Worldly Ways and Byways | Page 8

natural and

honest taste honestly and naturally, for, after all, it is
The desire of the moth for the star, Of the night for the morrow. The
devotion to something afar From the sphere of our sorrow.
CHAPTER 3
- Contrasted Travelling
WHEN our parents went to Europe fifty years ago, it was the event of a
lifetime - a tour lovingly mapped out in advance with advice from
travelled friends. Passports were procured, books read, wills made, and
finally, prayers were offered up in church and solemn leave-taking
performed. Once on the other side, descriptive letters were
conscientiously written, and eagerly read by friends at home, - in spite
of these epistles being on the thinnest of paper and with crossing
carried to a fine art, for postage was high in the forties. Above all, a
journal was kept.
Such a journal lies before me as I write. Four little volumes in worn
morocco covers and faded "Italian" writing, more precious than all my
other books combined, their sight recalls that lost time - my youth -
when, as a reward, they were unlocked that I might look at the
drawings, and the sweetest voice in the world would read to me from
them! Happy, vanished days, that are so far away they seem to have
been in another existence!
The first volume opens with the voyage across the Atlantic, made in an
American clipper (a model unsurpassed the world over), which was
accomplished in thirteen days, a feat rarely equalled now, by sail.
Genial Captain Nye was in command. The same who later, when a
steam propelled vessel was offered him, refused, as unworthy of a
seaman, "to boil a kettle across the ocean."
Life friendships were made in those little cabins, under the swinging
lamp the travellers re-read last volumes so as to be prepared to
appreciate everything on landing. Ireland, England and Scotland were
visited with an enthusiasm born of Scott, the tedium of long coaching

journeys being beguiled by the first "numbers" of "Pickwick," over
which the men of the party roared, but which the ladies did not care for,
thinking it vulgar, and not to be compared to "Waverley," "Thaddeus of
Warsaw," or "The Mysteries of Udolpho."
A circular letter to our diplomatic agents abroad was presented in each
city, a rite invariably followed by an invitation to dine, for which
occasions a black satin frock with a low body and a few simple
ornaments, including (supreme elegance) a diamond cross, were carried
in the trunks. In London a travelling carriage was bought and stocked,
the indispensable courier engaged, half guide, half servant, who was
expected to explore a city, or wait at table, as occasion required. Four
days were passed between Havre and Paris, and the slow progress
across Europe was accomplished, Murray in one hand and Byron in the
other.
One page used particularly to attract my boyish attention. It was headed
by a naive little drawing of the carriage at an Italian inn door, and
described how, after the dangers and discomforts of an Alpine pass,
they descended by sunny slopes into Lombardy. Oh! the rapture that
breathes from those simple pages! The vintage scenes, the mid-day halt
for luncheon eaten in the open air, the afternoon start, the front seat of
the carriage heaped with purple grapes, used to fire my youthful
imagination and now recalls Madame de Stael's line on perfect
happiness: "To be young! to be in love! to be in Italy!"
Do people enjoy Europe as much now? I doubt it! It has become too
much a matter of course, a necessary part of the routine of life. Much of
the bloom is brushed from foreign scenes by descriptive books and
photographs, that St. Mark's or Mt. Blanc has become as familiar to a
child's eye as the house he lives in, and in consequence the reality now
instead of being a revelation is often a disappointment.
In my youth, it was still an event to cross. I remember my first voyage
on the old side-wheeled SCOTIA, and Captain Judkins in a wheeled
chair, and a perpetual bad temper, being pushed about the deck; and our
delight, when the inevitable female asking him (three days out) how far
we were from land, got the answer "about a mile!"

"Indeed! How interesting! In which direction?"
"In that direction, madam," shouted the captain, pointing downward as
he turned his back to her.
If I remember, we were then thirteen days getting to Liverpool, and
made the acquaintance on board of the people with whom we travelled
during most of that winter. Imagine anyone now making an
acquaintance on board a steamer! In those simple days people
depended on the friendships made at summer hotels or boarding-
houses for their visiting list. At