Two days ago we steamed out of Table Bay on just such a gray, drizzling afternoon as that on which we entered it.  But the weather cleared directly we got out to sea, and since then it has carried us along as though we had been on a pleasant summer cruise.  All yesterday we were coasting along the low downs which edge the dangerous sea-board for miles upon miles.  From the deck of the Edinburgh Castle the effect is monotonous enough, although just now everything is brightly green; and, with their long ribbon fringe of white breaker-foam glinting in the spring sunshine, the stretches of undulating hillocks looked their best.  This part of the coast is well lighted, and it was always a matter of felicitation at night when, every eighty miles or so, the guiding rays of a lighthouse shone out in the soft gloom of the starlight night.  One of these lonely towers stands more than eight hundred feet above the sea-level, and warns ships off the terrible Agulhas Bank.

We have dropped our anchor this fresh bright morning a mile or so from the shore on which Port Elizabeth stands.  Algoa Bay is not much of a shelter, and it is always a chance whether a sudden south-easter may not come tearing down upon the shipping, necessitating a sudden tripping of anchors and running out to sea to avoid the fate which is staring us warningly in the face in the shape of the gaunt ribs or rusty cylinders of sundry cast-away vessels.  To-day the weather is on its good behavior; the south-easter rests on its

            aery nest
  As still as a brooding dove;

and sun and sea are doing their best to show off the queer little straggling town creeping up the low sandy hills that lie before us.  I am assured that Port Elizabeth is a flourishing mercantile place.  From the deck of our ship I can’t at all perceive that it is flourishing, or doing anything except basking in the pleasant sunshine.  But when I go on shore an hour or two later I am shown a store which takes away my breath, and before whose miscellaneous contents the stoutest-hearted female shopper must needs baisser son pavilion.  Everything in this vast emporium looked as neat and orderly as possible, and, though the building was twice as big as the largest co-operative store in London, there was no hurry or confusion.  Thimbles and ploughs, eau-de-cologne and mangles, American stoves, cotton dresses of astounding patterns to suit the taste of Dutch ladies, harmoniums and flat-irons,—­all stood peaceably side by side together.  But these were all “unconsidered trifles” next the more serious business of the establishment, which was wool—­wool in every shape and stage and bale.  In this department, however, although for the sake of the dear old New Zealand days my heart warms at the sight of the huge packages, I was not supposed to take any interest; so we pass quickly out into the street again, get into a large open carriage driven by a black coachman, and make the best of our