I
had already paid sixteen shillings at Stratford for my place in the
coach from Oxford to Birmingham. At Oxford they had not asked
anything of me, and indeed you are not obliged in general in
England, as you are in Germany, to pay your passage beforehand.
My companion and myself alighted at the inn where the coach stopped.
We parted with some reluctance, and I was obliged to promise him
that, on my return to London, I would certainly call on him, for
which purpose he gave me his address. His father was Dr. Wilson, a
celebrated author in his particular style of writing.
I now inquired for the house of Mr. Fothergill, to whom I was
recommended, and I was readily directed to it, but had the
misfortune to learn, at the same time, that this very Mr. Fothergill
had died about eight days before. As, therefore, under these
circumstances, my recommendation to him was likely to be but of
little use, I had the less desire to tarry long at Birmingham, and
so, without staying a minute longer, I immediately inquired the road
to Derby, and left Birmingham. Of this famous manufacturing town,
therefore, I can give you no account.
The road from Birmingham onwards is not very agreeable, being in
general uncommonly sandy. Yet the same evening I reached a little
place called Sutton, where everything, however, appeared to be too
grand for me to hope to obtain lodgings in it, till quite at the end
of it I came to a small inn with the sign of the Swan, under which
was written Aulton, brickmaker.
