no FROM EDINBURGH TO THE ANTARCTIC 
could almost walk as fast. An ordinary merchantman, 
barnacles and all, would reel off 15 knots with this breeze. 
The only craft that we can pass are the Portuguese 
men-of-war, and in a calm they can beat us ! They are 
amongst the many things of beauty we see every day. 
This morning we passed through quite a fleet of them. 
On the water they are like a claret-glass floating without 
a stem, or a child's broken balloon. They are of all 
colours — faint green, opal, and iridescent tints. 
Perhaps this life at sea is good in some ways, but 
undoubtedly it is monotonous. It makes us realise our 
just relationship to space and general unimportance in 
the scheme of creation. Having partially realised this, 
we become tired of its insistence, of the feeling of little- 
ness and shut-in-ness, and long to look over the edge of 
the horizon that seems to stand round us, and shut us in 
like a grey dyke. 
If we go to the mast-head we have a slight change of 
view ; the wall seems higher, and the hole we are in deeper, 
and the prospect of getting out of it seems less. The 
fact is, we are getting just a little tired of sea life, a little 
home-sick, and a little wearied with this endless fine 
weather ; but what a rash thing to say ! Bruce has taken 
to Scott, which is a sign that the times are leisurely, not 
necessarily slow ; and I listen to the songs of Ossian, and 
the past and the present and the future seem all to be 
one. 
This drawing represents George (second mate) weighing 
out stores under the break of the poop. It is a most 
important event, and happens once a month. The men 
