Thus were we cheated along our watery way,—and by making the most of the scenery without, and the resources within, experienced as little ennui as could be expected, and indulged in no anticipation of evil. But that terror of mariners awaited us in St. George's Channel, a dense fog upon an iron-bound coast. We had joyfully seen the light in the head of old Kinsale; afterwards the harbor of Cork, and the mountains of Dungannon revealed themselves, and were lost. Then wrapped in a thick curtain, we went on fearfully with continual soundings. A chill rain occasionally fell,—and the winds moaned and cried among the shrouds, like living creatures. The faithful and attentive Captain, oppressed with a sense of his responsibility, scarcely took refreshment or repose. At midnight, on the 19th, we heard his voice cheerfully announcing, that a bright light from Tuscar Rock was visible, that our course was right, and that all might retire to rest, free from anxiety.
As morning dawned, I lay waking, and listening to sounds, that seemed near my ear and even upon my pillow. They were like water forcing its way among obstructions, or sometimes as if it were poured hissing upon heated stones. At length I spoke to the friend, who shared my state-room, of a suppressed voice of eddies and whirlpools, like what is often heard in passing Hurl-Gate, when the tide is low. She thought me imaginative; but on hearing that I had long been reasoning with myself, and yet the sounds remained,
