“What a study for an antiquarian!” were the very words which fell from Mr. Pickwick’s mouth, as he applied his telescope to his eye.

“Ah! fine place,” said the stranger, “glorious pile⁠—frowning walls⁠—tottering arches⁠—dark nooks⁠—crumbling staircases⁠—old cathedral too⁠—earthy smell⁠—pilgrims’ feet wore away the old steps⁠—little Saxon doors⁠—confessionals like money-takers’ boxes at theatres⁠—queer customers those monks⁠—popes, and lord treasurers, and all sorts of old fellows, with great red faces, and broken noses, turning up every day⁠—buff jerkins too⁠—matchlocks⁠—sarcophagus⁠—fine place⁠—old legends too⁠—strange stories: capital”; and the stranger continued to soliloquise until they reached the Bull Inn, in the High Street, where the coach stopped.

“Do you remain here, Sir?” inquired Mr. Nathaniel Winkle.