Burlington weekly free press. [volume] (Burlington, Vt.) 1866-1928, 1876-08-04

ana pant, can possibly make them. TIL
last bushel Of grain has been poured int
the hold, and the floating, tower.like eleya
tors have withdrawn with their dust an
noisy cargadores. The officers. in a smar
Uniform Of navy blue and gold-lace sre wait
ing around the gangwav for the lAssencer
whose coming has been foretold by the load
Of baggage heaped up on the pier
Iii the fashion to "see ones friend of
for Europe, and not only the passenger
and their friends, but a crowd Of spectators
mpelled by curiosity, has assembled on th,
wharf an hour before the time of sailing
An abnormal eagerness, some pathos, anc
the strongest individuality, impress this IN.
wleldly and heterogeneous cOncourse. IL i,
yisibly touched by some quality of 1nstinc-
tive sympathy or intimacy. 4 monstrou.
little hunchback elbowi1g his way among
the tnely-dressed ladies and gentlemen. i,
Jeeringly asked by rough, "Who Is youl
friend, beauty and, when he answers,
They are all our friends now," he strikes
the chord that Is vibrating under the blacken-
ed roof Of the wharf
There are immigrants returning to their
native lands, none tie worse IN dress OF
manner for the attrili0n of their brief So
Journ here; commercial men who cross the
ocean several times year Enthusiastically
English tourists, with beefy faces and melo-
dlous voices the love.iest Of girls animated
with expectancy, pensiyeness, grief, and ex-
uberance-an agitatcd, unre>eryed inter
course going on between them. The ear Is
din8ed with di,jointed scraps of advice and
tremulous greetings, and at last the steam
er's bell Is rung in peremptory tones, and
those who are not passengers rush down the
gangway to the shore.
W hat a horid, weather-beaten, yellow
bearded Saxon lot the officers are The PIE
ture of one OF them craven on a penny would
indicate the nationality of the coin better
than all the queens heads in the universe
The chief takes his place in the bows,
where a string Of sailors are tugging at a
Aawser and singing q song
Pull away for Liverpool town
! With a yU-heave-n0 -'
| The second Is on duty astern, the third amid
shlps, and the fourth On the quarter-deck.
| The captain and pilot are on the bridge It.
self, whence they command f0re-and-alt
view OF the steamer, whIsh seems immoya-
| bic IN its immelsi,y.
The crowd has divided itself, and the pas
sengers are gathered on the saloon-deck,
while the Others press for space on the
wharf. The interest increases every mo-
ment. The hoarse orders of the officers
mInge with fondly-sp0kon iare-wells and
the hysterical sobbing of some sott-hearted
girls. 4 loud plash Is followed by wind
ing vein of ripples On the water in the dock
The last Of the cables Is cast off, and dragged
up dripping and sparkling.
The inert floating mass Is now inspired
with life. The captain has telegraphed to
the engine-room, and the great vessel throbs
with new power, as she softly giides into
the river.
Three hours later she is of Sandy Hook,
the last point OF land in her course : the pi-
lot Is sent ashore, and the same waters that
wash the G0ld-Coast Of Africa break in crisp
spray over her bows "a she heads to the dis
tant East
The sun curves toward the horizon and
brushes the sky, the clouds, and the wave,
with miraculous intensity Of color and
the coast fades out of sight in the rosy mist
exhaled By the cold and moaning ocean.
The steamer Is an aggregation Of common
place realities concrete of iron, oak, and
| b rass, answering with supple obedience the
gross power generated by Liverpool Goals.
But she sinks to the insignifcance of
speck Of dust on a pond in the infinite reach
OF sky and water by which she Is surround
ed.
The elements Of the scene are pensiye, the
sounds are su5duod. 1t Is like quite sum
mer's evening in rural village ashore
The passengers are assembled in groups on
deck, chatting and smoking with cordiality
and abandon. By-and-by sooty old man
comes from below. with lanterns in his hands,
strapped to his belt and slung over his shoul-
ders-lanterns which be places in the bin
nacles and high up in the foretop. as if to
anticipate the stars that are piercing the
pallid east, and the night falls with a sudden
blacknesS in which the steamer seems TO be
a meteor.
The saloon Is luxuriously upholstered and
decorated. Every bolt and riyet visible has
been converted into an ornament. There
are crimson settees and table-cloths and
brilliant lights, long rows Of crystals, book
cases filed with calf-bound volumes. mar
be mantle-piece with bronze ornaments, and
a tinkling piano To fully appreciate the
contrast of the glow and warmth below and
the darkness and wilderness above, let Us
creep up the c0mpanion-way on the deck
again. The stars have burst out in myriads,
but the night is still impenetrable The
water rushes along and laps against the iron
bulWarks, each wave ribbed and crested
with phosphorescent white, and its low beat
harmOnizes with the mournful symphony
that the wind Is playing in the rigging. a
few yellow lights glimmer in the deck
houses, and rolling cloud of heecy yapor
passes to the northward with a squall. At
intervals Of half an hour the ships bell tolls
the watch, and long-drawn, deep-throated
voice answers from aloft, Calls wellr'
There is something very sad in this dark ex-
panse of troubled sea, despite the exhilara-
ting sense Of motion that impresses US as the
freshening breeze sweeps by US az d moistens
our faces with salty spray. | call the feel
ing sad, but it is as undefnable to me as it
is to the saturnine officer of the watch who
parades the deck with an expression Of
melancholy in his blue eyes. The pathos Of
the sea, we will name 1.-THE heart re-
sponse to the rhythmical grief of the waves.
By way Of another contrast, We 90 below
again-not into the gorgeous saloon, how
ever, but along iron galleries and down
winding stairs into the oily, noisy region of
the engines. the thunder OF whose strokes
reyerberates in every part Of the ship, even
through the lOudest Atlantic storm. The
light Is dim and uncertain, and the clangOr
OF the Titanic beams, shafts, and cranks
oseillating, telescoping, and revolving, is like
the beat of the steam hammer. Every rail
ing and every inch of foothold is vibrating
with nervous sympathy, but the enormous
arms of steel descending and ascending over
US seem to be unsubstantial rays of daylight
waving to and fro in the murky atmosphere.
We make turn after turn in the slippery,
greasy passages until we reach the lever and
wheel that control this giant mechanism by
a pressure scarcely heavier than a child's
hand. and here we find the engineer in
charge-a stalwart Scotchman, bearded and
strong looking, but as sallow as London
frog
1t is characteristics of the English steam
ers that all the engineers are Scotch, and it
is characteristic of the Scotch that they
never under any circumstances loose or soft
en- national trait. whether it be their dia-
lect or their dinner. They may travel and
break off all old associations. but the scent of
the heather is enduring, and inconyertible
into any other aroma.
Another turn in the perilous labyrinths
brings us into the stock-hole, an internal
sort Of place ftfully illuminated by the white
heat and blaze of a row of large furnaces,
which demon-like coal-heayers are feeding
constantly without satisfying. The iron
doors are thrown open, and shovel after
shovelful of coal is poured in and consumed
with savage hiss. Broad beams of yellow
light dance from underneath the fires across
the iron dsek and up the bulwarks, and
-Iosking nsn with stranger shadows
fit hither and thiEh9- j. the glare. 1t is
grotesqae, unsarshly sishts 50 weirdly
theatrical thas ~ sgnia wondH why no
realistic dranatist - sstsaPtsd tossRro-
d,oo :, On tho s<~nn 0nk a IL en~3De-