56 
THE MOONLIGHT. 
has sometimes forced itself on my notice; but I have 
barely strength enough to carry on our routine obser¬ 
vations, and have no time to discuss phenomena. 
“ Two attempts have been made by my orders, since 
the month began, to communicate with the Esquimaux 
at their huts. Both were failures. Petersen, Hans, 
and Godfrey came back to denounce the journey as 
impracticable. I know better: the experience of my 
two attempts in the midst of the darkness satisfies me 
that at this period of the year the thing can be done ; 
and, if I might venture to leave our sick-bay for a 
week, I would prove it. But there are dispositions 
and influences here around me, scarcely latent, yet 
repressed by my presence, which make it my duty at 
all hazards to stay where I am. 
“March 1, Thursday.—A grander scene than our 
bay by moonlight can hardly be conceived. It is 
more dream-like and supernatural than a combination 
of earthly features. 
“The moon is nearly full, and the dawning sun¬ 
light, mingling with hers, invests every thing with an 
atmosphere of ashy gray. It clothes the gnarled hills 
that make the horizon of our bay, shadows out the 
terraces in dull definition, grows darker and colder as 
it sinks into the fiords, and broods sad and dreary 
upon the ridges and measureless plains of ice that 
make up the rest of our field of view. Rising above 
all this, and shading down into it in strange combina¬ 
tion, is the intense moonlight, glittering on every crag 
and spire, tracing the outline of the background with 
