memento, and something of the latter is treasured
up among good seed sown by the way-side.
I would gladly have lingered longer in this little nook, into which I
seemed to have been drifted by chance; but my time was up,--I had a
mile or two to walk over the fields in the direction of the railway,--my
friends were to meet me at Stratford. Should I miss the train this time,
my philosophy might fail me as signally as that of the above-mentioned
furniture-dealer failed him.
A few hours after I bade my old friend farewell, I was at my destination.
Millions have shared my experiences at the tomb of the great poet.
Everybody is familiar with William Shakspeare and Stratford-on-Avon,
but I hug the thought that nobody but I knows anything about Ann
Harris and Honeybourne.
* * * * *
I have dwelt upon an occasion in which the humble office of a guide
resulted in companionship, friendship, instruction. A brief sojourn in
Alpine regions has furnished me with a similar reminiscence.
We were setting forth for a day's ride across the Tête-Noire. Our party
consisted of five, and we had two guides. Our baggage, which was for
the most part light, was strapped on the backs of the mules behind the
riders. One article, however, a square box of considerable proportions,
proved refractory, and, veering from side to side, refused to maintain
the even balance which, owing to the rough nature of the bridle-path,
was essential to the safety of both mule and rider. We were obliged to
halt again and again, that the box might be restrapped, always with
doubtful success. Each time that we drew up in line for this purpose we
were overtaken by a Swiss youth, who had perceived our dilemma, and
who hoped, by following us up closely, to make a job out of it. There
was but a limited knowledge of French among us, (the language in
which the youth spoke,) still, by aid of his vehement gestures, he made
us understand that he was ready, for a consideration, to accompany us
on our toilsome journey, and carry the box on his back.
"Eight francs, Monsieur,--I will do it for eight francs!" But the box was
righted, his services seemed superfluous, and we moved on, regardless
of his beseeching looks.
A fresh delay soon ensued, the boy came panting up, and this time it
was "Seven francs,"--nay, as we rode away from him, he frantically
shouted, "Six!" His prospects seemed hopeless, but destiny and
perseverance were on his side,--the box gave another alarming
lurch,--the heated and almost discouraged youth made one last appeal,--
"Four francs, Monsieur! I will do it for four francs!" and the day was
his.
He was not a regular guide, appointed by Government and furnished
with a certificate, as is the law of the Alpine district for all who serve in
this responsible capacity. We had engaged him simply as a porter. Still,
the docile youth had no sooner strapped the box on his back than,
seeing that I was the only lady unprovided with an attendant, he drew
my mule's bridle through his arm, and quietly took me in charge.
No matter how charming a travelling-party you belong to, the moment
they are all mounted and climbing a mountain, single file, you feel
yourself a unit in creation. Everybody has turned his back upon you,
and you have turned your back upon everybody. You are a solitary
traveller. Are you aghast at your own situation on the steep slope of a
mule's back, with a precipice above your head and your feet dangling
over a gulf below? There is no help for it. Imagine yourself a sack of
meal, if you can, and expect as little sympathy as would be accorded to
that article. Are you moved to a keen sense of the ridiculous, as a curve
in the road discloses the figures of your elongated party, unused to
riding, and rendered the more grotesque by their mountain-equipment?
A laugh unshared is no laugh at all, so you may as well smother it at
once. Does the scenery through which you are passing awaken
emotions of sublimity? It would be sacrilege to shout out your
sentiments to the occupant of the next mule in such tones as a
watchman would employ to cry, "Fire!" No,--if you are essentially a
social creature, there is nothing for it but to bottle up your sensibilities
and await the opportunity for an explosion when you reach your inn.
Something like this result occurred, I remember, on the evening of that
very day, when Mademoiselle, who, under the charge of Michel, led the
van, met me at the hotel at Martigny, at which place she had of course
arrived a little in advance.
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