“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 lookout 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.