During part of the winter of 1878, Miss Larcom made her only foreign trip—a visit to Europe never being possible, on account of the expense—to Bermuda, which she thoroughly enjoyed. She wrote letters to the Boston “Daily Advertiser,” describing the “Still vexed Bermoothes,” with enthusiastic appreciation. The recollection of Miranda and Prospero, with “hag-born” Caliban, interested her as much as the houses with walls of coral, or the transparency of the beryl sea, through which one could see the sponges, and large purple amenones, and fish of brilliant hues. “A banana plantation is rather a shabby-looking affair; the leaves are beaten to tatters by the island tempests; but for a contrast there is the royal palm, to see which for the first time is an era in one’s life, lifting its stately column above the cocoanut and India rubber trees. And we are satisfied that roses smell no less sweet for growing on the border of an onion patch. After all this wonder of foreign growths it is pleasant to see a dandelion in flower, and to find little mats of pimpernel on the hillside before our hotel. These little home-blossoms deepen the home feeling, and we are no more foreigners, even here.”
A poem full of semi-tropical scenery, written on this trip, appeared in “Harper’s Magazine:”—
“Under the eaves of a southern sky,
Where the cloud-roof bends to the ocean floor,
Hid in lonely seas, the Bermoothes lie,
An emerald cluster that Neptune bore
Away from the covetous earth-god’s sight,
And placed in a setting of sapphire light.”
For “pot-boilers,” Miss Larcom undertook various inferior kinds of literary work, such as compilations of poetical calendars, and short biographical notices of famous people. One of her books of this class, “Landscape in American Poetry,” with beautiful illustrations by Mr. J. Appleton Brown, was published in 1879. There was some original writing in it, but in the main, it was a collection from many sources, of poems dealing with interesting places in America.
TO MRS. E. B. WHEATON.
627 Tremont Street, Boston,
January 21, 1879.My dear Mrs. Wheaton,—I have been intending to write, ever since I was at Norton, and tell you how much I enjoyed being there, and returning to the spirit of my old days at the Seminary.
I was so ill the last years of my stay there, I hardly knew how much of a home it was to me. To go back in restored health was a revelation of the old joy in my work. I think there must be something of the same feeling in looking back from the better world we hope for, when we have passed from this. We shall never know how good and beautiful a world we have lived in until we get away from it, and can get a glimpse of it with all our weariness and cares laid aside.
I think a great deal of the beautiful atmosphere which pervades the Norton life is due to the generous idea in which the school was founded. It gives the place a home feeling rarely found in such schools.
Ever truly yours,
Lucy Larcom.
TO MRS. S. I. SPALDING.
Boston, December 6, 1879.
When I came home from the reception and breakfast given to Dr. Holmes on Wednesday, I thought I would sit down and write you about it at once.... The breakfast was a splendid success; you have probably read about it, but there was a certain exhilaration in being in the presence of so many bright people, and feeling perfectly at home, which was indescribable. I never expected to enjoy anything of the kind at all, but I was really taken off my feet, in a figurative sense. Dr. Holmes filled the place of honor in a delightful manner. It was really like sitting down at his own breakfast table. Mrs. Whitney and I went at twelve as invited. I left at a little past six and they were not through with their letters and speeches then. I was introduced to ever so many people I never saw before.
... I don’t know but the pleasantest thing to me was the opportunity of speaking to Rev. Phillips Brooks, or rather of hearing him speak face to face. To look up into his honest, clear eyes, was like seeing the steady lights in a watch-tower; and a tower of strength he is among us. The outward largeness of the man is a type of his moral strength and mental breadth and spiritual height, I am more than ever convinced. I never spoke to a man who seemed so thoroughly grand to me.
Mr. Whittier came, but remained a very short time. I saw him only a moment, just before we went in. My escort—they were all coupled off by a printed plan—was Mr. William Winter, a New York poet and journalist. He was very entertaining, and I think his poem was the best and most effective of the occasion.
... I am fast getting to be a dissipated woman, but I must and will put myself to work steadily for a week or two.