ce is made of iron--hard, unyielding, unbeautiful,
uncompromising iron,--but her cushions are soft, her gilding is
gorgeous, her fittings are elegant, her food is sumptuous, her society--
at least much of it--is refined. Of course representatives of the
unrefined are also there--in the after-cabin too--just as there are
specimens of the refined in the fore-cabin. But, taking them all in
all, they are a remarkably harmonious band, the inhabitants of this iron
palace, from the captain to the cabin-boy inclusive. The latter is a
sprightly imp; the former is--to use the expression of one of the
unrefined--"a brick." He is not tall--few sea-captains seem to be so--
but he is very broad, and manly, and as strong as an elephant. He is a
pattern captain. Gallant to the lady passengers, chatty with the
gentlemen, polite to the unrefined, sedately grave among the officers
and crew, and jocular to the children; in short, he is all things to all
men--and much of the harmony on board is due to his unconscious
influence. He has a handsome face, glittering black eyes, an aquiline
nose that commands respect, and a black beard and moustache that covered
a firm mouth and chin.

Grinding is one of the prominent ideas that are suggested on board the
iron palace. There are many other ideas, no doubt. Among seventy or
eighty educated and intelligent human beings of both sexes and all ages
it could not be otherwise. We allude, however, to the boat--not to the
passengers. The screw grinds and the engine grinds incessantly. When
one thinks of a thing, or things, going round and round, or up and down,
regularly, uninterruptedly, vigorously, doggedly, obstinately, hour
after hour, one is impressed, to say the least; and when one thinks of
the said thing, or things, going on thus, night and day without rest,
one is solemnised; but when one meditates on these motions being
continued for many weeks together, one has a tendency to feel mentally
overwhelmed.

The great crank that grinds the screw, and is itself ground by the
piston--not to mention the cylinder and boiler--works in a dark place
deep down in the engine-room, like a giant hand constantly engaged on
deeds of violence and evil.

Here Edgar Berrington, clothed in white canvas and oil, finds genial
companionship. He dotes on the great crank. It is a sympathetic thing.
It represents his feelings wonderfully. Returning from the deck after
inhaling a little fresh air, he leans