October 10th, ’84.
My Dearest Mother,
I have only two hours from now till when the mail closes, so I must make the best of my time. I have not called upon Mrs. Howel, because I could not get at them. It was not worth while making a pretty long journey just to deliver one introduction, and I believe someone told me they were not in Montreal. By-the-bye, talking of people whom I did not see, I must tell you that I also missed Cousin Maynard. He had gone away somewhere, and left no address that I could hear of, either at the offices of the British Association or elsewhere. I was very sorry not to have seen him, but it could not be helped. You say that Henry told you I was seedy. I think he must have been suffering under the same delusion as he was that day he came home from a yachting cruise, and said that “everybody had been awfully sea-sick,” meaning that he himself had been the principal sufferer. I don’t mean that he has been particularly seedy either, certainly nothing beyond an unmentionable ache. We were both a little bit churned up for a day or two, and I believe it was owing to ice-cream. In the hot weather it was most tempting, and they give you a great plateful for 10 cents., none of the rascally little thimblefulls you get in England for twice that amount. But you can make yourself perfectly easy, we are both so far as I know, perfectly well, not even a mentionable ache, and I tell you candidly, though I am afraid it is a dreadful confession, I have’nt felt wretched by any means since I left home. Poor old Daddy! I’m sorry he was bothered about such a trivial thing as a marriage settlement; perhaps it is that he wants twopence-halfpenny to square his accounts. Pump him, will you, and if it should be this that’s preying on his mind, you may tell him he can draw on me for the amount, and I’ll toss him double or quits when I come home. I suppose he’s pretty nearly spliced by this time. Concerning the passage in my letter which seems to have puzzled you; it seems clear enough to me, naturally it would, but that don’t count. To the best of my recollection I was writing from Aylmer Street, and I think I said as much in my letter, if so, here is the explanation of the obscurity. “I think with the prospect of his (Henry’s) being shortly settled there (Crabtree’s), you might write, etc., if we are not here (the diggings) they can forward the letter.” I can’t see the muddiness “if we are not here,” means in other words “if we should have gone away (of course it does), before your answer arrives,” and “they can forward the letter,” means naturally that the people we have left behind can send after us. If I had meant Crabtree to forward the letter, I must have said “if we are not there.” Of course, if I did not tell you that I was writing from Aylmer Street, I was a great coon, and that would explain the need of explanation. Well, I suppose you know Henry’s true and permanent address by this time, so his letters are all right. But what would have been the use of sending one to Crabtree, we should have been more likely to leave our address at our diggings any way, and there was only a prospect of his going to C.’s. Should his letter have gone there, however, he will no doubt get it in the end, though it will probably be a very long end. We didn’t leave our address with him because he said he would let his friend Kemp (who introduced us) know what decision he arrived at, and he (Kemp) would write to us; for all we knew the old chap himself could’nt write his own name. Poor old fossil! If you send him a note you’ll make him scratch all his hair off, and he has’nt got much. I would’nt send any of my letters to Mrs. Hall if I were you, you don’t know how she is off for thatch, and it will take a power of thinking for any old lady unacquainted with Algebra to find out an unknown quantity. You might address them now to the Post Office, Ottawa, P.O. If I should go elsewhere I will leave instructions at the P.O. to forward my letters.
This is a truly dreadful scrawl, but never mind, quantity wins the day, quality nowhere. You see I am taking the subjects of your letter and answering them as I go along. So far from having had to dip into my money for Henry, I left him with fifty odd clear dollars in his pocket; this came from his second £10. He had pretty near come to the end of the ten he had in his belt when he started, when he got the job. I had already come to the end of mine—extraordinary, was’nt it?—and now I have got at this present moment $459 75c.; quite a fortune, is’nt it? I’m sorry I have’nt time to write you a longer letter my dearest mamma, but those nasty wicked people at the Post Office said they would not stop that big ship for a day or two on any account. This is such a beast of a pen. I would put it in the envelope and send it to you if I did not think it would find its way out before it reached you, just to show you what an immoderate amount of patience I have got. I’ve tried to cross all these t’s half-a-dozen times, and pretty vigorously too. It must be awful good paper to withstand the amount of friction necessary. Now I’ve pretty well filled up the sheet. That’s all I’ve been trying to do lately as you can no doubt see.
With best love to all friends, relations, and acquaintances, believe me,
Ever your loving Son,
J. Seton Cockburn.
202, Bank Street,
Ottawa,
October 15th, ’84.
My Dearest Mother,