LOSS OF THE ARCTIC
1.IT was autumn.Hundreds had wended their way from pilgrimages；from Rome and its treasures of dead art，and its glory of living nature；from the sides of the Switzer‘s mountains，from the capitals of various nations；all of them saying in their hearts，we will wait for the September gales to have done with their equinoctial fury，and then we will embark；we will slide across the appeased ocean，and in the gorgeous month of October，we will greet our longed-for native land，and our heart-loved homes.
2.And so the throng streamed along from Berlin，from Paris，from the Orient，converging upon London，still hastening toward the welcome ship，and narrowing every day the circle of engagements and preparations.They crowded aboard.Never had the Arctic borne such a host of passengers，nor passengers so nearly related to so many of us.
3.The hour was come.The signal ball fell at Greenwich.It was noon also at Liverpool.The anchors were weighed；the great hull swayed to the current；the national colors streamed abroad，as if themselves instinct with life and national sympathy.The bell strikes；the wheels revolve；the signal gun beats its echoes in upon every structure along the shore，and the Arctic glides joyfully forth from the Mersey，and turns her prow to the winding channel，and begins her homeward run.The pilot stood at the wheel，and men saw him.Death sat upon the prow，and no eye beheld him.Whoever stood at the wheel in all the voyage，Death was the pilot that steered the craft，and none knew it.He neither revealed his presence nor whispered his errand.
4.And so hope was effulgent，and lithe gayety disported itself，and joy was with every guest.Amid all the inconveniencies of the voyage，there was still that which hushed every murmur，-“Home is not far away.”And every morning it was still one night nearer home！Eight days had passed.They beheld that distant bank of mist that for ever haunts the vast shallows of Newfoundland.Boldly they made for it；and plunging in，its pliant wreaths wrapped them about.They shall never emerge.The last sunlight has flashed from thatLoss of the Steam Ship Arcticdeck.The last voyage is done to ship and passengers.At noon there came noiselessly stealing from the north that fated instrument of destruction.In that mysterious shroud，that vast atmosphere of mist，both steamers were holding their way with rushing prow and roaring wheels，but invisible.
