A WILD SCENE. 77 



the sea. Oif the cape it is one mass of foam. The 

 water, carried along by the wind, flies through the air 

 and breaches over the lofly icebergs. It is a most 

 wonderful exhibition. I have tried in vain to illus- 

 trate it with my pencil. My pen is equally powerless. 

 It is impossible for me to convey to this page a pic- 

 ture of that vast volume of foam which flutters over 

 the sea, and, rising and falling with each pulsation of 

 the inconstant wind, stands out against the dark sky, 

 or of the clouds which fly overhead, rushing, wild and 

 fearful, across the heavens, on the howling storm. 

 Earth and sea are charged with bellowing sounds. 

 Upon the air are borne shrieks and wailings, loud and 

 dismal as those of the infernal blast which, down in 

 the second circle of the damned, appalled the Italian 

 bard ; and the clouds of snow and vapor are tossed 

 upon the angry gusts, — now up, now down, — as 

 spirits, condemned of Minos, wheel their unhappy 

 flight in endless squadrons, 



" Swept by the dreadful hurricane aloug." 



In striking contrast to the cold and confusion above 

 is the warmth and quiet here below. I write in the 

 officers' cabin. The stove is red-hot, the tea-kettle 

 sings a homelike song. Jensen is reading. McCor- 

 mick, thoroughly worn out with work and anxiety, 

 sleeps soundly, and Knorr and Radclifife keep him 

 company. Dodge has the deck ; and here comes the 

 cook staggering along with his pot of coflee. I will 

 fortify myself with a cup of it, and send Dodge below 

 for a little comfort. 



The cook had no easy task in reaching the cabin 

 over the slippery decks. 



