Coaching to Yorkshire, 43 



I am straying, I know, from hunting 

 reminiscences, but I hope my friends who 

 read these pages will humour the old man 

 who is telling this story, and allow him to get 

 into the stride of it in his own way. I was 

 telling of a visit to Beverley horse fair with 

 my father, and I well recall the rigours of 

 that long, cold, and weary coach journey to 

 Yorkshire. We arrived in due time, having 

 accomplished the journey in a night and day, 

 but so cold and stiff that we could scarcely 

 climb down off the coach. But then there 

 was the compensation of thawing out in a 

 crowd of others before a roaring fire, and the 

 very comforting reflection for me that, though 

 but a youngster, I was a seasoned traveller 

 like the rest, and I certainly think that I bore 

 the long journey with much less grumbling 

 than some of them. 



After dinner we adjourned to a great hall, 

 with a huge fire burning, and the scene comes 

 back to me clearly, as I sat there with my 

 father, with lots of others, strangers, seated 

 all around. And then the governor began 



