part here also. There is a sense of irritation in the air, people are fretful and nervous, some really ill. I am the well one, so, of course, irritating to the others, as sick people do so hate the sight of those who ought to be ill and are not.
I, too, I am guiltily conscious, have contributed to the present want of harmony. I had better be frank and say that I have been, and am, in a vile humour, bored, snappy, and actually pleased at hurting the feelings of others. Unfortunately, when I am in one of these vile moods my ill-temper radiates from me to quite a distance. The paint comes off the ship, the iron rusts, and gloom and melancholy pervades every one. I have always known this, but it is only since studying Swedenborg that I have understood the cause. The evil spirits Swedenborg tells us about, who make their home in me uninvited—as they do in all of you, so don't imagine you are better—like hot, muggy, unbearable atmospheres, are reminded no doubt of where they came from, and so at present are very active.
But it is true. When I am bad-tempered every one else is put out and there are gloomy faces everywhere; it extends even to the deck passengers. Then I overcome it, and since it is my pleasure to be amiable and cheerful again every one else brisks up. I make an effort and “buck up” every one—even go amongst the deck people, say things here or there, tickle the babies, and all is rose-coloured again. But to be conscious you can do this thing, and will not do it, is really terrible.
Any instrument, if played on properly, will respond sympathetically; but lately, through various reasons, I have had to be thrown much in company with my fellow-countrymen on this ship—they are all very good, quiet, and all right—
