EUROPE AND ASHEVILLE: AN INTERLUDE
I
In July, 1906, feeling the need of rest and relaxation, Mr. Kern,
accompanied by Alonzo Green Smith, formerly attorney-general of Indiana,
sailed from New York for a few weeks of meandering and sightseeing in
the British Isles. It would be hard to imagine a more incongruous couple
for an European jaunt. The ex-attorney-general was an able lawyer of
much strength of character, a rough diamond accused by his enemies of
“practicing law with a club.” More interested in law and politics than
in scenery and shrines, more practical than sentimental, to him that
scenery which would not yield a harvest was uninteresting waste land,
and the building of venerable years and rich in history could not
compare with a New York sky-scraper with its modern conveniences. The
travelers were fond of one another, but they were soon to find that
nature had never intended that they should tour Europe together.
As both were traveling for their health, they took a slow, ten-day boat,
leaving New York harbor on July 21st and reaching Glasgow on the last
day of the month. The trip over was uneventful and pleasant enough,
although they were five days in a fog and two on a rough sea. They had
seats at the captain’s table, made many friends on board, and Kern
records in a letter that “Green didn’t enjoy the rough sea or the fog,
but didn’t grumble much and became quite a favorite on board. He won’t
admit it, but his cough is much better and he is greatly improved.” It
was characteristic of Kern to write home the moment he landed. “It seems
an age since I saw you,” he wrote the morning of his landing, “I am
writing this hurriedly and am going out to send a cable, which you will
get by your breakfast time.” Later the same day he wrote his second
letter home, giving more particulars of the voyage and relating how he
had not thought of “getting sunburned with the sun shining through the
fog until I found my nose and face blistered and looking like an old
bloat,” how he “got some cold cream from an old lady on board,” how in a
rough sea he was thrown from his chair and slid down to the rail. “I am
getting along very well with Mr. Smith,” he writes, as though surprised.
“He is quite willing to do as I suggest and has thus far been as docile
as a child, except on one or two occasions, when he got to talking
politics, when he partly startled the whales and the other monsters of
the deep.” Unhappily for the peace of the moment, but fortunately for
future reminiscences, this docility was not to last long.
They lingered for more than two weeks in Scotland visiting the
birthplace of Burns and the country associated with his life, riding
across Lake Lomore and Lake Katrine, the scene of The Lady of the Lake,
and journeying through the “Trossacks” by Sterling and on to Edinburgh.
His love of home shines out in an incident at Lake Katrine, where he
waited for the boat to carry him across. “It came,” he wrote, “bringing
a lot of tourists who were traveling through the Trossacks in the
opposite direction. As I was rushing down to the boat I ran right into
Rev. M. L. Haines (First Presbyterian Church at Indianapolis), who was
rushing up the hill for dear life to get seats on the big brake wagon
which was waiting at the hotel. He looked around and grabbed me by the
hand, but we hadn’t time for a word. There was his wagon and my boat
both waiting and we both rushed on. The wagon and boat, however, were
not more than seventy-five yards apart, and we spent the several minutes
that elapsed before the wagon started by standing up and waving and
making all kinds of friendly signs at each other. There were two ladies
with him, but I did not see them until they got up in the wagon with him
and joined in the waving. It was like ships passing in the night, but
Brother Haines looked awfully good to me just the same.” He was
delighted with the beauty and the historic charm of Edinburgh. While
passing through Holyrood Palace and looking at the bed in which Mary,
Queen of the Scots slept, he was accosted by another Hoosier he had
never met but who recognized him. By this time the docility of Smith had
passed. He grumbled over the foolishness of tramping about looking at
old palaces where dead queens had slept, and at tumble-down shacks in
which poets had penned immortal lines. At length, patient though he was,
Kern issued his declaration of independence. “Now don’t you pay any
attention to my movements in a town or on the trip,” he said, “we
haven’t time to argue and we are not here for argument. I am going just
where I please and in the way I please and I want you to do the same.”
The result was that Smith thereafter spent hours in his room at the
hotel writing long letters about places he had not seen, and the
remainder in regaling the natives with lurid stories of the greatness of
America. “I overheard him,” Kern wrote, “telling the other day how a
calf had been carried over two hundred miles in a cyclone.”
The travelers went up to London on August 16th, where they went their
separate ways, meeting in the evening, and not bothering each other with
a recital of their doings of the day. The ancient city fascinated Kern
as it had ten years before. I am indebted to Thomas R. Shipp of
Washington and Indianapolis for an incident which is interesting in that
it again reflects Kern’s love of home and home folks:
“When mother and I were in England we happened to be lunching with
Mr. and Mrs. Henry Rauh of Indianapolis in a little café opposite
Windsor Castle, when suddenly from an unnoticed alcove came a deep
voice, saying, ‘Has anybody seen anything of Henry Rauh and Tom
Shipp?’ Upon investigating we found it was Mr. Kern, who was taking
a quiet lunch with Alonzo Green Smith. Nothing would do Mr. Kern
but that we all should meet him that evening in the Hotel Victoria,
where he promised an Indiana party.
“On arriving at the hotel that evening we found that in some
unaccountable manner Mr. Kern had rounded up ten Hoosiers, whom, it
seemed, he had run into at different times and places in England.
Mr. Kern furnished the refreshments generously and soon there was
created a ‘Banks of the Wabash’ atmosphere in Ol’ Lunnon. Most of
the inimitable stories he told were jokes on himself and
good-natured jests about English manners and customs. I wish I
could remember some of these, but my recollection is only of a most
unusual and pleasant Indiana evening in a far-away country,
provided by a gentle and genial man, who thought enough of his
Indiana friends to keep track of them even in the great city of
London.”
On leaving London the travelers went to Liverpool and thence to Dublin
and then on to the Lakes of Killarney, where they spent three days. Then
on to Cork, back to Dublin, then on to Belfast, the Giant’s Causeway,
Londonderry, and finally to Movelle, where they took passage on the
Columbia, a slow steamer, for home.
Some of Kern’s most amusing stories of the trip that he loved to tell in
later years were drawn from experiences in Ireland.
While the travelers were going through the Killarney country in a
jaunting car drawn by an old horse that made frequent pauses until
prodded by the driver, it occurred to Kern to play a joke on Smith, who
had not failed to observe, especially in England, a tendency to make the
tourists pay. Leaning close to the ex-attorney-general, Kern whispered,
“Do you notice how often this horse stops?”
“Yes. What’s the trouble?” Smith asked, instantly suspicious.
“We are paying by the hour,” whispered Kern, wickedly.
“Just watch me stop that,” growled Smith.
A moment later the horse again stopped to rest.
“What kind of a horse is that?” roared the ex-attorney-general.
“It’s a scan’ry horse,” answered the driver in soft tones.
“And what kind of horse is that?” demanded Smith.
“It’s a horse that stops before a beautiful piece of scan’ry when the
tourist ain’t got the sense to appreciate it,” sweetly replied the
driver without looking around.
The travelers sailed on August 25th, reaching New York ten days later,
much refreshed but without having received the physical benefits
expected.
II
A few weeks later Kern plunged into the campaign of 1906 with his usual
vigor, contracting a cold which his weakened physical condition made it
impossible for his system to throw off. He began to lose weight, his
voice became chronically husky, and after a thorough examination his
physician whispered the ominous word--tuberculosis in its incipiency.
But with his usual determination he prepared to battle for his life. He
had devoted too much of his time to his political activities to have
accumulated money, and at the age of fifty-seven his determination to
get well, strengthened by his passionate desire to be of further service
to his boys of six and seven, he set out for Dr. Von Ruck’s sanatorium
at Asheville, North Carolina, about three weeks before Christmas. His
letters of that period reflect his intense love for his family. All
thought of worldly honors were put aside and his one hope was to be
spared for a few years more with his wife and children and in their
service. A separation even under less unhappy circumstances was always
hard, and it was with a heavy heart that he resigned himself to the
inevitable exile. As Christmas approached the pain of the separation was
accentuated by the knowledge that he could not share in the home
festivities. The day after Christmas he wrote home:
“On yesterday afternoon I received the box and was greatly rejoiced
to have the pictures of you all and to have your several letters.
The book was pleasing, the cigars good, and the trousers welcome.
Christmas passed off all right and we had a great dinner. I send
you a menu card. You mustn’t think we have that sort of a meal
every day, but we do pretty well--get plenty of eggs and milk, corn
bread and buttermilk. On Christmas evening the young people
here--patients--turned themselves loose, singing, playing and
raising cain, and you wouldn’t have thought this much of a
hospital. Yesterday was a beautiful day. I was out most of the
time.... I had a long letter from Judge Hackney. It was full of
sympathy and affectionate in character and I was deeply touched by
it. Also had a similar letter from my old friend, Dan Simms of
Lafayette. Had Julia’s letter and enjoyed it very much. I have your
pictures ranged around my room, so that it looks a good deal like
home.
“It is cloudy to-day but pleasant. I walked a long ways this
morning, and am going for another walk this evening.... I am
anxious to hear how you got along on Christmas, and whether my dear
litle ones were pleased with what Santa Claus did for them. I am
uneasy to hear of dear little Billy’s continued sickness with
cold. Don’t you think you had better consult a doctor about him? It
seems too bad to keep him in the house all winter. I am getting to
be a great believer in fresh air, and I can’t believe that it is
good for a child as full of life as he is to keep him in a hot room
all winter. Let him have fresh air and sunshine whenever possible.
“I am feeling very well to-day and the doctors say I am doing
nicely, though they can’t give me much definite information yet. I
have the same routine every day, and while it is a little
monotonous sometimes the time slips by pretty rapidly. I am glad
Christmas is over, and hope that next Christmas we may all be
together and be well. It will be a happy day for me when I can be
with my dear ones again, and be strong enough to work and make up
for all this lost time. Tell John, Jr., that I enjoy his letters
very much. He writes just like a man. I know I am going to be very
proud of him. Tell Billy that he doesn’t write quite as plainly as
John, but that I read his letter over and over again just the same.
With lots of love for all of you, I am, as always, your husband,
papa, father and daddy.”
During the three months that he was there he endeared himself to all who
came in contact with him by the sweetness of his disposition, and even
the physicians were impressed with his reluctance to being a burden to
them. He passed his time following the doctor’s instructions. He read
much light literature from the library of the sanatorium and wrote long
letters home, not forgetting individual letters for the children. His
rare gift of entering into the thoughts of childhood is illustrated in
his letters to John, Jr.
“MY DEAR LITTLE MAN:
“Your nice letter came this morning--also mother’s postcard telling
me how nicely Billy was doing. It made me feel mighty good to hear
that Billy was feeling so well after his operation, and to see what
a fine letter you can write, and how well you are doing at school.
I know you will be a good boy and help mother all you can while I
am away. You must pay lots of attention to dear little Billy while
he is sick, and help entertain him. You must also watch sister, and
not let her run around too much and stay up late at night. Tell
mother she must take good care of herself and not get sick, for we
can’t afford to have more than two sick at one time.
“I am getting better, but it will be some time before I can come
home. But I get very homesick and want to see you all so badly I
hardly know what to do. The weather is still warm and sunshiny. I
wish you were here to go walking with me over the hills and through
the woods. We would have a good time. They have a lot of turkeys
and chickens on the grounds here. Yesterday a turkey gobbler and a
rooster got to fighting, and they had a great time. Then afterward
the rooster came around where the turkeys were and four big
gobblers got after him and got him down, and were about to kill him
when some of the boys drove him away. Then the rooster got up and
crowed just as if he had whipped them all.... I had a letter from
Judge Anderson this morning saying that my cases in his court could
wait until I got home to be tried. I must close now to get this in
the mail. Tell mother and sister and Billy that I love them very
much. You know that I love you, don’t you? You must write as often
as you can and take care of things while I am away. With lots of
love, I am, your
FATHER.”
During his Asheville days Mr. Kern spent every moment that he could in
the open air and soon developed into a great pedestrian, trudging all
alone over the hills and through the woods and into Asheville, where he
made friends and renewed old friendships. His appetite returned and he
slept well. As he felt his strength returning his anxiety to get back
home and in the harness intensified. Toward the middle of February we
find him writing in homesick vein to John, Jr.
“MY DEAR LITTLE MAN:
“I had your picture of Hiawatha in her tent, and also the other
pictures made by you and I think they are fine. I am very proud of
you, and know you are going to be a good boy and a good man. I
can’t tell you how much I want to see you and dear little Billy and
mother and sister. I am very lonesome away down here by myself. But
it will only be a few weeks until I will be at home, and I will be
so happy to be with you all.
“I am feeling pretty well this morning. It rained yesterday, but
the sun is shining now and that always makes me feel good. You must
not let Billy forget his daddy. I expect you will both be grown so
I will hardly know you. Kiss mother and sister and Billy for me,
and then make them kiss you for your father.”
In March he left the sanitorium and went home for a visit, without being
dismissed, and did not return until his last illness ten years later.
The separation under such tragic circumstances had served to draw him
even closer to his home and family, and it is probable when he crossed
the threshold of his home on that March day in 1907 it was with the
determination to put behind him political aspirations and to conserve
his strength for the service of those dependent on him. Little could he
have thought at the time that in scarcely more than a year he would be
again drawn into the vortex of intense political activity, and that his
career as a national figure was just in the dawning.