I had the pleasure of spending the last Christmas holidays, very
agreeably, with a family at Bristol. I am aware that those who have
heard nothing of the Bristolians, save through George Frederick Cooke's
satire on them,[1] will be amazed at any one's venturing to bring
together, in the same sentence, three such words as "agreeably,"
"Bristol," and "pleasure;" but I declare it, on my own knowledge, that
there is in that city one family, which for good sense, good humour,
pleasantry, and kindness, is not to be out-done by any in Great Britain.
"The blood of an African," indeed! There is not one amongst them, not
excepting the ladies--no, nor even excepting Miss Adelaide herself
(albeit she sweeten her coffee after the French fashion), who would not
relinquish the use of sugar for ever, rather than connive at the
suffering of one poor negro. The family I allude to are the Norringtons.
As a rigid recorder, I speak only to what I positively know: there may
be others of equal value.
Having an appointment of some importance, for the eighth of January, in
London, I had settled that my visit should terminate on Twelfth-night.
On the morning of that festive occasion I had not yet resolved
on any particular mode of conveyance to town: when, walking along
Broad-street, my attention was brought to the subject by the various
coach-advertisements which were posted on the walls. The "Highflyer"
announced its departure at three in the afternoon--a rational hour;
the "Magnet" at ten in the morning--somewhat of the earliest;
whilst the "Wonder" was advertised to start every morning at five
precisely!!!--a glaring impossibility. We know that in our enterprising
country adventures are sometimes undertaken, in the spirit of
competition, which are entirely out of the common course of things:
thus, one man will sell a bottle of blacking for ninepence with the
charitable intention of _ruining_ his neighbour (so think the
worthy public) who has the audacity to charge his at a shilling--the
intrinsic value of the commodity being in either case, a fraction less
than five farthings. Such a manoeuvre, however, is tolerable; but the
attempt to ruin a respectable vehicle, professing to set out on its
journey at the reputable hour of three in the afternoon, by pretending
to start a coach at five o'clock in the morning, was an imposition
"tolerable" only in Dogberry's sense of the word--it was "not to be
endured." And then, the downright absurdity of the undertaking! for
admitting that the proprietors might prevail on some poor idiot
to act as coachman, where were they to entrap a dozen mad people for
passengers? We often experience an irresistible impulse to interfere, in
some matter, simply because it happens to be no business of ours; and
the case in question being, clearly, no affair of mine, I resolved to
inquire into it. I went into the coach-office, expecting to be told, in
answer to my very first question, that the advertisement was altogether
a _ruse de guerre_.
"So, sir," said I to the book-keeper, "you start a coach, to London, at
five in the morning?"
"Yes, sir," replied he--and with the most perfect _nonchalance_!
"You understand me? At _five_?--in the MORNING?" rejoined I, with
an emphasis sufficiently expressive of doubt.
"Yes, sir; five to a minute--two minutes later you'll lose your place."
This exceeded all my notions of human impudence. It was evident I had
here an extraordinary mine to work, so I determined upon digging into
it a few fathoms deeper.
"And would you, now, venture to _book_ a place for me?"
"Let you know directly, sir. (Hand down the Wonder Lunnun-book, there.)
When for, sir?"