150 MY CABIN. 



rious ; the lamp, which I thought burned with a sickly 

 sort of flame, is a very Drummond light compared 

 with what it was ; the clock, which used to annoy me 

 with its ceaseless ticking, now makes grateful music ; 

 the books, which are stuck about in all available 

 places, seem to be lost friends found again ; and the 

 little pictures, which hang around wherever there is 

 room, seem to smile upon me with a sort of sympa- 

 thetic cheerfulness. Rolls of maps, unfinished sketches, 

 scraps of paper, all sorts of books, including stray vol- 

 umes of the "Penny Cyclopaedia" and Soyer's "Prin- 

 ciples of Cooking," drawing implements, barometer 

 cases, copies of Admiralty Blue Books, containing re- 

 ports of the Arctic Search, track charts of all those 

 British worthies, from Ross to Rae, who have gone in 

 search of Sir John Franklin, litter the floor ; and, in- 

 stead of annoying me with their presence, as they used 

 to do, they seem to possess an air of quiet and refresh- 

 ing comfort. My little pocket-sextant and compass, 

 hanging on their particular peg, my rifle and gun and. 

 flask and pouch on theirs, with my traveling kit be- 

 tween them, break the blank space on the bulk-head 

 before me, and seem to speak a language of their own. 

 My good and faithful friend Sonntag sits opposite to 

 me at the table, reading. I write nestling among my 

 furs, with my journal in my lap ; and when 1 contrast 

 this night with the night on the glacier summit, and 

 listen now to the fierce wind which howls over the 

 deck and through the rigging, and think how dark 



O CO o" 



and gloomy every thing is outside and how light and 

 cheerful every thing is here below, I believe that I 

 have as mwcn occasion to write myself down a thank- 

 ful man, as I am very sure I do, for once at least, a 

 contented one. 



