to see me off, that was absolutely and literally accurate. Friends had,
indeed, signified their purpose to meet me at the station for last
farewells, and had, furthermore, remarked upon the very slight show of
enthusiasm with which I heard the news.

The fact is, I do not like to be seen off. Least of all, do I like to be
seen off by those who are dear to me. If the thing must be done, I
prefer it to be done by strangers--committees from chambers of commerce
and the like, who have no interest in me save the hope that I will live
to write agreeably of their city--of the civic center, the fertilizer
works, and the charming new abattoir. Seeing me off for the most
practical of reasons, such gentlemen are invariably efficient. They
provide an equipage, and there have even been times when, in the final
hurried moments, they have helped me to jam the last things into my
trunks and bags. One of them politely takes my suitcase, another kindly
checks my baggage, and all in order that a third, who is usually the
secretary of the chamber of commerce, may regale me with inspiring
statistics concerning the population of "our city," the seating capacity
of the auditorium, the number of banks, the amount of their clearings,
and the quantity of belt buckles annually manufactured. When the train
is ready we exchange polite expressions of regret at parting:
expressions reminiscent of those little speeches which the King of
England and the Emperor of Germany used to make at parting in the old
days before they found each other out and began dropping high explosives
on each other's roofs.

Such a committee, feeling no emotion (except perhaps relief) at seeing
me depart, may be useful. Not so with friends and loved ones. Useful as
they may be in the great crises of life, they are but disturbing
elements in the small ones. Those who would die for us seldom check our