THE LAST SUNSET. 
191 
It was now just upon the stroke of midnight. 
Ever since leaving England, as each four-and-twenty 
hours we climbed up nearer to the pole, the belt of 
dusk dividing day from day had been growing nar¬ 
rower and narrower, until having nearly reached the 
Arctic circle, this,—the last night we were to tra¬ 
verse,—had dwindled to a thread of shadow. Only 
another half-dozen leagues more, and we would stand on 
the threshold of a four months’ day! For the few pre¬ 
ceding hours clouds had completely covered the heavens, 
except where a clear interval of sky, that lay along the 
northern horizon, promised a glowing stage for the sun’s 
last obsequies. But like the heroes of old he had 
veiled his face to die, and it was not until he dropped 
down to the sea that the whole hemisphere overflowed 
with glory, and the gilded pageant concerted for his 
funeral gathered in slow procession round his grave; 
reminding one of those tardy honours paid to some 
great prince of song, who—left during life to languish 
in a garret—is buried by nobles in Westminster 
Abbey. A few minutes more the last fiery segment 
had disappeared beneath the purple horizon, and all 
was over. 
