spent in the Erewash Valley, at the house of an uncle who lived near Pye
Bridge. I was then under eighteen, growing fast, and when convalescing
the country life and country air did me lasting good. Though a colliery
district the valley is not devoid of rural beauty; to me it was pleasant
and attractive and I wandered about at will.

One day I had a curious experience. In my walk I came across the
Cromford Canal where it enters a tunnel that burrows beneath coal mines.
At the entrance to the tunnel a canal barge lay. The bargees asked would
I like to go through with them? "How long is it?" said I, and "how long
will it take?" "Not long," said bargee, "come on!" "Right!" said I. The
tunnel just fitted the barge, scarcely an inch to spare; the roof was so
low that a man lying on his back on a plank placed athwart the vessel,
with his feet against the roof, propelled the boat along. This was the
only means of transit and our progress was slow and dreary. It was a
journey of Cimmerian darkness; along a stream fit for Charon's boat.
About halfway a halt was made for dinner, but I had none. Although I was
cold and hungry the bargees' hospitality did not include a share of their
bread and cheese but they gave me a drink of their beer. The tunnel is
two miles long, and was drippingly wet. Several hours passed before we
emerged, not into sunshine but into the open, under a clouded sky and
heavy rain which had succeeded a bright forenoon. I was nearly five
miles from my uncle's house, lightly clad, hungry and tired. To my
friends ever since I have not failed to recommend the passage of the
Butterley tunnel as a desirable pleasure excursion.

When I returned to work my health was greatly improved and a small
advancement in my position in the office made the rest of my time at
Derby more agreeable, though, to tell the truth, I often jibbed at the
drudgery of the desk and the monotony of writing pencilled-out letters