The storm roars without, and within the passenger lies day after day
studying the poetry of motion. There is one motion that goes to the tune
of "Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep," but this rocking is so violent
that as one dashes from side to side, holding on to the bars above and
the edge of the berth, one is led to pity a wakeful baby rocked wickedly
by the big brother impatient to go to play. The tune changes, and it is
"Ploughing the Raging Main," and the nose of the plough goes down too
deep; then one is fastened to the walking beam of an engine and sways up
and down with it. A gigantic churn is being churned by an ogre just
under our head, and the awful dasher plunges and creaks. Above all the
winds howl, and the waves roll, and sometimes slap the ship till she
shivers and leaps, and then the "Wreck of the Hesperus" recommences.
Things get gloomy, the variations of storm grow monotonous, nothing
delights us, no wish arises for beef tea, nothing makes gruel palatable.
Neither sun nor stars have been visible for some days; the only sunshine
we see is the passing smile of the ship's boys, who are almost
constantly employed baling out the Atlantic.
It was the ninth night of storm. They say every ninth wave is larger
than the rest; the ninth night the wind roared louder than ever, the
Almighty's great guns going off. The ship staggered and reeled,
struggling gallantly, answering nobly to the human will that held her to
her duty, but shivering and leaping after every mighty slap of the mad
waves. I got one glimpse at the waves through a cautiously opened door.
I never thought they could climb upon one another's shoulders and reach
up to heaven, a dark green wall of water ready to fall and overwhelm us,
until I looked and saw the mountains of water all around.
Land in sight on the 8th of February, the Fasnet rock, then the Irish
coast; the great rollers drew back into the bosom of the Atlantic: the
winged pilot boats appeared; the pilot climbed up the side out of the
sea; we steamed over the harbor bar and stopped at Birkenhead on the
Cheshire side to land our fellow-passengers the sheep and oxen.
I might have gone up to Liverpool but was advised to remain another
night on board and go direct to the Belfast packet from the ship. I
considered this advice, found it good and took it.
II.
FROM LIVERPOOL TO BELFAST - IRELAND'S CONDITION DISCUSSED - EVICTIONS - A
SUNDAY IN BELFAST.
From Liverpool to Belfast, including a cup of tea, cost in all four
dollars and fifty cents. It seems ridiculous to a stranger that the cars
and cabs always stop at a little distance from the steamers, so as to
employ a porter to lift a trunk for a few yards at each end of the short
journey by cab.
The kind steward of the "Ontario" came over to the packet to look after
his passenger; had promised to see that passenger safely conveyed from
one steamer to the other, but, detained at home by sickness in the
family, came back to the ship a few minutes too late, and then came over
to explain and say good-bye. There could not possibly be a more
courteous set of men than the captain and officers of the steamship
"Ontario."
On the Belfast packet two ladies, one a very young bride on her way from
her home in South Wales to her new home in Belfast, were talking of the
danger of going to Ireland or living in it at the present disturbed
time. A gentleman in a grey ulster and blue Tam o'Shanter of portentous
dimensions broke into the conversation by assuring the handsome young
bride that she would be as safe in green Erin as in the arms of her
mother. Looking at the young lady it was easy to see that this speech
was involuntary Irish blarney, a compliment to her handsome face. "You
will meet the greatest kindness here, you will have the heartiest
welcome on the face of the earth," he continued.
"But there is a great deal of disturbance, is there not?" asked her
companion.
"Oh, the newspapers exaggerate dreadfully - shamefully, to get up a
sensation in the interest of their own flimsy sheets. There is some
disturbance, but nothing like what people are made believe by the
newspaper reports."
Old lady - "Why are Irish people so turbulent?"
Tam O'Shanter - "My dear lady, Ireland contains the best people and the
worst in the world, the kindest and the cruelest. They are so emotional,
so impulsive, so impressible that their warm hearts are easily swayed by
demagogues who are making capital out of influencing them."
Old lady - "Making money by it, do you mean?"
Tam O'Shanter, with a decided set of his bonnet - "Making money of it!
Yes, by all means. They have got up the whole thing to make money. But
here in Belfast, where you are going," with a bow to the bride, "all is
tranquil, all is prosperous. In fact all over the north there is the
same tranquillity, the same prosperity."
Here, a new voice, that of an enthusiastic supporter of the Land League,
joined in the conversation, and the controversy becoming personal the
ladies disappeared into the ladies' cabin. There was an echo of drunken
argument that was likely a continuation of the land question until the
wind increased to a gale. The little boat tossed like a cork on the
waves; there was such a rattle of glass, such a rolling and bumping of
loose articles, such echoes of sickness, above all, the shock of waves
and the shriek of winds, and the land question was for the time being
swallowed up by the storm.
