THE STEAMER.
The Batavier, all humps and hollows—the reverse of what one would expect in anything Batavian—and as ugly a black whale as ever floundered through an Arctic Ocean, received an ample cargo on the 3rd. of August 183—. I shall not attempt to minutely analyse such a numerous as well as motley group, on the short acquaintance of twenty-six hours. It was pretty evident, however, that we had on board representatives of various classes of society—more especially of the arts, sciences, and professions. The lawyer had left his clients to live in peace—the doctor had left his patients to die in peace:—and the pastor had committed his flock to some vicarious shepherd. The merchant had handed his ledger, and the banker his money-shovel to their clerks—and it seemed as though half the shopocracy had left their counters in care of the shopmen.
All was bustle and confusion among the steamers starting for various destinations—and I verily believe that the inhabitants of Pompeii did not rush in greater haste or in greater numbers to the sea, when chased by the ashes and lava of Vesuvius, than did the inhabitants of the metropolis to the banks of the Thames on this beautiful morning! There were to be seen senators, who had patriotically injured their own constitutions while reforming that of their country—tailors from Bond Street, going to Vienna and Athens to measure the “Corinthian pillars of the state,” on the philosophical principles of Laputa—aldermen from Bucklersbury, to exude a portion of green fat and callipash in the valleys of Switzerland—geological chemists, with hammers, bags, and blow-pipes, bound for the mountains of Taunus to ascertain the age of Mother Earth, by means of the fish-bones, oyster-shells, and pebbles, which she had swallowed at some of her grand suppers—antiquarians journeying to the Roman forum to disinter the bones of M. Curtius and his horse, which had lain so long in their marble cerements—engineers from a new joint-stock company to survey a line of rail-road over the Great St. Bernard—candidates for the Traveller’s Club, going to qualify by crossing some pons asinorum over the Danube—tourists of all calibres; some to make a tour simply; some to write a tour badly; but the greater number to talk of a tour afterwards—nabobs from the East; some with the complexion of a star pagoda; some as pallid as a sicca rupee; and others as blue as Asiatic cholera—Cantabs, with their tutors, going to study spherics among the Alps of Oberland—Oxonians, to collate Greek and gibberish among the Ionian Isles—Missionaries from Paternoster-row and Albemarle-street, to convert foolscap into food for circulating libraries, and the “bitter wassers” of Germany into Burgundy and Champaigne for themselves—Conservatives flying from the “West-end,” to preserve the remnants of a shattered constitution—landlords from Green Erin going to spend their rack-rents in the fashionable saloons of Baden Baden—roué’s from St. James’s, repairing, as a forlorn hope, to the Cur-saals (anglice, Cursed Hells) of Nassau and Bavaria—bacchanals, debauchees, and gourmands, hastening to Kissengen and Carlsbad, in hopes of restoring their jaded appetites and reducing their tumid livers—Judges from Westminster, who, in all actions of “Rus versus Urbem,” had lately determined in favour of the plaintiff, without reference to the jury—Bishops, who had left their black aprons on the Banks of the Thames, to have a peep at the lady with scarlet petticoats on the banks of the Tyber—aspiring youths of enlarged views and high pretensions, determined to see the world from the summit of Mont Blanc—pallid beauties, from Portman Square, with their anxious mammas, bound to Ems and Schwalbach, in hopes of transmuting their lillies into roses, by exchanging the midnight waltz for the “mittag” meal, and fiery port for the sparkling “wein-brunnen”—faded belles and shattered beaux, of certain and uncertain ages, repairing to Schlangenbad, for satin surfaces and renewal of youth. We had members of both houses who had inhaled sulphuretted hydrogen gas to such an extent, in St. Stephens, during the session, as to cause violent explosions of malodorous philippics, to the great annoyance of their opposite neighbours:—these were on their way to the Alps for pure air before the next eruption. Here were seen veterans from the “United Service,” whose memories had survived their hopes, bound on a pilgrimage to Waterloo and Camperdown, to heave a last sigh over the setting sun of martial glory, and the degenerate æra of insipid peace. Here were whigs, tories, radicals and revolutionists; together with men of high church, low church, and no church doctrines, but all (incredible to relate) unanimously agreed on one principle, that of the “mouvement.”[2]
These and hundreds, not to say thousands of others, whose avocations, objects, and pursuits were only known to themselves—
——an undistinguished crew
O’er whom her darkest wing Oblivion drew——
were rushing to the Thames, and deserting the Metropolis, as though it were the “City of the Plague,” or the seat of Asiatic cholera.
But to return to the Batavier. Honour to the man who first applied steam to locomotion. His ingenuity has enabled him to distil from water a light vapour which conquers the ocean from whence it sprang. It more than half diminishes the terror of the sea and the miseries of the voyage. It brings Lisbon and Gibraltar within the same distance of London as Edinburgh used to be. Though lighter than the air we breathe, it can resist the impetuosity of the heaviest storm, and stem the torrent of the most rapid river. It has nearly broken the trident of Neptune, and owns little allegiance to his sceptre. Steam may now say to the watery god, what the ocean monarch once said to a brother deity—
“Non tibi imperium Pelagi sævumque tridentem,
Sed mihi sorte datur.”——
Æolus may unchain the winds—Boreas may bluster, and Auster may weep; but steam heeds them not. Resistance only lends it strength, and oppression elasticity. The offspring of eternal and implacable enemies (fire and water), its birth is invariably and necessarily fatal to its parents. The new Being thus generated is as gigantic in power as it is transitory in existence. Imprisoned for a moment, it bursts its barriers—regains its liberty—and dies! But these struggles for freedom work the iron wings that impel the monster steamer through the briny waves. Deep in the womb of this moving volcano, we see the fires of Ætna glowing—cauldrons boiling—pumps playing—chains clanking—Ixion’s wheels incessantly revolving—steam roaring—and volumes of smoke belched upwards, to darken the skies with artificial clouds. Could some of our forefathers rise from their graves, and behold a steamer flying over the waves against wind and tide, and without oar or sail, they would be not a little astonished, and curious enough to know the name of the planet to which they had been wafted after leaving their native earth.