150 MY CABIN. 



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

 sort of flame, is a very Drummoncl 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 ig 

 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 T 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 

 and gloomy every thing is outside and how light and 

 cheerful every thing is here below, I believe that I 

 have as much occasion to write myself down a thank- 

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

 contented one. 



