cry on the eve of their departure. And we
hear how Mary B—— , who had arrived six
weeks ago a wretched object, had now almost
forfeited her identity by getting such a mask
of fat. We are told how Letitia D—— had
been with a bad mother in a miserable home ;
but was a tender-hearted girl, and, when she
went out, used to return to the new Home and
the new mother, flushed and out of breath
with hurrying, lest she should overstay, for
one minute, her leave of absence. We pick
up the history of Rose F——, from whose
face the thinness and the haggard look have
not been yet expunged ; that she writes rather
elegantly, and is a first-rate embroideress, and
that her business was to embroider, elaborately,
dress waistcoats at eighteen-pence a
piece. We learn, also, that of such
embroiderers and fine-workers the trade is
greatly spoilt by the large number of young
ladies of the middle class—prosperous tradesmen's
daughters—who take such work from
the tailors, for the sake—not of food, but
pocket-money. We find, that besides a
surgeon and his wife, who go out with the
emigrants, and intend settling at Sydney,
they have a chaplain, a married man. The
chaplain is sent out to be a missionary at the
diggings. Now let us dive into the cabin where
the poor girls are. How closely those who
have relations here are nestling by their side !
How quiet they all are ! So quiet, in a room
which contains more than sixty women. Some
of the Gravesend male passengers are smoking,
and as I happen to be nice about the flavour
of tobacco, which I take at second hand, we
will, if you please, go up into the rain again.

Yonder is the Euphrates, a fine vessel, just
now swinging at her anchor, so we do not go
alongside, until we have filled up a little time
beside the coal hulk, while the steamer takes
in coals. The feminine cloud rises and gathers
about us. Their friend, the field marshal,
understands their hearts, and resigns his
staff, permitting his army, without one word
of expostulation, to forget the rain. The
weather-beaten stubby captain, catching us in
a corner, privately communicates to us his
own opinion. "Them gals would be much
better down out of the rain, but they will be
after looking at the ship that is to carry 'em."
And the old fellow speaks as if he understood
it all, and talks, after his own fashion of
gentleness, as if the entire army of sixty
were his single sweetheart, and he loved her
even for her wilfulness.

But now we are at last alongside the
Euphrates. Now for the climbing up the
precipice of a paddle-box, and the bold march,
or hesitating tread, or pretty mince, across
the mountain bridge of a plank into the ship.
Into the ship the poor girls troop, and out of
it may Heaven guide their feet to peace, when
they step forth upon a land more able than
this over-crowded London, to appreciate their
merits and reward their toil!

Again, there is wild work with the packages.
That is the chaplain upon yonder coil of rope,
busily making acquaintance with his fellow
labourer, the emigrating matron. The field
marshal resumes his staff, and orders his army
out of the rain again, into the cabin prepared
for their permanent reception. The field
marshal's staff is a carpenter's rule now, if
you please. Where happiness is to be spread,
and good is to be done, our friend is as busy
as a newly-awakened child at play. He
breaks upon us from all sides. He is the
author and contriver of all the carpentering
that has been done to increase the comfort of
the girls. To keep out the rain there is a
structure over the hatches, which very much
reminds us, as to its entrance, of the entrances
to negro huts—described by a Niger traveller,
"high in the threshold, and low in the roof,
contrived so as to break both the head and
the shins together." Those of us who are
tall, enter by a worm-like motion through this
temporary burrow; and, once below, are
agreeably surprised at noticing how very
ample—as ships go—is the space allotted to
this little colony.

A spacious cabin is contrived exclusively
for the occupation of the sixty girls; whose
berths are around the walls. Tiny rooms are
manufactured in it, cabins for the surgeon and
his wife, the chaplain and his wife, and one for
somebody's wife's sister. There are also other
conveniences for these female emigrants upon
their own domain. Within this great cabin,
our amateur carpenter, upholsterer, factotum,
has poured out a whole cornucopia of
thoughtful notions. From the beams down to
the pepper-casters, he has been at the bottom
of every detail. All round the room a
curtain-rod is run before the berths, and curtains
are now being unpacked and suspended. These
will separate, upon the voyage, the sleepers
from the wakers. Then, there are rows of
tables and forms, and there are sly tables up
near the ceiling, which are shelves at night,
and which slide down over the pillars and
make writing-tables in the day. And there
are hooks everywhere, and there is a
miraculous cupboard system; and there are the
lamps to unpack. But where are the knives
and forks? for the girls presently will want
their dinner.

Those two casks are full of water, a supply
in addition to the ship's allowance for the
comfort of the women under the equator;
those big jars contain also an extra supply
of lemon-juice. That great box is full of
stationery. Those of the emigrants who
cannot write or read, will be taught during the
leisure of the voyage, and all will be
encouraged to write letters. The other huge box
is crammed with materials for stitch-work.
As much of that as the girls please to do, they
will be paid for when they get to Sydney.
For each common striped shirt that is made,
its maker will have threepence to receive.
Needles, thread, thimbles—yes, there is
everything on board.