You cannot see, you can only infer, that the Atlantic Ocean is large. At no time in any direction does the eye behold more sea than is visible from Hastings pier. During the long, luxurious day and all through the night the vessel goes on, on, and still on. The throbbing propeller makes with splashing water the music that lulls you to sleep at night, that greets your waking in the morning. For ever the sea is rushing by in frothy confusion. We career through a path mottled with foam. Between the whirling splashes and streaks of white the eye pierces a slatey-green, with the myriad tiny bubbles ascending as a grey cloud.
You look in grateful silence upon the Atlantic skies—purples and lemon-yellow in the east, gold and flaming crimson in the west. Later joys are the moonshine and the phosphorous glowing on the busy, musical, unseen waves.
One afternoon a little bird came to us, perching awhile on the bridge stairs. I did not see him, but they told me of his grey feathers fluttering deranged in the breeze, and the balance of testimony proclaimed him a sparrow. Wondrous welcome little visitor from the land. For to live nearly a week on the boundless sea is to find yourself with tender recollections of meadow and dell, of oak trees and the bumble bee.
Not always did white crests figure in the wide circumference. Once the surface sobered to a polished blue, and as we loitered in the burning sunshine the decks felt hot underfoot. Waggish Nature chose that tropical interlude for an Arctic exhibition. We saw icebergs and whales.
In this enlightened age it may seem superfluous to describe either. I shall give my impressions of both, and for this reason: each was wholly otherwise than I had expected to find it. The whale at sea is very unlike a whale. In our first experience—a creature some two miles away—again and again we saw the jet of water rise as a column of white fluffiness out of a little area of surface commotion. It was easy to infer some animal was causing the upheaval, but for long he abstained from presenting any part of his anatomy to our view. At last he so far satisfied our curiosity as to show us a few yards of the top of his back. The oblong, rounded piece of conspicuous blackness performed a sort of greasy curve, a large and handsome fin travelled round the upper edge, and then Mr. Whale, again wholly immersed, playfully re-engaged in squirting part of the Atlantic Ocean up in the air.
Icebergs in the sunshine are superlatively beautiful. I had expected an iceberg to look like ice. It suggests, rather, a mountain of loaf sugar or alabaster. It is white with the tender, dazzling whiteness of a swan’s breast. Its surface is of milky, silky snow. Moulded in soft contour, it is rich in fanciful, protruding shapes.
A distant berg, floating towards Newfoundland, was revealed in our glasses as two prodigious Egyptian pyramids. Another was half a mile away, aground off Belle Isle. It exhibited, as a conspicuous feature on the windward side, a great seal snorting the air. When we came to leeward the entire mass was seen to be a headless lion, the hind legs adjusted to a squatting attitude, the spinal vertebræ visible up the mountain slope of the creature’s back.
DUFFERIN TERRACE AND LOWER TOWN, QUEBEC