At length we got under way, and steamed stoutly against the fast-flowing St. Lawrence; our decks crowded with a multifarious and motley crew of emigrants, all bound for various places in the Upper Province, but with as pleasant an ignorance of where they were going, what it was like, and how far off, as the most devoted fatalist could have wished for. A few, and they were the shrewd exceptions, remembered the name of the city in whose neighborhood they were about to settle; many more could only say, negatively, that it was n't Lachine, nor it was n't Trois Rivières; some were only capable of affirming that it was "beyant Montreal," or "higher up than Kingston;" and, lastly, a "few bright spirits" were going, "wid the help o' God, where Dan was," or "Peter." They were not downhearted, nor anxious, nor fretful for all this; far from it. It seemed as if the world before them, in all the attractions of its novelty, suggested hope. They had left a land so full of wretchedness that no change could well be worse; so they sat in pleasant little knots and groups upon the deck "discoorsin!" Ay, just so,--"discoorsin'"! Sassenach that you are, I hear you muttering, "What is that?" Well, I'll tell you. "Discoorsin'" is not talking, nor chaffing, nor mere conversing. It is not the _causerie_ of the French, nor the _conversazione_ of Italy, nor is it the _Gespräch's Unterhaltung_ of plodding old Germany; but it is an admirable _mélange_ of all together. It is a grand _olla podrida_, where all things, political, religious, agricultural, and educational, are discussed with such admirable keeping, such uniformity in the tone of sentiment and expression, that it would be difficult to detect a change in the subject-matter, from the quiet monotony of its handling. The Pope; the praties; Molly Somebody's pig and the Priest's pony; Dan O'Connell's last installment of hope; the price of oats; the late assizes; laments over the past,--the blessed days when there was little law and no police; when masses were cheap, and mutton to be had for stealing it,--such were the themes in vogue. And though generally one speaker "held the floor," there was a running chorus of "Sure enough!" "Devil fear ye!" "An' why not?" kept up, that made every hearer a sleeping partner in the eloquence. Dissent or contradiction was a thing unheard of; they were all subjects upon which each felt precisely alike. No man's experience pointed to anything save rainy seasons and wet potatoes, cheap bacon and high county cess. Life had its one phase of monotonous want, only broken in upon by the momentary orgie of an election, or the excitement of a county town on the Saturday of an execution.