Here, a new voice, that of an enthusiastic supporter of the Land League,
joined in the conversation, and the controversy becoming personal the
ladies disappeared into the ladies' cabin. There was an echo of drunken
argument that was likely a continuation of the land question until the
wind increased to a gale. The little boat tossed like a cork on the
waves; there was such a rattle of glass, such a rolling and bumping of
loose articles, such echoes of sickness, above all, the shock of waves
and the shriek of winds, and the land question was for the time being
swallowed up by the storm.

Belfast, with its mud and mist, was a welcome sight. The dirty-faced
porters who lined the quay and beckoned to us, and pointed to our
luggage silently, seemed to be a deputation of welcome to _terra
firma_. At a little distance from the line of porters the jaunting
cars were stationed to convey passengers to the hotel. It did look
ridiculous to see full-grown people take the long way round in this
fashion.

At noon Saturday, the 19th of February, I had the blissful feeling of
rest connected with sitting in an easy chair before a coal fire, trying
to wake up to the blissful fact of being off the sea and in Ireland.

On Sunday it was raining a steady and persistent rain; went through it
to the Duncairn Presbyterian Church because it was near, and because I
was told that the minister was one skilled to preach the gospel to the
poor. Found myself half an hour too early, so watched the congregation
assemble. The Scottish face everywhere, an utter absence of anything
like even a modified copy of a Milesian face. Presbyterianism in Ulster
must have kept itself severely aloof from the natives; there could have
been no proselytizing or there would have been a mixture of faces