“A star Which moves not ’mid the moving heavens alone, A smile among dark frowns—a gentle tone Among rude voices, a beloved light, A solitude, a refuge, a delight.”—SHELLEY. A noble steamer was laboriously plowing the turbulent waters of the great Atlantic, heaving, and struggling, and creaking with every revolution of her gigantic screw, for the waves were rolling high—“mountain high”—in very truth. The huge dark masses of water would swell and rise up like a great black wall, reaching, it seemed, almost to the angry, leaden sky above, then sweeping down with mighty force, thunder upon the decks of that great vessel, making it shudder to its very center, sending it down, down into the yawn…
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