'I have always considered it a great point in my uncle'scharacter, gentlemen, that he was the intimate friend andcompanion of Tom Smart, of the great house of Bilson and Slum,Cateaton Street, City. My uncle collected for Tiggin and Welps,but for a long time he went pretty near the same journey as Tom;and the very first night they met, my uncle took a fancy for Tom,and Tom took a fancy for my uncle. They made a bet of a newhat before they had known each other half an hour, who shouldbrew the best quart of punch and drink it the quickest. My unclewas judged to have won the making, but Tom Smart beat him inthe drinking by about half a salt-spoonful. They took anotherquart apiece to drink each other's health in, and were staunchfriends ever afterwards. There's a destiny in these things, gentlemen;we can't help it.

'In personal appearance, my uncle was a trifle shorter than themiddle size; he was a thought stouter too, than the ordinary runof people, and perhaps his face might be a shade redder. He hadthe jolliest face you ever saw, gentleman: something like Punch,with a handsome nose and chin; his eyes were always twinklingand sparkling with good-humour; and a smile--not one of yourunmeaning wooden grins, but a real, merry, hearty, good-tempered smile--was perpetually on his countenance. He waspitched out of his gig once, and knocked, head first, against amilestone. There he lay, stunned, and so cut about the face withsome gravel which had been heaped up alongside it, that, to usemy uncle's own strong expression, if his mother could haverevisited the earth, she wouldn't have known him. Indeed, whenI come to think of the matter, gentlemen, I feel pretty sure shewouldn't. for she died when my uncle was two years and sevenmonths old, and I think it's very likely that, even without thegravel, his top-boots would have puzzled the good lady not alittle; to say nothing of his jolly red face. However, there he lay,and I have heard my uncle say, many a time, that the man saidwho picked him up that he was smiling as merrily as if he hadtumbled out for a treat, and that after they had bled him, thefirst faint glimmerings of returning animation, were his jumpingup in bed, bursting out into a loud laugh, kissing the youngwoman who held the basin, and demanding a mutton chop anda pickled walnut. He was very fond of pickled walnuts, gentlemen.He said he always found that, taken without vinegar, theyrelished the beer.

'My uncle's great journey was in the fall of the leaf, at whichtime he collected debts, and took orders, in the north; goingfrom London to Edinburgh, from Edinburgh to Glasgow, fromGlasgow back to Edinburgh, and thence to London by thesmack. You are to understand that his second visit to Edinburghwas for his own pleasure. He used to go back for a week, just tolook up his old friends; and what with breakfasting with this one,lunching with that, dining with the third, and supping withanother, a pretty tight week he used to make of it. I don't knowwhether any of you, gentlemen, ever partook of a real substantialhospitable Scotch breakfast, and then went out to a slight lunchof a bushel of oysters, a dozen or so of bottled ale, and a nogginor two of whiskey to close up with. If you ever did, you willagree with me that it requires a pretty strong head to go out todinner and supper afterwards.

'But bless your hearts and eyebrows, all this sort of thing wasnothing to my uncle! He was so well seasoned, that it was merechild's play. I have heard him say that he could see the Dundeepeople out, any day, and walk home afterwards without staggering;and yet the Dundee people have as strong heads and asstrong punch, gentlemen, as you are likely to meet with, betweenthe poles. I have heard of a Glasgow man and a Dundee mandrinking against each other for fifteen hours at a sitting. Theywere both suffocated, as nearly as could be ascertained, at thesame moment, but with this trifling exception, gentlemen, theywere not a bit the worse for it.

'One night, within four-and-twenty hours of the time when hehad settled to take shipping for London, my uncle supped at thehouse of a very old friend of his, a Bailie Mac something andfour syllables after it, who lived in the old town of Edinburgh.There were the bailie's wife, and the bailie's three daughters, andthe bailie's grown-up son, and three or four stout, bushy eye-browed, canny, old Scotch fellows, that the bailie had gottogether to do honour to my uncle, and help to make merry. Itwas a glorious supper. There was kippered salmon, and Finnanhaddocks, and a lamb's head, and a haggis--a celebrated Scotchdish, gentlemen, which my uncle used to say always looked tohim, when it came to table, very much like a Cupid's stomach--and a great many other things besides, that I forget the namesof, but very good things, notwithstanding. The lassies werepretty and agreeable; the bailie's wife was one of the bestcreatures that ever lived; and my uncle was in thoroughly goodcue. The consequence of which was, that the young ladiestittered and giggled, and the old lady laughed out loud, and thebailie and the other old fellows roared till they were red in theface, the whole mortal time. I don't quite recollect how manytumblers of whiskey-toddy each man drank after supper; but thisI know, that about one o'clock in the morning, the bailie'sgrown-up son became insensible while attempting the first verseof "Willie brewed a peck o' maut"; and he having been, for halfan hour before, the only other man visible above the mahogany,it occurred to my uncle that it was almost time to think aboutgoing, especially as drinking had set in at seven o'clock, in orderthat he might get home at a decent hour. But, thinking it mightnot be quite polite to go just then, my uncle voted himself intothe chair, mixed another glass, rose to propose his own health,addressed himself in a neat and complimentary speech, and drankthe toast with great enthusiasm. Still nobody woke; so my uncletook a little drop more--neat this time, to prevent the toddy fromdisagreeing with him--and, laying violent hands on his hat,sallied forth into the street.

'it was a wild, gusty night when my uncle closed the bailie'sdoor, and settling his hat firmly on his head to prevent the windfrom taking it, thrust his hands into his pockets, and lookingupward, took a short survey of the state of the weather. Theclouds were drifting over the moon at their giddiest speed; at onetime wholly obscuring her; at another, suffering her to burstforth in full splendour and shed her light on all the objectsaround; anon, driving over her again, with increased velocity,and shrouding everything in darkness. "Really, this won't do,"said my uncle, addressing himself to the weather, as if he felthimself personally offended. "This is not at all the kind of thingfor my voyage. It will not do at any price," said my uncle, veryimpressively. Having repeated this, several times, he recoveredhis balance with some difficulty--for he was rather giddy withlooking up into the sky so long--and walked merrily on.

'The bailie's house was in the Canongate, and my uncle wasgoing to the other end of Leith Walk, rather better than a mile'sjourney. On either side of him, there shot up against the dark sky,tall, gaunt, straggling houses, with time-stained fronts, andwindows that seemed to have shared the lot of eyes in mortals,and to have grown dim and sunken with age. Six, seven, eightStorey high, were the houses; storey piled upon storey, aschildren build with cards--throwing their dark shadows overthe roughly paved road, and making the dark night darker. Afew oil lamps were scattered at long distances, but they onlyserved to mark the dirty entrance to some narrow close, or toshow where a common stair communicated, by steep and intricatewindings, with the various flats above. Glancing at all thesethings with the air of a man who had seen them too often before,to think them worthy of much notice now, my uncle walked upthe middle of the street, with a thumb in each waistcoat pocket,indulging from time to time in various snatches of song, chantedforth with such good-will and spirit, that the quiet honest folkstarted from their first sleep and lay trembling in bed till thesound died away in the distance; when, satisfying themselves thatit was only some drunken ne'er-do-weel finding his way home,they covered themselves up warm and fell asleep again.

'I am particular in describing how my uncle walked up themiddle of the street, with his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets,gentlemen, because, as he often used to say (and with greatreason too) there is nothing at all extraordinary in this story,unless you distinctly understand at the beginning, that he was notby any means of a marvellous or romantic turn.

'Gentlemen, my uncle walked on with his thumbs in hiswaistcoat pockets, taking the middle of the street to himself, andsinging, now a verse of a love song, and then a verse of a drinkingone, and when he was tired of both, whistling melodiously, untilhe reached the North Bridge, which, at this point, connects theold and new towns of Edinburgh. Here he stopped for a minute,to look at the strange, irregular clusters of lights piled one abovethe other, and twinkling afar off so high, that they looked likestars, gleaming from the castle walls on the one side and theCalton Hill on the other, as if they illuminated veritable castles inthe air; while the old picturesque town slept heavily on, in gloomand darkness below: its palace and chapel of Holyrood, guardedday and night, as a friend of my uncle's used to say, by oldArthur's Seat, towering, surly and dark, like some gruff genius,over the ancient city he has watched so long. I say, gentlemen,my uncle stopped here, for a minute, to look about him; andthen, paying a compliment to the weather, which had a littlecleared up, though the moon was sinking, walked on again, asroyally as before; keeping the middle of the road with greatdignity, and looking as if he would very much like to meet withsomebody who would dispute possession of it with him. Therewas nobody at all disposed to contest the point, as it happened;and so, on he went, with his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, likea lamb.

'When my uncle reached the end of Leith Walk, he had tocross a pretty large piece of waste ground which separated himfrom a short street which he had to turn down to go direct to hislodging. Now, in this piece of waste ground, there was, at thattime, an enclosure belonging to some wheelwright who contractedwith the Post Office for the purchase of old, worn-out mailcoaches; and my uncle, being very fond of coaches, old, young,or middle-aged, all at once took it into his head to step out of hisroad for no other purpose than to peep between the palings atthese mails--about a dozen of which he remembered to have seen,crowded together in a very forlorn and dismantled state, inside.My uncle was a very enthusiastic, emphatic sort of person,gentlemen; so, finding that he could not obtain a good peepbetween the palings he got over them, and sitting himself quietlydown on an old axle-tree, began to contemplate the mail coacheswith a deal of gravity.

'There might be a dozen of them, or there might be more--my uncle was never quite certain on this point, and being a manof very scrupulous veracity about numbers, didn't like to say--but there they stood, all huddled together in the most desolatecondition imaginable. The doors had been torn from their hingesand removed; the linings had been stripped off, only a shredhanging here and there by a rusty nail; the lamps were gone, thepoles had long since vanished, the ironwork was rusty, the paintwas worn away; the wind whistled through the chinks in the barewoodwork; and the rain, which had collected on the roofs, fell,drop by drop, into the insides with a hollow and melancholysound. They were the decaying skeletons of departed mails, and inthat lonely place, at that time of night, they looked chill and dismal.

'My uncle rested his head upon his hands, and thought of thebusy, bustling people who had rattled about, years before, in theold coaches, and were now as silent and changed; he thought ofthe numbers of people to whom one of these crazy, moulderingvehicles had borne, night after night, for many years, and throughall weathers, the anxiously expected intelligence, the eagerlylooked-for remittance, the promised assurance of health andsafety, the sudden announcement of sickness and death. Themerchant, the lover, the wife, the widow, the mother, the school-boy, the very child who tottered to the door at the postman'sknock--how had they all looked forward to the arrival of the oldcoach. And where were they all now?'Gentlemen, my uncle used to SAY that he thought all this at thetime, but I rather suspect he learned it out of some book afterwards,for he distinctly stated that he fell into a kind of doze, as hesat on the old axle-tree looking at the decayed mail coaches, andthat he was suddenly awakened by some deep church bellstriking two. Now, my uncle was never a fast thinker, and if hehad thought all these things, I am quite certain it would havetaken him till full half-past two o'clock at the very least. I am,therefore, decidedly of opinion, gentlemen, that my uncle fellinto a kind of doze, without having thought about anything at all.

'Be this as it may, a church bell struck two. My uncle woke,rubbed his eyes, and jumped up in astonishment.

'In one instant, after the clock struck two, the whole of thisdeserted and quiet spot had become a scene of most extraordinarylife and animation. The mail coach doors were on theirhinges, the lining was replaced, the ironwork was as good asnew, the paint was restored, the lamps were alight; cushions andgreatcoats were on every coach-box, porters were thrustingparcels into every boot, guards were stowing away letter-bags,hostlers were dashing pails of water against the renovated wheels;numbers of men were pushing about, fixing poles into everycoach; passengers arrived, portmanteaus were handed up,horses were put to; in short, it was perfectly clear that every mailthere, was to be off directly. Gentlemen, my uncle opened hiseyes so wide at all this, that, to the very last moment of his life,he used to wonder how it fell out that he had ever been able toshut 'em again.

Title: The Pickwick Papers
Author: Charles Dickens
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