quets labelled with the
names of the lady passengers are on view in the saloon. Just as the last
gangway is drawn on to the shore, amid cries of "Clear away!" we hear
suddenly "Hold hard!" There is a commotion. Someone has not yet arrived;
we lean over the side of the ship to see who is coming. Perhaps it is an
important emissary of the Government, or even the President himself. We
all push forward; the stalwart New York police keep back the crowd; the
crew of the good ship _Majestic_ hold the gangway in its place as the
centre of attraction trips gaily up it. It is a diminutive nigger
messenger from a florist's, with a huge bouquet of flowers. I imagine I
see my own name on the label, so I modestly seclude myself in my own
cabin, whence I only emerge after we have passed Bartholdi's colossal
figure, just to have one last peep at the country in which I have stored
up such pleasant memories.

[Illustration: "A FLOATING FLOWER SHOW."]

By this time the bouquets of the flower show had been transferred to the
cabins of their owners. I may mention, by the way, that the cynical lady
on board, who wore a solitary bunch of faded violets in her dress,
informed me that most of the ladies paid for the bouquets themselves,
and had them sent on board with their names attached. I don't wish to
seem egotistical, but I know that when I went back to my own cabin I
found the greatest difficulty in forcing the door open. There was a huge
bundle of something or other pressing against it. A fragrant scent was
wafted through the opening, which sent a thrill through me. It must be
the big bouquet! I gave one final shove, burst the door open, and
discovered the bouquet to be a bishop, who was scenting his handkerchief
at the time with otto of roses. It was worth the journey to America to
have the honour of sharing a cabin with a bishop on the return journey.
But what a contrast between us! What a theme for W. S. Gilbert! _Punch_
and the pulpit rocked together in the cradle of the deep!

When I first came on board I made arrangements at once with the bath
steward, and, being rather an early bird, I fixed my time to be called
at seven o'clock. When I retired to the cabin I found the worthy bishop
(he is now Lord Primate of Ireland) looking plaintively at his berth.
Like all on board it was roomy and comfortable, but probably Sir Edward
Harland had not taken the portly prelate (who, by the way, is almost a
neighbour of his) as a gauge for the s