OFF NEWFOUNDLAND. 
27 
under the sky of Florida, looking out on the live oak 
with its bearded moss, and breathing the magnolia. 
Comfortable as my hunk was, compared with the deck, 
I was conscious that, on the whole, I had not bettered 
my quarters. 
But with the 7th of June came fine, bright, bracing 
weather. We were olF Newfoundland, getting along 
well over a smooth sea. We had been looking at the 
low hills near Cape Race, when, about noon, a great 
mass of whiteness was seen floating in the sunshine. 
It was our first iceberg. It was in shape an oblong 
cube, and about twice as large as Girard College. Its 
color was an unmixed, hut not dazzling white : indeed, 
it seemed entirely coated with snow of such unsullied, 
unreflecting purity, that, as we passed within a hund- 
red yards of it, not a glitter reached us. It reminded 
me of a great marble monolith, only awaiting the chisel 
to stand out in peristyle and pediment a floating Par- 
thenon. There was something very imposing in the 
impassive tranquillity with which it received the lash- 
ings of the sea. 
The next day we were off St.John’s, surrounded by 
bergs, which nearly blockaded the harbor. A boat’s 
crew of six brawny Saxon men rowed out nine miles 
to meet us, and offer their services as pilots. They 
were disappointed when we told them we were “hound 
for Greenland but their hearty countenances bright- 
ened into a glow when we added, “in search of Sir 
John Franklin.” 
We ran into an iceberg the night after, and carried 
away our jib-boom and martingale: it was our first 
adventure with these mountains of the sea. We 
thumped against it for a few seconds, hut slid off 
smoothly enough into open water afterward. Two 
