Ireland.' At noon we saw Bardsey Island, bearing south-east, but not a glimpse of the pleasant homes of Dublin or the romantic glens of Wicklow. I had anticipated the sad, sweet pleasure of taking a last glimpse of the Irish coast, and yet, although I knew we were sailing past it the entire day, I strained my eyes in vain endeavouring to pierce the invidious curtain of clouds that intervened."
Of that very important personage on board a ship—the cook—an amusing anecdote is recorded: "All the passengers' food was cooked at the ship's galley—a small dingy-looking apparatus enough, but which executed its enormous task with admirable punctuality. The chief artiste was a negro, named Bill, whose salient characteristic was a decided weakness for rum, and it was often amusing to see him cajole some unsophisticated passenger out of his favourite beverage. 'Massa,' said he one evening to a group of good-natured young Celts, 'Lor' knows, I'm an Irishman myself—only I was born in Demerara!'"
Mr. James Smith relates a touching little incident that was communicated to him by the late Irish-Australian philanthropist, Ambrose Kyte. One afternoon in the leading street of Melbourne, Mr. Kyte's attention was attracted towards a group of his countrymen and countrywomen. They were evidently members of the same family, some of whom had only lately arrived, whilst others had been in the colony for some time. The new-comers had brought with them a little box upon which great store appeared to be set, for, when it was opened, the eyes of the older settlers glistened with tears, and the aged mother of the party devoutly made the sign of the Cross. The box contained a sod of shamrock, fresh and green as when it was first cut from the surrounding turf. "And who," exclaims the
