Very uncomfortable.' 'They're all on 'em men as has met vith some disappointment in life,' said Mr.Weller, senior.
'Ay, ay,' said Mr.Pickwick.
'Yes.

Consequence of vich, they retires from the world, and shuts themselves up in pikes; partly with the view of being solitary, and partly to rewenge themselves on mankind by takin' tolls.' 'Dear me,' said Mr.Pickwick, 'I never knew that before.' 'Fact, Sir,' said Mr.Weller; 'if they was gen'l'm'n, you'd call 'em misanthropes, but as it is, they only takes to pike-keepin'.' With such conversation, possessing the inestimable charm of blending amusement with instruction, did Mr.Weller beguile the tediousness of the journey, during the greater part of the day.

Topics of conversation were never wanting, for even when any pause occurred in Mr.Weller's loquacity, it was abundantly supplied by the desire evinced by Mr.
Magnus to make himself acquainted with the whole of the personal history of his fellow-travellers, and his loudly-expressed anxiety at every stage, respecting the safety and well-being of the two bags, the leather hat-box, and the brown-paper parcel.
In the main street of Ipswich, on the left-hand side of the way, a short distance after you have passed through the open space fronting the Town Hall, stands an inn known far and wide by the appellation of the Great White Horse, rendered the more conspicuous by a stone statue of some rampacious animal with flowing mane and tail, distantly resembling an insane cart-horse, which is elevated above the principal door.

The Great White Horse is famous in the neighbourhood, in the same degree as a prize ox, or a county-paper-chronicled turnip, or unwieldy pig--for its enormous size.

Never was such labyrinths of uncarpeted passages, such clusters of mouldy, ill-lighted rooms, such huge numbers of small dens for eating or sleeping in, beneath any one roof, as are collected together between the four walls of the Great White Horse at Ipswich.
It was at the door of this overgrown tavern that the London coach stopped, at the same hour every evening; and it was from this same London coach that Mr.Pickwick, Sam Weller, and Mr.Peter Magnus dismounted, on the particular evening to which this chapter of our history bears reference.
'Do you stop here, sir ?' inquired Mr.Peter Magnus, when the striped bag, and the red bag, and the brown-paper parcel, and the leather hat-box, had all been deposited in the passage.