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.