The Journey’s End
Steamship Cameronia, September 21.
For some unexplainable reason the ship homeward-bound is always slow. When one leaves his own country on a journey to other lands he is in no hurry. The new pictures that constantly present themselves, the new objects and the talk that suggests new ideas, hopes and plans, make the days go swiftly by and the voyage is never too long or tiresome. But when months of travel have exhausted the appetite for sights, and the occurrence of the strange no longer starts a thrill, the thoughts of the traveler far exceed the speed of the ship and the fastest boat that crosses the Atlantic is too slow. This is the only excuse I can find for the Cameronia, which sailed four days later than scheduled, and has developed no traits which will be affectionately remembered by the present passengers. She is a new ship, and not finished. I suppose the Anchor line needed the money or it would not have started a vessel across the ocean with so many things not completed and untried. And then the Cameronia has shown great ability as a pitcher, also as a roller, and if a contest is begun as to what ship can pitch and roll, kick and buck and snort the best, I will back the Cameronia against the field.
The ocean along the northern coast of Ireland has a habit of being busy. The currents from the south and the Arctic meet the turbulent waves from the Irish Sea, and a watery Donnybrook fair is the result. The Cameronia enjoyed the opportunity, and although the passengers generally took their evening meal a majority of them went dinnerless to bed, and they went early and with much haste. There is no known remedy for seasickness. The Rockefeller foundation which is discovering wonderful germs, on which every other ill can be laid, has not found the bacillus which started the trouble on the Cameronia. The ship’s doctor calmly advises you to put your finger down your throat and aid nature in her work. He assures you that the disease is not fatal, although you may wish it were, and he encourages you in the faith that every minute will be your next. The seasick ones lose temporarily any other trouble or ailments, and often forget their own names, imagining probably that these have gone with the rest. The story is told of a time like the one in question, that a sympathizing officer came to a man and woman who were leaning against each other with a common misery. “Is your husband very sick?” he inquired of the evidently cultured and modest lady. “He’s not my husband,” she faintly answered, as she leaned on her companion once again. “Your brother?” continued the butter-in. “I never saw him before,” she murmured, clasping again at the wobbly supporter under discussion.
This is a Scotch boat, and she has some Scotch traits. The Scotch people are wonderful. In a land which is nearly all poor pasture and good golf links, they have developed a citizenship which intellectually leads the world. But they are not given to covering up unpleasant spots and they do not go too strong for things of mere beauty or comfort. There is no blarney-stone in the Highlands. The Scotch are probably the poorest hotel managers in the world. The graces and the pleasantry of the continent are despised, and everything coming to a Scotchman is expected on the day it is due. This habit of thrift is necessary in a land where it has always been a fight for man to get a result in the way of bread or meat or porridge. There is little humor in the Scotch nature, and every action is based on serious thought. The Cameronia is getting us across just as was promised, but with no frills or furbelows in the way of personal attention or entertainment.
Of course there is a great deal in their viewpoint, and what seems right and proper in one country is often looked upon with horror in another. Sunday on the Cameronia was Sunday as it is in Glasgow. The Anchor line would no more sail a ship without divine service than it would without a rudder. It would no more permit the pianist to play secular music like “America” or “Swanee River” on Sunday than it would allow a passenger to take the captain’s place. But all the Sabbath Day the Anchor line sells booze openly and without a compunction of conscience. A compulsorily closed piano and an open bar look strange from the viewpoint of a traveler from Kansas.
I do not want to seem to be faultfinding, so I will only say that the grand concert on the Cameronia was not much worse than is usual on shipboard. Everybody knows that during a voyage some night is designated as concert night, a program is given by the passengers, and a collection taken for the benefit of the Sailors’ Home or some such charitable object. But only those who have actually made the trip and attended a concert realize the painful nature of the operation. A notice is posted on the bulletin board asking for volunteers for the program, and aspiring genius directly or through friends offers itself for the entertainment. A dignified gentleman who can’t tell a funny story but thinks he can is selected for chairman. Sometimes a really good musician or entertainer is inadvertently included in the program, but this is not often. No mistake is made in the choice of pretty girls who take up the collection. Our concert was opened by a bass solo, the guilty party being a man with his name parted in the middle and old enough to know better. He rendered (that’s the proper word) the old Roman favorite, “Only a Pansy Blossom.” When he came to the chorus about a faded flower he waved a yellow chrysanthemum in the air to a tremulo accompaniment. This was not a comic song, but a serious, sentimental selection, and the singer was an Englishman. The Scotch and English in the room heaved sighs and said to each other, “How beautiful!” The Americans poked each other in the ribs and almost wept in the effort to restrain their laughter. Of course he was encored, and he rendered again. This time it was a ballad about the golden tress of my darling, and in the touchiest of the touching lines he drew forth from his vest a piece of female switch, peroxide in color and horsetailish in effect. It was a great effort, and the serious fellow-country-men heaved more sighs of appreciation, while an American girl at my right whispered out of her handerchief, “I know I’m going to scream!” Then a Scotchman sang an Irish song. Now a Scotchman can’t get the Irish brogue any more than he can understand an American joke. He was enthusiastically encored, and responded with a French dialect story, in broad Scotch. It was funnier than he knew. An amateur violinist contributed an execution of a sonata or a nocturne or a cordial of some kind. A famous story-teller recited a few choice bits from the column of some London magazine, on which the American copyright expired many years ago. The chairman in a few touching words then explained the object of the charity for which the fund was to be collected, and the touching was completed by the young ladies with pleasant smiles.
Such is a ship’s concert, and with slight variations it is one of the features of every ocean voyage.
INTRODUCING A JOKE TO OUR BRITISH COUSINS
I have alluded to the lack of humor in Great Britain, from the American viewpoint. I heard a good joke on the Scotch, and told it to a small crowd in the smoking-room. The story was of the boy who asked his father why there was such a coin as a farthing, the fourth part of a penny. The father replied that it was to enable the Scotch to be charitable. Nobody laughed, and I resumed a discussion of the weather. About five minutes afterward an Englishman roared with mirth, and shouted to me, “I follow you! I follow you!” I didn’t understand why he was following me until he began my story, which he repeated with explanations and reminders of the proverbial Scotch thrift. Then he told it again and laughed loudly. The others smiled courteously and then face after face broadened, they all “followed,” and nobody appreciated the joke more than the Scotchmen. They told the story to each other and laughed, then hunted up friends and told it until the friends “followed,” and I was pointed out as a humorist. But it was a long and painful operation, and I did not have the courage to try it again. These British cousins are not devoid of humor but their speed limit is far below ours.
The harbor of New York is in sight and the pilot just came aboard. I witnessed an affecting scene. A fellow-passenger shouted vigorously to get the attention of a man who was sitting in the pilot boat. The man looked up, and I could tell the passenger was nervously preparing to ask for important news, perhaps of the strike, or the English elections. He called, “Who’s ahead in the National League?”
No coast looks as beautiful as the shore of home. Even New Jersey looms magnificently at such a time. The passengers are all on deck except those who are hiding articles from the customs officer. The returning Americans are full of enthusiasm. They have seen enough of other lands to know that there is none to compare with the United States, none which comes nearer to giving a man a chance. The foreigners in the first cabin watch the approaching scene with quiet interest. Over in the steerage hundreds of would-be Americans gaze eagerly at the land of hope and promise. Soon they will be welcomed by the Statue of Liberty which holds out the torch of citizenship to every alien with ten dollars in cash and a certificate of health. The American flag appears on passing boats, and it is the most beautiful as it is the most meaning of all the ensigns of all the nations. A man with a German accent tells me how forty years ago, when a mere boy, he came from the fatherland to try his fortune in the New World. This year he went back for a visit, but he had a stateroom and was not in the steerage. He saw the struggle and the lack of opportunity in the country of his birth. Now he is homeward-bound, satisfied that in spite of trusts and politics and coon songs, this is really the land of the free, the nation of opportunity; and as the pilot took charge and the American flag went to the top of the Cameronia’s mast, a tear trickled down his cheek, telling of the joy in his heart.
Transcriber’s Note
Hyphenation has been standardised.
A Table of Illustrations has been created by the Transcriber and is placed in the public domain.
Because some of the illustration borders are not square they do not show as even.
[Page 61]— protraying changed to portraying.
[Page 113]— commerical changed to commercial.
[Page 121]— slipping changed to sipping.
[Page 141]— langauges changed to languages.
[Page 163]— Boulougne changed to Boulogne.
[Page 169]— 1060 changed to 1066.