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 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 with 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 lights and music do the stage. Strip the one of its 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.
"To be before the footlights," continued the dismal man, "is like sitting at a grand court show, and admiring the silken dresses of the gaudy throng—to be behind them, is to be the people who make that finery, uncared for and unknown, and left to sink or swim, to starve or live, as fortune wills it."
"Certainly," said Mr. Snodgrass: for the sunken eye of the dismal man rested on him, and he felt it necessary to say something.
"Go on, Jemmy," said the Spanish traveller, "like black-eyed Susan—all in the Downs—no croaking—speak out—look lively."
"Will you make another glass before you begin, Sir?" said Mr. Pickwick.
The dismal man took the hint, and having mixed a glass of brandy and water, and slowly swallowed half of it, opened the roll of paper and proceeded, partly to read and partly to relate, the following incident, which we find recorded on the Transactions of the club, as "The Stroller's Tale."
