People waiting at the station talked among themselves of hard times, of
farms that were run down, that would not yield the rent, not to speak of
leaving anything for the tenants to live on. There was no complaint made
of the landlords; the land was blamed for not producing enough. Of
course, these people ought to know, but the fields everywhere looked
like garden ground. The only symptoms of running down that I could see
were in some of the houses, two-roomed, with leaky-looking roofs and a
general air of neglect. I must own, however, that houses of this
description were by far the fewest in number. At one station where we
stopped, one respectable-looking man asked of another, "Have you got
anything to do yet, Robert?" "Still waiting for something to turn up,"
was the answer. This man was not at all of the Micawber type, but a
well-brushed, decent-looking person with a keen peremptory face,
evidently of Scottish descent. A group of such men came on the train,
whose only talk was of emigrating if they only had the means.

I have heard a great deal of talk of emigration among the people with
whom I have travelled since I landed, but have not heard one mention of
Canada as a desirable place to emigrate to. The Western States, the
prairie lands, seem to be the promised land to everyone. One of these
would-be emigrants took a flute out of his pocket and played the Exile
of Erin. The talk of emigration stilled and a great silence fell on them
all. There were some soldiers on the car, young men, boys in fact, who
seemed by the heavy marching order of their get-up to be going to join
their regiment. Some of them struggled mannishly with the tears they
fain would hide. Truly the Irish are attached to the soil. I could not
help wondering if these lads were ordered to foreign service, and on
what soil they would lay down their heads to rest forever.