Great is the excitement when, on the sixth day or so, land comes in sight, and when the ship enters the Gulf of the St. Lawrence the “steerage” during the daylight is all on deck, scanning the scenery on either side. No scenery can give a more favourable first impression of the country. The ranges of wooded hills, the towns and villages, each with its church spire in the centre, the fishing boats, are all objects of never-failing interest. Quebec is the landing place for the immigrants. There is no more picturesque approach to any city than the approach up the river to Quebec, the old capital of French Canada. The cliffs rise sheer from the water’s edge, crowned by the buildings of the Old Town. If the approach is by night the lights of Quebec give it a most picturesque appearance. It is always the effort of the pilot who takes the boat in to reach Quebec by six in the evening, otherwise the immigrants have to remain on board till the morning. The ship by which I travelled, the _Royal George_ of the Canadian Northern Royal Line, did not reach Quebec until two in the morning, when all but a few of the passengers were sound asleep. They could not be landed until the immigration officials were at their duty at the immigration landing stage. Breakfast was served at five o’clock, and by half-past five the party of a thousand or so steerage passengers were waiting on the deck with their belongings to go ashore. It was a dramatic and a pathetic sight to see them crossing the gangway. A large number of them were young fellows, some well-dressed, educated-looking men of the clerk or shop assistant type. They were well set-up athletic fellows who had found the competitive conditions of London and the provincial cities and towns of the Old Country such as gave them little, if any, hope of rising above the earning of 30_s._ or £2 a week. In Canada the world was before them, and they landed with hope in their hearts, though no doubt with heart pangs as they thought of those they had left behind them. Then there was a rougher class, the class that dispenses with collars, wears a cap and very likely corduroy trousers, labourers from the villages, unskilled men from the towns, muscular fellows—the men who rely upon their brawn rather than their brains to make their way. The young fellows of the clerk and shop assistant type had trunks and portmanteaux—“grips,” as the Canadians call them. The men of the labourer type carried their scanty belongings usually done up in a bundle or a rough box. There were older men with wife and sometimes children. These were the most pathetic to watch as they crossed the gangway—the man with the heaviest trunk, the woman very often with a bundle or a big cardboard box tied with string, the elder children also carrying bundles, sometimes a baby warmly wrapped up in a shawl—these also had found the Old Country too hard for them, and they had come to a country where, in most cases, a situation was awaiting the man and it