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 Freischutz—­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