There was a
sale of my father's furniture. His books were sent off to his
college at Cambridge by the Lowestoft carrier. Then the valet
took me by wherry to Norwich, where we caught a weekly coach to
town. That was the last time I ever sailed on the Waveney as a
boy, that journey to Norwich. When I next saw the Broads, I was a
man of thirty-five. I remember how strangely small the country
seemed to me when I saw it after my wanderings. But this is away
from my tale. All that I remember of the coach-ride was my
arrival late at night at the London inn, a dark house full of
smells, from which the valet led me to my uncle's house.
I lay awake, that first night, much puzzled by the noise, fearing
that London would be all streets, a dismal place. When I fell
asleep, I was waked continually by chiming bells. In the morning,
early, I was roused by the musical calling made by milkmen on
their rounds, with that morning's milk for sale. At breakfast my
uncle told me not to go into the street without Ephraim, his man;
for without a guide, he said, I should get lost. He warned me
that there were people in London who made a living by seizing
children ("kidnapping" or "trepanning" them, as it was called) to
sell to merchant-captains bound for the plantations. "So be very
careful, Martin," he said. "Do not talk to strangers." He went
for his morning walk after this, telling me that I might run out
to play in the garden.
I went out of doors feeling that London must be a very terrible
place, if the folk there went about counting all who met them as
possible enemies.
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