Chapter II

The First Day's Journey, And The First Evening's Adventures;

With Their Consequences

That punctual servant of all work, the sun, had just risen, and begun

to strike a light on the morning of the thirteenth of May, one thousand

eight hundred and twenty-seven, when Mr Samuel Pickwick burst like

another sun from his slumbers, threw open his chamber window, and

looked out upon the world beneath. Goswell Street was at his feet,

Goswell Street was on his right hand - as far as the eye could reach,

Goswell Street extended on his left; and the opposite side of Goswell

Street was over the way. 'Such,' thought Mr Pickwick, 'are the narrow

views of those philosophers who, content with examining the things

that lie before them, look not to the truths which are hidden beyond.

As well might I be content to gaze on Goswell Street for ever, without

one effort to penetrate to the hidden countries which on every side

surround it.' And having given vent to this beautiful reflection, Mr

Pickwick proceeded to put himself into his clothes, and his clothes

into his portmanteau. Great men are seldom over scrupulous in the

arrangement of their attire; the operation of shaving, dressing, and

coffee-imbibing was soon performed; and, in another hour, Mr

Pickwick, with his portmanteau in his hand, his telescope in his

greatcoat pocket, and his note-book in his waistcoat, ready for the

reception of any discoveries worthy of being noted down, had arrived

at the coach-stand in St. Martin's-le-Grand. 'Cab!' said Mr Pickwick.

Here you are, sir,' shouted a strange specimen of the human race, in

a sackcloth coat, and apron of the same, who, with a brass label and

number round his neck, looked as if he were catalogued in some

collection of rarities. This was the waterman. 'Here you are, sir. Now,

then, fust cab!' And the first cab having been fetched from the public-

house, where he had been smoking his first pipe, Mr Pickwick and his

portmanteau were thrown into the vehicle.

Golden Cross,' said Mr Pickwick.

Only a bob's vorth, Tommy,' cried the driver sulkily, for the

information of his friend the waterman, as the cab drove off.

How old is that horse, my friend?' inquired Mr Pickwick, rubbing his

nose with the shilling he had reserved for the fare.

Forty-two,' replied the driver, eyeing him askant.

What!' ejaculated Mr Pickwick, laying his hand upon his note-book.

The driver reiterated his former statement. Mr Pickwick looked very

hard at the man's face, but his features were immovable, so he noted

The Pickwick Papers