I write this before turning in, and, as you will observe, with a beast of a pen. We arrived here all safe, and with all our traps. Though I lost the run of my bag at Bristol in the scurry, it turned up here all right.
There were a lot of people waiting on the Warren to wave to us. I recognised Miss Linton, and I think some of the Seymours. Miss Harley met us at Star Cross to say another good-bye, with a button-hole for me and a note, and a flint-and-steel for Henry.
We were collared when we got here by an agent of some sort, who was going to free us from all trouble by seeing our luggage safely on board, but as he kept a low kind of Temperance Hotel, and smelt very strongly of whisky, I declined his services, chiefly I should say, on the instigation of a good-natured cabby. Of course, for aught I know, it may be the proper thing to go in for these sort of chaps, but it’s bent to be on the safe side.
Must shut up now, and go to sleep.
Best love to everybody,
Your loving Son,
J. Seton Cockburn.
S.S. “Montreal,”
En Route For Canada.
August 21st, ’84.
My Dearest Mother,