should be but the foretaste of a sublime existence which such
moods indicate as our congenial home.

* * * * *

FRIDAY, November 8.

I know I went to bed some time early this morning, but after
reading last night's effusion in the cold, sober light of day, it
strikes me I must have been rather enthusiastic. However, as I
intend these notes to be an honest record of my feelings, I shall
not attempt to modify the outburst. I know I recited poetry all
the evening as I trod the deck, and therefore was in the mood for
anything. The captain told me to-night that in all his voyages at
this season he had never had one so fine as this. Of course he
hadn't. Just our luck, you see. He never had one who enjoyed a
trip more--that he is free to confess. I fairly revel in the sea,
and pity poor Vandy, who is never quite up to the mark on
shipboard. Some far-away ancestor, some good Scotch "deil ma
care," who took to smuggling instead of the more fashionable
occupation of cattle-stealing, for most of the carles

"Found the meat that made their broth
In England and in Scotland both,"

must have implanted in the Carnegies the instinct of the salmon
for the sea. I should have been a sailor bold, and sailed the
"sawt, sawt faeme," a pirate with a pirate's bride captured _vi
et armis_, and all the rest of it.