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 down the
fact forthwith. 'And how long do you keep him out at a time?'inquired
Mr.