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[Illustration: "At night we descended into the depths of the steamer to
worship with the steerage passengers." Page 23]
AN
AMERICAN GIRL ABROAD.
BY
ADELINE TRAFTON.
_ILLUSTRATED_
_BY MISS L. B. HUMPHREY._
BOSTON:
LEE AND SHEPARD, PUBLISHERS.
NEW YORK:
LEE, SHEPARD AND DILLINGHAM.
Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1872,
BY LEE AND SHEPARD,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
Electrotyped at the Boston Stereotype Foundry,
No. 19 Spring Lane.
I DEDICATE
This Record of Pleasant Days
TO MY FATHER,
REV. MARK TRAFTON.
BOOKS FOR "OUR GIRLS."
THE GIRLHOOD SERIES.
By Popular Authors.
* * * * *
AN AMERICAN GIRL ABROAD.
By ADELINE F. TRAFTON. 16mo, cloth, illustrated. $1.50.
One of the most bright, chatty, wide-awake books of travel ever written.
It abounds in information, is as pleasant reading as a story book, and
full of the wit and sparkle of "An American Girl" let loose from school
and ready for a frolic.
ONLY GIRLS.
By VIRGINIA F. TOWNSEND, Author of "That Queer Girl," &c., &c. 12mo,
cloth, illustrated. $1.50.
"It is a thrilling story, written in a fascinating style, and the plot
is adroitly handled."
It might be placed in any Sabbath School library, so pure is it in tone,
and yet it is so free from the mawkishness and silliness that mar the
class of books usually found there, that the veteran novel reader is apt
to finish it at a sitting.
THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER.
By SOPHIE MAY, Author of "Our Helen," "The Asbury Twins," &c. 12mo,
cloth, illustrated. $1.50.
"A delightful book, original and enjoyable," says the _Brownville Echo_.
"A fascinating story, unfolding, with artistic touch, the young life of
one of our impulsive, sharp-witted, transparent and pure-minded girls of
the nineteenth century," says _The Contributor_, Boston.
SALLY WILLIAMS.
=The Mountain Girl.= By Mrs. EDNA D. CHENEY, Author of "Patience,"
"Social Games," "The Child of the Tide," &c. 12mo, cloth, illustrated.
$1.50.
Pure, strong, healthy, just what might be expected from the pen of so
gifted a writer as Mrs. Cheney. A very interesting picture of life among
the New Hampshire hills, enlivened by the tangle of a story of the ups
and downs of every-day life in this out-of-the-way locality. The
characters introduced are quaintly original, and the adventures are
narrated with remarkable skill.
LOTTIE EAMES.
=Or, do your best and leave the rest.= By a Popular Author. 16mo, illus.
$1.50.
"A wholesome story of home life, full of lessons of self-sacrifice, but
always bright and attractive in its varied incidents."
RHODA THORNTON'S GIRLHOOD.
By Mrs. MARY E. PRATT. 16mo, cloth, illustrated. $1.50.
A hearty and healthy story, dealing with young folks and home scenes,
with sleighing, fishing and other frolics to make things lively.
_The above six volumes are furnished in a handsome box, for $9.00, or
sold separately by all booksellers, or sent by mail, postpaid, on
receipt of price by_
LEE AND SHEPARD, Publishers, Boston.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
I.
"At night we descended into the depths of the steamer
to worship with the steerage passengers." FRONTISPIECE.
II.
"A dozen umbrellas were tipped up; the rain fell
fast upon a dozen upturned, expectant faces." 57
III.
"At the word of command they struck the most
extraordinary attitudes." 157
IV.
"Frowsy, sleepy, cross, and caring nothing
whatever for the sun, moon, or stars, we stood
like a company of Bedlamites, ankle deep in
the wet grass upon the summit." 176
V.
"Evidently the little old woman is going a
journey." 196
VI.
"Together we stared at him with rigid and severe
countenances." 240
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
ABOARD THE STEAMER.
We two alone.--"Good by."--"Are you the captain of this
ship?"--Wretchedness.--The jolly Englishman and the
Yankee.--A sail!--The Cattle-man.--The Jersey-man
whose bark was on the sea.--Church services under
difficulties.--The sweet young English face.--Down
into the depths to worship.--"Beware! I stand by
the parson."--Singing to the fishes.--Green Erin.--One
long cheer.--Farewell, Ireland. 13
CHAPTER II.
FIRST DAYS IN ENGLAND.
Up the harbor of Liverpool.--We all emerge as
butterflies.--The Mersey tender.--Lot's
wife.--"Any tobacco?"--"Names, please."--St.
George's Hall.--The fashionable promenade.--The
coffee-room.--The military man who showed the
purple tide of war in his face.--The railway
carriage.--The young man with hair all
aflame.--English villages.--London.--No place
for us.--The H. house.--The Babes in the
Wood.--The party from the country.--We are taken
in charge by the Good Man.--The Golden
Cross.--Solitary confinement.--Mrs. B.'s at last. 27
CHAPTER III.
EXCURSIONS FROM LONDON.
Strange ways.--"The bears that went over to
Charlestown."--The delights of a runaway without
its dangers.--Flower show at the Crystal
Palace.--Whit-Monday at Hampton Court.--A queen
baby.--"But the carpets?"--Poor Nell Gwynne.--Vandyck
faces.--Royal beds.--Lunch at the King's Arms.--O
Music, how many murders have been committed in thy
name!--Queen Victoria's home at Windsor.--A new
"house that Jack built."--The Round Tower.--Stoke
Pogis.--Frogmore.--The Knights of the Garter.--The
queen's gallery.--The queen's plate.--The royal
mews.--The wicker baby-wagons.--The state equipages. 43
CHAPTER IV.
SIGHT-SEEING IN LONDON.
The Tower.--The tall Yankee of inquiring mind.--Our
guide in gorgeous array.--War trophies.--Knights
in armor.--A professional joke.--The crown
jewels.--The room where the little princes were
smothered.--The "Traitor's Gate."--The Houses of
Parliament.--What a throne is like.--The
"woolsack."--The Peeping Gallery for
ladies.--Westminster Hall and the law courts.--The
three drowsy old women.--The Great Panjandrum
himself.--Johnson and the pump.--St.
Paul's.--Wellington's funeral car.--The Whispering
Gallery.--The bell. 55
CHAPTER V.
AWAY TO PARIS.
The wedding party.--The canals.--New Haven.--Around
the tea-table.--Separating the sheep from the
goats.--"Will it be a rough passage?"--Gymnastic
feats of the little steamer.--O, what were officers
to us?--"Who ever invented earrings?"--Dieppe.--
Fish-wives.--Train for Paris.--Fellow-passengers.--
Rouen.--Babel.--Deliverance. 68
CHAPTER VI.
THE PARIS OF 1869.
The devil.--Cathedrals and churches.--The Louvre.--Modern
French art.--The Beauvais clock, with its droll, little
puppets.--Virtue in a red gown.--The Luxembourg
Palace.--The yawning statue of Marshal Ney.--Gay life
by gas-light.--The Imperial Circus.--The Opera.--How
the emperor and empress rode through the streets after
the riots.--The beautiful Spanish woman whose face was
her fortune.--Napoleon's tomb. 76
CHAPTER VII.
SIGHTS IN THE BEAUTIFUL CITY.
The Gobelin tapestry.--How and where it is made.--Pere
La-Chaise.--Poor Rachel!--The baby establishment.--"Now
I lay me."--The little mother.--The old woman who lived
in a shoe.--The American chapel.--Beautiful women and
children.--The last conference meeting.--"I'm a
proof-reader, I am." 90
CHAPTER VIII.
SHOW PLACES IN THE SUBURBS OF PARIS.
The river omnibuses.--Sevres and its porcelain.--St.
Cloud as it was.--The crooked little town.--
Versailles.--Eugenie's "spare bedroom."--The queen
who played she was a farmer's wife.--Seven miles of
paintings.--The portraits of the presidents. 100
CHAPTER IX.
A VISIT TO BRUSSELS.
To Brussels.--The old and new city.--The paradise and
purgatory of dogs.--The Hotel de Ville and Grand
Place.--St. Gudule.--The picture galleries.--Wiertz
and his odd paintings.--Brussels lace and an hour
with the lace-makers.--How the girls found Charlotte
Bronte's school.--The scene of "Villette." 109
CHAPTER X.
WATERLOO AND THROUGH BELGIUM.
To Waterloo.--Beggars and guides.--The Mound.--Chateau
Hougomont.--Victor Hugo's "sunken road."--Antwerp.--A
visit to the cathedral.--A drive about the city.--An
excursion to Ghent.--The funeral services in the
cathedral.--"Poisoned? Ah, poor man!"--The
watch-tower.--The Friday-market square.--The
nunnery.--Longfellow's pilgrims to "the belfry of
Bruges." 122
CHAPTER XI.
A TRIP THROUGH HOLLAND.
Up the Meuse to Rotterdam.--Dutch sights and
ways.--The pretty milk-carriers.--The
tea-gardens.--Preparations for the Sabbath.--An
English chapel.--"The Lord's barn."--From Rotterdam
to the Hague.--The queen's "House in the
Wood."--Pictures in private drawing-rooms.--The
bazaar.--An evening in a Dutch tea-garden.--Amsterdam
to a stranger.--The "sights."--The Jews' quarter.--The
family whose home was upon the canals.--Out of the
city.--The pilgrims. 134
CHAPTER XII.
THE RHINE AND RHENISH PRUSSIA.
First glimpse of the Rhine.--Cologne and the
Cathedral.--"Shosef in ter red coat."--St. Ursula
and the eleven thousand virgins.--Up the Rhine to
Bonn.--The German students.--Rolandseck.--A search
for a resting-place.--Our Dutch friend and his
Malays.--The story of Hildegund.--A quiet Sabbath.--
Our Dutch friend's reply.--Coblentz.--The bridge of
boats.--Ehrenbreitstein, over the river.--A scorching
day upon the Rhine.--Romance under difficulties.--
Mayence.--Frankfort.--Heidelberg.--The ruined
castle.--Baden-Baden.--A glimpse at the gambling.--The
new and the old "Schloss."--The Black Forest.--
Strasbourg.--The mountains. 147
CHAPTER XIII.
DAYS IN SWITZERLAND.
The Lake of Lucerne.--Days of rest in the city.--An
excursion up the Righi.--The crowd at the summit.--
Dinner at midnight.--Rising before "the early
worm."--The "sun-rise" according to Murray.--Animated
scarecrows.--Off for a tour through Switzerland.--The
lake for the last time.--Gruetlii.--William Tell's
chapel.--Fluellen.--Altorf.--Swiss haymakers.--An hour
at Amsteg.--The rocks close in.--The Devil's Bridge.--
The dangerous road.--"A carriage has gone over the
precipice!"--Andermatt.--Desolate rocks.--Exquisite
wild flowers.--The summit of the Furka.--A descent to
the Rhone glacier.--Into the ice.--Swiss villages.--
Brieg.--The convent inn.--The bare little chapel on the
hill.--To Martigny. 168
CHAPTER XIV.
AMONG THE EVERLASTING HILLS.
The quaint inn.--The Falls of the Sallenches, and the
Gorge de Trient.--Shopping in a Swiss village.--A
mule ride to Chamouni.--Peculiarities of the
animals.--Entrance to the village.--Egyptian mummies
lifted from the mules.--Rainy days.--Chamois.--The
Mer de Glace.--"Look out of your window."--Mont
Blanc.--Sallenches.--A diligence ride to Geneva.--Our
little old woman.--The clownish peasant.--The fork in
the road.--"Adieu." 189
CHAPTER XV.
LAST DAYS IN SWITZERLAND.
Geneva.--Calvin and jewelry.--Up Lake Leman.--Ouchy and
Lausanne.--"Sweet Clarens."--Chillon.--Freyburg.--
Sight-seers.--The Last Judgment.--Berne and its
bears.--The town like a story.--The Lake of Thun.--
Interlaken.--Over the Wengern Alp.--The Falls of
Giessbach.--The Brunig Pass.--Lucerne again. 201
CHAPTER XVI.
BACK TO PARIS ALONE.
Coming home.--The breaking up of the party.--We start
for Paris alone.--Basle, and a search for a hotel.--
The twilight ride.--The shopkeeper whose wits had
gone "a wool-gathering."--"Two tickets for Paris."--
What can be the matter now?--Michel Angelo's Moses.--
Paris at midnight.--The kind _commissionaire_.--The
good French gentleman and his fussy little wife.--A
search for Miss H.'s.--"Come up, come up."--"Can women
travel through Europe alone?" A word about a woman's
outfit. 220
AN
AMERICAN GIRL ABROAD.
CHAPTER I.
ABOARD THE STEAMER.
We two alone.--"Good by."--"Are you the captain of
this ship?"--Wretchedness.--The jolly Englishman
and the Yankee.--A sail!--The cattle-man.--The
Jersey-man whose bark was on the sea.--Church
services under difficulties.--The sweet young
English face.--Down into the depths to
worship.--"Beware! I stand by the
Parson."--Singing to the fishes.--Green Erin.--One
long cheer.--Farewell Ireland.
WE were going to Europe, Mrs. K. and I--alone, with the exception of the
ship's company--unprotected, save by Him who watches over the least of
his creatures. We packed our one trunk, upon which both name and
nationality were conspicuously blazoned, with the necessaries, not
luxuries, of a woman's toilet, and made our simple preparations for
departure without a shadow of anxiety. "They who know nothing, fear
nothing," said the paterfamilias, but added his consent and blessing.
The rain poured in torrents as we drove down to the wharf. But floods
could not have dampened our enthusiasm. A wild Irishman, with a
suggestion of spirituous things in his air and general appearance,
received us at the foot of the plank, one end of which touched earth,
the other that unexplored region, the steamer. We followed the direction
of his dirty finger, and there fell from our eyes, as it were, scales.
In our ignorance, we had expected to find vast space, elegant
surroundings, glass, glare, and glitter. We peered into the contracted
quarters of the ladies' cabin. One side was filled with boxes and
bundles; the other, with the prostrate form of an old lady, her head
enveloped in a mammoth ruffle. We explored the saloon. The purser, with
a wen and a gilt-banded cap on his head, was flying about like one
distracted. An old gentleman similarly attired, with the exception of
the wen,--the surgeon as we afterwards learned,--read a large book
complacently in one corner, murmuring gently to himself. His upper teeth
lacked fixity, so to speak; and as they fell with every word, he had the
appearance of gnashing them continually at the invisible author. There
was a hurrying to and fro of round, fresh-faced stewards in short
jackets, a pushing and pulling of trunks and boxes, the sudden
appearance and disappearance of nondescript individuals in slouched hats
and water-proofs, the stirring about of heavy feet upon the deck above,
the rattling of chains, the 'yo-ing' of hoarse voices, as the sailors
pulled at the ropes, and, with it all, that sickening odor of oil, of
dead dinners--of everything, so indescribable, so never-to-be-forgotten.
Somewhat saddened, and considerably enlightened upon the subject of
ocean steamers, we sought our state-room. It boasted two berths (the
upper conveniently gained by mounting the stationary wash-stand), and a
velvet-covered sofa beneath the large, square window, which last we
learned, months later, when reduced to a port-hole for light and air, to
appreciate. A rack and half a dozen hooks against the wall completed its
furniture.
The time of departure arrived. We said the two little words that bring
so many tears and heartaches, and ran up on the deck with the rain in
our faces, and something that was not all rain in our eyes, for one last
look at our friends; but they were hidden from sight. There comes to me
a dim recollection of attempting to mount to an inaccessible place: of
clinging to wet ropes with the intention of seeing the last of the land;
of thinking it, after a time, a senseless proceeding, and of resigning
ourselves finally to our berths and inevitable circumstances. Eight
bells and the dinner bell; some one darkened our doorway.
"What's this? Don't give it up so. D'ye hear the dinner bell?"
"Are--are you the captain of this ship?" gasped Mrs. K., feebly, from
the sofa.
"To be sure, madam. Don't give it up so."
Mrs. K. groaned. There came to me one last gleam of hope. What if it
were possible to brave it out! In a moment my feet were on the floor,
but whether my name were McGregor, or not, I could not tell. I made an
abortive attempt after the pretty hood, prepared with such pleasant
anticipations, and had a dim consciousness that somebody's hands tied it
about my head. Then we started. We climbed heights, we descended depths
indescribable, in that short walk to the saloon, and there was a queer
feeling of having a windmill, instead of a head, upon my shoulders. A
number of sympathizing faces were nodding in the most remarkable manner,
as we reached the door, and the tables performed antic evolutions.
"Take me back!" and the berth and the little round stewardess received
me. There followed a night of misery. One can form no idea, save from
experience, of the horrors of the first night upon an ocean steamer.
There are the whir, and buzz, and jar, and rattle, and bang of the screw
and engine; the pitching and rolling of the ship, with the sensation of
standing upright for a moment, and then of being made to rest
comfortably upon the top of your head; the sense of undergoing internal
somersaults, to say nothing of describing every known curve externally.
You study physiology involuntarily, and doubt if your heart, your lungs,
or indeed any of your internal organs, are firmly attached, after all;
if you shall not lose them at the next lurch of the ship. Your head is
burning with fever, your hands and feet like ice, and you feel dimly,
but wretchedly, that this is but the beginning of sorrows; that there
are a dozen more days to come. You are conscious of a vague wonder (as
the night lengthens out interminably) what eternity _can_ be, since time
is so long. The bells strike the half hours, tormenting you with
calculations which amount to nothing. Everything within the room, as
well as without, swings, and rolls, and rattles. You are confident your
bottles in the rack will go next, and don't much care if they do, though
you lie and dread the crash. You are tormented with thirst, and the
ice-water is in that same rack, just beyond your reach. The candle in
its silver case, hinged against the wall, swings back and forth with
dizzy motion, throwing moving distorted shadows over everything, and
making the night like a sickly day. You long for darkness, and, when at
last the light grows dim, until only a red spark remains and the smoke
that adds its mite to your misery, long for its return. At regular
intervals you hear the tramp, tramp, overhead, of the relieving watch;
and, in the midst of fitful slumbers, the hoarse voices of the sailors,
as the wind freshens and they hoist the sails, wake you from frightful
dreams. At the first gray dawn of light come the swash of water and the
trickling down of the stream against your window, with the sound of the
holy-stones pushed back and forth upon the deck. And with the light--O,
blessed light!--came to us a dawn of better things.
There followed days when we lay contented upon the narrow sofa, or
within the contracted berths, but when to lift our heads was woe. A kind
of negative blessedness--absence from misery. We felt as if we had lost
our heart, our conscience, and almost our immortal soul, to quote Mark
Twain. There remained to us only those principles and prejudices most
firmly rooted and grounded. Even our personal vanity left us at last,
and nothing could be more forsaken and appropriate than the plain green
gown with its one row of military buttons, attired in which, day after
day, I idly watched the faces that passed our door. "That's like you
Americans," said our handsome young Irish doctor, pointing to these same
buttons. "You can't leave your country without taking the spread-eagle
with you!"
Our officers, with this one exception, were English. Our captain, a
living representative of the traditional English sailor. Not young, save
in heart; simple, unaffected, and frank in manner, but with a natural
dignity that prevented undue familiarity, he sang about the ship from
morning till night, with a voice that could carry no air correctly, but
with an enjoyment delightful to witness--always a song suggested by
existing circumstances, but with
"Cheer, boys, cheer; my mother's sold her mangle,"
when everything else failed. He was forward among the men on the deck
with an eye to the wind, down below bringing fruit and comfort to the
sick in the steerage, dealing out apples and oranges to the children,
with an encouraging word and the first line of a song for everybody.
The life of the ship was an Englishman, with the fresh complexion almost
invariably seen upon Englishmen, and forty years upon a head that looked
twenty-five. He was going home after a short tour through the United
States, with his mind as full of prejudices as his memorandum-book was
of notes. He chanced, oddly enough, to room with the genuine Yankee of
the company--a long, lean, good-natured individual from one of the
eastern states, "close on ter Varmont," who had a way of rolling his
eyes fearfully, especially when he glared at his food. He represented a
mowing machine company, and we called him "the Mowing Machine Man." He
accosted us one day, sidling up to our door, with, "How d'ye do to-day?"
"Better, thank you," I replied from the sofa.
"That's real nice. Tell ye what, we'll be glad to see the ladies out.
How's yer mar?" nodding towards the berth from which twinkled Mrs. K.'s
eyes. I laughed, and explained that our relations were of affection
rather than consanguinity. His interest increased when he found we were
travelling alone. He gave us his London address, evidently considering
us in the light of Daniels about to enter the lions' den. "Ef ye have
any trouble," said he, as he wrote down the street and number, "there's
one Yankee'll stand up for ye." He amused the Englishman by calling out,
"Hullo. D'ye feel _good_ this morning?" "No," would be the reply, with a
burst of laughter; "I feel awful wicked; think I'll go right out and
kill somebody."
There was a shout one morning, "A sail! See the stars and stripes!" I
had not raised my head for days, but staggered across the floor at that,
and clinging to the frame, thrust my head out of the window. Yes, there
was a ship close by, with the stars and stripes floating from the
mast-head, I found, when the roll of the steamer carried my window to
its level. "Seems good ter see the old rag!" I looked up to find the
Mowing Machine Man gazing upon it with eyes all afloat. "I'd been a
thinking," said he, "all them fellers have got somebody waiting for 'em
over there,"--our passengers were mostly English,--"but there wasn't
nobody a waiting for me. Tell ye what,"--and he shook out the folds of a
red and yellow handkerchief,--"it does my heart good ter see the old
flag." There was a bond of sympathy between us from that moment.
We had another and less agreeable specimen of this free people--a tall,
tough western cattle dealer, who quarrelled if he could find an
antagonist, swore occasionally, drank liquor, and chewed tobacco
perpetually, wore his trousers tucked into his long boots, his hands
tucked into his pockets, and, to crown these attributes, believed in
Andrew Johnson!--a middle-aged man, with soft, curling brown hair above
a face that could be cruelly cold and hard. His hair should have been
wire; his blue eyes were steel. But hard as was his face, it softened
and smoothed itself a little at sight of the sick women. He paused
beside us one day with a rough attempt to interest and amuse by
displaying a knife case containing a dozen different articles. "This is
ter take a stun out of a hoss's huf, and this, d'ye see, is a
tooth-pick;" putting it to immediate use by way of explanation. At the
table he talked long and loud upon the rinderpest, and other kindred and
appetizing topics. "I've been a butcher myself," he would say. "I've cut
up hundreds o' critters. What part of an ox, now, d'ye think that was
taken from?" pointing to the joint before him, and addressing a refined,
delicate-faced old gentleman across the table, who only stared in silent
horror.
But even the "Cattle Man" was less marked in his peculiarities than the
"Jersey Man," a melancholy-eyed, curly-wigged individual from the Jersey
shore, who wore his slouched hat upon one side of his head, and looked
as though he were doing the rakish lover in some fifth-rate theatre; who
was "in the musical line myself; Smith and Jones's organs, you know;
that's me;" and who, being neither Smith nor Jones, we naturally
concluded must be the organ. He recited poetry in a loud tone at
daybreak, and discussed politics for hours together, arguing in the most
satisfactory manner with the principles, and standing most willingly
upon the platform, of everybody. He assumed a patronizing air towards
the Mowing Machine Man. "Well, you _are_ a green Yankee," he would say;
"lucky for you that you fell in with me;" to which the latter only
chuckled, "That's so." He had much to tell of himself, of his
grandmother, and of his friends generally, who came to see him off;
"felt awfully, too," which we could hardly credit; rolled out snatches
of sentimental songs, iterating and reiterating that his bark was on the
sea,--and a most disagreeable one we found it; wished we had a piano on
board, to which we murmured, "The Lord forbid;" and hoped we should soon
be well enough to join him in the "White Squall." He was constantly
reminding us that we were a very happy family party, so "congenial," and
evidently agreed with the Mowing Machine Man, who said, "They're the
best set of fellows I ever see. They'll tell ye anything."
We numbered a clergyman among us, of course. "Always a head wind when
there's a parson aboard," say the sailors. So this poor dyspeptic little
man bore the blame of our constant adverse winds. Nothing more bigoted,
more fanatical than his religious belief could be imagined. You read the
terrors of the Lord in his eye; and yet he won respect, and something
more, by his consistency and zeal. Earnestness will tell. "The parson
will have great influence over the Cattle Man," the captain said,
Sabbath morning, as we were walking the deck. "The Cattle Man?" "Yes,
the parson will get a good hold of him." Just then, as if to prove the
old proverb true, that his satanic majesty is always in the immediate
neighborhood when his character is under discussion, the Cattle Man and
Jersey came up the companion-way. "If you please, captain," said the
former, "we are a committee to ask if the parson may preach to the
steerage people to-night." "Certainly," was the reply; "I will attend
myself." They thanked him, and went below, leaving me utterly amazed.
They were the last men upon the ship whom one would have selected as a
committee upon spiritual things!
The church service for the cabin passengers was held in the saloon. A
velvet cushion upon one end of the long table constituted the pulpit,
before which the minister stood, holding fast to the rack on either
side, and bracing himself against the captain's chair in the rear. Even
then he made, involuntarily, more bows than any ritualist, and the
scripture, "What went ye out for to see? A reed shaken by the wind?"
would present itself. The sailors in their neat dress filed in and
ranged themselves in one corner. The stewards gathered about the door,
one, with face like an owl, most conspicuous. The passengers filled
their usual seats, and a delegation from the steerage crept shyly into
the unoccupied space--women with shawls over their heads and babies in
their arms, shock-headed men and toddling children, but all with an
evident attempt at appropriate dress and manner. Among them was one
sweet young English face beneath an old crape bonnet. A pair of shapely
hands, which the shabby black gloves could not disguise, held fast a
little child. Widowhood and want in the old world; what was waiting her
in the new? The captain read the service, and all the people responded.
The women's eyes grew wet at the sound of the familiar words. The little
English widow bent her face over the head of the child in her lap, and
something glistened in its hair. Our sympathies grew wide, and we joined
in the prayer for the queen, that she might have victory over her
enemies, and even murmured a response to the petition for Albert Edward
and the nobility, dimly conscious that they needed prayers. The good
captain added a petition for the president of the United States, to
which the Mowing Machine Man and I said, "Amen." Then the minister,
having poised himself carefully, read a discourse, sulphurous but
sincere; the Mowing Machine Man thrusting his elbow into my side in a
most startling manner at every particularly blue point. We were
evidently in sympathy; but I could have dispensed with the expression of
it. We closed with the doxology, standing upon our feet and swaying back
and forth as though it had been a Shaker chant, led by an improvised
choir and the Jersey Man.
At night we descended into the depths of the steamer to worship with the
steerage passengers. It was like one of Rembrandt's pictures--the
darkness, the wild, strangely-attired people, the weird light from the
lanterns piercing the gloom, and bringing out group after group with
fearful distinctness; the pale, earnest face of the preacher, made
almost unearthly by the glare of the yellow light--a face with its
thin-drawn lips, its eyes like coals of fire such as the flames of
martyrdom lit once, I imagine. Close beside him stood the Cattle Man,
towering like Saul above the people, and with an air that plainly said,
"Beware--I stand by the parson."
"There is a land of pure delight,"
repeated the minister; and in a moment the words rolled out of the
Cattle Man's mouth while he beckoned with his long arm for the people to
rise. Throwing back his head, he sang with an unction indescribable,
verse after verse, caught doubtless at some western camp-meeting, where
he had tormented the saints. One after another took up the strain. Clear
and strong came the tones from every dark corner, until, like one mighty
voice, while the steamer rolled and the waves dashed against its sides,
rose the words
"Not Jordan's stream, nor death's cold flood,
Shall fright us from that shore."
A great stillness fell upon the people as the minister gave out his
text, and began his discourse. He had lacked freedom in the saloon, but
here he forgot everything save the words given him; hard words they
seemed to me, containing little of the love of God. I glanced at the
Mowing Machine Man, who had made a seat of half a barrel under the
stairs. He winked in a fearful manner, as though he would say, "Just see
how he's a goin' on!" But the people received it gladly. One after
another of the sailors crept down the stairs and stood in the shadow. I
watched them curiously. It may be that this stern, hard doctrine suited
these stern, hard men. It made me shudder.
But the record of all these days would have no end. How can I tell of
the long, happy hours, when more than strength, when perfect
exhilaration, came to us; when existence alone was a delight? To sit
upon the low wheel-house, with wraps and ribbons and hair flying in the
wind, while we sang,--
"O, a life on the ocean wave!"
to admiring fishes; to watch the long, lazy swell of the sea, or the
spray breaking from the tops of the white caps into tiny rainbows; to
walk the rolling deck for hours with never a shadow of weariness; to
cling to the flag-staff when the stern of the ship rose in the air then
dropped like a heavy stone into the sea, sending the spray far over and
above us; to count the stars at night, watching the other gleaming
phosphorescent stars that seemed to have fallen from heaven upon the
long wake of the steamer,--all this was a delight unspeakable.
One morning, when the land seemed a forgotten dream, we awoke to find
green Erin close beside us. All the day before the sea-gulls had been
hovering over us--beautiful creatures, gray above and white beneath,
clouds with a silver lining. Tiny land birds, too, flew about us,
resting wearily upon the rigging. The sea all at once became like glass.
It seemed like the book of Revelation when the sun shone on it,--the sea
of glass mingled with fire. For a time the land was but a line of rock,
with martello towers perched upon the points. On the right, Fastnet Rock
rose out of the sea, crowned with a light-house; then the gray barren
shore of Cape Clear Island, and soon the sharp-pointed Stag Rocks. It is
a treacherous coast. "I've been here many a night," said the captain, as
he gave us his glass, "when I never expected to see morning." And all
the while he was speaking, the sea smiled and smiled, as though it could
never be cruel.
We drew nearer and nearer, until we could see the green fields bounded
by stone walls, the white, winding roads, and little villages nestling
among the hills. Towards noon the lovely harbor of Queenstown opened
before us, surrounded and almost shut in by rocky islands. Through the
glass we could see the city, with its feet in the bay. We were no longer
alone. The horizon was dotted with sails. Sometimes a steamer crossed
our wake, or a ship bore down upon us. We hoisted our signals. We dipped
our flag. The sailors were busy painting the boats, and polishing the
brass till it shone again. Now the tender steams out from Queenstown.
The steerage passengers in unwonted finery, tall hats and unearthly
bonnets, and one in a black silk gown, are running about forward,
shaking hands, gathering up boxes and bundles, and pressing towards the
side which the tender has reached. There are the shouting of orders, the
throwing of a rope, and in a moment they are crowding the plank. One
long cheer, echoed from the stern of our steamer, and they are off.
All day we walked the deck; even the sick crawled up at last to see the
panorama. We still lingered when night fell, and we had turned away from
the land to strike across the channel, and the picture rests with me
now; the purple sky with one long stretch of purple, hazy cloud, behind
which the sun went down; the long, low line of purple rock, our last
glimpse of Ireland, and the shining, purple sea, with not a ripple upon
its surface.