Thus began the seafaring life of Ulysses Ferragut, which terminated only with his death.
The pride of the family placed him on a luxurious steamer, a mail-packet full of passengers, a floating hotel on which the officials were something like the managers of the Palace Hotel, while the real responsibility devolved upon the engineers, who were always going below, and upon returning to the light, invariably remained modestly in a second place, according to a hieratical law anterior to the progress of mechanics.
He crossed the ocean several times, as do those making a land journey at the full speed of an express train.

The august calm of the sea was lost in the throb of the screws and in the deafening roar of the machinery.

However blue the sky might be, it was always darkened by the floating crepe band from the smokestacks.

He envied the leisurely sailboats that the liner was always leaving behind.

They were like reflective wayfarers who saturate themselves with the country atmosphere and commune deeply with its soul.