Mr Headstone was much surprised by the remarkable coincidence of his encountering Mr Snodgrass in such a remote place at such a time of night and so far from their favoured stamping ground of the bar at The Saracen's Head, but he refrained from any comment on the matter until the two acquaintances had descended the hill and regained the town. They were somewhat hampered in this progress by the absence of the moon, which had gone behind the clouds and gave no indication of making another appearance, and, furthermore, by the profusion of brambles that provided the natural decoration along the borders of the path they had chosen. Mr Snodgrass offered to lead the way and to hold back the thicker stalks in order to allow Mr Headstone to pass unimpeded, and this arrangement met with the latter gentleman's grateful concurrence. It was unfortunate, however, that Mr Snodgrass had not only the mind of a poet, but also the strength of one; the consequence of which being that Mr Headstone was inclined to receive a greater number of blows about the face from thorny branches that he would have comfortably liked.
Nevertheless, with a display of the same steadfast determination that Bunyan's pilgrim had shown in the face of adversity, the two travellers finally reached the 'shining light' of The Three Mariners, where they were welcomed with a reviving pint of porter apiece. Comfortably settled on a wooden bench before a roaring log fire, Mr Headstone was eager to learn what had brought Mr Snodgrass to that part of the world, and, in particular, what had prompted him to essay an excursion to the old Roman fort on such an inhospitable night. To these questions, delivered in a fervour of excitement that reflected the pedagogue's growing sense of amazement at the coincidence of their meeting, Mr Snodgrass replied with complete equanimity. He was, as the world knew, a man of letters, or, not to put too fine a point upon it, a poet; and what did a poet seek above all other things?
Whether the pause that followed this question was there to create a convenient occasion for a response or to allow Mr Snodgrass an opportunity to partake of a generous draught of beer, Mr Headstone could not be certain and refrained from making any precipitous comment. Having drained his glass of its contents, his companion wiped the foam from his upper lip with his coat sleeve and raised his eyebrows to such an extremity that it seemed as if they were in very real danger of joining the hair on his head. The pedagogue, supposing the expression was intended to invite an opinion on the subject, and, having ruminated upon an answer in the intervening period, ventured to suggest that the ultimate goal of any writer was none other than the achievement of that condition known as publication. At this Mr Snodgrass slammed his glass onto the table with a loud report, an action that conveniently served the twin purposes of expressing the warmth of his feeling and attracting the attention of the waiter.
Publication might very well provide the crusts that fed the writer's body, but it was inspiration that provided sustenance for his soul. Pleased with the epigrammatic nature of his opinion but fearing that the influence of the porter might cause him to forget it, Mr Snodgrass took out his pocket book and recorded it therein for posterity. He then went on to describe how the search for inspiration had brought him to this very spot. He had travelled to the town in which they now found themselves with the express purpose of viewing the celebrated Roman fort under the benign influence of the light of a full moon. It had been his intention to compose an ode to that ancient monument for the benefit of his fellow man, but he had been thwarted in his plan by the adverse meteorological conditions. It was, in fact, this very sense of frustration that had drawn from his lips the cry that Mr Headstone had heard, and which had unfortunately so alarmed that gentleman's companion, to say nothing of his dog.
This explanation notwithstanding, Mr Headstone could not help but continue to marvel at the confluence of events that had brought the two of them together, and was inclined to speculate that perhaps some higher power was instrumental in the arrangement of their affairs. To this fanciful suggestion, Mr Snodgrass replied that as coincidences went, this particular example was rather mild (like the second pint of porter on which he was supping), and that whenever he went travelling around the country with his fellow Pickwickians, they were almost certain to meet friends and acquaintances even in the remotest of locations.
Under the influence of the warmth of the fire and the malt of the porter, Mr Snodgrass quickly warmed to this theme, and had a great many wise and philosophical pronouncements to make on the subject. What these were we are unfortunately unable to record as Mr Headstone, being the only individual within auricular distance of the poet, and operating under the same twin agencies of heat and fermentation, had fallen into a profound sleep.
Mr Charles Dickens
