The next day, the 31st of March, was Sunday. How would this day be kept
on board? Would it be the English or American Sunday, which closes the
“bars” and the “taps” during service hours; which withholds the
butcher’s hand from his victim; which keeps the baker’s shovel from the
oven; which causes a suspension of business; extinguishes the fires of
the manufactories; which closes the shops, opens the churches, and
moderates the speed of the railway trains, contrary to the customs in
France? Yes, it must be kept thus, or almost thus.
First of all, during the service, although the weather was fine, and we
might have gained some knots, the Captain did not order the sails to be
hoisted, as it would have been “improper.” I thought myself very
fortunate that the screw was allowed to continue its work, and when I
inquired of a fierce Puritan the reason for this tolerance, “Sir,” said
he to me, “that which comes directly from God must be respected; the
wind is in His hand, the steam is in the power of man.”
I was willing to content myself with this reason, and in the meantime
observed what was going on on board.
All the crew were in full uniform, and dressed with extreme propriety. I
should not have been surprised to see the stokers working in black
clothes; the officers and engineers wore their finest uniforms, with
gilt buttons; their shoes shone with a British lustre, and rivalled
their glazed hats with an intense irradiation. All these good people
seemed to have hats and boots of a dazzling brightness. The Captain and
the first officer set the example, and with new gloves and military
attire, glittering and perfumed, they paced up and down the bridges
awaiting the hour for service.
The sea was magnificent and resplendent beneath the first rays of a
spring sun; not a sail in sight. The “Great Eastern” occupied alone the
centre of the immense expanse. At ten o’clock the bell on deck tolled
slowly and at regular intervals; the ringer, who was a steersman,
dressed in his best, managed to obtain from this bell a kind of solemn,
religious tone, instead of the metallic peals with which it accompanied
the whistling of the boilers, when the ship was surrounded by fog.
Involuntarily one looked for the village steeple which was calling to
prayer.
At this moment numerous groups appeared at the doors of the cabins, at
the bows and stern; the boulevards were soon filled with men, women, and
children carefully dressed for the occasion. Friends exchanged quiet
greetings; every one held a Prayer-book in his hand, and all were
waiting for the last bell which would announce the beginning of service.
I saw also piles of Bibles, which were to be distributed in the church,
heaped upon trays generally used for sandwiches.
The church was the great saloon, formed by the upper deck at the stern,
the exterior of which, from its width and regularity of structure,
reminded one very much of the hotel of the Ministère des Finances, in
the Rue de Rivoli. I entered. Numbers of the faithful were already in
their places. A profound silence reigned among the congregation; the
officers occupied the apsis of the church, and, in the midst of them,
stood Captain Anderson, as pastor. My friend Dean Pitferge was near him,
his quick little eyes running over the whole assembly. I will venture to
say he was there more out of curiosity than anything else.
At half-past ten the Captain rose, and the service began; he read a
chapter from the Old Testament. After each verse the congregation
murmured the one following; the shrill soprano voices of the women and
children distinctly separate from the baritone of the men. This Biblical
dialogue lasted for about half-an-hour, and the simple, at the same time
impressive ceremony, was performed with a puritanical gravity. Captain
Anderson assuming the office of pastor on board, in the midst of the
vast ocean, and speaking to a crowd of listeners, hanging, as it were,
over the verge of an abyss, claimed the respect and attention of the
most indifferent. It would have been well if the service had concluded
with the reading; but when the Captain had finished a speaker arose, who
could not fail to arouse feelings of violence and rebellion where
tolerance and meditation should reign.
It was the reverend gentleman of whom I have before spoken—a little,
fidgety man, an intriguing Yankee; one of those ministers who exercise
such a powerful influence over the States of New England. His sermon was
already prepared, the occasion was good, and he intended to make use of
it. Would not the good Yorrick have done the same? I looked at Dean
Pitferge; the Doctor did not frown, but seemed inclined to try the
preacher’s zeal.
The latter gravely buttoned his black overcoat, placed his silk cap on
the table, drew out his handkerchief, with which he touched his lips
lightly, and taking in the assembly at a glance—
“In the beginning,” said he, “God created America, and rested on the
seventh day.”...
Thereupon I reached the door.