The Irish republic. [volume] (Chicago, Ill.) 1867-18??, 1867-06-22

joying the luxury of indispostion in the secusion
of gloomy staterooms, stands at night on the de-
serted deck and ponders the strange problem of
existence? Is it worth while to say with what
tenderness he turns to recollection of recent
happy days in the world, and with what doubt
and apprehension he looks forward to life in
stranger land? Do you care to hear how he chaunts
dull rhymes to the home and the hearts far off be-
yond the dark western horizon, down which
storm-veed sun crept lazly an hour or two ago or
how he sings soothing songs to the angry ocean
whilst holding fast to hard strained rope and
looking down on the black rushing water? No.
What he feels and thinks is of but little consequence
to most who read these lines. 1t is the record of
his journey that you want and what he sees and
hears. How can [ tell you of the thrill OF JOY
which runs through every heart when we are
Weakened with the Cry Of Land, ho!' and every
ocean-weary passenger climbs on deck to find the
bright green slopes of Ireland smiling just before
us? That shout, which is echoed by one hundred
lips throughout the ship has magic power. Even
the weakest, sea-sck victim crawls up for breath
of fresh air, which would have helped him long
ago, and the paest face sighted with smile. We
have grown SO tired of the grey old sea and the
grayer cloud draped sky-sO en11u1e0 to despair
with the monotony of sip-life, in which the simple
fitting of ghostlike sail across our path becomes
a circumstance momentous in Importance and the
midday exhibition of our log matter for some
twentyfour hours conversation, that glimpse of
earth is almost like glimpse of Heav en-. 1t is a
callous heart indeed, which, in that hour gives not
one trob Of gratitude to God for the protecting
shelter of His hand through the darkness and the
tempest. And here at last is Ireland. Dear old
Ireland We have SO often detained her
greatness and chaunted in song her glories and
her sorrows, inspired by the love feel nstncvely
for that which is truly great and suffers through
injustice, that she has come to hold place
in my hearts temple little lower only than the
shrine which holds my own dear land And there
she lay on that bright morning smiling a welcome
to our band of strangers. Strangers Not all
were such. Many eyes, perhaps, which had never
looked upon her face before, but surely not an
American heart, of all that shp-load, which had
not sometime beat in sympathy with the undaunted
heroes of Ireland not one, I hope, which has not
sometime given responsive throb to the restless
patriot heart of Irish exile, who, even in pros
perity beyond the sea, scorns to live at ease while
Ireland is in chains. And the true friends of
Nation struggling for freedom, if they be freemen
themselves, and have given helping hand a
cheering word her sacred cause, cannot be reck-
oned strangers to that Nation when their eyes be-
hold her first 1t was thus with u.s. And while
the daylight lasted we Toasted our grateful eyes on
fair old Ireland's glorious panorama of Z" green
hills and castles grey or towering mountains
craggy coast and cultivated fields. Obliged to re-
sst all inclination to set foot upon the classic ground
of Erin, IA pleasure reserved for our return,) we
moved steadily along to our destination. A quiet
night in the channel, which gave us much needed
rest from the storms of midocean, and induced
even the most profane pilgrim to refrain from curs-
ing the man who wrote Life on the Ocean Wave"