other than accidental glimpses of the serene heights or dark abysses familiar to the souls of others. Circumstances demand much gentleness and mutual forbearance from the voyagers, and those who are wise display them, if not from natural kindliness, yet from discreet regard for their own comfort; but there are natures so innately evil, or so unhappily uncultured, as to prefer rendering those around them miserable, and such find ample material for hourly contention within the narrow limits of their berths.
As they recover from sea-sickness, the thoughts of the voyagers, after so long abstinence, revert fondly to culinary matters. There is no lack of provision: beside their private store of potatoes, oatmeal, &c., the ship is legally bound to furnish a periodical allowance, and many artifices are used to obtain an undue share of these provisions, which are seldom used unless the private stock has been improvidently exhausted. The wanton waste by those—most of whom have known in their own land the direst extremity of hunger—is astonishing. From some occult reason the Celtic peasant does not relish the white pilot-bread. “I doesn’t like the feel of it under me tooth,” says Dennis, while steadily demanding, in the idea of “getting the worth of his money,” that which he then tramples under foot.
When the instinct of hunger revives, the emotion is general and profound. A continuous procession ensues between the steerage and the galley of persons bearing vessels indicating the nature of their employment. Extremest caution is needed in venturing to approach the intermediate steps thronged by the anxious votaries, each imploring the bystander to abstain from touching the sacred pot or kettle then being tremulously borne to the expectant family. Below, whatever be the hour, in some dark corner the steam is rising from a pot of “praties,” around which cluster a select few, whose tastes are simple as their appetites are keen.
The cooking-ranges on deck are now the general resort for business or amusement. There, white-armed Norah bewitches all beholders by the shy grace wherewith she fries a rasher; there, Larry Regan, that spruce young bachelor, under pretext of lighting his dudeen, whispers sweet flattery to the dark-eyed colleen, whose blushes belie her feigned and decorous displeasure; there, while the pot is boiling, Mrs. Malony claims sympathy for matrimonial distresses; Mrs. O’Halloran ostentatiously sighs over vanished wealth; and precocious children await opportunities for petty theft or mischief.
Many are the quarrels about priority of claims to the use of the fires. At times the anger of the disputants vents itself otherwise than in vituperation, and the single combat frequently changes in a twinkling into a general melée, wherein each idler hastens to take part. The officers are at times obliged to separate the combatants at personal hazard, though occasionally the “heady current of the fight” is so strong and impetuous that only a copious deluge from the fire-engine can quell it. It is needless to say that Jack and his comrades witness these little passages of arms with huge delight.
There is abundant opportunity for indulgence in those mutual confidences that the impulsive voyagers incline to. The glories of former fights are homerically told, mysterious games are played with greasy cards, Jacobite songs are sung, little amatory scenes occur, and the smoke of numberless pipes ascends from the hatches, or broods in an odoriferous cloud below. The Celt never loses that factious spirit to which most of his misfortunes are in some degree attributable; and here, where common misery should induce amity and kindly feeling, all those party distinctions re-appear that had embittered his former life. Whatever else may have perished, hate survives, and constitutes the background of the picture. Papist and Protestant, Whig and Tory, North and South, play their little antics on this narrow proscenium as earnestly and vindictively as before in Ireland, and generate continuous ill-will and frequent rights.
From the previous habits of its tenants, ere the passage is over the steerage becomes as filthy as might be expected from their personal uncleanliness. Ablutions are rare; what linen there is assumes that hue euphemistically termed Isabeau, and vermin familiar to man so disgustingly abound, that no care can exempt the fastidious from their attack.
The monotony of sea life is disagreeably varied by an occasional gale, to the great alarm of the passengers, and delight of Jack and his comrades, who assume a contemptuous superiority to them, very amusing and not altogether unmerited, for the relations of the sexes seem here to be strangely reversed—the women exhibiting far more courage, energy, and endurance than the men. The pretty alarm that the dangers of the seas may elicit from the girls seems coquettishly assumed for the occasion; and while the husband yields to unmanly despondency, his delicate wife is frequently seen toiling for her family, and cheering them up, in a way demanding admiration.
But these endurances have at length an end. Hurried preparations for departure are made, and all array themselves in holiday attire, for the earnest seamen are arranging the anchors and chains to guard against those casualties peculiar to the coast. The ocean has lost the serene azure tint, suggestive of mysterious depths; the purple cloud on the western horizon deepens before the advancing prow, and is rapidly resolved into the Jersey Highlands; from the multitude of sails that fleck the smooth surface, like a flight of snowy sea-fowl rocked to slumber by its rhythmical undulations, one approaching yields a sallow pilot, regarded with as much interest and awe as though he had descended from some higher sphere. Expectation, standing on tiptoe, surveys with naïve wonder the villas half hidden by foliage amid the green hollows of Staten Island, the defiant cannon of Fort Hamilton, or, glancing across the gleaming bay, admires the brilliant city and the surrounding forest of shipping. Among these the Albatross alighting, folds her wearied wings, is moored to a wharf in the Hudson River, the voyage is ended, and they too are in Arcadia.
We follow the fortunes of that larger class of immigrants who will have to depend on sweaty,