To James Maradick, Esq.,
The Elms, Epsom.
On the road to Ashbourne,
Derbyshire.
11 a.m.
I’m sitting under a hedge with this bit of paper on my knee; dirty you’ll be thinking it, but I find that waiting for paper means no letter at all, and so it’s got to be written when the moment’s there. I’m tramping north—amongst the lakes I’m making for. It’s fine weather and a hard white road, and the show’s been going strong these last days. There’s a purple line of hills behind me, and a sky that’ll take a lot of poet’s talking to glorify it, and a little pond at the turn of the road that’s bluer than blue-bells.
The new dog’s none so stupid as I thought him; not that he’s Toby, but he’s got a sense of humour on him that’s more than a basketful of intelligence. Last night I was in a fine inn with a merry company. I wish that you could have heard the talking, but you’ll have been dining with your napkin on your knee and a soft carpet at your feet. There was a fine fellow last night that had seen the devil last week walking on the high ridge that goes towards Raddlestone.
Maybe it was Morelli; like enough. He’s often round that way. I’m thinking of you often, and I’ll be back in London, November. I’d like to have you out here, with stars instead of chimney pots and a red light where the sun’s setting.
I’ll write again from the North.
Yours very faithfully,