On the evening of the first entertainment a gorgeous apparition appeared in the shape of the master of the ceremonies, the only evident reason for his filling that position being his possession of a swallow-tail coat. He was a fair, slim young man, with his hair parted down the middle. He was in full evening dress, with a huge artificial flower--a sunflower--in his buttonhole, and white gloves too long for his fingers. He was a British-Australian, we learned. When he opened his mouth he dropped, not pearls, but _h_’s; he dropped them in one place and picked them up in another, and in his attempt to announce the different operatic airs he mangled the soft Italian language till it fell upon the ear a mass of mutilated sounds. He had to run the gauntlet of a good deal of masculine chaff, which he bore with a stolid equanimity born of self-contentment; however, he unconsciously contributed to the general amusement, and gave rise to some humorous illustrations which served to beguile the time. The weather continues delightful, a balmy atmosphere brooding over a smooth, grey sea. In quiet uninteresting calm the days pass by, but at night nature rallies her forces and gives us some glorious sunsets, filling the pale skies with cloud islands of golden light, while white and crimson feathery plumes, like spectral palms, float hither and thither across the sea-green sky. But nobody cares for a second-hand sunset, it must be seen to be appreciated--no word-painting or most brilliant colouring on canvas can convey an idea of it. About mid-ocean we fall into foul weather, and a violent game of pitch and toss ensues; a clatter of broken china, contused limbs, and half a score of black eyes are the result. There is a tough-fibred, strong-brained missionary on board, whose very face in its stern rigidity is suggestive of torments here and hereafter. He takes advantage of the occasion and lifts up his eyes and voice in violent denunciation of all miserable sinners, exhorts everybody to repent upon the spot as the day of doom is at hand--the Lord has come in storm and tempest to break up the good ship and bury her living freight at the bottom of the sea! He aggravates the fear, and tortures the nerves, of the weaker vessels, till several ladies are carried to their berths in violent hysterics. Some few husbands, fathers, and lovers, expressed a strong desire to have that missionary “heaved overboard.” We pitied the poor heathens who would presently benefit by his ministrations. We pass out of the storm into genial American weather--blue skies, soft, ambient air, and brilliant sunshine. A foretaste of the lovely Indian summer greets us long before we reach the shore. Our vessel, owing to its gigantic size, is a long time swinging round and entering its dock. We are in sight of New York at three in the afternoon, but it is late in the evening before we are able to effect a landing.