The Winter Night. 389 



revolutions here. If they come at all, they will come much 

 later. The days roll on uniformly and monotonously ; here 

 I sit, and feel no touch of the restless lono-ino-s of the 



o o 



spring, and shut myself up in the snail-shell of my 

 studies. Day after day I dive down into the world of 

 the microscope, forgetful of time and surroundings. 

 Now and then, indeed, I may make a little excursion 

 from darkness to light the daylight beams around 

 me, and my soul opens a tiny loophole for light 

 and courage to enter in and then down, down into 

 the darkness, and to work once more. Before 

 turning in for the night I must go on deck. A little 

 while ago the daylight would by this time have 

 vanished, a few solitary stars would have been faintly 

 twinkling, while the pale moon shone over the ice. But 

 now even this has come to an end. The sun no longer 



O 



sinks beneath the icy horizon ; it is continual day. I 

 gaze into the far distance, far over the barren plain 

 of snow, a boundless, silent, and lifeless mass of ice in 

 imperceptible motion. No sound can be heard save the 

 faint murmur of the air through the rigging, or perhaps 

 far away the low rumble of packing ice. In the midst of 

 this empty waste of white there is but one little dark 

 spot, and that is the Frain. 



" But beneath this crust, hundreds of fathoms down, 

 there teems a world of chequered life in all its changing 

 forms, a world of the same composition as ours, with the 

 same instincts, the same sorrows, and also, no doubt, the 



