to deprive him of a considerable portion of thecommodity which sometimes bears his name, and then, recapturing hisnightcap, boldly placed himself in an attitude of defence.

'Now,' said Mr. Pickwick, gasping no less from excitement than from theexpenditure of so much energy, 'come on--both of you--both of you!' Withthis liberal invitation the worthy gentleman communicated a revolvingmotion to his clenched fists, by way of appalling his antagonists with adisplay of science.

It might have been Mr. Pickwick's very unexpected gallantry, or it mighthave been the complicated manner in which he had got himself out ofbed, and fallen all in a mass upon the hornpipe man, that touched hisadversaries. Touched they were; for, instead of then and there makingan attempt to commit man-slaughter, as Mr. Pickwick implicitly believedthey would have done, they paused, stared at each other a short 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, presentinghis dexter hand, and aspirating the h.

'With much pleasure, sir,' said Mr. Pickwick; and having executed a verylong 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.

All this was very genteel and pleasant; and, to make matters still morecomfortable, Mr. Smangle assured Mr. Pickwick a great many more timesthat he 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. 'Throughthe what?' said Mr. Pickwick.

'Through the court--Portugal Street--the Court for Relief of--You know.'

'Oh, no,' replied Mr. Pickwick. 'No, I am not.'

'Going out, perhaps?' suggested Mr. 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. No trade.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? Heream I in the Fleet Prison. Well; good. What then? I'm none the worse forthat, 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 attainedgratuitous 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 rinseour mouths with a drop of burnt sherry; the last-comer shall stand it,Mivins shall 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 the moneyto 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 the jugby accident, or make some confounded mistake in losing the money as hecame upstairs, it would be as well. Here, you sir, just run downstairs,and look after that gentleman, will you?'

This request was addressed to a little timid-looking, nervous man, whoseappearance bespoke great poverty, and who had been crouching on hisbedstead 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 would havehad no wish to disturb it, even if he had had the power. In a short timeMr. Mivins returned, bearing the sherry, which Mr. Smangle dispensedin two little cracked mugs; considerately remarking, with referenceto himself, that a gentleman must not be particular under suchcircumstances, and that, for his part, he was not too proud to drink outof the jug. In which, to show his sincerity, he forthwith pledged thecompany 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 thoroughbred 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 might havebeen by the moving passages narrated. Mr. Pickwick had been in a stateof slumber for some time, when he had a faint perception of the drunkenman bursting out afresh with the comic song, and receiving from Mr.Smangle a gentle intimation, through the medium of the water-jug, thathis audience was not musically disposed. Mr. Pickwick then once againdropped off to sleep, with a confused consciousness that Mr. Smanglewas still engaged in relating a long story, the chief point of whichappeared to be that, on some occasion particularly stated and set forth,he had 'done' a bill and a gentleman at the same time.