We were then presented with one-third of a tallow candle each, and marshalled to our respective sleeping-apartments. No chance of a little pleasant chatter and some gentle exhilaration on our first night on Irish soil.
We sleep pretty well, however, and pretty long into the forenoon of the next day. Waiter comes to say that we can have breakfast in the coffee-room whenever we desire it. This is a delicate hint that we are not early risers. He wants to know when we wish breakfast and of what we wish it composed.
“Chops and tomato-sauce, ham and eggs—”
“Yes, sir. Rashers and eggs, sir.”
“Beefsteak, tea, and coffee, in half an hour.”
Raining! The view of the bay is rather cheerless. Everything looks dankish, dingy, and dull.
“Can you realize that you are in I Ireland?” I inquire of the Lady from Idaho.
“Not in the least,” responds the most amiable of her sex. “Can you?”
“No, indeed.”
It is not a good morning for the interchange of ideas. Misty mornings never are. As for certain projected “Thoughts on touching Irish soil after twenty-five years' absence,” their suggesting themselves under such a murky sky is out of the question. They will have to wait for the bright, creative sun. Perhaps, after a good warm breakfast, one may be able to think some “Thoughts,” if the railway time-tables will admit of it.