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 to be certain of returning safe and not frostbitten, to pick out a smooth place, and form imaginary patterns with your footprints. Philosophers would bid us think and reflect; but if philosophers were shut up with us amid the silence and darkness of an Arctic winter, they would probably do as we did—endeavour to get away from their thoughts.

By the 29th of January, we had drifted into latitude 72° 46' north, longitude 62° west, and by the aid of refraction we saw the sun for the first time since November 2. We ought indeed to have greeted him on a meridian far westward of our present position, but it had been out of power to do more this year, and we could only hope for more success in the next. The weather had now become intensely cold, the mercury was frozen, and the spirit thermometer registered 46° below zero. We had great difficulty in clearing our bed-places of ice, and our blankets froze nightly to the ship's side; but we had the sun to shine upon us, and that made amends for all. What a different world was now before our eyes! Even in those dreary regions where nothing moves, and no sounds are heard save the rustling of the snowdrift, the effects of the bright sun are so exhilarating that a walk was now quite enjoyable. If any one doubt how necessary light is for our existence, just let him shut himself up for three months in the coal-cellar, with an underground passage into the ice-house, where he may go for a change of air, and see if he will be in as good health and spirits at the end of the experiment as before. At all events, he will have obtained the best idea one can form at home of an Arctic winter in a small vessel, save that the temperature of the Arctic ice-house is -40°, instead of +32°, as at home; only 72° difference!

On the 14th of February some of us walked out to where the ice was opening to the northward, and saw a solitary dorekie in winter plumage. These beautiful little birds appear to winter on the ice. The water, appearing deep black from the long absence of any relief from the eternal snow, was rippled by a strong wind, and the little waves, so small as to be compared to those of the Serpentine at home, sending forth to us a new, and, consequently, joyous sound, induced us to linger long by the side of the small lake—so long, that we were only reminded, by our faces beginning to freeze, that we were at least three miles from the ship, a gale blowing with thick snow-drift—besides no chance of getting anything for the pot.

A memorable day was the 26th of February, when we opened the skylight and let in daylight below, where we had been living for four months by the light of our solitary dips. The change was indeed wonderful, and at first uncomfortable, for it exposed the manner in which we had been content to live. With proper clothing you may laugh at the climate, if not exposed too long without food. It is not the cold outside that is to be feared, but the damp, and plague-engendering state of things below. This can only be guarded against by having good fires and plenty of light.

Towards the latter end of March, the ice was getting very unquiet, and we had frequent disruptions close to the ship. On the night of the