her crew and officers on board. The fires
are out, and the engine-room looks as snug
and empty as though there had been no work
doing in it for a week. The steward's department
is in perfect order, every plate and
decanter in its place, and left in charge of a
cuddy servant. Not a loose rope lies about
the deck, which, forwards, is as clean and
still as a churchyard. Here and there a
sailor or stoker may be seen in clean attire
shouldering a bundle of pine-apples or a few
cocoa-nuts, and making quietly for shore.
The passengers have glided on shore with
little bustle, in most cases, and those who
have been met by friends are stirred out of
their listlessness. I take another stroll up
the saloon — there is still a deputy stewardess
with a cuddy servant or two hanging about
the tables and the lamps. The stewardess
standing near one of the cabin-doors, and
looking in, as I pass her; I also peep through
the half-open door.

On the floor of the cabin sits a pale, melancholy
man holding in his arms a young child
who seems nearly ready for the shroud. The
cabin is bestrewn with valuables of all kinds,
and fitted with every comfort and elegance,
yet the father's thoughts are evidently far
from the scene that I had been previously
watching. His boxes of silver ingots from
Peru have been taken ashore unwatched,
unnoticed, by him. Fanning his little patient
with a plume of feathers, he sits on the
cabin-floor to await the arrival of the
surgeon, who has gone in search of an invalid-
carriage with easy springs. The fruit of
a life-time, the amassed treasures of the
southern miners, cannot claim a thought from
him while his helpless daughter is there
needing all his care. These are the last
passengers who quit the Magdalena.

Two more flags run up the mast on the
pier, indicating the approach of another of
the large sea-going steamers. This time it
is a vessel belonging to the General Screw
Steam Shipping Company — the CrÅ“sus—
a noble steam-ship on the auxiliary screw
principle, and bound from the Australian
colonies. No sooner had she been caught in
the huge rope nooses flung over her sides,
quarters, and bows, and coaxed alongside the
quay, than I am on board. Here, also, all
is fresh, clean, and orderly; but in no time
there is also bustle and activity enough.
Nobody had two seconds to spare. How
different the aspect of the saloon! It is astir with
restless energy. Shaggy-headed, long-bearded
fellows, with hands hardened by use of pan,
cradle, and pick, look as frank, and free, and
honest as the weather-beaten but more
reasonably-clad and smoothly shorn Australian
farmers near them. Many are the
questions asked of the shore-folk about the war,
and about the price of wool. Many an anxious
gladdened look is cast on the town and the
townspeople crowding to the dock to welcome
the Australian diggers. Energetic are their
recognitions of their friends, sturdy the
handshakings, hearty the kisses.

The next steamer in is a paddle-ship, from
the Brazils. The most interesting group on
board this ship is a party of liberated Africans
—slaves freed by the instrumentality of our
cruizers, who have come to this country for
information and enlightenment. As black as
midnight, with brilliant skins, white teeth,
and curly hair, this dusky party is grouped
near the paddle-boxes, full of curiosity.
Accustomed to see only blacks engaged in labour,
they are not a little amazed to see so many
white men shouldering huge boxes, trunks,
and portmanteaus, and running with them
over the ship's side to the quay. At length
their own time for moving arrives, and catching
up their small bundles of worldly goods
they follow their guide to the shore, and
thence to the railway station, as mechanically
as though moved by the action of a
spell.

The day is so far spent when the next
steamer is signalled that she has to be brought
up at the buoy on the river, where she lies all
night. This vessel—the Ripon — brings an
Indian prince and an Egyptian hippopotamus.
I therefore accept the offer of the superintendent
of the Peninsular and Oriental Company,
who is on the point of going on board, and
take a seat in his boat. The night is pitchy
dark. As we approach the steamer the distant
glimmer of the many flickering lights takes a
brighter and distincter shape. Dark forms
can be seen passing before the lights. A
strain of wild music breaks upon our ears as
we ascend the ship's side and tread her deck.
It comes from below, and is mingled with the
sound of strange voices singing in some
unknown tongue an oriental chant. For in the
saloon a stately company is assembled listening
to the strange oriental music and eastern
ditty of some of the Rajah's people — he
himself sitting apart on half-a-dozen feather-beds,
and screened off from the herd with fifty yards
of silken curtain. Bengal indigo planters,
Bombay merchants, Madras civilians, and
military officers from the north-west
provinces, are reclining in all sorts of attitudes,
while the little Hindoo band sends forth its
wild air from a lute and an instrument partly
guitar and partly Jew's-harp.

Now ready, price Threepence, or Stamped for Post, Fourpence,
THE
SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS,
Being the CHRISTMAS NUMBER
of HOUSEHOLD WORDS, and containing the amount
of One Regular Number and a Half.

Next Week will be Published the TWENTIETH PART of
NORTH AND SOUTH.
By the AUTHOR OF MARY BARTON.