es
was at an end, did his father give consent.

About a month after his meeting with Hiram Holt in the London
coffee-house, he and his brother Arthur found themselves on board a fine
emigrant vessel, passing down the river Lee into Cork harbour, under the
leadership of a little black steam-tug. Grievous had been the wailing of
the passengers at parting with their kinsfolk on the quay; but, somewhat
stilled by this time, they leaned in groups on the bulwarks, or were
squatted about on deck among their infinitude of red boxes and brilliant
tins, watching the villa-whitened shores gliding by rapidly. Only an
occasional vernacular ejaculation, such as 'Oh, wirra! wirra!' or, 'Och
hone, mavrone!' betokened the smouldering remains of emotion in the
frieze coats and gaudy shawls assembled for'ard: the wisest of the
party were arranging their goods and chattels 'tween-decks, where they
must encamp for a month or more; but the majority, with truly Celtic
improvidence, will wait till they are turned down at nightfall, and have
a general scramble in the dusk.

Now the noble Cove of Cork stretches before them, a sheet of glassy
water, dotted with a hundred sail, from the base of the sultry hill
faced with terraces and called Queenstown, to the far Atlantic beyond
the Heads. Heavy and dark loom the fortified Government buildings of
Haulbowline and the prisons of Spike Island, casting forbidding
shadows on the western margin of the tide. Quickly the steam-tug
and her follower thread their way among islets and moored barques and
guard-ships, southward to the sea. No pause anywhere; the passengers of
the brig Ocean Queen are shut up in a world of their own for a while;
yet they do not feel the bond with mother country quite severed till
they have cleared the last cape, and the sea-line lies wide in view; nor
even then, till the little black tug casts off the connecting cables,
and rounds away back across the bar, within the jaws of the bay.

Hardly a breath of breeze: but such as blows is favourable; and
with infinite creaking all sail is set. The sound wakes up emigrant
sorrow afresh; the wildly contagious Irish cry is raised, much to the
discomposure of the captain, who stood on the quarterdeck with Robert
Wynn.

'The savages! they will be fitting mates for Red Indians, and may add
a stave or two to the war-whoop. One would think they were all going
to the bottom immediately.' He walked forward to quell the noise, if
possible, b