of their lives, and became strong to endure
the heaviness of noonday. They strived forward during the hours of early
afternoon while their sun's ambition was hot, and then as the heat cooled
they reached the crest of the last hill, and their road dipped gently to
the valley where all roads end. And on into the quiet evening, until, at
last, they lie down in that shadowed valley, and await the long night.

This figure has lost its meaning, for we now travel by rail, and life is
expressed in terms of the railway time-table. As has been said, we leave
and arrive at places, but we no longer travel. Consequently we cannot
understand the hubbub that Marco Polo must have caused among his townsmen
when he swaggered in. He and his crew were bronzed by the sun, were
dressed as Tartars, and could speak their native Italian with difficulty.
To convince the Venetians of their identity, Marco gave a magnificent
entertainment, at which he and his officers received, clad in oriental
dress of red satin. Three times during the banquet they changed their
dress, distributing the discarded garments among their guests. At last,
the rough Tartar clothing worn on their travels was displayed and then
ripped open. Within was a profusion of jewels of the Orient, the gifts of
Kublai Khan of Cathay. The proof was regarded as perfect, and from that
time Marco was acknowledged by his countrymen, and loaded with
distinction. When Drake returned from the Straits of Magellan and,
powdered and beflunkied, told his lies at fashionable London dinners, no
doubt he was believed. And his crew, let loose on the beer-shops, gathered
each his circle of listeners, drank at his admirers' expense, and yarned
far into the night. It was worth one's while to be a traveler in those
times.

But traveling has fallen to the yellow leaf. The greatest traveler is now
the brakeman. Next is he who sells colored cotton. A poor third pursues
health and flees from restlessness. Wise men have ceased to question
travelers, except to inquire of the arrival of trains and of the comfort
of hotels.

To-day I am a thousand miles from home. From my window the world stretches
massive, homewards. Even though I stood on the most distant range of
mountains and looked west, still I would look on a world that contained no
suggestion of home; and if I leaped to that horizon and the next, the
result would be the same--so insignificant would be the relative distance
accomplished. And here I am