To go back to Sydney and the stores. The trouble is I cannot remember either of their names. I had dinner at a restaurant called the Palace Hotel, and after dinner I visited the office of the Sydney “Herald,” where I spent a very pleasant time. I had already been met by two interviewers in the morning, and they asked me whether I was going to write anything about Australia. I said No, that I had no intention of so doing, as I did not believe in writing seriously about a country where one doesn’t make a proper stay. Practically I saw nothing of Australia; but I suppose there is no harm in writing these notes--the mere rough impressions of a fugitive traveller. Although I was only twelve hours in Sydney, I had occasion to notice the hospitality of the people. What struck me also was the life and gaiety of the place. The next morning, which was Saturday, I had to leave the liner, which had been my home for the last six weeks, and embark on the Maunganui for Wellington, whither I was bound. The Maunganui, which belongs to the Union Steamship Company, is a new vessel, and quite extraordinarily comfortable. The voyage from Sydney to Wellington takes from Saturday to Wednesday, but sometimes if the weather is bad it takes longer. As we steamed out of Sydney, I at last had a view of the famous bay, and it exceeded all my expectations: the colouring is so rich, the lines and shape of the coast are so nobly planned, and the sky and the sea are so intoxicatingly bright, fresh, and dazzling. I am sorry for people who are disappointed in Sydney. _On Board the Maunganui: August_ The ship is crowded with passengers. There is a very comfortable smoking-room on the upper deck. The ship is beautifully clean and new-looking. She is a new ship. She made her first voyage in February, 1912. There are on board fifty “boys” who are going to Buenos Ayres. There are engineers. As for the rest of the passengers, there are many men, many women, and many children. The sea is unusually smooth--unusually, that is to say, for this part of the ocean, which I am told is generally rough. I settle myself down to read O’Brien’s “Life of Parnell,” one of the best biographies in the English language. I think a ship is the pleasantest place to read in in the world. First, you have the advantages of being indoors and out of doors at the same time, if you sit on a deck chair, or in a smoking-room near an open door. Secondly, you are just sufficiently and not too much interrupted. You can pause and watch the passengers. You overhear scraps of talk. You engage yourself in desultory conversation. But during all this first afternoon I am riveted by the doings of Parnell--the man who, so cold and aloof, exercised an electric power over the rest of his fellow creatures: the man who smashed the machinery of the House of Commons, in order to compel the British to deal with the Irish question.