At Brockville we took in a party of ladies, which somewhat relieved the monotony of the cabin, and I was amused by listening to their lively prattle, and the little gossip with which they strove to wile away the tedium of the voyage.  The day was too stormy to go upon deck—­thunder and lightening, accompanied with torrents of rain.  Amid the confusion of the elements, I tried to get a peep at the Lake of the Thousand Isles; but the driving storm blended all objects into one, and I returned wet and disappointed to my berth.  We passed Kingston at midnight, and lost all our lady passengers but two.  The gale continued until daybreak, and noise and confusion prevailed all night, which were greatly increased by the uproarious conduct of a wild Irish emigrant, who thought fit to make his bed upon the mat before the cabin door.  He sang, he shouted, and harangued his countrymen on the political state of the Emerald Isle, in a style which was loud if not eloquent.  Sleep was impossible, whilst his stentorian lungs continued to pour forth torrents of unmeaning sound.

Our Dutch stewardess was highly enraged.  His conduct, she said, “was perfectly ondacent.”  She opened the door, and bestowing upon him several kicks, bade him get away “out of that,” or she would complain to the captain.

In answer to this remonstrance, he caught her by the foot, and pulled her down.  Then waving the tattered remains of his straw hat in the air, he shouted with an air of triumph, “Git out wid you, you ould witch!  Shure the ladies, the purty darlints, never sent you wid that ugly message to Pat, who loves them so intirely that he manes to kape watch over them through the blessed night.”  Then making us a ludicrous bow, he continued, “Ladies, I’m at yer sarvice; I only wish I could get a dispensation from the Pope, and I’d marry yeas all.”  The stewardess bolted the door, and the mad fellow kept up such a racket that we all wished him at the bottom of the Ontario.

The following day was wet and gloomy.  The storm had protracted the length of our voyage for several hours, and it was midnight when we landed at Cobourg.

THERE’S REST

(Written at midnight on the river St. Lawrence)

  There’s rest when eve, with dewy fingers,
    Draws the curtains of repose
  Round the west, where light still lingers,
    And the day’s last glory glows;
  There’s rest in heaven’s unclouded blue,
    When twinkling stars steal one by one,
  So softly on the gazer’s view,
    As if they sought his glance to shun.

  There’s rest when o’er the silent meads
    The deepening shades of night advance;
  And sighing through their fringe of reeds,
    The mighty stream’s clear waters glance. 
  There’s rest when all above is bright,
    And gently o’er these summer isles
  The full moon pours her mellow light,
    And heaven on earth serenely smiles.