308 
LETTERS FROM HIGH LATITUDES. 
ing mosses that grew inside the coffin, we proceeded 
on our way, leaving poor Jacob Moor—like his great 
namesake—alone in his glory. 
Turning to the right, we scrambled up the spur of 
one of the mountains on the eastern side of the plain, 
and thence dived down among the lateral valleys that 
run up between them. Although by this means we 
opened up quite a new system of hills, and basins, and 
gullies, the general scenery did not change its charac¬ 
teristics. All vegetation—if the black moss deserves 
such a name—ceases when you ascend twenty feet above 
the level of the sea, and the sides of the mountains 
become nothing but steep slopes of schist, split and 
crumbled into an even surface by the frost. Every 
step we took, unfolded a fresh succession of these 
jagged spikes and break-neck acclivities, in an un¬ 
ending variety of quaint configuration. Mountain 
climbing has never been a hobby of mine, so I was 
not tempted to play the part of Excelsior on any 
of these hill sides,—but for those who love such exer¬ 
cise a fairer or a more dangerous opportunity of dis¬ 
tinguishing themselves could not be imagined. The 
supercargo or owner of the very first Dutch ship that 
