I am afraid you will receive this later than I could wish, as the mail
does not come through this place until two o'clock to-morrow morning.
However, I have availed myself of the very first opportunity of writing,
so the fault is that mail's, and not this.
We reached Grantham between nine and ten on Thursday night, and found
everything prepared for our reception in the very best inn I have ever
put up at. It is odd enough that an old lady, who had been outside all
day and came in towards dinner time, turned out to be the mistress of a
Yorkshire school returning from the holiday stay in London. She was a
very queer old lady, and showed us a long letter she was carrying to one
of the boys from his father, containing a severe lecture (enforced and
aided by many texts of Scripture) on his refusing to eat boiled meat.
She was very communicative, drank a great deal of brandy and water, and
towards evening became insensible, in which state we left her.
Yesterday we were up again shortly after seven A.M., came on upon our
journey by the Glasgow mail, which charged us the remarkably low sum of
six pounds fare for two places inside. We had a very droll male
companion until seven o'clock in the evening, and a most delicious
lady's-maid for twenty miles, who implored us to keep a sharp look-out
at the coach-windows, as she expected the carriage was coming to meet
her and she was afraid of missing it. We had many delightful vauntings
of the same kind; but in the end it is scarcely necessary to say that
the coach did not come, but a very dirty girl did.
As we came further north the mire grew deeper. About eight o'clock it
began to fall heavily, and, as we crossed the wild heaths hereabout,
there was no vestige of a track. The mail kept on well, however, and at
eleven we reached a bare place with a house standing alone in the midst
of a dreary moor, which the guard informed us was Greta Bridge. I was in
a perfect agony of apprehension, for it was fearfully cold, and there
were no outward signs of anybody being up in the house. But to our great
joy we discovered a comfortable room, with drawn curtains and a most
blazing fire. In half an hour they gave us a smoking supper and a bottle
of mulled port (in which we drank your health), and then we retired to
a couple of capital bedrooms, in each of which there was a rousing fire
halfway up the chimney.
We have had for breakfast, toast, cakes, a Yorkshire pie, a piece of
beef about the size and much the shape of my portmanteau, tea, coffee,
ham, and eggs; and are now going to look about us. Having finished our
discoveries, we start in a postchaise for Barnard Castle, which is only
four miles off, and there I deliver the letter given me by Mitton's
friend. All the schools are round about that place, and a dozen old
abbeys besides, which we shall visit by some means or other to-morrow.
We shall reach York on Saturday I hope, and (God willing) I trust I
shall be at home on Wednesday morning.
I wish you would call on Mrs. Bentley and thank her for the letter; you
can tell her when I expect to be in York.
A thousand loves and kisses to the darling boy, whom I see in my mind's
eye crawling about the floor of this Yorkshire inn. Bless his heart, I
would give two sovereigns for a kiss. Remember me too to Frederick, who
I hope is attentive to you.
Is it not extraordinary that the same dreams which have constantly
visited me since poor Mary died follow me everywhere? After all the
change of scene and fatigue, I have dreamt of her ever since I left
home, and no doubt shall till I return. I should be sorry to lose such
visions, for they are very happy ones, if it be only the seeing her in
one's sleep. I would fain believe, too, sometimes, that her spirit may
have some influence over them, but their perpetual repetition is
extraordinary.
Love to all friends.
Ever, my dear Kate,
Your affectionate Husband.
[Sidenote: Mr. Thomas Mitton.]