The Friendly Road Part 4

There's nothin' in the world so necessary to rich AN' poor, old AN'

young as a good brush!"

And with a final burst of enthusiasm the brush-peddler drove off up the hill. I stood watching him and when he turned around I waved the brush high over my head in token of a grateful farewell.

It was a good, serviceable, friendly brush. I carried it throughout my wanderings; and as I sit here writing in my study, at this moment, I can see it hanging on a hook at the side of my fireplace.

CHAPTER III. THE HOUSE BY THE SIDE OF THE ROAD

"Everyone," remarks Tristram Shandy, "will speak of the fair as his own market has gone in it."

It came near being a sorry fair for me on the afternoon following my parting with the amiable brush-peddler. The plain fact is, my success at the Stanleys', and the easy manner in which I had fallen in with Mr.

Canfield, gave me so much confidence in myself as a sort of Master of the Road that I proceeded with altogether too much a.s.surance.

I am firmly convinced that the prime quality to be cultivated by the pilgrim is humility of spirit; he must be willing to accept Adventure in whatever garb she chooses to present herself. He must be able to see the shining form of the unusual through the dull garments of the normal.

The fact is, I walked that afternoon with my head in air and pa.s.sed many a pleasant farmstead where men were working in the fields, and many an open doorway, and a mill or two, and a town--always looking for some Great Adventure.

Somewhere upon this road, I thought to myself, I shall fall in with a Great Person, or become a part of a Great Incident. I recalled with keen pleasure the experience of that young Spanish student of Carlyle writes in one of his volumes, who, riding out from Madrid one day, came unexpectedly upon the greatest man in the world. This great man, of whom Carlyle observes (I have looked up the pa.s.sage since I came home), "a kindlier, meeker, braver heart has seldom looked upon the sky in this world," had ridden out from the city for the last time in his life "to take one other look at the azure firmament and green mosaic pavements and the strange carpentry and arras work of this n.o.ble palace of a world."

As the old story has it, the young student "came p.r.i.c.king on hastily, complaining that they went at such a pace as gave him little chance of keeping up with them. One of the party made answer that the blame lay with the horse of Don Miguel de Cervantes, whose trot was of the speediest. He had hardly p.r.o.nounced the name when the student dismounted and, touching the hem of Cervantes' left sleeve, said, 'Yes, yes, it is indeed the maimed perfection, the all-famous, the delightful writer, the joy and darling of the Muses! You are that brave Miguel.'"

It may seem absurd to some in this cool and calculating twentieth century that any one should indulge in such vain imaginings as I have described--and yet, why not? All things are as we see them. I once heard a man--a modern man, living to-day--tell with a hush in his voice, and a peculiar light in his eye, how, walking in the outskirts of an unromantic town in New Jersey, he came suddenly upon a vigorous, bearded, rather rough-looking man swinging his stick as he walked, and stopping often at the roadside and often looking up at the sky. I shall never forget the curious thrill in his voice as he said:

"And THAT was Walt Whitman."

And thus quite absurdly intoxicated by the possibilities of the road, I let the big full afternoon slip by--I let slip the rich possibilities of half a hundred farms and scores of travelling people--and as evening began to fall I came to a stretch of wilder country with wooded hills and a dashing stream by the roadside. It was a fine and beautiful country--to look at--but the farms, and with them the chances of dinner, and a friendly place to sleep, grew momentarily scarcer. Upon the hills here and there, indeed, were to be seen the pretentious summer homes of rich dwellers from the cities, but I looked upon them with no great hopefulness.

"Of all places in the world," I said to myself, "surely none could be more unfriendly to a man like me."

But I amused myself with conjectures as to what might happen (until the adventure seemed almost worth trying) if a dusty man with a bag on his back should appear at the door of one of those well-groomed establishments. It came to me, indeed, with a sudden deep sense of understanding, that I should probably find there, as everywhere else, just men and women. And with that I fell into a sort of Socratic dialogue with myself:

ME: Having decided that the people in these houses are, after all, merely men and women, what is the best way of reaching them?

MYSELF: Undoubtedly by giving them something they want and have not.

ME: But these are rich people from the city; what can they want that they have not?

MYSELF: Believe me, of all people in the world those who want the most are those who have the most. These people are also consumed with desires.

ME: And what, pray, do you suppose they desire?

MYSELF: They want what they have not got; they want the unattainable: they want chiefly the rarest and most precious of all things--a little mystery in their lives.

"That's it!" I said aloud; "that's it! Mystery--the things of the spirit, the things above ordinary living--is not that the essential thing for which the world is sighing, and groaning, and longing--consciously, or unconsciously?"

I have always believed that men in their innermost souls desire the highest, bravest, finest things they can hear, or see, or feel in all the world. Tell a man how he can increase his income and he will be grateful to you and soon forget you; but show him the highest, most mysterious things in his own soul and give him the word which will convince him that the finest things are really attainable, and he will love and follow you always.

I now began to look with much excitement to a visit at one of the houses on the hill, but to my disappointment I found the next two that I approached still closed up, for the spring was not yet far enough advanced to attract the owners to the country. I walked rapidly onward through the gathering twilight, but with increasing uneasiness as to the prospects for the night, and thus came suddenly upon the scene of an odd adventure.

From some distance I had seen a veritable palace set high among the trees and overlooking a wonderful green valley--and, drawing nearer, I saw evidences of well-kept roadways and a visible effort to make invisible the attempt to preserve the wild beauty of the place. I saw, or thought I saw, people on the wide veranda, and I was sure I heard the snort of a climbing motor-car, but I had scarcely decided to make my way up to the house when I came, at the turning of the country road, upon a bit of open land laid out neatly as a garden, near the edge of which, nestling among the trees, stood a small cottage. It seemed somehow to belong to the great estate above it, and I concluded, at the first glance, that it was the home of some caretaker or gardener.

It was a charming place to see, and especially the plantation of trees and shrubs. My eye fell instantly upon a fine magnolia--rare in this country--which had not yet cast all its blossoms, and I paused for a moment to look at it more closely. I myself have tried to raise magnolias near my house, and I know how difficult it is.

As I approached nearer to the cottage, I could see a man and woman sitting on the porch in the twilight and swaying back and forth in rocking-chairs. I fancied--it may have been only a fancy--that when I first saw them their hands were clasped as they rocked side by side.

It was indeed a charming little cottage. Crimson ramblers, giving promise of the bloom that was yet to come, climbed over one end of the porch, and there were fine dark-leaved lilac-bushes near the doorway: oh, a pleasant, friendly, quiet place!

I opened the front gate and walked straight in, as though I had at last reached my destination. I cannot give any idea of the lift of the heart with which I entered upon this new adventure. Without the premeditation and not knowing what I should say or do, I realized that everything depended upon a few sentences spoken within the next minute or two.

Believe me, this experience to a man who does not know where his next meal is coming from, nor where he is to spend the night, is well worth having. It is a marvellous sharpener of the facts.

I knew, of course, just how these people of the cottage would ordinarily regard an intruder whose bag and clothing must infallibly cla.s.s him as a follower of the road. And so many followers of the road are--well--

As I came nearer, the man and woman stopped rocking, but said nothing.

An old dog that had been sleeping on the top step rose slowly and stood there.

"As I pa.s.sed your garden," I said, grasping desperately for a way of approach, "I saw your beautiful specimen of the magnolia tree--the one still in blossom. I myself have tried to grow magnolias--but with small success--and I'm making bold to inquire what variety you are so successful with."

It was a shot in the air--but I knew from what I had seen that they must be enthusiastic gardeners. The man glanced around at the magnolia with evident pride, and was about to answer when the woman rose and with a pleasant, quiet cordiality said:

"Won't you step up and have a chair?"

I swung my bag from my shoulder and took the proffered seat. As I did so I saw, on the table just behind me a number magazines and books--books of unusual sizes and shapes, indicating that they were not mere summer novels.

"They like books!" I said to myself, with a sudden rise of spirits.

"I have tried magnolias, too," said the man, "but this is the only one that has been really successful. It is a Chinese white magnolia."

"The one Downing describes?" I asked.

This was also a random shot, but I conjectured that if they loved both books gardens they would know Downing--Bible of the gardener. And if they did, we belonged to the same church.

"The very same," exclaimed the woman; "it was Downing's enthusiasm for the Chinese magnolia which led us first to try it."

With that, like true disciples, we fell into great talk of Downing, at first all in praise of him, and later--for may not the faithful be permitted lat.i.tude in their comments so long as it is all within the cloister?--we indulged in a bit of higher criticism.

"It won't do," said the man, "to follow too slavishly every detail of practice as recommended by Downing. We have learned a good many things since the forties."

"The fact is," I said, "no literal-minded man should be trusted with Downing."

"Any more than with the Holy Scriptures," exclaimed the woman.

"Exactly!" I responded with the greatest enthusiasm; "exactly! We go to him for inspiration, for fundamental teachings, for the great literature and poetry of the art. Do you remember," I asked, "that pa.s.sage in which Downing quotes from some old Chinaman upon the true secret of the pleasures of a garden--?"

"Do we?" exclaimed the man, jumping up instantly; "do we? Just let me get the book--"

With that he went into the house and came back immediately bringing a lamp in one hand--for it had grown pretty dark--and a familiar, portly, blue-bound book in the other. While he was gone the woman said: