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glimmering of dawn
appeared. I found it extremely easy to read, at 10 P.M., on the deck.

We had much diversion on board from a company of Iowa Indians,
under the celebrated chief "White Cloud," who are on a visit to England.
They are truly a wild enough looking company, and helped not a little
to relieve the tedium of the passage. The chief was a very grave and
dignified person, but some of the braves were merry enough. One day
we had a war-dance on deck, which was a most ludicrous scene. The
chief and two braves sat upon the deck, beating violently a small drum
and howling forth their war-song, while the others in full dress, painted
in a grotesque style, leaped about, brandishing tomahawks and spears,
and terminating each dance with a terrific yell. Some of the men are
very fine-looking, but the squaws are all ugly. They occupied part of
the second cabin, separated only by a board partition from our room.
This proximity was any thing but agreeable. They kept us awake more
than half the night, by singing and howling in the most dolorous
manner, with the accompaniment of slapping their hands violently on
their bare breasts. We tried an opposition, and a young German student,
who was returning home after two years' travel in America, made our
room ring with the chorus from Der Freischütz--but in vain. They
would howl and beat their breasts, and the pappoose would squall. Any
loss of temper is therefore not to be wondered at, when I state that I
could scarcely turn in my berth, much less stretch myself out; my
cramped limbs alone drove off half the night's slumber.
It was a pleasure, at least, to gaze on their strong athletic frames. Their
massive chests and powerful limbs put to shame our dwindled
proportions. One old man, in particular, who seemed the patriarch of
the band, used to stand for hours on the quarter deck, sublime and
motionless as a statue of Jupiter. An interesting incident occurred
during the calm of which I spoke. They began to be fearful we were
doomed to remain there forever, unless the spirits were invoked for a
favorable wind. Accordingly the prophet lit his pipe and smoked with
great deliberation, muttering all the while in a low voice. Then, having
obtained a bottle of beer from the captain, he poured it solemnly over
the stern of the vessel into the sea. There were some indications of
wind at the time, and accordingly the next morning we had a fine
breeze, which the Iowas attributed solely to the Prophet's incantation
and Eolus' love of beer.
After a succession of calms and adverse winds, on the 25th we were off

the Hebrides, and though not within sight of land, the southern winds
came to us strongly freighted with the "meadow freshness" of the Irish
bogs, so we could at least smell it. That day the wind became more
favorable, and the next morning we were all roused out of our berths by
sunrise, at the long wished-for cry of "land!" Just under the golden
flood of light that streamed through the morning clouds, lay afar-off
and indistinct the crags of an island, with the top of a light-house
visible at one extremity. To the south of it, and barely distinguishable,
so completely was it blended in hue with the veiling cloud, loomed up a
lofty mountain. I shall never forget the sight! As we drew nearer, the
dim and soft outline it first wore, was broken into a range of crags, with
lofty precipices jutting out to the sea, and sloping off inland. The white
wall of the light-house shone in the morning's light, and the foam of the
breakers dashed up at the foot of the airy cliffs. It was worth all the
troubles of a long voyage, to feel the glorious excitement which this
herald of new scenes and new adventures created. The light-house was
on Tory Island, on the north-western coast of Ireland. The Captain
decided on taking the North Channel, for, although rarely done, it was
in our case nearer, and is certainly more interesting than the usual
route.
We passed the Island of Ennistrahul, near the entrance of Londonderry
harbor, and at sunset saw in the distance the islands of Islay and Jura,
off the Scottish coast. Next morning we were close to the promontory
of Fairhead, a bold, precipitous headland, like some of the Palisades on
the Hudson; the highlands of the Mull of Cantire were on the opposite
side of the Channel, and the wind being ahead, we tacked from shore to
shore, running so near the Irish coast, that we could see the little
thatched huts, stacks of peat, and even rows of potatoes in the