We leave Ostend on the steamer La Flandre. The schedule time is 10:40 A. M. We go on board amid shouts of kindly farewell from our friends on shore. As it is a clear bright day with a delightful salt breeze, there is much pleasure in sitting on deck and enjoying the view. The English Channel is generally a turbulent body of water, noted for its many victories over the unfortunates who trust themselves in its power, but to-day it is mild and calm, probably plotting mischief to the next boat load of passengers that shall come its way.
Indescribable confusion reigns in our hotel, at Liverpool, for more than a hundred of its guests are on the point of sailing for America. Innumerable packages, grips, umbrellas and walking sticks line the corridors. Every one is moving to and fro in hot haste. One lady asks me if I know at what hour the steamer on which she has taken passage will sail: another wants information in regard to her steamer: a man with perspiration trickling down his face begs me to tell him how to send his five trunks and other baggage to the landing stage. These and many more annoying and importunate people make life a burden to me. I do not know why they choose me to share in their misery. Do I look like a walking bureau of information, I wonder! If I do, I shall learn how to change my expression. But in truth the faces of these bewildered people are a study, and I am genuinely sorry for them.
The steamer cuts loose from her moorings, and moves gracefully out into the great ocean. As we approach Queenstown, we observe the small farms and dwellings close to the edge of the water. Then the lighthouse and the forts which guard the entrance to the harbor come into view, and now we drop anchor and wait for passengers and the mails. A little steam tug becomes visible, and as she draws nearer, we learn that she is bearing the mails and passengers to our ship. At last she is close beside us, and when made fast, the transfer takes place. Now is the time for the camera or sketch book, for many typical Irish characters come aboard our vessel, with strange, half-frightened faces, and their worldly belongings carried on their backs, or clutched tightly in their hands. Among the group I notice a middle-aged woman with a young pig nestling peacefully under her arm. Whether it is a pet, or simply a piece of live stock to begin housekeeping with in the new country, I cannot say, but with a contented expression on both faces, Bridget and her pig disappear into the special quarters which are reserved for the emigrants. This whole scene is very interesting. The old-fashioned black glazed oilcloth bag and trunk play a conspicuous part in the picture, and here and there are seen bundles tied in red bandanna handkerchiefs and carried on the end of a stick, which is slung over the shoulder, while the corduroy knee breeches, woollen stockings, heavy shoes and pea-jackets with caps to match give us a fine representation of the Irishman on his native heath.