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THE E MI G R A N T:
A TALE OF AUSTRALIA.
“ I write not of what I have heard, nor of what I have read, but of what I have seen.”
There is neither a more interesting nor a painful sight, than to behold the departure of a vessel, with her tear-bedewed passengers hanging in intense anguish over her side, and gazing, probably for the last time, on faces which, in all human probability, they are destined never more to behold. The brother is there; his tenderly-loved sister is weeping on the sands. The son is in that proud-sailing bark, and his silver-haired sire is supporting himself on his staff as he wafts forth his blessing upon his only hope. Hearts are big with agony, and the bosom is swelling with the vain attempt to drown the deep sorrow that is reigning, to smother the long-drawn sigh that shaketh the hot tear from the straining eyeball. Gallant is the bearing of the vessel, as the favouring wind distends her white sails to the sun. Noisy is the mariner, as he bustles amid the confusion that is around him ; but he, even he, accustomed as he is to the wild waves and the storm, turns yet an eye of tenderness upon the round, green hills, which are so soon to be enshrouded from his view : the rapidly-drawn sleeve over his bronzed brow swept thence affection's tribute from a heart that no danger could cower, no tempest disturb.