Is there any piece of water more unreasonably, distressingly, disgustingly
rough and perverse than the British Channel? Yes: there is one, and but
one--the Bay of Biscay. And as the latter succeeds the former, without a
pause between, and the head-winds never ceased, and the rain continually
poured, I leave you to draw the climax of my misery. Four days and four
nights in a berth, lying on your back, now dozing dull hour after hour,
now making faint endeavors to eat, or reading the feeblest novel ever
written, because the mind cannot digest stronger aliment--can there be a
greater contrast to the wide-awake life, the fiery inspiration, of the
Orient? My blood became so sluggish and my mind so cloudy and befogged,
that I despaired of ever thinking clearly or feeling vividly again. "The
winds are rude" in Biscay, Byron says. They are, indeed: very rude. They
must have been raised in some most disorderly quarter of the globe. They
pitched the waves right over our bulwarks, and now and then dashed a
bucketful of water down the cabin skylight, swamping the ladies' cabin,
and setting scores of bandboxes afloat. Not that there was the least
actual danger; but Mrs. ---- would not be persuaded that we were not on
the brink of destruction, and wrote to friends at home a voluminous
account of her feelings. There was an Irishman on board, bound to Italy,
with his sister. It was his first tour, and when asked why he did not go
direct, through France, he replied, with brotherly concern, that he was
anxious his sister should see the Bay of Biscay.

This youth's perceptions were of such an emerald hue, that a lot of wicked
Englishmen had their own fun out of him. The other day, he was trying to
shave, to the great danger of slicing off his nose, as the vessel was
rolling fearfully. "Why don't you have the ship headed to the wind?" said
one of the Englishmen, who heard his complaints; "she will then lie
steady, and you can shave beautifully." Thereupon the Irishman sent one of
the stewards upon deck with a polite message to the captain, begging him
to put the vessel about for five minutes.

Towards noon of the fifth day, we saw the dark, rugged mountains that
guard the north-western corner of the Spanish Peninsula. We passed the Bay
of Corunna, and rounding the bold headland of Finisterre, left the
Biscayan billows behind us. But the sea was still rough and the sky
clouded, although the next morning the mildness of the air showed the
c