November 10.—­Wind changes and is both mild and favourable.  We pass Cape Ortegal, see a wild cluster of skerries or naked rocks called Berlingas rising out of the sea like M’Leod’s Maidens off the Isle of Skye.

November 11.—­Wind still more moderate and fair, yet it is about eleven knots an hour.  We pass Oporto and Lisbon in the night.  See the coast of Portugal:  a bare wild country, with here and there a church or convent.  If it keeps fair this evening we [make] Gibraltar, which would be very desirable.  Our sailors have been exercised at a species of sword exercise, which recalls many recollections.

November 12.—­The favourable wind gets back to its quarters in the south-west, and becomes what the Italians call the Sirocco, abominated for its debilitating qualities.  I cannot say I feel them, but I dreamt dreary dreams all night, which are probably to be imputed to the Sirocco.  After all, it is not an uncomfortable wind to a Caledonian wild and stern.  Ink won’t serve.

November 13.—­The wind continues unaccommodating all night, and we see nothing, although we promised ourselves to have seen Gibraltar, or at least Tangiers, this morning, but we are disappointed of both.  Tangiers reminded me of my old Antiquarian friend Auriol Hay Drummond, who is Consul there.[484] Certainly if a human voice could have made its hail heard through a league or two of contending wind and wave, it must have been Auriol Drummond’s.  I remember him at a dinner given by some of his friends when he left Edinburgh, where he discharged a noble part “self pulling like Captain Crowe ‘for dear life, for dear life’ against the whole boat’s crew,” speaking, that is, against 30 members of a drunken company and maintaining the predominance.  Mons Meg was at that time his idol.  He had a sort of avarice of proper names, and, besides half a dozen which were his legitimately, he had a claim to be called Garvadh, which uncouth appellation he claimed on no very good authority to be the ancient name of the Hays—­a tale.  I loved him dearly; he had high spirits, a zealous faith, good-humour, and enthusiasm, and it grieves me that I must pass within ten miles of him and leave him unsaluted; for mercy-a-ged what a yell of gratitude would there be!  I would put up with a good rough gale which would force us into Tangiers and keep us there for a week, but the wind is only in gentle opposition, like a well-drilled spouse.  Gibraltar we shall see this evening, Tangiers becomes out of the question.  Captain says we will lie by during the night, sooner than darkness shall devour such an object of curiosity, so we must look sharp for the old rock.

November 14.—­The horizon is this morning full of remembrances.  Cape St. Vincent, Cape Spartel, Tarifa, Trafalgar—­all spirit-stirring sounds, are within our ken, and recognised with enthusiasm both by the old sailors whose memory can reinvest them with their terrors, and by the naval neophytes who hope to emulate the deeds of their fathers.  Even a non-combatant like myself feels his heart beat faster and fuller, though it is only with the feeling of the unworthy boast of the substance in the fable, nos poma natamus.