the days of my life-第76章

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Now　I　have　e　to　understand　that　this　woe　has　two　sides。　If　he　had　lived　who　knows　what　might　have　chanced　to　him？　And　the　holy　love　which　was　between　us；　might　it　not　have　faded　after　the　fashion　of　this　world？　As　things　are　it　remains　an　unchangeable；　perfect；　and　eternal　thing。　Further；　notwithstanding　all；　I　am　glad　that　he　lived　with　us　for　those　few　years。　His　sufferings　were　short；　his　little　life　was　happy　while　it　endured；　he　　the　world；　and；　lastly；　I　believe　that　the　soul　which　has　been；　is　and　will　be。22
21　My　son　died　suddenly　of　a　perforating　ulcer　after　an　attack　of　measles。　Perhaps　surgery　could　have　saved　him　today。　—　H。　R。　H。
As　for　myself；　I　was　crushed；　my　nerves　broke　down　entirely；　and　the　rest　of　the　Mexican　visit；　with　its　rough　journeyings；　is　to　me　a　kind　of　nightmare。　Not　for　many　years　did　I　shake　off　the　effects　of　the　shock；　indeed　I　have　never　done　so　altogether。　It　has　left　me　with　a　heritage　of　apprehensions；　not　for　myself　personally　—　I　am　content　to　take　what　es　—　but　for　others。　My　health　gave　out。　I　left　London；　which　I　could　no　longer　bear；　and　hid　myself　away　here　in　the　country。　The　other　day　I　found　a　letter　of　this　period；　sent　to　me　as　an　enclosure　on　some　matter；　in　which　the　writer　speaks　of　me　as　being　“quite　unapproachable　since　the　death　of　his　only　son。”　So；　indeed；　I　think　I　was。　Moreover；　at　this　time　the　influenza　attacked　me　again　and　again；　and　left　me　very　weak。
We　did　not　e　home　at　once　—　what　was　the　good　of　returning　to　the　desolated　home？　Our　boy　had　died　in　a　strange　house　and　been　brought　to　Ditchingham　for　burial。　What　was　the　good　of　returning　home？　So　there；　far　away；　in　due　course　letters　reached　us　with　these　dreadful　details　and　heart…piercing　messages　of　farewell。
And　now　I　have　done　with　this　terrible　episode　and　will　get　me　to　my　tale　again。　The　wound　has　been　seared　by　time　—　few；　perhaps　none；　would　guess　that　it　existed；　but　it　will　never　heal。　I　think　I　may　say　that　from　then　till　now　no　day　has　passed；　and　often　no　hour；　when　the　thought　of　my　lost　boy　has　not　been　present　with　me。　I　can　only　bow　the　head　and　murmur；　“God’s　will　be　done！”
I　remember　reading　in　one　of　R。　L。　Stevenson’s　published　letters；　written　after　he　had　helped　to　nurse　a　sick　child；　that　nothing　would　induce　him　to　bee　a　father；　for　fear；　I　gathered；　lest　one　day　he　might　be　called　upon　to　nurse　his　own　sick　child。　I　can　well　understand　the　effect　of　the　experience　on　a　highly　sensitive　nature；　and；　as　a　matter　of　fact；　he　died　childless。　Yet；　as　I　read；　I　wondered　what　he　would　have　felt　had　such　a　lightning　shaft　as　fell　upon　my　head　from　heaven　smitten　and　shattered　him。
Perhaps；　being　frail；　he　would　have　died。　But　I　was　tougher；　and　lived　on。　More：　I　went　among　murderers　and　escaped；　I　wandered　into　the　fever　lands；　and　never　took　it；　the　brute　I　rode　fell　in　a　flooded　river；　and　I　did　not　drown；　I　was　in　peril　on　the　sea；　and　came　safe　to　shore。　It　was　decreed　that　I　should　live　on。
On　our　arrival　in　New　York　on　our　way　to　Mexico；　on　January　10；　1891；　I　was　seized　upon　by　numbers　of　reporters。　Now　the　single　reporter　may　be　dealt　with；　preferably　by　making　him　talk　about　himself；　which　is　a　subject　far　more　interesting　to　him　than　you　are；　or　he　may　be　persuaded　to　tell　you　about　the　last　person　or　subject　upon　which　he　has　had　to　report。　Thus；　on　a　subsequent　occasion；　a　reporter　came　on　board　the　ship　to　see　me　before　she　reached　her　berth。　Early　as　it　was　in　the　morning；　he　had　already　been　about　his　paper’s　business；　attending　the　electrocution　of　two　men　in　a　prison！　The　sight　had　impressed　even　his　hardy　nerves　sufficiently　to　make　him　talk　a　great　deal　about　it；　describing　all　its　details。　Therefore　I　was　called　upon　to　furnish　him　with　but　little　information　about　myself；　though　probably　this　was　not　a　fact　that　weighed　on　him　when　it　came　to　the　writing　of　the　interview。
Another　man；　who　caught　me　in　a　railway　train；　grew　so　interested　in　talking　of　his　own　affairs　that　he　never　noticed　that　the　train　had　started　till　it　iles　an　hour。　Then　with　a　yell　he　rushed　down　the　carriage　and　leapt　out　into　the　night。　I　have　always　wondered　whether　he　was　killed　or　only　broke　his　leg。
There　is　nothing　that　an　American　reporter　will　not　do　to　attain　his　ends。　For　instance；　I　have　known　them　to　break　into　my　room　at　midnight　when　I　was　in　bed。
Once；　when　I　was　in　America　as　a　missioner；　the　reporter　of　a　great　paper　did　his　best　to　make　me　express　opinions　on　some　important　matter　connected　with　the　internal　policy　of　the　United　States。　Naturally　I　declined；　but　this　did　not　prevent　my　alleged　vie　appearing　everywhere。　Then　followed　leading　articles　in　some　of　the　best　papers　gravely　lecturing　me　and　pointing　out　how　improper　it　was　that　one　who　had　been　received　with　so　much　courtesy；　and　who　occupied　a　diplomatic　position；　should　publicly　intervene　in　the　domestic　affairs　of　the　country　to　which　he　had　been　sent　by　his　Government。　A　famous　ic　journal；　also；　published　a　cartoon　of　me　in　a　pulpit　engaged　in　lecturing　the　American　people。
Needless　to　say；　I　was　extremely　annoyed；　but　of　redress　I　could　obtain　none。　Contradiction　where　the　country　is　so　vast　and　newspapers　are　so　many　is　hopeless。　However；　when　I　was　leaving　New　York　another　representative　of　the　same　great　paper　came　to　interview　me　on　the　steamer；　and　to　him　I　expressed　my　feelings。　He　listened；　then　replied；　with　a　somewhat　sickly　smile；　“Very　annoying；　Mr。　Haggard；　but　I　guess　it　would　be　scarcely　loyal　of　me　to　give　our　man　away；　would　it？”
Nothing　could　exceed　the　kindness　with　which　we　were　received　in　the　United　States　—　even　the　reporters　were　kind　till　it　came　to　cold　print。　Really　I　think　that　Americans　are　the　most　hospitable　people　in　the　world。　I　will　go　further　and　say　that　nobody　is　so　nice　or　sympathetic　or　broad…minded　or　desirous　of　all　good　as　a　really　first…class　American；　man　or　woman。　I　remember　that　on　the　occasion　of　this　visit　we　were　quite　glad　to　escape　from　New　York；　where　literally　we　were　being　killed　with　kindness。　To　feast　with　some　hospitable　host　at　every　meal；　from　breakfast　till　a　midnight　supper；　after　a　week　or　so　bees　more　than　the　human　frame　can　bear。
From　New　York　we　went　to　the　beautiful　city　of　New　Orleans；　where　also　we　were　widely　entertained。　One　dinner…party　I　shall　never　forget。　Upon　each　napkin　lay　a　little　poem　anent　something　I　had　written。　For　instance；　here　is　one　which　evidently　refers　to　“The　World’s　Desire”：
Upon　thy　breast　the　“bleeding　Star”　of　love；
？Etherealised；　and　freed　from　serpent　taint；
Is　all　afire；　O　burnished　dove！
？For　whom　men　fail　and　faint！
Moreover　in　the　middle　of　dinner　someone　—　I　think　it　was　our　hostess　—　rose　and　read　a　poem　at　me。　Though　very　kindly　meant；　it　was　really　most　embarrassing；　especially　as　I　had　no　poem　ready　with　which　to　reply。
In　New　Orleans；　amongst　other　places　of　much　interest；　I　was　shown　a　park　in　which　duels　used　to　be　fought　in　the　early　days；　and　a　graveyard　where；　because　of　the　water　in　the　soil；　the　dead　are　buried　in　niches　in　the　surrounding　walls。
Leaving　that　most　hospitable　city；　we　travelled　on　to　El　Paso；　then　quite　a　small　town　on　the　Mexican　border。　I　remember　that　on　the　train　I　fell　into　conversation　with　a　gentleman　who；　much　to　my　astonishment；　informed　me　that　in　the　future　we　should　telegraph　through　the　air　without　the　use　of　any　connecting　wires；　and　furnished　me　with　the　details　of　how　this　would　be　done。　At　the　time　I　confess　it　occurred　to　me　that　he　was　amusing　himself　by　gammoning　a　stranger　who　was　known　to　write　romances。　Now；　however；　I　see　that　at　the　mencement　of　the　year　1891　there　was　at　any　rate　one　person　who　was　very　well　acquainted　with　the　system　of　wireless　telegraphy　which　is　now　identified　with　the　name　of　Mr。　Marconi；　then　a　lad　of　sixteen　years　of　age。
There　were　at　this　time　two　railway　lines　running　from　the　States　to　Mexico　City；　and　I　recollect　that　we　hesitated　long　by　which　of　them　we　should　travel。　Our　choice　was　fortunate；　since　the　train　which　left　on　the　same　day　by　the　other　line　met　with　many　adventures。　Amongst　other　things　it　was　twice　thrown　off　the　rails　by　intelligent　Mexicans　actuated　either　by　spite　or　the　hope　of　p