Wayside notes and fireside thoughts

Dedication

TO

MR. NICHOLAS LINDSAY.

When England's famous poet, years agone,

Preface

fOLOMON says, "Of making many books there is no end; " while the publishers say, '* Of books of travel the number is legion." From the "wise man's" declaration, it would seem a piece of folly to become the maker of a book of any kind ; from the words of the publisher, we may suppose it is especially presumptuous to write a book of travels. Despite these warnings, however, I have dared to present to the public another book, — a book whose greater part is filled with " Wayside Notes." While the words of Solomon are true, while books without number are written, no one man possesses all these books. Almost daily, from many sources, comes to me the request, " Please send me something to read." This request I now propose to answer by offering for perusal the following pages.

I know that books of travel are numerous, but I am sure no one contains exactly the things I have told. Besides, old things told in a new way have the effect of novelty. Many a writer of travels takes for granted too much knowledge on the part of the reader, and thus fails to make himself understood. Many of the letters in this volume were written to my younger sister and brothers, and so written as to be understood b PREFACE.

by them. My other private letters were addressed to those who were as ignorant of Europe as I had been ; so those things that were new to me I have presented to them. Again, there was no part of my year abroad more enjoyable than that spent in interchange of ideas with persons of other nationality than my own ; hence, I have aimed to associate with each place the people there encountered. This, of course, gives to the book more individuality than a mere description of places could do.

The contents of "Fireside Thoughts" have been written at various times, and called forth by various circumstances. Whatever else may be said of these poems and essays, I think I can safely promise that no reader will be made the worse by their perusal; and, it may be, the less experienced may find in them some lessons of wisdom. Under many difficulties have these "Wayside Notes" and "Fireside Thoughts" been finally prepared for the publisher, and the author sends them forth with the prayer that they may not be wholly barren of good results.

E. L. South.

Florence — Forethought — A Trip to Fiesole — The Old Cathedral—A Sunset Scene 306-316

LETTER XXXIV. Florence — "Chicago" — Christmas Games . . 316-321

LETTEE XXXV.

Eome — Eetrospection — Arrival at Eome — French Manners — Eeady to Depart . . 322-329

LETTEE XXXVI.

Eome — Sistine Chapel — Fresco Work — Designs by Angelo — Designs by Eaphael 329-337

LETTEE XXXVII.

Eome — The Pope — " Holy Family " — " Blessed Infant" 338-344

LETTEE XXXVIII.

Rome — Tarpsean Eock — The Disputed Sticks . . 344-349

LETTEE XXXIX.

Eome — Fruit From the Vatican — The Capuchins — Quirinal Palace — Congratulations ...... 349-356

LETTEE XL.

Eome — Garibaldi — St. Peter's Prison — Subterranean Dungeons — American Sculptors — Miss Hosmer . . 357-368

LETTEE XLI.

Eome — Appian Way — Old Euins — Ancient Tombs 369-375

LETTEE XLII.

Eome — Pleasant Thoughts — Eesponsibilities — Protestant Churches . 376-382

LETTEE XLIII.

Rome — First Impressions — A Street Scene — A New Arrival — Gavazzi 382-388

LETTEE XLIV.

Rome — Mountain Scenery — Lava Fields — Vesuvius — The Ascent — On The Brink 389-397

LETTER XLV.

Rome — A Grand Carnival — A Narrow Escape — ^ Victor Emanuel 397-408

LETTER XLVI.

Rome — The Carnival — Triumph of Bacchus — The Corso — The Maccoli 404-410

LETTER XLVII.

Florence — Pompeii — The Colosseum . . . 411-414

LETTER XLVIII.

Venice — The Bridge — Grand Canal — Works of Art — Bridge of Sighs — The Bell Towers — Isola Bella . . ., 415-428

LETTER XLIX.

Paris — Ravenna — An Excursion — On the Lakes — The Superga — Viev? From the Top — Back Again . . . 429-440

LETTER L.

Venetian Custom — Farewell to Venice . . . 440-446

LETTER LL

Scenes in Paris — Parisian Custom — Works of Art 446-454

LETTER LII.

The French Language — A Slight Mistake — The Exposition ........... 464-462

LETTER LIII.

Atlantic Ocean — Man Overboard — Burial at Sea — Home Again 462-468

LETTER LIV.

Glencoe — Orange Blossoms . . . . . 468-471

LETTER LV.

Excelsior Institute 471-472

CONTENTS.

PAKT SECOI^D.

ESSAYS, OKIGINAL AND MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

1 . Valedictory Delivered at Hocker (now Hamilton) Col-

2. Only Waiting 486

3. Whom to Marry 486

4. Soliloquy of a Junior 491

6. Companionship in Marriage . . . . . . 492

6. " The Lord Goodness ! " ....... 496

7. Purity of Speech 497

8. Elocution 600

9. Memorable Correspondence 606

TRANSLATIONS.

10. Hope — Woman .608

11. Longing — Division of the Earth 511

12. " Stabat Mater Dolorosa " 612

13. The Virgin Mother 614

14. The Pilgrim .516

15. " Dies Irse " 617

16. The Brooklet 618

17. Sayings of Confucius 519

MISCELLANEOUS AND ORIGINAL POEMS.

18. Snowdrifts 519

19. Triumph of Faith 520

20. Sympathy 521

21. The Sacred Feast 622

22. A Prayer 622

23. Too Late 623

24. Why do I Teach School? 623

25. "Ultra Alpes Est Italia" 524

26. In Memoriam — Elijah R. Lindsay . . . • 525

27. Why is it? 527

28. In Memoriam — T.J. South 528

29. "He Loveth a Cheerful Giver" . . . . . 530

30. Let the Old Seed Die that New Fruit May Come . . 630

31. The Good Old Times 531

32. The Opening Year 533

33. What a Day May Bring 634

34. A Vision of the Night 536

35. A Confession 537

36. Living or Dead 589

37. The Fatal Dance 540

38. Who Did This Deed? 542

39. My Mission 644

41. Triumph of Chastity 648

SACRED POEMS.

42. A Day with Jesus 661

43. How the Stone was Rolled Away 556

44. David's Lament over Saul and Jonathan. . . . 658

45. Ruth and Naomi 660

PAKT I.

WAYSIDE NOTES.

LETTER I. Atlantic Ocean, June 5, 1875

Dear Brother Graham : —

"X\?S^7TE have but this instant lost sight of the last speck JV^T of American soil ; but lest events get too f ar ahead of my record, I begin, at once, my log-book. Three o'clock this afternoon found us on board the steamship Elysia, of the Anchor Lide — on the very tip top, otherwise the hurricane deck, waiting for her to push out towards Glasgow, Scotland. Soon a slight tremor passed over the huge frame of the vessel and simultaneously the wharf began to recede. A moment ago the hundreds on shore had clasped hands with the hundreds about departing; now the waters rolled between, leaving possible no other token than the mutual waving of snowy handkerchiefs. You, President, with the rest of our friends, were a thousand miles away ; we knew not one of the upturned faces gazing upon us from the pier; but, nevertheless, we, too, unfurled our 'kerchiefs with the rest. Mother wept bitter tears when we left her ; friends clung to us in parting as if we were never to meet again ; but these people smilingly bade us *' God speed," as our 2 . (17)

gallant steamer moved out to sea. There seemed no shadow of a foreboding that ours was to be other than a happy journey and a safe return. I must admit, though, now that we are fairly at sea, there recur to my mind the horrors portrayed by those who fain would have frightened us out of the voyage. Can it be that from those lovely threads of foam is to be woven my funeral shroud ? Can this gentle motion be transformed into the terrible tossing which is to drive us frantic with sea-sickness ?

June 6th. — While penning the last sentence an Irish Californian came along and advised me to desist, as bending over my paper was apt to produce the very thing I was dreading. I began to feel chilly too, so first going below to don my heavy water-proof, I joined my friends on the breezy top. They were chatting with two gentlemen whom brother introduced as his room-mates. One of them has a decidedly clerical air, speaking always as if proclaiming an oracle; the other is full of repartee, a flash of wit lighting up his homely face till you forget its native lack of beauty — forget the marks left upon it by small-pox — forget the freckles filling the remaining space — forget, too, the deformity which compels him to rest upon a cane while walking. Both proved to be Presbyterian preachers : the one a pompous Scotchman, the other a witty son of Erin. They were both brought to America while children and received an American education, but it takes generations for even our atmosphere to dissipate national peculiarities. They had

Letter One. 19

been discussing the probability of encountering storms.

*' Were you ever in a storm, Mr. C?" I asked.

"Yes, once; it was glorious! I sat flat down on deck, held tight to the bulwarks, and let one wave after another break over me for more than an hour," he responded.

*'OhI" said I, *' how much good the immersion must have done you."

"So you're a Baptist, are you?" he inquired, catching up at once the word " immersion."

I promptly corrected his mistake, assuring him that I wore willingly no other name than that of " Christian," or "Disciple." We might have gotten into a debate, but were rescued from such a calamity by " Adam," namesake of him who originated theological disputes " and all our woes." We knew his name was Adam from hearing him so called by a vivacious young lady, evidently his traveling companion. He came across the deck and took a seat next me, at once opening a conversation. " Another Scotchman," was my mental comment before he had uttered a dozen words. He asked where I was from, what I had seen of the world, and where I might be going now. When he was through, I took my turn at playing " Inquisitive Jack," and as a result, he found me to be a Kentucky girl, practically ignorant of the wonders of America, but bound to explore the greater ones of Europe ; I found in him one who had tried all parts of the globe, had settled finally in a Pennsylvania coal mine, and was now on his way to visit his aged mother in Scotland. Such is the approved etiquette of an introduction aboard ship.

The ringing of the tea-bell called us to the saloon, where we partook of oatmeal cake and tea. Our Scotch friends found in the former dish consolation for the fact that we had just been passed by the City of Chester. " Slow and sure," is the motto of the Scotch sailor, and with oatmeal cake to cheer the way, the Scotch passenger can endure the thought of coming second into port.

I thought, last night, the supper rather a frugal affair ; but to-day, the reason for that became apparent. It is the fifth meal of the day. At seven a. m., we can have oatmeal porridge in our berths ; and at half past eight, comes a bountiful breakfast; at twelve a lunch is spread; at four, are served in succession, soup, fish, meats with vegetables and sauces, puddings and pies, with a dessert of fruits and nuts. In fact, we do little else but eat, that is, we of the cabin. Last night, *'Adam " called me to see " something funny;" I went, through curiosity, and found three or four wretched steerage passengers rolling on their part of the deck in the agony of sea-sickness. I didn't look long, lest I too should catch the epidemic. We were afraid to go to our bunks, so we sat out in the fresh air till eleven o'clock. The gentlemen spun yarns for us; we ladies joined in the chorus of laughter ; then would follow an interval in which all silently listened to the murmur of the sea, and thought of the dear ones left

Letter One. 21

behind. Brother distinguished himself by discovering a multitude of new stars, not in the sky, but in the ocean, lighting up the track over which our vessel was speeding. The waters on either side were inky black, but just in our wake was a broad line of light, throwing off starlike scintillations upon this dark back-ground.

After all it was not so bad in our state-rooms — never enjoyed a sweeter sleep, never opened my eyes upon a brighter Lord's-day. Not every one has fared so well, though. Just this minute two gentlerhen came up, declaring they were going to take a potion of seawater " and have it all over at once " — - yes and here's Miss Law, Adam's cousin, who was all vivacity last night, now as pale as a ghost. She managed to dress by putting on one garment at a time, then lying down again — even now her shoes are not laced and her hair not combed, but little she cares for that.

*' And don't you feel at all squeamish, Miss L.?" inquires Mr. Conway, while the expression of some inner trouble, which he fain would conceal, passes over his face. He has to preach at ten, down in the saloon, and sugo-ests the text: " And there shall be no more sea ; " but I protest against it, as I am yet qiiite in love with the playful billows. Kate has developed a sudden fondness for lemons and an aversion to other food.

June 7th. — We had preaching yesterday at ten, according to appointment; Sunday-school at two; and yet another service at eight p. m. This service drew us nearer together by making us realize our common dependence upon one Mighty Arm. Sailors, they say, are never content unless there is at least one minister of the Gospel on board. They imagine there is safety in the mere presence of one whose wont it is to hold constant communion with God.

There were only a straggling few at breakfast this morning, but among them was a large, flabby-looking, gray-haired man, who has been an object of remark ever since we set out. With a young woman, whom we supposed to be his daughter, he has been almost constantly running the deck.

" Come, Miss, don't be so lazy," said he to me this morning, " take a run with us and you will feel alive again. Come, I'll help you get your sea-legs on," and, taking my arm, he was off with me before I could say yes or no.

" Very well done,'* he said encouragingly ; ** you'll soon learn — get out of breath a little at first, to be sure ! " I hadn't much use for breath just then, for he talked away, leaving no room for a word from me.

" My wife and I have been much on the water — came from New Zealand atjross to San Francisco only a month ago — we never are caught by sea-sickness, because we walk too fast ! There, now; don't you feel wide awake." I did, indeed, and also quite able to walk alone, so I yielded his arm to a fresh recruit. Made ventursome by our example, quite a number joined us. Oh ! how wild is the sea, and how we inhale the same spirit as we revel in the invigorating breeze. From stern to bow and back again is quite a promenade,

Letter One. 23

but we always linger awhile at either end. What a furrow we seem to plow in the deep as the resisting waters are thrown right and left by the prow into great ridges of snowy froth I How tightly we clasp the iron railing at the stern as that part of the vessel is one moment thrown high in air, and the next let fall till our heads are . on a level with the crest of the wave 1 The sailors are teaching us now to avoid the front part of the vessel. They caught several gentlemen up there awhile ago, drew a chalk line around them, and refused to let them out for less than " a treat."

June 8th. — The Elysia kept up a doleful whistling last night, which greatly disturbed our slumbers. It sounded like the despairing notes of a lost child, which had alread}'' shouted itself into hoarseness and exhaustion. Such pitiful tones seemed not at all consistent with the majestic movements thus far characteristic of our ocean queen. Captain says this whistling was a necessary precaution on account of the fog, which prevailed last night while we were crossing the banks of Newfoundland. This morning, though, the sun lights up the waters, and expands our view into a diameter of more than a dozen miles. The fishing smacks, which kept us company all day yesterday, have disappeared, but just now we beheld a most lovely vision. It was a vessel with every sail spread, skimming along as airily as a sea gull. Her canvas glistened in the sunlight with a whiteness second only to that of the garments in the Transfiguration, We, too, have up our mainsail, but it is all blackened by its nearness to the smoke-stack.

Miss P. and I are the only ladies who can walk steadily this morning. You ought to see Kate. She wouldn't wear her veil yesterday, and as consequence her face has reddened and bloated into the appearance of a scarlet pincushion. The skin of her forehead is puffed out till not even the wonted expression of intellect is left. To further enhance her charms, she has to envelop her head in a scarlet nubia, the only one the summer season enabled her to find in New York. It hurts me to look at her, but brother stands it admirably. They are sitting now on the leeward side, reading together Mrs. Browning's "Aurora Leigh." It is too comical to see her, as he comes upon some fine sentiment, raise her swollen lids in the attempt to look appreciation. If I were such a fright as Kate is, I should be just coward enough to hide myself away in my state-room; but, in her good-natured way, she says: —

" I had no great amount of beauty to lose, not enough to be worth fretting over."

But I want to tell you about Miss Pickrell. She is from Illinois, and brother recognized her name on the passenger list. Her brother, who is traveling with her, is bound for Ireland, where he intends to invest largely in cattle. Two other Illinoisans are on their way to France in search of Norman horses. What a variety of motives have been at work to bring together

Letter One. 25

US passengers of the Eylsia, and how this same diversity of purpose will, after a few short days, scatter us all over Europe I

This evening the social spirit seems to be overcoming that misanthropic demon which presides over " mal demer.^^ All the ladies are with us in the companion-way, some propped up with cushions to be sure, but the worst one is able to smile, at least faintly. The Captain has been entertaining us with amusing anecdotes.

" On one voyage," said he, *' there was an old Scotch lady among my passengers. On the second day out I peeped into the ladies' cabin and never did I see a more disconsolate group. ' Well, my dear madam, how are you by this time?' I asked in a friendly way. * None the better for you, nor your miserable ship,' she replied snappishly. I walked away determined to pay her for being so cross. After half an hour I went back to the cabin and not even noticing the old lady, said to another ' Don't feel well, do you?' 'No, sir.' 'That's because you're on a Scotch steamer — you ought to have known better — should have come on the Cunard Line. Don't you know the Scotch are stupid about everything — they can't build ships, they can't be half way sailors. In fact, there is very little they are fit for.' The old lady had been too sick to raise her head, but, at the end of the first sentence, she sprang up and tried to interrupt me. I paid no attention to her, but talked on while she grew more and more furious. At last, she could stand it no longer, but seizing my arm, she fairly shrieked out, ' Are you Scotch? Are you Scotch, I say. You're a disgrace to your country — you're a living disgrace to Scotland.' I laughed in he face, then, and said, ' Give us your hand on that, and tell me, how do you feel now?' I tell you she was never sick another minute after that."

I think this will be my last entry on sea-sickness, for the fifth day is apt to terminate the most aggravated case.

June 9th. — We had a game of shuffle-bnard this morning. Perhaps you are not familiar with this game — don't know that it is often played on land. The ship's carpenter laid off for us, on the deck, an ellipse with a major axis of some four feet. This he divided by cross-lines into nine spaces, in each of which he inscribed some number. He next provided us with four long-handled v/oodeu shovels and four circular pieces of two inch plank, of perhaps two pounds weight. Marking off a " taw " ten or fifteen feet from the ellipse, the carpenter pronouced the preparations complete. My partner was an Irish priest, a tall handsome young man, with a well cultivated mind and a dignified bearing. He sings most effectively the praises of Killarney, with touching pathos the " Grave of Napoleon," but he refuses to sing love songs, though MissKeill, of Kansas City, has tried to decoy him into this inconsistency. Father C, another of the priestly fraternity, is by no means so scrupulous. He is like the jolly Friar Tuck, who had rather drink wine, play

Letter One. 27

" Old Sam " for shillings, or pitch quoits for the sake of beating, than to celebrate mass under the dome of St. Peter's. But I am forgetting the game. Miss P. and a low, fat, baby-faced, white-headed young Englishman were our opponents. I was first to more off, and applied my shovel to my round board with great vehemence. It didn't go half way to the ring, for just as I gave it a push forward, the stern of the vessel rose so as to almost counteract my stroke. Taking better aim next time and waiting till the stern was descending, my block landed entirely beyond the ring. Miss P. next took her turn and was much elated as her block slided along and finally rested upon number ten. My partner, however, adroitly drove against her block with such force as to send it to keep company with mine. Last came the Englishman, and with perfect confidence he made his thrust. A burst of laughter from the lookers-on announced another failure, and sure enough the detestable block had chosen to stop upon the minus ten. Thus the first round closed with twenty in our favor. By and by, we learned to calculate the effect of the boat's movements, the friction of the deck and the amount of muscular energy required in order to reach the best numbers. Simple as this game seems, it is really a very attractive relief from the monotony of eating and breathing.

June 10th. — My shoulder feels to-day the efiect of yesterday's exercise at shufile board. Miss Keill started a new diversion, to-day, in the shape of an autograph album. Everybody who hasn't a regular album has consecrated two or three pages of his diary, or two or three loose bits of writing paper, to this purpose. I have even the Captain's name, «* Archibald Campbell. " Good name, isn't it? He says he is distantly, related to Alexander Campbell, but he knows far better the articles of the Presbyterian Confession than the simple doctrine of the " Reformer. "

Portions of a wreck have been passing for the last hour: mattresses, doors, broken timbers, etc. There are also bales of hay, the presence of which, the sailors say, betokens a coasting vessel. Since these bales are still floating it can not have been more then twenty four hours since the accident occurred. Captain attributes the disaster to icebergs, which are to be encountered in this region.

June 11th. — You must not complain, if you find this day's record brief and hard to decipher. It is one of the roughest days we have had yet. One minute, my paper, ink-stand, the table itself, threaten to precipitate themselves into my lap, the next, I am clutching them desperately, to prevent their taking leave in an opposite direction. Kate has made a great hole in our pile of lemons, and I thought it not unwise to share a small one with her. We can't walk on deck ; for, every once in a while, there comes a tremendous lurch, sufficient to trip a thorough-bred sailor. The first mate says a captain of his acquaintance was taken overboard and lost in that way.

The gentlemen in the smoking-room are unusually garrulous. Above all the noise of the storm, come from

Letter One. 29

thence the most uproarous shouts of laughter ; and the frequent clink of glasses explains the source of such untimely merriment. Father C. is most boisterous of the party, and, at every outburst, you may know he has swept the card-table of its last sixpence. There is one among them, however, whose voice never rings out in open-hearted jollity ; his very smile is but a supercilious curl of the lip, which chills out of the observer every joyous impulse. Erect and motionless, save the muscles which raise and depress his goggle eyes, he watches with assumed indifference the cards in the hand of his opponent. He doesn't care to play, like Father C, with a whole circle of jolly fellows; but flatters the half fledged Englishman with his undivided attention. One day the latter is chuckling over his success, the next the wily gambler displays a handful of English coins. He is a Louisianian, but of Italian origin, and I think he has inherited the cunning of that southern race. Miss P. and I have seen a great deal of him, for when he grows weary of the smoking-room, he comes down to the saloon for a talk with us. His tones are measured always, and in quoting poetry he tries to throw into them a melting sweetness, but I feel through it all that there is no heart in it. He has a finely cultivated mind, but his heart is barren of warm, sympathetic emotions. He has traveled much in Europe, speaks several languages ; in fact, has an experimental knowledge of almost everything, except, perhaps, how to be good. He told us yesterday how he once *' played o:ff " on a young lady who made a false pretense of appreciating Italian poetry. Assuming a sentimental air, he repeated to her a musical passage from Dante. The young lady clasped her hands, leaned forward in seeming ecstasy, and, at the close, exclaimed, —

*' Ah ! how true that is. *'

*' Yes, " replied the Italian, *' and it is as true to-day as when first written by the poet. " It was simply a statement in metrical lines of the dry fact that Dante was born at the mouth of the Po.

June 14th, — Just after I ceased writing Saturday, B. (the Englishman) came up to me and Miss Pickrell with the exclamation, —

"I've been completely skinned. When I get to Moville, I shall have to telegraph to my brother-inlaw for money enough to take me home."

Poor fellow I I pity him ; for though he is vain and self-complaisant, he is a mere youth just yielding himself to the allurements of the gaming-table.

We had, Saturday evening after tea, an impromptu concert. Our walking New Zealander was unanimously called to the chair, and, in his asthmatic tones, he bade us come to order. First on the programme was Mrs. W., a deaf lady, who could not hear a note of the Germanic strains of her overture. She is among the notables. We all pitied her affliction, and at first tried to entertain her; but it is so difficult to make her understand, she now complains of lack of attention. She has been twice married and is now a widow of five and thirty. She is on her tenth visit to Scotland —

Letter One. 31

not that she likes Scotland, she hates it. She hates America; she hates the ocean; she hates this steamer with its captain, its crew, and its passengers; and doubtless, she hates herself as the most unamiable thing aboard. She has, however, taken a fancy to "Adam." He was standing with me in the door awhile ago when she began a solitary promenade back and forth, turning upon us each time a spiteful glance. Finally stopping, she touched Adam's arm and said in a shrill undertone : —

" I'm independent — I need neither help nor escori.^' This hint had so much of command in it, that *'Adam" fled precipitately. So much for our first performer.