CHAPTER NINE.
ACROSS THE ATLANTIC.
O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea, Our thoughts as boundless and our souls as free, Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam, Survey our empire and behold our home! "Sir," said the Honourable Mister Pigeonbarley of Missouri, "we _air_ a peculiar people.

Jes so!" Have you never noticed how, when travelling on a long journey, the wheels of the railway carriage in which you are sitting seem always to be rattling out some carefully studied tune, to which the jolts of the vehicle beat a concerted bass; while, the slackening of the coupling chains, in combination with the concussion of the buffers as they hitch up suddenly again, sounds a regular obbligato accompaniment--the scream of the steam whistle, and the thundering whish and whirr of the train through a deep cutting or tunnel, or over a bridge with water below, coming in occasionally as a sort of symphony to the main air?
Have you never noticed this?
No?
Bless me, what a _very_ unimaginative person you are! I have, frequently; and yet, I do not think I am any brighter than the ordinary run of people.
Drawn some odd thousands of miles by the iron horse, as it has been my fortune to be during different periods of my life, I have seldom failed to associate his progress thus with those lesser Melpomenean nymphs, who may be selected to watch over the destinies of the steam god and fill up their leisure hours by "riding on a rail," in the favourite fashion of the South Carolinian darkeys.
Of course the carriage wheels do not perpetually sing the same song:-- that would be monotonous.
They know better than that, I can assure you.

Sometimes they rattle out the maddest of mad waltzes--such as that which the imprudent German young lady, living near the Harz Mountains, found herself dancing one day against her will, when she had given expression to the very improper statement, that, she would "take the devil for a partner," if he only would put in an appearance at the gay and festive scene at which she was then present.

Sometimes, again, they will evolve, note by note, the dreariest air that the composer of the Dead March in _Saul_ could have devised; or, croon you out a soothing lullaby, should you feel sleepy, to which the charming melody of "The Cradle Song" would bear no comparison.

In fact, the nymphs know their work well; and so alter their strains as to suit every mood and humour of the variously-tempered travellers that listen to their musical cadences.
As I proceeded now on my way to Southampton, where I was to take the ocean steamer for my passage to America, the railway nymphs were busy with their harmonies.
Not sad or dispiriting by any means, but briskly enlivening was their lay.
They seemed to me to sing-- "You're off on your travels! Off on your travels, To fame and fortune in another land! To wait and work, Frank! Wait and work, Frank! Ere you gain your own Min's hand!" And, perhaps, it was from the recollection of Monsieur Parole d'Honneur's kindness, and from my having been in company with him that winter in Paris, where I had heard that opera of Offenbach's for the first time, but the tune of the carriage wheels was strangely like the "Pars pour Crete" chorus in the second act of _La Belle Helene_--where, if you remember, the unfortunate Menelaus is hustled off the stage, in company with his portly umbrella and other belongings, in order to make room for the advent of Paris, the "gay deceiver," the successful intriguant! Although my thoughts were wrapped up in memories of Min and her parting, hopeful words, and my inner eyes still saw her standing at the window, waving her handkerchief to me in mute adieu, my outward vision was keenly watchful of each landpoint the train hurried by.
I remember every incident on the way.
Not a thing escaped me.
The outlook for baggage at Waterloo; the feeing of the obsequious porter expectant of a douceur; the mistake I made in getting my ticket which had to be rectified at the last moment; the confused ringing of bells and clattering of trucks up and down the platform; the slamming of doors and hurrying of feet to and fro:--then, the sudden pause in all these sounds; the shrill whistle, betokening all was ready; the converting of all the employes into animated sign-posts, that waved their arms wildly; the grunt and wheeze from the engine, as if from a giant in pain; the sharp jerk, and then the steady pull at the carriage in which I was sitting; the "pant, pant! puff, puff!" of the iron horse, as he buckled to his work with a will; and then, finally, the preliminary oscillation of the ponderous train, the trembling and rumbling of creaking wheels along the rails--as we glided and bumped, slowly but steadily, out of the terminus--the distance signal showing "all clear" to us, and blocking the up line with the red semaphore of "danger." Past Vauxhall, once famed for its revelry--conspicuous, now, only for its picturesque expanse of candle-factory roofs and the dead boarding that is displayed skirting the railway:--Clapham, villa-studded and with gardens laid out in bird's-eye perspective:--Surbiton, dainty in its pretty little road-side station, all garnished with roses and shell- walks:--Farnborough, where a large proportion of our passengers, of military proclivities, alight en route for Aldershot, and celebrated of yore for the "grand international" contest with fisticuffs between a British Sayers and a Transatlantic Heenan:--Basingstoke, the great ugly "junction" of many twisted rails and curiously-intricate stacks of chimneys; until, at length, Southampton was reached--a town smelling of docks and coal-tar, and dismal in the evening gloom.
Not a feature of the landscape on my way down was lost to me; although, as I've said, I was thinking of Min all the time the train was speeding on.
I was wondering within myself, in a duplicate system of thought, when I would see the scene again, in all its variations, as I saw it clearly, now; and whether the green meadows, and fir-summited hills, and shining water-courses that wandered through and around them--nay, whether the very telegraph posts and wires, and the country stations we rattled past so quickly and unceremoniously, as if they were not worth stopping for-- would look the same on my coming back to England and my darling once more! But, I was not sad or down-hearted.
Her last words had rendered me almost as hopeful as she professed to be; so, in spite of my great grief at our parting, a grief which was too deep for words, I was endeavouring more to look forward sanguinely to the future than dwell on all our past unhappiness--which I tried to put away from me as a bad dream.
I was only musing, that's all.
It is impossible to keep one's mind idle, you know; for, even when engaged in an abstract contemplation of the most engrossing theme, the fancy _will_ stray off into by-paths that lead to strangely dissimilar ideas and very disconnected associations.
As the German steamer in which I was going to New York did not start until next day, I put up for the night at Radley's--that haven of shore- comfort to the Red-Sea-roasted, Biscay-tossed, sea-sickened Indian warriors returning home by the P and O vessels--where, you may be sure, I met with every attention that my constitution required in the way of rest and refreshment; and, at midday on the morrow, embarking on board the stately _Herzog von Gottingen_, I passed through the Needles, outward-bound across the Atlantic to the "New World" of promise! Ocean voyages are so common now-a-days that they are not worth mentioning.
Mine was no exception to the rule; the only noticeable point that I observed being the rare courageous temperament of the Teutonic ladies, and the undaunted spirit they displayed in "fighting their battles o'er again" at the saloon table, in despite of the insidious attacks of Neptune.