Schöne Aussicht: A Journal of Our Trip Abroad

For fear some of you may be deceived about this Atlantic, which was so serenely peaceful and angelic in disposition when crossing on board the Hamburg-American liner “Pennsylvania,” July 14, 1900, I will record later impressions and tell you what a wild, treacherous person she is. From July 14th to July 26th, was one of the smoothest, most placid mill-ponds you could ever imagine, in spite of the fact that we started on the voyage Friday, the 13th, from the Hoboken dock, where the greatest of sea disasters had taken place but a few hours previous.

The night before our sunrise sailing was one of hideous recollection, being the recent scene of such an unparalleled holocaust. The air we breathed (when we could find time to catch it from our warfare with Jersey mosquitoes and the heat), was permeated with the sickening stench of decomposed animal flesh, made all the more horrible from the possibility of there being a little human flesh with it. By our side lay the charred and sunken wrecks of the “Bremen,” “Main,” and “Salle,” with their ghastly cargoes, which had so recently been the scene of many expectant and happy hearts. This terrible sight made the lump of a big empty something harder to swallow, as we swung round so steadily but surely from our slip, out into the deeper water. ’Mid the wails of some and the silent sobs of the more sincere, to the accompaniment of the little German band, we moved slowly but majestically down the bay, exhilarated by a beautiful morning, before the fierce heat of the day could burn. We watched the beloved and familiar sky-scrapers recede; soon Bartholdi joined them, and they were en masse things of the past, not to be soon forgotten, however. There were many things to engage one’s thoughts about this time. My dreams of an ocean greyhound had always been that it was an abiding-place next to heaven. Imagine my disappointment as I watched them hiding away in her depths such unsightly stuff as pig-iron, tallow, oils, and, worst of all, bales and bales of that inflammable cotton; working for days and nights to ballast this graceful thing of beauty. Sighs are less frequent, things are less distinct, now only a fancy, as each revolution of the wheel of the gigantic and throbbing engine widens that gulf of all gulfs—the ocean—which I think the most magnificent object under heaven, and I cannot but feel a slight disgust for the multitudes that view it without emotion; yet it is with a shudder that I think of its grim, tragic side, its rough billows and war of waves.

“Worlds of water heaped up on high, Rolling like mountains in wild wilderness, Horrible, hideous, roaring with hoarse cry.”

In all its various forms it is an object of all others the most suited to affect us with lasting impressions of the awful power that created and controls it. The first breakfast was quite a feature; the bugle call from one of the little German band was clearly heard by all. We read of ocean greyhounds, record-breaking trips, the laying of submarine cables, the practical subduing of the Atlantic; then we consult our maps to discover it but a small pond. We read of things Americans have done in England recently: won the Derby, bought the underground railway, merchant delegates entertained by the King of England, great gifts made to Scotch universities, large shares of government loans taken, etc., until we think that the Atlantic has been misrepresented. One has but to take his maiden voyage to have this impression corrected; he can vouch that it is still the roughest and wildest of oceans. Ten or twelve days’ passage over the Atlantic, with all means to annihilate distance, one thinks its three thousand or more tedious miles have been partly done away with; but I can assure you they are all there. When we have travelled a thousand miles east and find we are nowhere in particular, but realize we are still pitching about on an uneasy sea, with an unconstant sky, and that a thousand miles more will not make any perceptible change, we begin to have some conception of an unconquerable sea. I can never listen with quite the same satisfaction to the songs about the sea, “Life on the Ocean Wave,” “What Are the Wild Waves Saying?” without thinking of its inability to stand still for one brief second. The narrow berth plays shuffle-board with your anatomy all night long. You walk up-hill to your “zimmer,” and upon arriving there, discover that your stateroom is at the bottom of the hill, and to open the door is equivalent to opening a trap-door. You attempt to sit down, find you are sitting up, and in promenading the deck (more than two squares long), you discover everybody who is not shooting to his stateroom, is reaching out blindly for the guard-rail, and is walking on a slant, as though a heavy wind were blowing; the propeller is out of the water more than under, making with its many revolutions more terrific noise than the cannonading of heavy artillery. Then if you are fortunate enough to look at food, have your plate, glass, knife, and fork in a rack, and consider yourself in great luck if your soup is not in the lap of your best gown, which was made with a view of enduring the entire trip.

How novel it all is for the first week; after that, you wish the band would play a greater distance from your stateroom. The freaks that aroused your keenest interest at first promenading the deck bareheaded, when you were shivering under the largest steamer rug you could buy, tire you. Even the celebrities on board, who have so charmingly entertained you with their wit and music, cease to attract your attention. Not even our Poultney Bigelow (who is certainly great in his own mind) could amuse. Nor is “Barnaby,” of the famous “Ideal Quartette,” as interesting as he once was. The Polish Jew is now the most persistent in his call for aid for a family of paupers from his native land whom Uncle Sam fails to receive into his bosom and returns right side up with care. Even the waltz with the fat “Deutsch” captain fails to amuse; only the taking of the ship’s log, which promises you soon a view of the ever welcome sight of land, interests you. We passed the Scilly Islands, with their menacing, grim rocks, late in the evening of the 24th, the first sign, for twelve long days, that some human friend was watching and waiting for us. No more welcome sound than the scream of the seagull; no lovelier sight will we see abroad, than the little English village, Plymouth, nestled at the edge of the sea,—the luxuriant green bluff and red and white sails which fleck the deep blue sea, together with thousands of white seagulls who came out to meet us and escort us in. Having at last set foot on terra firma, we certainly have a more profound respect for the grand old ocean. The sunset on July 25th tried to make a lasting impression on us; for it was certainly a most beautiful symphony in rose, gold and sea-foam green, with all the indescribable tints that the blendings of these three gorgeous colors could produce. How I would like to have painted her wonderful color, which the sun dashed upon her sparkling surface! The young moon, lying in the lap of the old one, superintended the beautiful sunset, thinking, no doubt, how soon she would quiet these splendid hues into a silvery sleep, as Wordsworth so perfectly phrases it:

“This sea that bares her bosom to the moon.”

Nothing more clearly shows than extensive travel that humanity in every clime is made with one nature. We are so cogently convinced of being warmed and cooled by the same sun; grunting and sweating under every pulsation of the sun and air, and are truly “bone of her bone, and flesh of her flesh.” How readily we adapt ourselves to her every humor. That nature shows a particular partiality for man, seems evident from the fact that he is the only animal who can survive and subsist in all the moods of all her climates.