ABOUT ALL KINDS OF SHIPS
tiles would gape apart and drop out. That they have not done so is evidence that the joiner s art has advanced a good deal since the days when ships were so shackly that when a giant sea gave them a wrench the doors came unbolted. I find the walls of the dining-saloon upholstered with mellow pic tures wrought in tapestry and the ceiling aglow with pictures done in oil. In other places of assembly I find great panels filled with embossed Spanish leather, the figures rich with gilding and bronze. Every where I find sumptuous masses of color color, color, color color all about, color of every shade and tint and variety; and, as a result, the ship is bright and cheery to the eye, and this cheeriness invades one s spirit and contents it. To fully appreciate the force and spiritual value of this radiant and opulent dream of color, one must stand outside at night in the pitch dark and the rain, and look in through a port, and observe it in the lavish splendor of the electric lights. The old-time ships were dull, plain, graceless, gloomy, and horribly depressing. They compelled the blues; one could not escape the blues in them. The modern idea is right: to surround the passenger with con veniences, luxuries, and abundance of inspiriting color. As a result, the ship is the pleasant est place one can be in, except, perhaps, one s home.
A VANISHED SENTIMENT
ONE thing is gone, to return no more forever the romance of the sea. Soft sentimentality about the sea has retired from the activities of this life, and is
�� �
