ur feeling of
delight is due to the great change from our smoky little residence in
London, but you would not wonder at my enthusiasm if you saw the sweet
little window beside which I am writing, and the splendid sea--like a
great field of clear glass, which spreads away on all sides to the
horizon. Oh! I do love the sea--to look at, I mean. You must not
suppose, dear, that I have any love left when I am _on_ it. Oh no! The
memory of my last crossing of the Channel--that dreadful British
Channel--is as fresh as if it had happened yesterday--the heaving of the
steamer and the howling of the wind, the staggering of the passengers,
and the expression of their faces, to say nothing of their colour. And
then the sensations! Appalling is a mild word. It is not appropriate.
If I might coin a word, horrific seems more suitable. But words utterly
fail when deep and powerful sensations are concerned. I do assure you,
Ruth, that I was absolutely indifferent as to what should become of me
that dreadful day as I lay extended flat on my back on one of the saloon
sofas. And when that nurse with the baby was forced by a lurch of the
ship to sit down on me, I do believe that I could have thanked her if
she had crushed me out of existence. Yes, I hate the sea as a place of
residence, but I love it as an object to be looked at, especially when
it is calm and glittering, as it now is, in the early morning sun.

"Talking of the early morning reminds me of good Captain Bream, who is
one of the most singular and incomprehensible creatures I ever met with.
He is an early riser--not that that makes him singular--but instead of
going out to walk he remains up in his pigeon-hole of a room studying
theology! And such a miscellaneous collection of books he has got on
all sorts of religious controversy! He say he wants to be able to meet
the objections of unbelievers whom he sometimes encounters when
preaching to sailors. Jessie and I have heard him preach to a number of
sailors and fishermen assembled in an old boat-shed, and you have no
idea, Ruth, how delightful it is to hear him. _So_ different from what
one expected, and so very unlike the preaching of many men. I have
often wondered why it is that some men--sensible men, too, in other
matters--should think it necessary to talk in a sing-song, or whiny
voice, with a pathetic drawl, or through their noses, when they have to
speak on religious subjects! I once heard an indignant