“I con-sider,” said Mr. Weller, “that the rail is unconstitootional and an inwaser o’ priwileges, and I should wery much like to know what that ’ere old Carter as once stood up for our liberties and wun ’em too—I should like to know wot he vould say if he wos alive now, to Englishmen being locked up with widders, or with anybody, again their wills. Wot a old Carter would have said, a old Coachman may say, and I as-sert that in that pint o’ view alone, the rail is an inwaser. As to the comfort, vere’s the comfort o’ sittin’ in a harm cheer lookin’ at brick walls or heaps o’ mud, never comin’ to a public house, never seein’ a glass o’ ale, never goin’ through a pike, never meetin’ a change o’ no kind (horses or othervise), but alvays comin’ to a place, ven you come to one at all, the wery picter o’ the last, vith the same p’leesemen standing about, the same blessed old bell a ringin’, the same unfort’nate people standing behind the bars, a waitin’ to be let in; and everythin’ the same except the name, vich is wrote up in the same sized letters as the last name and vith the same colors. As to the _h_onour and dignity o’ travelling vere can that be vithout a coachman; and wot’s the rail to sich coachmen and guards as is sometimes forced to go by it, but a outrage and a insult? As to the pace, wot sort o’ pace do you think I, Tony Veller, could have kept a coach goin’ at, for five hundred thousand pound a mile, paid in adwance afore the coach was on the road? And as to the ingein—a nasty wheezin’, creaking, gasping, puffin, bustin’ monster, alvays out o’ breath, vith a shiny green and gold back, like a unpleasant beetle in that ’ere gas magnifier—as to the ingein as is alvays a pourin’ out red hot coals at night, and black smoke in the day, the sensiblest thing it does in my opinion, is, ven there’s somethin’ in the vay and it sets up that ’ere frightful scream vich seems to say, ‘Now here’s two hundred and forty passengers in the wery greatest extremity o’ danger, and here’s their two hundred and forty screams in vun!’” {15} While Mr. Pickwick is listening to Master Humphrey’s story above, the Wellers are entertained by the housekeeper in the kitchen, where they find Mr. Slithers, the barber, to whom Sam Weller, drawing extensively we may suppose upon his lively imagination, relates the following anecdote:— “I never knew,” said Sam, fixing his eyes in a ruminative manner upon the blushing barber, “I never knew but von o’ your trade, but _he_ wos worth a dozen, and wos indeed dewoted to his callin’!” “Was he in the easy shaving way, sir,” inquired Mr. Slithers; “or in the cutting and curling line?”