Hesperothen; Notes from the West, Vol. 2 (of 2): A Record of a Ramble in the United States and Canada in the Spring and Summer of 1881Russell, William Howard, Sir
History
Hesperothen; Notes from the West, Vol. 2 (of 2): A Record of a Ramble in the United States and Canada in the Spring and Summer of 1881
Russell, William Howard, Sir
United States -- Description and travel
We take no note of time save by its relation to constant motion, and
to the "programme"--a Procrustean bed on which we have voluntarily
placed our tortured limbs. Sometimes in the hours of the night, which
could not be called still because of the incessant pealing, rattling,
and thundering of the train, I thought of the wonderful ways of man
with himself in such affairs as we were now engaged in. There is a play
of Terence which was a trouble to me in my youth, so long ago that I
remember very little more of it than the dismal and elongated name;
but Mr. "Heautontimorumenos" never needlessly bound himself up in a
programme and delivered his life over to a time-table! It is likely
enough, seeing what sort of man he was, that he would have adopted
that course had he lived in these days. I admit that programmes are
necessary when your movements regulate, or have to be regulated by,
those of other people; and that was the case in some measure with
us, but the solicitude it occasioned the worthy and valued friends,
whose brows I perceived becoming more puckered, and whose faces and
spirits were heavy with cares connected with the programme, to come up
to time, was beyond belief, and I vowed if ever I had my own way with
the ordering of a party I would have no programme at all. And plot and
calculate as you will, a gale of wind, or a heated axle, or a broken
bridge, or a flood, upsets everything, and your schemes gang aglee
utterly! It was admirable to see how we were working out the destiny
we had made manifest for ourselves in advance so long ago, but the task
was not easy. What curious sounds, by the way, our train made at night!
One could now and then compose words to the tune of the wheels, and
the regular rhythm forced one at times to hum the words of a song, of
which the train seemed to hammer out the music. It seemed so strange to
be turning into bed night after night, and waking up to pass the same
life day after day, like a log of wood carried on by an interminable,
irresistible torrent.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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