of heat, draught, and dust, of baked, cracked, dewless land, and
oily breezeless seas, of glaring days, passing through fierce fiery
sunsets into stifling nights.

I only remained long enough in the capital to observe that it had a
look of having seen better days, and that its business streets had
an American impress, and, taking a boat at a wharf, in whose seams
the pitch was melting, I went off to the steamer Nevada, which was
anchored out in the bay, preferring to spend the night in her than
in the unbearable heat on shore. She belongs to the Webb line, an
independent mail adventure, now dying a natural death, undertaken by
the New Zealand Government, as much probably out of jealousy of
Victoria as anything else. She nearly foundered on her last voyage;
her passengers unanimously signed a protest against her unseaworthy
condition. She was condemned by the Government surveyor, and her
mails were sent to Melbourne. She has, however, been patched up for
this trip, and eight passengers, including myself, have trusted
ourselves to her. She is a huge paddle-steamer, of the old-
fashioned American type, deck above deck, balconies, a pilot-house
abaft the foremast, two monstrous walking beams, and two masts
which, possibly in case of need, might serve as jury masts.

Huge, airy, perfectly comfortable as she is, not a passenger stepped
on board without breathing a more earnest prayer than usual that the
voyage might end propitiously. The very first evening statements
were whispered about to the effect that her state of disrepair is
such that she has not been to her own port for nine months, and has
been sailing for that time without a certificate; that her starboard
shaft is partially fractured, and that to reduce the strain upon it
the floats of her starboard wheel have been shortened five inches,