“Nothing, sir; only making ready to drop our anchor.”
“Are we so near shore, then?” said I.
“You’ve only to round that point to windward, and have a clear run into Cork harbor.”
I sprang at once to my legs. The land-fog prevented my seeing anything whatever, but I thought that in the breeze, fresh and balmy as it blew, I could feel the wind off shore. “At last,” said I,—“at last!” as I stepped into the little wherry which shot alongside of us, and we glided into the still basin of Cove. How I remember every white-walled cottage, and the beetling cliffs, and that bold headland beside which the valley opens, with its dark-green woods, and then Spike Island. And what a stir is yonder, early as it is; the men-of-war tenders seem alive with people, while still the little village is sunk in slumber, not a smoke-wreath rising from its silent hearths. Every plash of the oars in the calm water as I neared the land, every chance word of the bronzed and hardy fisherman, told upon my heart. I felt it was my home.
“Isn’t it beautiful, sir? Isn’t it illigant?” said a voice behind me, which there could be little doubt in my detecting, although I had not seen the individual since I left England.
“Is not what beautiful?” replied I, rather harshly, at the interruption of my own thoughts.
“Ireland, to be sure; and long life to her!” cried he, with a cheer that soon found its responsive echoes in the hearts of our sailors, who seconded the sentiment with all their energy.
“How am I to get up to Cork, lads?” said I. “I am pressed for time, and must get forward.”
“We’ll row your honor the whole way, av it’s plazing to you.”
“Why, thank you, I’d rather find some quicker mode of proceeding.”