FROM EDINBURGH TO THE ANTARCTIC 83 
It is in the dog watch, when the sun goes down, that we 
waken up, I draw, and the men stroll about the decks and 
play and sing for a while. Then the moon comes up a 
round shield of red gold, and the decks become still. Nor- 
thern moonlight nights are beautiful but cold, and ghostly 
compared with a night like this, when the hot air feels 
thick with the richness of half-hidden colouring. I have 
thought that J no scene could be more beautiful than the 
full moon as it rises at home from behind some dark hill, 
when it pours its pale beams down the rocky glen, touch- 
ing the white birch stems with a fairy light, throwing 
chequered shadows where the roebuck crops the short 
grass. Such a scene, with the gun's barrel lying cold in 
my hand, has given me more pleasure than the words of 
poets ; but it is a cold and colourless picture, in dull 
green and silver, compared to the depth and beauty of 
such a tropical night as this. The darkness seems to 
throb with poetry and* passion, and the warm damp air 
is soft as a breath of romance from the tales of Arabian 
Nights. The sky is dark, mat blue, — the blue you see in 
a Turkey carpet, — and the stars seem hung out against 
it like silken lanterns, — green, yellow, and ruby red. 
It is so quiet to-night that the ship feels almost deserted. 
The mate stands on the bridge leaning his elbows on the 
white rails, gazing dreamily over the dark sea into the vague 
horizon, motionless, a dusky silhouette with one spot of 
moonlight burning on the glazed peak of his cap. At the 
stern there is another spark of greenish light, where the 
moon glitters on the brass of the binnacle ; behind it 
stands the steersman bathed in full light ; his soft straw 
