Phoca Barbata 



270 WHALING AND BEAR-HUNTING 



matter which would be best discussed at the Royal Physical 

 Society in Edinburgh or London after lunch. 



It may seem discontented, but I must confess this pro- 

 longed fine weather (we have had seventy-two hours of the 

 same white sunlight) begins to get a little on our nerves. 

 Nature here is 

 so extremely 

 mathematically 

 laid out. The 

 sea is polished 

 to a high point, 

 all the little 

 cloudlets are 

 arranged in such 

 order that ribbed 

 sea-sand would 

 be quite irregu- 

 lar in compari- 

 son. So of course 

 you have these cloudlets, level bands of pale blue and some 

 faint yellows, all repeated in the mirror. Very high-toned 

 delicate colour, but, if I may criticise, just a little sickly. 

 I think with the advance of years one does not find these 

 extremely delicate harmonies quite satisfying, one rather 

 longs for ruddy, tawny colours and tropic blues in their 

 deepest notes. 



It is so calm, so stagnant, if I may say so, that our thin 

 brown smoke hangs in wisps where we left it many hours 

 ago. And yet for all the smoothness and polish there is an 

 untidy aspect, for there are little and great bits of ice floating 

 all over the place. There being no wind, little scraps of ice 

 and big bits get all separated, and each takes up a bit of sea 

 to itself. When there is any wind these pieces herd or pack 

 together. We trust that the ice along the shore may soon 

 follow this example, for it is only pack ice, not the fixed shore 

 ice of winter. We hope it will disperse in a day or two and 

 let us inshore to see " the saxifrage and poppies." 



With the glass we frequently look at the faint far-away 

 mountains and glaciers. A little while ago I thought in the 



