“A ship,” he said, “is worse than a gaol. There is in a gaol better air, better company, better conveniences of every kind; and a ship has the additional disadvantage of being in danger. When men come to like a sea-life they are not fit to live on land.” “Then,” said Boswell, “it would be cruel in a father to breed his son to the sea.” “It would be cruel,” said Johnson, “in a father who thinks as I do. Men go to sea before they know the unhappiness of that way of life; and when they come to know it, they cannot escape from it, because it is then too late to choose another profession; as, indeed, is generally the case with men when they have once engaged in any particular way of life.” But what is wrong with the officer’s life in the merchant service? it will be asked. The answer is that he is miserably underpaid. In some cases he gets less than an able seaman gets in Australia. He has to buy linen, his uniform, many pairs of whites. His work is one of great responsibility. A captain when he has worked for twenty years gets no pension. Talk with any officer in the merchant service and his advice to any one who thinks of going to sea is, “Don’t.” As to the men, a sailor’s life in a liner is about the same as a sailor’s life anywhere, but the accommodation of the stewards is miserable. The “glory-hole” where they sleep crowded together has an almost incredible insufficiency of space and air. And a first-class steward has to keep himself neat and clean: besides which he is extremely hard-worked. Talking of the recent dock strike in London with one of the stewards, he told me they didn’t want to come out in sympathy with the strikers, because they got absolutely nothing by it. They were most of them made to come out on strike, with no prospect of any betterment in matters which concerned them. I don’t believe the stewards’ accommodation in a ship is a bit better than it was forty years ago. _Melbourne: July_ I practically only had a glimpse of Melbourne; a drive through the city, a visit to a newspaper office and to some of the shops, a walk through the park in the twilight, a dinner with a friend, and a drive in a taxi back to the harbour. I was struck by the mildness of the climate; but I was told that up till then the weather had been very cold. I was struck here again by the softness and peculiar luminous quality of the atmosphere; by the size of the city, which seemed quite enormous; a handsome city, with regular streets, tall buildings, and a multitude of cars. _Sydney: August 2_ We entered the bay in the dawn--or rather before the dawn; it was very misty; we moved in a vague twilight of blue shadows. I got up to see the bay, but you could see nothing distinctly, nothing but mist and blue shadows; the whole thing very unearthly and beautiful. I went back to my bunk, intending to get up again in half an hour’s time, when it was lighter. But I went to sleep, and when I woke up again we were right against the wharf.