270 
THE DRIFT. 
vals on the Jews-harp from the top of a lard-cask. In 
fact, we were very happy fellows. We had had a 
foot-race in the morning over the midnight ice for three 
purses of a flannel shirt each, and a splicing of the 
main-brace. The day was night, the stars shining 
feebly through the mist. 
“ But even here that kindly custom of Christmas- 
gifting was not forgotten. I found in my morning 
stocking a jack-knife, symbolical of my altered looks, 
a piece of Castile soap — this last article in great re- 
quest — a Jews-harp, and a string of beads ! On the 
other hand, I prescribed from the medical stores two 
bottles of Cognac, to protect the mess from indiges- 
tion.* So passed Christmas. Thermometer, mini- 
mum, — 16°; maximum, -7°. Wind west. 
December 26, Thursday. To-day, looming up high 
in the air, we catch a sight of new unknown land. 
Of our drift, save by analogy, we know nothing. 
December 27, Friday. The shores of this coast seem 
to have changed their scale. At Cape Riley, as my 
sketches show, the limestone rises in a mural face, 
based by a deposit of detritus, which extends out in 
tongues, indentations, and salient capes ; and between 
these, a cemented shingle, full of corallines and en- 
crinites, forms a beach of varying extent. 
“ Sometimes this beach is backed by rolling dune- 
like hills of the scaly mountain limestones ; but after 
a mile or two of intermission, the high cliffs rise up 
again in abutments, and continue unbroken until an- 
other interval occurs. As we proceeded east, these es- 
carped masses became more buttress-like and monu- 
mental, rising up into plateau-topped masses, separated 
* An offense which I thus publicly acknowledge in advance of the court- 
martial, to which this illegal dispensation of the public stores may subject me. 
