That punctual servant which gives a light for everyone to work by, the sun, had just risen. It began to shine its light on the morning of the thirteenth of May, 1827, when Mr Samuel Pickwick burst like another sun from his slumbers, threw open his bedroom window, and looked out upon the world beneath.

Goswell Street was before him, Goswell Street was on his right hand - as far as the eye could see, Goswell Street extended on his left; and the opposite side of Goswell Street was over the road. 'This,' thought Mr Pickwick, 'is just like the narrow views of some philosophers. They are happy to examine things that are in front of them, and don't look for the truths hidden beyond. It is as if I was content to look at Goswell Street for ever, without one effort to penetrate to the hidden lands surrounding it on every side.'

And after this beautiful reflection, Mr Pickwick put himself into his clothes, and his clothes into his portmanteau. Great men are seldom extremely careful in the way they dress and arrange their clothing; so the business of shaving, dressing, and coffee-imbibing was soon over. In another hour, Mr Pickwick had arrived at the coach-stand in St Martin's-le-Grand.

His portmanteau was in his hand, his telescope in his coat pocket, and his note-book was in his waistcoat, ready to receive any discoveries worth being noted down.

'Cab!' said Mr Pickwick.