Pickwick had felt some apprehensions in consequence of the unusual absence of his two friends, which their mysterious behaviour during the whole morning had by no means tended to diminish. It was, therefore, with more than ordinary pleasure that he rose to greet them when they again entered; and with more than ordinary interest that he inquired what had occurred to detain them from his society. In reply to his questions on this point, Mr. Snodgrass was about to offer an historical account of the circumstances just now detailed, when he was suddenly checked by observing that there were present, not only Mr. Tupman and their stage-coach companion of the preceding day, but another stranger of equally singular appearance. It was a careworn-looking man, whose sallow face, and deeply-sunken eyes, were rendered still more striking than Nature had made them, by the straight black hair which hung in matted disorder half-way down his face. His eyes were almost unnaturally bright and piercing; his cheek-bones were high and prominent; and his jaws were so long and lank, that an observer would have supposed that he was drawing the flesh of his face in, for a moment, by some contraction of the muscles, if his half-opened mouth and immovable expression had not announced that it was his ordinary appearance. Round his neck he wore a green shawl, with the large ends straggling over his chest, and making their appearance occasionally beneath the worn button-holes of his old waistcoat. His upper garment was a long black surtout; and below it he wore wide drab trousers, and large boots, running rapidly to seed.
It was on this uncouth-looking person that Mr. Winkle′s eye rested, and it was towards him that Mr. Pickwick extended his hand when he said, ′A friend of our friend′s here. We discovered this morning that our friend was connected with the theatre in this place, though he is not desirous to have it generally known, and this gentleman is a member of the same profession. He was about to favour us with a little anecdote connected with it, when you entered.′
′Lots of anecdote,′ said the green-coated stranger of the day before, advancing to Mr. Winkle and speaking in a low and confidential tone. ′Rum fellow—does the heavy business—no actor—strange man—all sorts of miseries—Dismal Jemmy, we call him on the circuit.′ Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass politely welcomed the gentleman, elegantly designated as ′Dismal Jemmy′; and calling for brandy-and-water, in imitation of the remainder of the company, seated themselves at the table. ′Now sir,′ said Mr. Pickwick, ′will you oblige us by proceeding with what you were going to relate?′
The dismal individual took a dirty roll of paper from his pocket, and turning to Mr. Snodgrass, who had just taken out his note-book, said in a hollow voice, perfectly in keeping with his outward man—′Are you the poet?′
′I—I do a little in that way,′ replied Mr. Snodgrass, rather taken aback by the abruptness of the question. ′Ah! poetry makes life what light and music do the stage— strip the one of the false embellishments, and the other of its illusions, and what is there real in either to live or care for?′
′Very true, Sir,′ replied Mr. Snodgrass.
© e-libr.com
feedback