'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.