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‘
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
.
‘
Ah
,
so
am
I
.
Most
people
are
when
they
’
ve
little
to
do
and
less
to
get
.
Poet
,
Sir
?
’
‘
My
friend
Mr
.
Snodgrass
has
a
strong
poetic
turn
,
’
said
Mr
.
Pickwick
.
‘
So
have
I
,
’
said
the
stranger
.
‘
Epic
poem
—
ten
thousand
lines
—
revolution
of
July
—
composed
it
on
the
spot
—
Mars
by
day
,
Apollo
by
night
—
bang
the
field
-
piece
,
twang
the
lyre
.
’
‘
You
were
present
at
that
glorious
scene
,
sir
?
’
said
Mr
.
Snodgrass
.
‘
Present
!
think
I
was
;
1
fired
a
musket
—
fired
with
an
idea
—
rushed
into
wine
shop
—
wrote
it
down
—
back
again
—
whiz
,
bang
—
another
idea
—
wine
shop
again
—
pen
and
ink
—
back
again
—
cut
and
slash
—
noble
time
,
Sir
.
Sportsman
,
sir
?
‘
abruptly
turning
to
Mr
.
Winkle
.
1
A
remarkable
instance
of
the
prophetic
force
of
Mr
.
Jingle
’
s
imagination
;
this
dialogue
occurring
in
the
year
1827
,
and
the
Revolution
in
1830
.
‘
A
little
,
Sir
,
’
replied
that
gentleman
.
