180 LETTERS FROM HIGH LATITUDES. [XL 



with the air of a man announcing the stroke of doomsday, 

 he used to say, or rather, toll — 



" Seven o'clock, my Lord ! " 



" Very well ; how's the wind ? " 



" Dead ahead, my Lord — dead!" 



" How many points is she off her course ? " 



" Four points, my Lord — full four points ! " (Four points 

 being as much as she could be.) 



" Is it pretty clear ? eh ! Wilson ? " 



" — Can't see your hand, my Lord ! — can't see your 

 hand ! " 



" Much ice in sight ? " 



u — Ice all round, my Lord — ice a-all ro-ound ! " — and 

 so exit, sighing deeply over my trousers. 



Yet it was immediately after one of these unpromising 

 announcements, that for the first time matters began to 

 look a little brighter. The preceding four-and-twenty hours 

 we had remained enveloped in a cold and dismal fog. But 

 on coming on deck, I found the sky had already begun to 

 clear ; and although there was ice as far as the eye could 

 see on either side of us, in front a narrow passage showed 

 itself across a patch of loose ice into what seemed a freer 

 sea beyond. The only consideration was — whether we could 

 be certain of finding our w r ay out again, should it turn out 

 that the open water wq saw was only a basin without any 

 exit in any other direction. The chance was too tempting 

 to throw away ; so the little schooner gallantly pushed her 

 way through the intervening neck of ice where the floes 

 seemed to be least huddled up together, and in half an hour 

 afterwards found herself running up along the edge of the 

 starboard ice, almost in a due northerly direction. And 

 here I must take occasion to say that, during the whole of 

 this rather anxious time, my master — Mr. Wyse — conducted 

 himself in a most admirable manner. Vigilant, cool, and 

 attentive, he handled the vessel most skilfully, and never 

 seemed to lose his presence of mind in any emergency. It 

 is true the silk tartan still coruscated on Sabbaths, but its 



