I never saw a more tidy lot of emigrants—some of them evidently the right class to get on. I had an amusing chat with one, who told me what inquiries he had made before he would entrust Mr. J. J. Jones with ‘Cæsar and his fortunes.’ If the emigrants are all like him, the Yankees, if there be such in Canada, will find it rather difficult to take them in. We swarm with children and babies. I fear some of us will wish, before we reach the St. Lawrence, that good King Herod was on board. Of course, these are not my sentiments. I suppose most of us were babies once—there is every reason to believe that I was; nevertheless, the most gushing mother will admit that there are times when even the sweetest of babes ceases to charm. My companions in the smoking-room the first night were, however, by no means babes. I had not been there half-an-hour before I was offered 34,000 acres of land—abounding with fish and game, and all that the carnal heart could desire—a decided bargain. I did not close with the offer. Perhaps I ought to have done so. But such earthly grandeur is beyond my dreams. Nothing can be drearier or more monotonous than a trip to Canada in the early season of the year. After you leave Ireland, you see no ships—nothing but the sea, grey and dull as the heaven above. Now and then a whale comes up to blow, and that is all; and when the wind blows hard, you get nothing but big, lumpy waves, which set the ship rolling, and add only to the discomforts. And then you are on the Newfoundland banks, where you may spend dull days and duller nights—now going at half-speed, now stopping altogether, while the fog-horn blows dismally every few minutes, and whence you can see scarcely the length of the ship ahead. Like Oscar Wilde, I own that I am very much disappointed with the Atlantic. The icebergs are monotonous—when you have seen one, that is enough. In the saloon, we are a sad, dull party; even in the smoking-room, one can scarcely get up a decent laugh. I pity the poor emigrants in the steerage, whom a clever young Irish journalist on board, with the instinct of his race, has failed to excite into a proper state of indignation on account of the discomforts of the voyage, and the hardness of the potatoes—always a matter of complaint in all the ships that I have ever been on board of. The raw, cold, damp fog has taken all the starch out of the steerage passengers, always the first to grumble on sea, as they are on shore; yet on one occasion they did go so far as to send a deputation to the captain, and what, think you, was their grievance?—that they had no sauce to their fish!—a grievance of little account, when one thinks of the sauce we had served up in the saloon.