(Gentlemen—I didn’t mean to preach. This was written
primarily for my children. I have hoped they would catch some of my enthusiasm
that Grenfell gave to me.)
The last time we talked (in Spring of 1940), we both wished
that we were young enough to go to the English Channel now. Twenty years ago we
went as did our ancestors three hundred years before us. We also reluctantly
admitted that our boys are not so eager to go as were we, or their ancestors
twelve generations ago. They do not see the treat—to Dover sands and all else
besides that we covet dear. We (old fellows) wondered if the stock is running
out.
For thirty years he was my hero—and still is. He spoke of
life and treated it as “An Adventure.” He could steer his ship by the stars or
the sun or by dead reckoning. He used to say that a poor chart was worse than
none at all. Many poor charts he revised, and many a storm he has outridden
(these things are a parable). He wrecked some boats and bumped the bottom of
others, but he built a ship railway to repair his own and those of all others.
The sea tugged at his heart—He’s off on another voyage.
That’s what he believed. And I believe it too; he taught me. The first books he
ever gave me were on immortality. He used to talk about it—quite naturally,
just as he talked of other things. I listened, but I wasn’t entirely
interested. But now . . . well, one gets older . . . things gain perspective .
. .
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