giving them handfuls of gingerbread, pocketfuls of nuts, or plates loaded with a dubious confection highly popular in this community under the name of Eccles cakes.

I never pass this ever-changing group at the foot of the staircase without apprehension of coming in contact with fragments of a burst boy or an exploded girl. But nothing ever happens of a fatal kind. They eat all day, sleep all night, and turn up on deck early in the morning to "skate the chairs," which, in addition to running the risk of breaking them, has the recommendation of waking up any one asleep in the berths below.

These are general blessings diffused throughout the ship's company. My particular boon is something over and above, a special addition to the common lot. My baby never leaves the state-room to go on deck. Sometimes in the dead unhappy night I find it hard to resist the wish that it were otherwise. One might volunteer to take him for awhile from the wearied nurse's arms, show him over the side of the vessel the wild joy of the Atlantic waves, and then-who knows? A babe is never safe in inexperienced hands, and on the following night an unwonted peace might brood over one quarter of the ship. This terrible infant is not only

always in his cabin, but is always wailing, after all not the most serious part of the infliction. His entourage is German, and every one who has met Germans travelling is painfully aware of their vocal peculiarities. I remember one quiet autumn evening sitting on the terrace of an hotel at Baveno. Far away across the broad Lago Maggiore shone the white walls of Pallanza, with its big hotel. Suddenly the stillness was broken by a murmur, as of a distant multitude engaged in deadly conflict.

"What's that?" I asked my companion, "an émeute?"

"Oh no," he

answered carelessly, they've finished dinner at the hotel over there, and the Germans have come out on the terrace for a little friendly conversation."

Pallanza has come alongside Baveno now, and sometimes when the family are conversing there is a difficulty in hearing the shrill wail of the infant. But only then.

Two or three Sessions ago a question was raised in the House of Commons as to the steerage accommodation in Atlantic steamers outward bound. Statements were made, purporting to be the result of personal experience, which greatly shocked public opinion, and, though discredited by a report subsequently

made at the instance of the Board of Trade, something of that impression doubtless still lingers. It occurred to me that the present was a favourable opportunity of making investigation. On Thursday, being just a week out, I found a quiet and full opportunity of spending some time in the steerage. There are 708 steerage passengers on the Britannic, apparently exiles from all the kingdoms of Europe. As far as possible, they camp out in nations, the Scandinavians having their quarters, the Germans theirs, the Finns theirs, the Irish theirs, and so on through the record.

With the exception of married couples, who have their special quarters, the women are all aft and the men all forward. Where the married couples live their berths are set out in blocks, each decently curtained from the other. In none of the berths is bedding provided, emigrants bringing what they deem requisite in that way, which in some cases, notably that of the Finns, does not reach extravagant proportions. The single women sleep on bunks, each containing five berths, one tier above the other, as in the saloon state-rooms. The arrangements for the single men are of the same character. Both forward and aft there are broad gangways providing free circulation, and portholes,

VOL. I.

2

wide open at the time of my visit, giving abundant light. The floor was neatly sanded, and the bunks still preserved the severely scoured condition in which they left port.

One of the things which most strikingly divide new and old order in the matter of ocean steamships is the care for ventilation. We had a rough time of it for the first five days out of Liverpool, and our state-room was once occupied for forty hours at a stretch. In the fortieth hour it was as fresh as in the first. The system here adopted is on the broad principle in vogue in the House of Commons, the best-ventilated Chamber in the world. A constant supply of fresh air is pumped in just above the level of the floor, and, working its way upward as it becomes warmed, passes out through an open cornice in the ceiling. In the steerage and forward on board the Britannic there is an automatic ventilating apparatus which I will not attempt to describe, but which, in conjunction with the windsails, always freighted with fresh air blowing over the Atlantic, keeps up a supply that must be subtly invigorating to the denizens from crowded cities, and perhaps a little embarrassing to the Finns.

As to food, the boundless hospitality which reigns in the saloon is here diffused. Perhaps

for the first time in their lives these seven hundred men, women, and children live in a land where it is always meal-time. There are three regulation meals on the day of my visit thus provided for :-Breakfast: Irish stew, fresh bread and butter, tea, and coffee. Dinner: Soup, fresh beef and potatoes, stewed apples, and rice. Tea: Fresh bread and butter, tea, and gruel.

"It is," as a pale-faced man said to me with a gleam of tender recollection in his eyes, "cut and come again.'

Lest

Every one can have as many helpings as he pleases, and towards the middle of the voyage, when they find their sea-legs, they please in a manner truly appalling. they should feel hungry between whiles there are three large open barrels set by the main gangway. One contains biscuits, another rusks, and a third butter. At any hour of the day or night these may be dipped into. There is also throughout the day tea and coffee always going. From time to time a barrel of herrings is opened, and anon a barrel of apples, into which all are free to dip. How all this can be done at four guineas a head, the current rate of steerage passage, is a problem which I trust the owners have satisfactorily solved.