nely life on the "Black Cotton Soil," whatever that is. R. says it
blows about like snow. The Swiss lived in a little corrugated-iron house
with some hens, and no books, and he loved books, and hated his house
and hens, and the British Empire. R. had a nice bungalow and lots of
books, and he lent these to the Swiss, on condition that he would read
our newspapers! with the result that the Swiss ceased to believe in
British "methods of barbarism," said he admired the Empire, and got
quite to like his tin house and the black soil,--even his hens!

It is so quiet in the smoking-room to-night--not even bridge going on
yet, which perhaps accounts for the discursiveness of these rambling
notes on a quiet Saturday night at sea.

Now comes Sunday. "Come day go day, God send Sunday," as the
discontented sailor growls before the mast. The day of the month
unknown--I do not think it matters, in such notes as these, dates are
rather like ruled lines on sketching paper, only distracting.... We have
had such a pleasant time so far, that a Presbyterian lady was quite
surprised when at breakfast I told her the day of the week, as she had
not heard any clanging and clashing of bells, and as everybody seemed
quite cheerful and there were no black clothes, she could not realise it
was Sunday. But this afternoon it is not joyful for all! There is a
solemn grey sky sweeping over us from Spain, with a grandeur and breadth
that one only associates with Spanish skies, and there is a fresh
breeze, but warm from the land, and this big tub moves a little, enough
to make one realise the Sea is alive, her bosom heaves us along
slightly, a delightful motion for some of us, and intensely soothing,
but alas! there are empty places at our board. What a penance it is this
sea-sickness. In the words of Burns,

"It is a dizziness,
That will not let a body gang
About his business"

at all, at all.... I was a pale-faced student, a week out from Leith to
Antwerp, when I first felt this rudeness: we struck a fog-bank off St.
Abb's Head to begin with, and a sand-bank off Middlesborough, and
listened there to the cocks crowing on shore without seeing a foot ahead
for the thickness of the grey, wet mist. We cheered ourselves with
bagpipes, and the captain had a case of the very best brandy, the first
I think I ever tasted; and he could play some tunes on the practise
chanter. "Dinna think bonnie lassie, I'm goin' to leave you," I remember
was his