cigars in their mouths, and Osmar laughing."
Captain Fitzjames is weary and sleepy with his
day's work; but he will not go to bed until he
has written these few lines in his journal,
because this is the memorable day on which the
voyagers have first seen the Arctic land.

On the 27th, they are all enlivened by an
unexpected visit at sea. The skipper of a Shetland
brig comes on board. He is up in these
high latitudes on a fishing speculation, and he
has presented himself to shake hands with the
little old man who went to visit his wife at
Stromness, and who had once been mate on
board the brig. On the 29th they pass some
grand icebergs, which do not look, as we all
suppose, like rocks of ice, but like "huge
masses of pure snow, furrowed with caverns and
dark ravines." The 1st of July brings the ships
within a day's sail of Whalefish Islands, at which
place the transport is to be unloaded of her
provisions and coals, and left to return to
England. On the evening of that day, there are
sixty-five icebergs in sight; and the vessels sail
in " among a shoal of some hundred walruses,
tumbling over one another, diving and splashing
with their fins and tails, and looking at the
ships with their grim, solemn-looking countenances
and small heads, bewhiskered and betusked."
On the 2nd, they find themselves in a
fog, " right under a dense, black-looking coast
topped with snow." This is Disco, a Danish
settlement. The scenery is grand, but desolate
beyond expression. At midnight, Captain
Fitzjames finds Purser Osmar on deck, cheerfully
dancing with an imaginary skipping-rope.
"What a happy fellow you are," says Captain
Fitzjames; " always in good humour." " Well,
sir," answers cheerful Osmar, "if I am not
happy here, I don't know where else I could
be." The 4th finds them safe in their temporary
haven at the Whalefish Islands. The next
day, every man is on shore, " running about for
a sort of holiday, getting eider ducks' eggs,
curious mosses and plants, and shells." It is
warm enough again, now, for the mosquitoes to
be biting. During this fine weather, the
sport will probably be unloaded, either on
Monday the 7th, or Tuesday the 8th; and on the
9th or 10th, the two Discovery Ships will
perhaps be on their way to Lancaster Sound. It
is reported that this is the mildest and earliest
summer known in. those regions, and that the ice
is clear all the way through the coming voyage.
Guided by Sir John Franklin's experience, the
officers expect to reach Lancaster Sound as soon
as the 1st of August; but this information is
not to be generally communicated in England
from the fear of making the public too sanguine
about the season. Captain Fitzjames's own idea
is that they have " a good chance of getting
through this year, if it is to be done at all;"
but he is himself privately inclined to hope that
no such extraordinary luck may happen to them,
as he wants " to have a winter for magnetic ob-
servations."

With this little outbreak of professional
enthusiasm, and with this description of the future
prospects of the expedition, the deeply-interesting
ing narrative draws to a close. Its few
concluding lines are thus expressed:

"Your journal is at an end, at least for the
present. I do hope it has amused you, but I
fear not; for what can there be in an old tub
like this, with a parcel of sea-bears, to amuse a
'lady fair?' This, however, is façon de parler, for
I think, in reality, that you will have been amused
in some parts and interested in others, but I
shall not read back, for fear of not liking it, and
tearing it up."

Those are the last words. They are dated
Sunday, the 6th of July, 1845. Five days later,
on the 11th, Captain Fitzjames sends a letter
to his friend, with the journals, still dating
from the Whalefish Islands. The ships are
expected to sail on the night of the 12th for
Lancaster Sound. If no tidings are received in
England before the June of the next year, letters
are to be despatched, on the chance of reaching
those to whom they are addressed, to Petro
Paulowski, in Kamschatka. The closing
sentence in the letter is, " God bless you and everything
belonging to you." Those simple, warm-
hearted words are the last that reach us, before
the endless and the awful silence that follows.
With " God bless you and all belonging to you,"
the two ships' companies drift away from us
into the frozen seas. The little flicker of light
that we have viewed them by for a moment,
dies out, and the long night falls darkly between
us and them—the night whose eternal morning
dawns in the glory of another world.

TE DEUM!

'Tis noonday. On Italian plains
I look to see the ripening corn
Shoot sunward all its spears, the vine
Adown the hill-sides wreathe and twine;
And peasants bred and born
Among the plains, among the hills,
The valleys, with their singing rills,
I turn expectant eyes to see,
Crying aloud, on bended knee,
"Thanks to the living God!"

What meets my eye? Fair corn-fields red,
But not with flush of summer sun,
Nor blaze of poppies.—Men lie dead
By hundreds—thousands—every one
Ghastly and gory, and the sod
Sends up a reek of human blood
Redder than grape-blood; moans and cries
Of men in hopeless agonies
Rise up through the polluted air,
Rise up to Heaven, but who cries there
"Thanks to the living God!"

I see a city wide and fair;
Through the broad streets a pageant goes,
And men shout loud, and women smile,
And up the chill and solemn aisle
Of a cathedral onward flows
A proud procession.—Priestly men,
Whose trade is prayer and peace, and then
A fair-haired woman, whose dark eyes
Seem full of saddened memories,
Assumes the imperial chair.

They kneel, and through the fluttering air