"'Bless my soul!' said Mr. Pickwick, as they stood upon the pavement while the coats were being put in. 'Bless my soul! who's to drive? I never thought of that.'
"'Oh! you, of course,' said Mr. Tupman.
"'I!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.
"'Not the slightest fear, sir,' interposed the hostler.
"'He don't shy, does he?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.
"'Shy, sir?—He wouldn't shy if he was to meet a vaggin-load of monkeys with their tails burnt off.'"
The ruined castle and the cathedral are visited, the castle looking more than ever "as if the rooks and daws had picked its eyes out." Before the cathedral, as Mr. Grewgious did before us, we stand for a contemplative five minutes at the great west door of the gray and venerable pile.
"'Dear me,' said Mr. Grewgious, peeping in, 'it's like looking down the throat of Old Time.'
"Old Time heaved a mouldy sigh from tomb and arch and vault; and gloomy shadows began to deepen in corners; and damps began to rise from green patches of stone; and jewels, cast upon the pavement of the nave from stained-glass by the declining sun, began to perish."