The coast of Ireland looked very beautiful as we approached Queenstown
Harbour, the brilliant morning sun showing up the green hillsides and
picking out groups of dwellings dotted here and there above the rugged
grey cliffs that fringed the coast. We took on board our pilot, ran
slowly towards the harbour with the sounding-line dropping all the
time, and came to a stop well out to sea, with our screws churning up
the bottom and turning the sea all brown with sand from below. It had
seemed to me that the ship stopped rather suddenly, and in my
ignorance of the depth of the harbour entrance, that perhaps the
sounding-line had revealed a smaller depth than was thought safe for
the great size of the Titanic: this seemed to be confirmed by the
sight of sand churned up from the bottom--but this is mere
supposition. Passengers and mails were put on board from two tenders,
and nothing could have given us a better idea of the enormous length
and bulk of the Titanic than to stand as far astern as possible and
look over the side from the top deck, forwards and downwards to where
the tenders rolled at her bows, the merest cockleshells beside the
majestic vessel that rose deck after deck above them. Truly she was a
magnificent boat! There was something so graceful in her movement as
she rode up and down on the slight swell in the harbour, a slow,
stately dip and recover, only noticeable by watching her bows in
comparison with some landmark on the coast in the near distance; the
two little tenders tossing up and down like corks beside her
illustrated vividly the advance made in comfort of motion from the
time of the small steamer.

Presently the work of transfer was ended, the tenders cast off, and at
1.30 P.M., with the screws churning up the sea bottom again, the
Titanic turned slowly through a quarter-circle until her nose pointed