I wrote to you last, dear friends, in the train, a comfortable and even quiet writing room by comparison with a boat tossing and straining in a stormy sea. page 25 The vessel rolls to and fro, and everything that is firmly fixed creaks and trembles; if anything is loose it makes all the noise it can, as if on purpose to draw attention to its helplessness; the windows rattle incessantly, and though the storm shutters are put up to protect the little pane of glass which lights our cabin, and there is a covered gangway outside, yet the waves every now and then manage to find an inlet, and keep the sofa underneath always wet. I wonder, as I lie in my narrow berth, how it is that babies like being rocked, and why it puts them to sleep when it keeps me awake. Then comes a big splash against the window, and I turn on the electric light to see if more water has got in. And always the twin propellers make the whole ship vibrate as they go round and round, and I feel at times as if I were lodged on the back of some huge beast, and were listening to its great heart beating and lungs panting as it bore me along. And while I indulge my fancy, something gets out of its niche and begins to call noisily to be replaced; the ship's bell rings out every half-hour, and the boatswain's whistle makes itself heard above all the din. A child's cry mingles with the boom of the waters, which seem as if they were attacking the ship, and all kinds of noises, little and big, keep on day and night without a pause. I am one of the fortunate few who never fail to present themselves at table, and eat with more appetite than they would do on land, but my wife is content to lie all day on deck, and is satisfied with scanty diet. All the same, the incessant commotion tells on the nerves, and life is page 26 not as enjoyable as the sea songs represent it. I am bruised on shoulder, hip, and knee, through tumbling about in cabin and on deck, but am none the worse for it all.

Well, I am a very bad hand at doing nothing, and I can't read much at a time for I lost my glasses in reeling across the deck, so I turn for relief to the pleasant task of writing home.

At Brisbane I found two old friends, Tom and Charles Loftus, brothers of Alfred Loftus, who was for many years a member of our congregation. They gave us a hearty welcome as did many others who met together the evening after our arrival. I stayed for nine days, and made many friends, and saw much that was of interest, but cannot hope for any other result of my visit except to have brought some little encouragement and a message of English sympathy to the Unitarians of the city, too few in number to form a Church, and too convinced of their faith to be able to join with profit in Trinitarian worship. They have formed a Committee to keep them united, but whether they will succeed in conducting service among themselves from time to time I do not know. So I bid them farewell, old friends and new, and with the possible exception of two or three shall see them again no more. And another parting, the seventh in three months, I had to bear yesterday, when Sydney friends met to bid us farewell. It is like a quick succession of pastorates; I have been received with a kindness which at some places has almost amounted to enthusiasm. Every one I meet is my friend. I am page 27 for a few days in the position of minister, or where they have a settled minister, I am for a time his recognised coadjutor. I get to know all, receive from many marks of regard more than I deserve; I learn to love and esteem not a few in turn, and then—Good-bye,—with just a possibility that I may see this one or that some time in England, and all is over.

Yesterday I saw the last of Australia, the rock bound cliffs on which so many a vessel has been wrecked, protecting the hidden harbour which could shelter the whole navy of Great Britain. And what have I done there these three months, while my duties in Leeds have had to be done by others? I have had no brilliant success and was far from expecting it, but I believe my mission has been of real service, at least so I have been assured again and again. When I was on the way I half repented that I had consented to go. Now I am glad that I did so; and I think that for you too, my dear friends of Mill Hill, it has been well for you to have had a change and hear gifted men, who have distinguished themselves in our body and will distinguish themselves yet more.

The ship which is bearing us to New Zealand will take this letter on to San Francisco and so home to you. When you receive it I shall probably be at Dunedin.

C. H.