There is a wall of rock above the seat, and if a small niche
could be cut there for an urn, with a tablet of marble to mark the
spot, it would please my fancy. Should you decide to gratify the
whim, please have no name carved on the marble, but only a verse
you quoted that day at the Rochers Rouges. I think you told me it
was by a Scottish poet, whom you liked; and I said the words had in
them a strange undertone of music like a lullaby: the sound of the
sea, and the sadness and mystery of the sea. You will remember. It
was after luncheon was over, but we were still at the table, and
you sat with your elbow on the low wall, looking down into the
water.
You are not to suppose, though, that because I speak of the sadness
of the sea, I am sad in the thought that soon I may be gone where I
can no longer hear its voice. I am not sad, and you must not be sad
either at my talk of dying, or at my death when it comes. Think of
me, but not with sadness. Do not come to see my body before it's
given to the burning: do not come to my funeral. I don't want a
funeral, for though I am not without a religion of my own, it's one
that does not lend itself to ceremonies. As for the mystery of the
sea, it and all other mysteries which are hidden from us now will
soon, I trust, be clear to
Your ever loyal, faithful friend,
JOHN HANNAFORD.
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