the voyage for the activity of great enterprise and the interest of real
affairs: a relief which may, perhaps, be shared by the reader of these
letters. Yet if he has found the account of a dull voyage dull, he
should not complain; for is not that successful realism?


October 29.

News at last! This morning we sighted a sail--a large homeward-bound
steamer, spreading her canvas to catch the trades, and with who should
say what tidings on board. We crowded the decks, and from every point of
view telescopes, field glasses, and cameras were directed towards the
stranger. She passed us at scarcely two hundred yards, and as she did so
her crew and company, giving three hearty cheers, displayed a long black
board, on which was written in white paint: 'Boers defeated; three
battles; Penn Symons killed.' There was a little gasp of excitement.
Everyone stepped back from the bulwarks. Those who had not seen ran
eagerly up to ask what had happened. A dozen groups were formed, a hum
of conversation arose, and meanwhile the vessels separated--for the pace
of each was swift--and in a few moments the homeward bound lay far in
our wake.

What does it mean--this scrap of intelligence which tells so much and
leaves so much untold? To-morrow night we shall know all. This at least
is certain: there has been fierce fighting in Natal, and, under Heaven,
we have held our own: perhaps more. 'Boers defeated.' Let us thank God
for that. The brave garrisons have repelled the invaders. The luck has
turned at last. The crisis is over, and the army now on the seas may
move with measured strides to effect a final settlement that is both
wise and just. In that short message eighteen years of heartburnings are