"Up with you," said the stranger, assisting Mr. Pickwick on to the roof with so much precipitation as to impair the gravity of that gentleman's deportment very materially.
"Any luggage, sir?" inquired the coachman.
"Who—I? Brown paper parcel here, that's all,—other luggage gone by water,—packing cases, nailed up—big as houses—heavy, heavy, damned heavy," replied the stranger, as he forced into his pocket as much as he could of the brown paper parcel, which presented most suspicious indications of containing one shirt and a handkerchief.
"Heads, heads—take care of your heads!" cried the loquacious stranger, as they came out under the low archway, which in those days formed the entrance to the coach-yard. "Terrible place—dangerous work—other day—five children—mother—tall lady, eating sandwiches—forgot the arch—crash—knock children look round—mother's head off sandwich in her hand—no mouth to put it in—head of a family off—shocking, shocking! Looking at Whitehall, sir?—fine—place little—window somebody else's head off there, eh, sir?—he didn't keep a sharp look-out enough either—eh, sir, eh?"
"I am ruminating," said Mr. Pickwick, "on the strange mutability of human affairs."
"Ah! I see—in at the palace door one day, out at the window the next. Philosopher, sir?"
"An observer of human nature, sir," said Mr. Pickwick.
"Ah, so am I. Most people are when they've little to do and less to get. Poet, sir?"
"My friend Mr. Snodgrass has a strong poetic turn," said Mr. Pickwick.
"So have I," said the stranger. "Epic poem,—ten thousand lines—revolution of July—composed it on the spot—Mars by day, Apollo by night,—bang the field-piece, twang the lyre."
"You were present at that glorious scene, sir?" said Mr. Snodgrass.