from Tarbert in Harris to
Lochmaddy, which is a perfect Tartar of a trip. When the wind is high
and contrary, the traveller (if he can stay on deck and maintain an
interest in the scenery), beholds a sight of extreme grandeur. The waves
are to be seen all along the Harris coast leaping up to a terrific
extent with an unbroken line of foam extending for miles. So much does
the boat romp and dance, however, that most passengers forsake the deck
and retire inelegantly below. When a man lies in a stuffy cabin wishing
himself wedged into it to prevent the perpetual rolling to this side and
to that, and hearing the desperate thud of the Minch flinging itself
against the port-hole, a series of vivid panoramic pictures pass before
his mental eye. Home appears so lovely and reposeful: faces of friends
on shore arise, transfigured by the glow of love: the squeamishness and
retching he endures seem to the sufferer a special and direct judgment
on him for impiously endeavouring to find pleasure otherwise than by the
practice of the domestic virtues. Disquieting memories of bursting
boilers surge up to the surface of the mind, and old catches like the
weird ballad of Sir Patrick Spens lilt themselves to the clank of the
staggering ship's machinery--

"The anchor's brak and the tapmast lap,
It was sic a deadly storm,
And the waves dashed into the gude ship's side
Till a' her planks were torn."

The romance of the sea is apt to vanish as you look out upon a
wilderness of foaming water, tossing the boat like an insignificant toy,
drenching the bulwarks and vehemently smiting everything in its riotous
anger. Neptune seems a mere blind force without reverence or mercy for
the works of man. It is good for a boy of romantic disposition to cross
to the Long Island in a gale: it will effectually cure him of all desire
to take up the profession of pirate. What a sad moment for such a youth
when he sees his breakfast where it shouldn't be, and reflects that he
has not the staying power of Sir Ralph the Rover!

I regret to say that I have no specific to give as a preventive for
sea-sickness. Even the Phoenicians who had time, during the intervals
of their hardy voyaging, to invent the alphabet, were unable to devise a
remedy for the _mal de mer_. Custom does not create immunity, for even
the mighty Nelson, who had a life-long acquaintance with the ocean, was
afflicted with sea-sickness to the end of his days. In France th