the steamboat in which i was passenger for detroit had put into the mouth of a small river, where the greater part of the night would be spent in repairing some damages of the machinery.

as the evening was warm, though cloudy and very dark, i stood on deck, watching a scene that would not have attracted a second glance in the daytime, but became picturesque by the magic of strong light and deep shade.

some wild irishmen were replenishing our stock of wood, and had kindled a great fire on the bank to illuminate their labors. it was composed of large logs and dry brushwood, heaped together with careless profusion, blazing fiercely, spouting showers of sparks into the darkness, and gleaming wide over lake erie,—a beacon for perplexed voyagers leagues from land.

all around and above the furnace, there was total obscurity. no trees or other objects caught and reflected any portion of the brightness, which thus wasted itself in the immense void of night, as if it quivered from the expiring embers of the world, after the final conflagration. but the irishmen were continually emerging from the dense gloom, passing through the lurid glow, and vanishing into the gloom on the other side. sometimes a whole figure would be made visible, by the shirtsleeves and light-colored dress; others were but half seen, like imperfect creatures; many flitted, shadow-like, along the skirts of darkness, tempting fancy to a vain pursuit; and often, a face alone was reddened by the fire, and stared strangely distinct, with no traces of a body. in short these wild irish, distorted and exaggerated by the blaze, now lost in deep shadow, now bursting into sudden splendor, and now struggling between light and darkness, formed a picture which might have been transferred, almost unaltered, to a tale of the supernatural. as they all carried lanterns of wood, and often flung sticks upon the fire, the least imaginative spectator would at once compare them to devils condemned to keep alive the flames of their own torments.