At Brockville we took in a party of ladies, which somewhat relieved
the monotony of the cabin, and I was amused by listening to their
lively prattle, and the little gossip with which they strove to
wile away the tedium of the voyage. The day was too stormy to go
upon deck - thunder and lightening, accompanied with torrents of
rain. Amid the confusion of the elements, I tried to get a peep at
the Lake of the Thousand Isles; but the driving storm blended all
objects into one, and I returned wet and disappointed to my berth.
We passed Kingston at midnight, and lost all our lady passengers
but two. The gale continued until daybreak, and noise and confusion
prevailed all night, which were greatly increased by the uproarious
conduct of a wild Irish emigrant, who thought fit to make his bed
upon the mat before the cabin door. He sang, he shouted, and
harangued his countrymen on the political state of the Emerald
Isle, in a style which was loud if not eloquent. Sleep was
impossible, whilst his stentorian lungs continued to pour forth
torrents of unmeaning sound.
Our Dutch stewardess was highly enraged. His conduct, she said,
"was perfectly ondacent." She opened the door, and bestowing upon
him several kicks, bade him get away "out of that," or she would
complain to the captain.
In answer to this remonstrance, he caught her by the foot, and
pulled her down. Then waving the tattered remains of his straw hat
in the air, he shouted with an air of triumph, "Git out wid you,
you ould witch! Shure the ladies, the purty darlints, never sent
you wid that ugly message to Pat, who loves them so intirely that
he manes to kape watch over them through the blessed night." Then
making us a ludicrous bow, he continued, "Ladies, I'm at yer
sarvice; I only wish I could get a dispensation from the Pope,
and I'd marry yeas all." The stewardess bolted the door, and the
mad fellow kept up such a racket that we all wished him at the
bottom of the Ontario.
The following day was wet and gloomy. The storm had protracted the
length of our voyage for several hours, and it was midnight when we
landed at Cobourg.
THERE'S REST
(Written at midnight on the river St. Lawrence)
There's rest when eve, with dewy fingers,
Draws the curtains of repose
Round the west, where light still lingers,
And the day's last glory glows;
There's rest in heaven's unclouded blue,
When twinkling stars steal one by one,
So softly on the gazer's view,
As if they sought his glance to shun.
There's rest when o'er the silent meads
The deepening shades of night advance;
And sighing through their fringe of reeds,
The mighty stream's clear waters glance.
There's rest when all above is bright,
And gently o'er these summer isles
The full moon pours her mellow light,
And heaven on earth serenely smiles.
