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.