But we have sailed far past Kinsale point. Now blue and shadowy loom up
the distant form of the Youghal Mountains, (pronounced _Yoole_.) The
surface of the water is alive with fishing boats, spreading their white
wings and skimming about like so many moth millers.

About nine o'clock we were crossing the sand bar, which lies at the
mouth of the Mersey River, running up towards Liverpool. Our signal
pennants are fluttering at the mast head, pilot full of energy on one
wheel house, and a man casting the lead on the other.

"By the mark, five," says the man. The pilot, with all his energy, is
telegraphing to the steersman. This is a very close and complicated
piece of navigation, I should think, this running up the Mersey, for
every moment we are passing some kind of a signal token, which warns off
from some shoal. Here is a bell buoy, where the waves keep the bell
always tolling; here, a buoyant lighthouse; and "See there, those
shoals, how pokerish they look!" says one of the passengers, pointing to
the foam on our starboard bow. All is bustle, animation, exultation. Now
float out the American stars and stripes on our bow.

Before us lies the great city of Liverpool. No old Cathedral, no
castles, a real New Yorkish place.

"There, that's the fort," cries one. Bang, bang, go the two guns from
our forward gangway.

"I wonder if they will fire from the fort," says another.

"How green that grass looks!" says a third; "and what pretty cottages!"