As we meet and touch each day
The many travellers on the way,
Let every such brief contact be
A glorious helpful ministry—
The contact of the soil and seed,
Each giving to the other’s need,
Each helping on the other’s best,
And blessing each, as well as blest.
On December 4, 1875, we left London for Trieste, en route for India. It was not a cheerful day for saying good-bye to Old England and dear friends. There was a fog as black as midnight, thick snow was lying about the streets, and a dull red gloom only rendered the darkness visible and horrible. The great city was wrapped in the sullen splendours of a London fog. “It looks,” said Richard, “as if the city were in mourning for some great national crime.” “No,” I said, “rather let us think that our fatherland wears mourning for our departure into exile once more.” I felt as if I could never rise and face the day that morning. However, we had to go, so there was nothing to do but put our shoulders to the wheel. We lunched with my father and family by lamplight at one o’clock in the day. We prolonged the “festive” meal as much as we could, and then set out, a large family party, by the 4.45 train to Folkestone. We all had supper together at Folkestone, and enjoyed ourselves immensely. The next day my relations wished me good-bye—always a hard word to say. One parting in particular wrung my heart: I little thought then I should meet no more my brother Rudolph, the last of my four dear brothers, all of whom died young by untoward accidents. It was strange I was always bidding good-bye to them every three or four years. One ought to have been steeled to parting by now. Nevertheless every time the wrench was as keen as ever.
We stopped in Folkestone until Tuesday, and then Richard and I got into a sleigh, which took us over the snow from the hotel to the boat. We had a very cold crossing, but not a rough one; and as we neared Boulogne we even saw a square inch or so of pale blue sky, a sight which, after London, made us rejoice.