Let no man write
Thy epitaph, Emmett; thou shalt not go
Without thy funeral strain! O young and good,
And wise, though erring here, thou shalt not go
Unhonored or unsung. And better thus
Beneath that undiscriminating stroke,
Better to fall, than to have lived to mourn,
As sure thou wouldst, in misery and remorse,
Thine own disastrous triumph * * * *
How happier thus, in that heroic mood
That takes away the sting of death, to die,
By all the good and all the wise forgiven!
Yea, in all ages by the wise and good
To be remembered, mourned, and honored still!
--_Southey to Robert Emmett_
[Illustration: ROBERT SOUTHEY]
Most generally, when I travel, I go alone--this to insure being in good
company. To travel with another is a terrible risk: it puts a great strain
on the affections.
I once made the tour of Scotland with a man who was traveling for his
health. He had kidney-trouble belief. I had known the man in a casual way
for several years, and we started out the best of friends, anticipating a
good time. We were gone three weeks, and when we got back I hated the
fellow thoroughly, and I have every reason to believe that he fully
reciprocated the sentiment.
And yet he was an honest man, and I am, too, although not an extremist.
There was nothing to quarrel about; it began at Euston Station, where I
bought third-class tickets. He said he preferred to ride first-class, or
second, at least--there was such a thing as false economy.
I asked him why he had not said something along this line before I had
purchased the tickets.
He retorted that I had not consulted his preference in the matter. I
brought in a mild rejoinder by moving the previous question, and showing
that he, himself, had proposed that I should take entire charge of the
arrangements, using my own good judgment at all times.
He said something about his error in supposing he was traveling with a
discerning person. Just then the guard came along, slamming the doors, and
we were pushed into a third-class carriage, where we enjoyed an all-day
journey together.
At Edinburgh my companion wished to ascend the Scott monument, visit a
friend at the University, and buy a plaid rug at one of the shops in
Princess Street; while I proposed to look up the footprints of Bobbie
Burns and John Knox. He said, "Confound John Knox!" I answered, "You
evidently think I am referring to Knox the Hatter!" He grew mad as a
hatter, and I had to defend John Knox, and later had to do the same for
Rab and his friends, as well as for Christopher North.
And so it went--he pooh-poohed my heroes; and I scorned the friend he
wished to find at the University, smiled patronizingly on the Scott
monument, and said, "hoot mon" at the idea of buying a plaid rug in
Princess Street.
All this was many years ago; since then I have been very cautious about
entering into any Anglo-American alliances. Yet to travel alone often
seems to be dropping something out of your life. When the voyage is rough,
the weather bad and the fare below par, my spirits always rise. I say to
myself: "My son, this is certainly tough--but who cares! We can stand it,
we have had this way right along year after year--but just imagine your
plight if there were some one in your charge expecting a good time!"
Then I drink to Boreas and all the fiends of Gehenna, and am supremely
content.
But suppose the night is resplendent with stars, the waves tremulous with
reflected beauty, and as the great ship goes gliding across the
deep--proud, strong and tireless--there come to you thoughts sublime and
emotions such as Wagner knew when he wrote the "Pilgrims' Chorus."
But you are not happy, simply because you want to tell some one how happy
you are. What is the starlight for, save to call some one's attention to,
or the phosphorescent sheen except to be pointed out and enjoyed by two?
Exquisite beauty, as revealed in music, painting, sculpture or beautiful
scenery, affects me at times to tears; and there always comes creeping
into my life a profound sadness, a dread homesickness, to think that in
this wealth of peace and joy I am alone--alone.
Can you stand by yourself on a hillside and look across a beautiful little
lake to the woods beyond; or walk through a pine-forest, where the needles
sink as a carpet beneath your feet, and the air is full of the pungent
odor of the pine, and the gently swaying tree-tops overhead croon you a
lullaby--can you enjoy all this without an exquisite melancholy, and a
joy that hurts, piercing your soul? It's homesickness, that's all; you
want to go home and tell some one how happy you are. Give me solitude,
sweet solitude, but in my solitude give me still one friend to whom I may
murmur, Solitude is sweet.
* * * * *
That about the sea and the forest, the wooded hillside and the little lake
may not be the exact words, but the thought is there just as White Pigeon
expressed it to me that evening when we sat on the mossy bank of the lake
at Grasmere and threw pebbles into the water.
I had come up from Liverpool to Bowness, walked over to Ambleside and
along the lake to Grasmere. My luggage consisted of a comb, a toothbrush
and a stout second-growth East Aurora hickory stick.
At Grasmere I applied at the Red Lion Inn for supper and lodging. The
landlady looked at my dusty, rusty corduroys, paused, coughed and asked
where my luggage was. Wishing to be honest, I displayed the luggage
aforementioned. She did not smile. She was a large person, sober, sedate,
sincere and also serious, with a big bunch of keys dangling from a waist
that once was Grecian. And she told me right there that if I wanted
accommodations I would have to pay in advance. I demurred, pleaded and
finally explained that I had lost my money and had sent to New York for a
remittance, I was a remittance-man. Had this been true, it were sad, yet I
had a hundred pounds sterling in my belt; but it just came to me to see
how it would feel to be penniless and friendless and plead for charity. It
is not hard to plead for charity when one has a pocket full of money.
So I pleaded. But it was of no avail.
I requested a drink of water. This was denied. Then I asked if I could
wash in the lake; and this favor was granted, and the advice volunteered
that it would be a good thing to do. And further the kind lady made a
motion toward a dangling red tassel that hung from a rope, and suggested
that I get me to a gunnery and quickly, too, otherwise she would have to
call the porter.
I felt to see that my money was all right--to assure myself it was no jest
in earnest--and departed. Being singularly psychic to suggestion I
followed the thought that I wash in the lake, and started in that
direction, along a footpath that led across a meadow, over a stile. A
thick growth of bushes lined the lake for aways, and then the footpath
seemed to follow right through the undergrowth. I pushed the green
branches aside, and continued along for about a hundred feet, when I stood
on the green, grass-covered bank of the beautiful "Windermere." Daffodils
lined the water's edge--the daffodils of Wordsworth--down the lake were
the white wings of several sailboats; the sun had gone down, but his long
rays of gold still pierced the sky, while across the water arose, silent
and majestic, the dark purple hills.
It was a beautiful sight--so full of quiet and peace and rest. I stood
with hat in hand, the evening breeze fanning my face, enjoying the scene.
Just then there was a little splash in the water, and looking down I saw a
woman with back toward me sitting on a boulder, tossing pebbles into the
lake. By the side of the woman were her hat and book. I was on the point
of softly backing out through the bushes, when it came to me that I had
seen that head with its big coil of brown hair somewhere else--but where,
ah, where!
Why, in Paris, two years before. It was White Pigeon.
She had not seen me. I retraced my steps, and then came crashing through
the juniper, straight over to the bankside, where I sat down about twenty
feet from the good lady. I was whistling violently and throwing pebbles
into the water, not even glancing toward her. She let me whistle for a
full minute and then said gently: "Do not be absurd! I know you." Then we
both laughed, and I, of course, did the regulation thing, and asked, "When
did you arrive, and where are you going, and how do you like it?"
"You see what I am doing here, and as for when I arrived and how long I'll
stay, and how I like it--what difference is it? There, you are surprised
to see me, aren't you? I thought you had gotten past being surprised at
anything, long ago--only silly people are surprised--you once said it,
yourself!"
Then White Pigeon ceased to speak and we simply gazed into each other's
eyes. White Pigeon has gray eyes that sometimes are blue and sometimes
amber--it all depends upon her mood and the thoughts reflected there. The
long, sober gaze stole off into a half-smile and she said, "You got things
awfully mixed up in that Rosa Bonheur booklet--why not stick to truth?"
"Truth," I replied, "is hideous, and facts are like some men, stubborn
things. But what was the matter with the Bonheur Little Journey?"
"You will not be angry with me?"
"How could I be?"
"You promise?"
"Yes."
"Well, you said my cousin was a conductor on the Lake Shore--you knew
perfectly well it was the Michigan Central!"