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
which was now my daily task. Set tasks, dull routine, monotonous duty I
ever hated.
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