Already have a few shipments been made on speculation, and they have answered beyond all hopes. We give the advices received of the last cargo. "_Per the 'Orange Wreath,' 400 tons. Lovit, Commander._ "Seventy cwt. of serviceable spinsters averaging twelve stone, warranted affectionate and good mothers. "One ton and a half neat widows, fond of children, and small eaters." [_An interval of twelve months is supposed to elapse._ The news received (we are happy to say) is very cheering. "Ringlets to the waist are in great demand. Black eyes (very superior jet) are freely disposed of; and red hair, well oiled, at prices slightly in advance of the raw material." An emigration mania has seized upon the ladies. Every spinster in and out of her teens is sighing for the land where husbands are to be as numerous as dead flies in a grocer' window. Paris bonnets are being soldered down in tin cases, and low-necked dresses are "run up" in a night—like mushrooms. Wedding-rings are bought up for fear of accidents, and the marriage service is rehearsed every evening before going to bed. [_An interval of six months is supposed to elapse._ If the desire for emigration among females is not stopped, England will soon be like a bee-hive, with only one female in it, and that—the Queen. Only wait a year—a little year—and then do not be startled to find "The Bridesmaid" leaving early in January so full of virgins as to be obliged to "let out her stays" before she can "take her wind" properly. Every month hundreds of our daughters (of course we speak figuratively) are hurrying to the Australian shores to get settlers for life. Before age shall have made our whiskers bushy, London will be womanless. Let us grow prophetic and show what will happen. [_An interval of two years is supposed to elapse._ Half the linendrapers' shops are closed; Waterloo House is "to let;" Sewell and Cross' has become a cigar divan. Oh this female emigration mania! We'll give the committee another ten years, and then let our un-darned socks be upon their heads. When at last we have become a nation of shopkeeping monks, Government will have to take the matter in hand. Ladies will have to be imported to supply the place of the exported; our fleets will be obliged to scour the seas, touching at every island, till their cargo of lovely virgins and charming widows be made up, and then—back again to shirt-buttonless England. No doubt a duty will he levied upon the blooming freight. The love-sick bachelor, armed with a "tasting order," will hurry to the docks to try the sweetness of the charming Negresses before taking them out of bond. We can imagine the diary that will be kept some years hence. [_An interval of thirty years is supposed to elapse._