Charles Dickens

The Uncommercial Traveller Charles Dickens

No landlord is my friend and brother, no chambermaid loves me, no waiter worships me, no boots admires and envies me. No round of beef or tongue or ham is expressly cookedfor me, no pigeon-pie is especially made for me, no hotel-advertisement is personallyaddressed to me, no hotel-room tapestried with great-coats and railway wrappers is setapart for me, no house of public entertainment in the United Kingdom greatly cares for myopinion of its brandy or sherry. When I go upon my journeys, I am not usually rated at alow figure in the bill; when I come home from my journeys, I never get any commission. Iknow nothing about prices, and should have no idea, if I were put to it, how to wheedle aman into ordering something he doesn't want. As a town traveller, I am never to be seendriving a vehicle externally like a young and volatile pianoforte van, and internally like anoven in which a number of flat boxes are baking in layers. As a country traveller, I amrarely to be found in a gig, and am never to be encountered by a pleasure train, waiting onthe platform of a branch station, quite a Druid in the midst of a light Stonehenge of samples. And yet-proceeding now, to introduce myself positively-I am both a town traveller and acountry traveller, and am always on the road. Figuratively speaking, I travel for the greathouse of Human Interest Brothers, and have rather a large connection in the fancy goodsway. Literally speaking, I am always wandering here and there from my rooms in Coventgarden, London-now about the city streets: now, about the country by-roads-seeingmany little things, and some great things, which, because they interest me, I think mayinterest others. These are my chief credentials as the Uncommercial Traveller