XVII.
My dear, St. John,
This is a postscript to my last letter. Sailing from Plymouth in a gale, we hit the Bay of Biscay in one of its bad humours, but I did not miss the number of my mess at any meal, though very few passengers appeared for a day or two. Friends came to see me off, and wish me God-speed in my future work. I own that it was no small wrench to leave the old world again, but no doubt, once at work again, the limitations of life in a new country will find their true perspective, and will be forgotten in the happiness and encouragement of something attempted, something done.
We are bowling along at a fine rate in Southern latitudes, after a day at the Cape, albatrosses, Cape pigeons, and mollymawks, circling round the vessel with the greatest ease, as if they despised our feeble efforts to make the pace with them. A pleasant lot of passengers, all going well under the genial command of Captain Greenstreet, well-known to all who travel by this line, of whom it is said that no complaints, either from crew or passengers, are ever heard in vessels which he commands. Nearing Tasmania, and finding a general desire to present the Captain with an address, thanking him for his constant care of the
