and in trough, till you fear it will end its struggles keel
upwards, and send the mail-bags down among the mackerel. But the boatmen
know their trade, and so do the dripping, top-booted seamen of the
_Lochiel_. Amid much running and shuffling and casting of ropes and
animated bandying of (I fear) strong expressions in Gaelic sung out upon
the night, the ship's ladder is cast down and the boat tied thereto. In
a few minutes the transfer of mails is over, the ladder up, and the
small boat leaping back to land. (I speak of December 22, 1904). A new
passenger has come on board and is seen to descend the cabin stairs to
unfreeze his fingers over the tiny stove. Half-an-hour's heaving still
remains before Portree. A lady who has been on the border-line of
squeamishness for the last hour, hurriedly leaves the cabin, probably to
see if her luggage is all right. Good news at last for all! Portree is
visible, and its lights are twinkling on the height. The moon comes
graciously out, silvering the snowy shoulders of Essie Hill. What a
contrast is this moonlit haven, with its background of terraced lights,
to the rough surges outside. Glad indeed is everyone to set foot on the
pier and trudge through disregarded slush to the warmth of home or
hotel. We are told by our island friends that all Skye is under snow and
that the roads are impassable. No mail-coach has ventured to Dunvegan
for two days and in other directions, the postmen, turned cavaliers,
have gone off on horseback with their letters. (Let me say in passing,
that a red-bearded Highland postman, clad in post-office livery and
seated on a sheltie, is a sight which any artist would go a hundred
miles to see.)

Winter sailing may at times be as pleasant as a cruise in June. At 8
A.M. in the snug cabin, the breakfast-table, with its tea, ham, eggs,
and sausages, is a welcome piece of scenery, and the genial talk of the
captain and his colleagues is far better than pepsine as a digestive.
After breakfast, a pipe on deck is a necessity. Who that has once seen
Ben-na-ceallich all white to the feet and softly veiled with airy mists,
but wishes he were a Turner to paint, or a Shelley to sing? The sail
from Broadford to Kyle on a calm, cold, snow-dazzling morning is (if one
is wrapped and coated well) absolutely majestic. The sun pours, if not
warmth, at least light and heat on the hundred bens of the mainland and
the breeze aiding, wakens a multitudinous smile on the glittering f