Let us look back again to the journal, and
take our places at the mess-table with some of
Captain Fitzjames's companions. Assistant-
surgeon Goodsir is as well worth knowing in
his way as ice-master Reid.

"6th, towards midnight.—I can't make out
why Scotchmen just caught always speak in a
low, hesitating, monotonous tone of voice, which
is not at all times to be understood; this is, I
believe, called ' cannyness.' Mr. Goodsir is
'canny.' He is long and straight, and walks
upright on his toes, with his hands tucked up
in each jacket pocket. He is perfectly good-
humoured, very well informed on general points,
in natural history learned, was Curator of the
Edinburgh Museum, appears to be about twenty-
eight years of age, laughs delightfully, cannot
be in a passion, is enthusiastic about all 'ologies,
draws the insides of microscopic animals with
an imaginary pointed pencil, catches phenomena
in a bucket, looks at the thermometer and every
other meter, is a pleasant companion, and an
acquisition to the mess . . . . 10th.—A clear fine
sunset at a quarter to ten, and Goodsir examin-
ing ' mollusca' in a meecroscope. He is in
extasies about a bag full of blubber-like stuff,
which he has just hauled up in a net, and
which turns out to be whales' food and other
animals."

Goodsir and Reid are the two Characters of
the expedition. But there are more members of
the mess, pleasantly distinguishable one from the
other, by the light of Captain Fitzjames's clear
and genial observation. Crouch, the mate, " is
a little black-haired, smooth-faced fellow, good-
humoured in his own way; writes, reads, works,
draws, all quietly; is never in the way of
anybody, and always ready when wanted; but I
can find no remarkable point in his character,
except, perhaps, that he is, I should think,
obstinate. Stanley, the surgeon, I knew in China
He was in the Cornwallis a short time, where he
worked very hard in his vocation. Is rather
inclined to be good-looking, but fat, with jet-
black hair, very white hands, which are always
abominably clean, and the shirt-sleeves tucked
up; giving one unpleasant ideas that he would
not mind cutting one's leg off immediately—'if
not sooner.' He is thoroughly good-natured
and obliging, and very attentive to our mess.
Le Vescomte you know. He improves, if
possible, on closer acquaintance. Fairholme,
you know or have seen, is a smart, agreeable
companion, and a well-informed man. Sargent,
a nice, pleasant-looking lad, very good-natured.
Des Voeux, I knew in the Cornwallis. He went
out in her to join the Endymion, and was then
a mere boy. He is now a most unexceptionable,
clever, agreeable, light-hearted, obliging young
fellow, and a great favourite of Hodgson's,
which is much in his favour besides. Graham
Gore, the first lieutenant, a man of great
stability of character, a very good officer, and the
sweetest of tempers, is not so much a man o
the world as Fairholme or Des Voeux, is more
of Le Vescomte's style, without his shyness.
He plays the flute dreadfully well, draws sometimes
very well, sometimes very badly, but is
altogether a capital fellow.

"Here ends my catalogue. I don't know
whether I have managed to convey an impression
of our mess, and you know me sufficiently
o be sure that I mention their little faults,
ailings, and peculiarities in all charity. I wish
I could, however, convey to you a just idea of
the immense stock of good feeling, good-humour,
and real kindliness of heart in our small mess.
We are very happy." . . . . .

They are very happy. What a pathos in
those four simple words, read by the light of
our after experience! They are very happy.
How delightfully the little strokes of character
in the journal open the view to us of the cheerful,
simple-hearted social intercourse of the
sailor-brotherhood! How vividly, between tears
and smiles, we see the honest faces round the
mess-table, as day by day draws the good ship
nearer and nearer to the cruel north! Purser
Osmar, taking his after-dinner pinch, and
playing his rubber; long, straight, pleasantly-
laughing Goodsir, matching his learning and his
science against ice-master Reid, and his natural
north-country sharpness; plump, white-handed
Surgeon Stanley, with an attentive eye to the
appointments of the mess-table; little, quiet,
steady, black-haired Crouch, listening to the
conversation, while sweet-tempered Des Voeux
keeps it going pleasantly, and Graham Gore
sits near at hand, ready to while away the time,
when the talk flags, with a tune on his flute;—
one by one, these members of the doomed ship's
company appear before us again: fold by fold,
the snowy veil wreathed over them is melted
from view, and the dead and gone come back to
us for a little while from the icy keeping of
Death.

The journal, so careful and so considerate in
describing the officers, does not forget the men.
They, too, come in for their share of kindly and
clear-sighted notice.

"Our men are all fine, hearty fellows, mostly
north-countrymen, with a few men-of-war's men.
We feared at Stromness that some of them
would repent, and it is usual to allow no leave
—the Terror did not. But two men wanted to
see—one his wife, whom he had not seen for
four years, and the other his mother, whom he
had not seen for seventeen—so I let them go to
Kirkwall, fourteen miles off. I also allowed a
man of each mess to go on shore for provisions.
They all came on board to their leave; but
finding we were not going to sea till the following
morning, four men (who probably had taken
a leetle too much whisky, among them was the
little old man who had not seen his wife for four
years) took a small boat that lay alongside, and
went on shore without leave. Their absence
was soon discovered, and Fairholme, assisted by
Baillie, and somebody or other, brought all on
board by three o'clock in the morning. I firmly
believe each intended coming on board (if he had
been sober enough), especially the poor man with
the wife; but, according to the rules of the
service, these men should have been severely