EN VOYAGE.
From a sheltered position on the hurricane-deck, Austin Selwyn watched
the curtain of night descending on England's coast. Portsmouth, with
its thousand naval activities, was already lost to view off the ship's
stern; and the Isle of Wight was but a dark margin on the water's edge.
Not a light was to be seen on shore. Like an uninhabited island,
England lay in the mingled menace and protection of the sea, while
unseen eyes kept their endless vigil.
The vibration from the ship's engines told him she was gathering speed.
Impatient of the six days that must elapse before harbour could be
reached, he walked to the front of the deck and watched the officers on
the bridge peering into the darkness ahead.
When he retraced his steps he could no longer distinguish land. Two
searchlights playing on the surface of the water revealed a cruiser
steaming silently out to sea.
A feeble star appeared in the sky.
* * * * * *
Mid-ocean.
A clear winter sunlight touching the green, swirling water with strands
of yellow gold; a wind sweeping the ship's decks, blowing boisterously
down companion-ways and along the corridors; a few shimmering
snowflakes from an almost cloudless sky; everywhere the vastness of
ocean. And the ship buffeting its way towards the New World.
Mid-ocean.
* * * * * *
The City of New York.
Anchored down the bay just after sunset, Selwyn watched the great
metropolis as her form was vitalised with a million lights. From the
ship's side, it seemed to the eyes watching the birth of New York's
night that the buildings had come to the very water's edge to gaze into
its depths, and see their own reflection.
Here and there in the outline of great buildings a mammoth structure
raised its head above all others, losing itself in the foam of light
that floated mist-like over the city's towering majesty.
For more than two hours Selwyn remained motionless in the thrill of
patriotism. The burst of light challenging the reign of darkness was a
symbol to him. The Old World was crouching in darkness, fingering and
fearing the assassin's knife. . . . But America was the Spirit of
Light.
How many times, he thought, emigrants must have looked on just as he
was doing! How many times that sight must have brought hope to weary,
discouraged souls that never thought to hope again!
To the idealist returning to his own country, New York was not a
citadel guarding the entrance to a Nation, but a gateway opening to the
Continent of Opportunity.