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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