When we had got to the outskirts of London, I began to be ashamed of the
sin of high places, and would gladly have got into the inside of the
coach, for fear of anybody knowing me; but although the multitude of
by-goers was like the kirk scailing at the Sacrament, I saw not a kent
face, nor one that took the least notice of my situation. At last we got
to an inn, called The White Horse, Fetter-Lane, where we hired a
hackney to take us to the lodgings provided for us here in Norfolk
Street, by Mr. Pawkie, the Scotch solicitor, a friend of Andrew Pringle,
my son. Now it was that we began to experience the sharpers of London;
for it seems that there are divers Norfolk Streets. Ours was in the
Strand (mind that when you direct), not very far from Fetter-Lane; but
the hackney driver took us away to one afar off, and when we knocked at
the number we thought was ours, we found ourselves at a house that should
not be told. I was so mortified, that I did not know what to say; and
when Andrew Pringle, my son, rebuked the man for the mistake, he only
gave a cunning laugh, and said we should have told him whatna Norfolk
Street we wanted. Andrew stormed at this--but I discerned it was all
owing to our own inexperience, and put an end to the contention, by
telling the man to take us to Norfolk Street in the Strand, which was the
direction we had got. But when we got to the door, the coachman was so
extortionate, that another hobbleshaw arose. Mrs. Pringle had been told
that, in such disputes, the best way of getting redress was to take the
number of the coach; but, in trying to do so, we found it fastened on,
and I thought the hackneyman would have gone by himself with laughter.
Andrew, who had not observed what we were doing, when he saw us trying to
take off the number, went like one demented, and paid the man, I cannot
tell what, to get us out, and into the house, for fear we should have
been mobbit.
I have not yet seen the colonel's agents, so can say nothing as to the
business of our coming; for, landing at Gravesend, we did not bring our
trunks with us, and Andrew has gone to the wharf this morning to get
them, and, until we get them, we can go nowhere, which is the occasion of
my writing so soon, knowing also how you and the whole parish would be
anxious to hear what had become of us; and I remain, dear sir, your
friend and pastor, ZACHARIAH PRINGLE.