On the 21st, however, the boat and provisions were recovered. Joe, with the keen eye of an Eskimo, caught sight of the bow of the boat, projecting from a fragment of the broken ice. Followed by his faithful ally, Tyson went in search of it, leaping like a chamois-hunter from crag to crag. Six of the dogs had accompanied him. These were harnessed to the boat, and with the help of sturdy arms dragged it over the disrupted floe. The whole party then removed to the large floe, where some snow-houses were speedily erected. They formed quite an encampment: one hut, or rather a sort of half-hut, for Mr. Meyers and Captain Tyson; Joe’s hut for himself, his wife, and their adopted daughter; a hut for the men; a store-house for provisions, and a cook-house,—all united by arched galleries, built of consolidated snow, with one main entrance, and smaller ones branching off to the several apartments or huts. Hans built his igloë separately, but close by. All were constructed after the Eskimo fashion—that is, the ground being levelled off, one half of the floor toward the end furthest from the entrance was slightly raised above the other or front half. The raised part, as we have previously explained, serves as parlour and bedroom; the lower area, as workshop and kitchen. The walls and arched roof were built up of square blocks of hard snow, packed hard and close by the force of the wind. A square of about eighteen inches of this compressed snow or ice served for window.

This good work done, Tyson took stock. Successive expeditions had gathered together nearly all that was on the ice when the Polaris drifted from them, and he found that their stores included two boats—one of which, however, was being broken up for fuel—and one kayack, a good supply of powder and shot, eleven and a half bags of bread, fourteen cans of pemmican, fourteen hams, ten dozen cans of meats and soups, one can of dried apples, and about twenty pounds of chocolate and sugar mixed. The pemmican cases were large, each weighing forty-five pounds; the meats and soups were only one and two pound cans; the hams were small; the dried-apple can counted for twenty-two pounds. Evidently, when divided among nineteen people, this supply could not last many weeks; and unless they reached the land, or could catch seals, starvation seemed their probable ultimate fate. The allowance was reduced to eleven ounces for each adult, and half that amount for the children,—rations painfully inadequate to the proper support of the human frame in a Polar region and during an Arctic winter.

On the 23rd of October they lost sight of the sun. At this time they were about eight or ten miles off-shore, and forty to fifty miles west of Northumberland Island, in lat. 77° 30’ nearly. The Eskimos were on the watch for seals day after day, but without success. In truth, it is not easy to find the seal in winter, as they live principally under the ice, and can be seen only when it cracks. A warm-blooded animal, it cannot always remain beneath the frozen surface without breathing, and for this purpose they make air-holes through the ice and snow. These, however, are so small at the surface, not exceeding two and a half inches across, that they are not easily distinguished, especially in the twilight-gloom of an Arctic winter day.

The floe, or ice-raft, on which the crew of the Polaris had found shelter, continued to drift slowly to the southward, impelled by wind and current. The weather was so severe that it was worse than useless to attempt to reach the shore. The castaways therefore huddled themselves together in their igloes, or huts of snow, or took such diversion as hunting for fox or seal afforded. Or when a gleam of fair weather afforded an opportunity, Tyson took a short drive in his sledge, and explored as much as he dared of the ice lying towards the shore. On the 1st of November an attempt was made to reach the land, the dogs being harnessed to the sledge, and the boat loaded with the most essential articles; but the state of the ice rendered all efforts of this kind fruitless.

One day, Joe and Hans, the Eskimos, went out in quest of game. In wandering through the hummocks they lost one another, and Joe, after trying his luck alone, made his way back towards the hut before night came on; he fully anticipated to find that Hans had preceded him, and was much alarmed when he heard that he had not returned. Accompanied by Robert, he started in search of him. As they sped along through the rapidly-gathering darkness, they saw what appeared to be a Polar bear approaching them; loaded their pistols, and prepared to give him a warm reception, when, fortunately, the creature throwing up his arms, and standing erect, they perceived that it was their missing comrade. He had used both hands and feet in climbing the rough hummocks, and his fur clothing being covered with snow, the deception was tolerably complete.

On the 21st of November, Captain Tyson writes in his diary: “We are living now on as little as the human frame can endure without succumbing; some tremble with weakness when they try to walk. Mr. Meyers suffers much from this cause; he was not well when he came on the ice, and the regimen here has not improved him. He lives with the men now; they are mostly Germans, and so is he, and the affinity of blood draws them together, I suppose. Since he has housed with the men, I have lived in the hut with Joe, Hannah, and Puney. Puney, poor child, is often hungry; indeed, all the children often cry with hunger. We give them all that it is safe to use. I can do no more, however sorry I may feel for them.”

But it is unnecessary to trace the misfortunes and sufferings of Captain Tyson’s little company day by day. Their wretched condition—adrift on a raft of ice, insufficiently clothed, insufficiently fed, poorly housed, without any of the comforts that generally make an Arctic expedition endurable, buffeted by snow-storm and tempest, in constant apprehension lest their insecure raft should break up—requires no exaggeration of colouring to produce its full impression on the reader. In January 1873, it was found that the provisions were diminishing with terrible rapidity; and this was due not so much to the regular daily consumption as to the secret pilferings of the crew, who were not controlled by any bonds of discipline, and yielded Captain Tyson an imperfect and reluctant obedience. They were all Germans, except Heron, an Englishman, and the cook, a man of colour, and their conduct was a disgrace to their nationality. They seem to have thought that their raft was carrying them swiftly towards Disco in Greenland, where abundant supplies could easily be obtained; but, in truth, they were drifting in the direction of Labrador, and the safety of all demanded the sternest economy of their small stock of provisions.

The cold was now excessive,—35° below zero at noon, and 37° at midnight. On the 13th, it sank below 40°. On the following day, however, a strong westerly gale blew up; the cold became more moderate—the temperature rose to -14°. Under the influence of the gale, the ice began to crack and grind and break up; the natives launched a kayack; a seal was hunted down, and the castaways feasted gloriously. This, however, was but a transient gleam of good fortune. On the 17th the glass again sank to 38°, and no more seals were visible. The men were now reduced to less than twelve ounces of food daily, which was not sufficient to furnish internal warmth, or to strengthen the system against the terrible effects of the Arctic climate.

The 19th was, to some extent, a day of hope; for, after an absence of eighty-three days, the sun once more rose above the misty horizon. Eskimo Joe took advantage of the burst of daylight to undertake a hunting expedition. About five miles from the hut he found open water, and shot two seals, but could land only one; the young ice carried the other away. Encouraged by the cheerful glow of the sun, he stayed out later than usual, and it was very dark before he returned. A light of burning blubber was kindled to guide him to the hut. It shone out upon the gloom of the night like a pharos.

The 25th of January marked the one hundred and third day of the castaways’ voyage on the ice-raft, and they severely felt the monotonous wretchedness of their existence. It was a beautiful day, and perfectly calm; but the thermometer indicated 40° below zero. At midnight the heavens were illuminated with all the glories of a brilliant aurora. They seemed to be ablaze: from the south-west to the north-east, from the horizon to the zenith, the magnetic fires shot here and there, and wavered and undulated, like flame driven by a strong wind. At one time the splendour was almost overpowering, and the straining eye was fain to seek relief in darkness.

On the 1st of February a violent gale arose, blowing from the north-west, and the ice, rolling and rocking beneath its influence, split up into great cracks and fissures which threatened the safety of the castaways. Huge blocks fell off from the floe; and the vast bergs which had hitherto accompanied, and partly sheltered it, moved rapidly before the wind. Everything acknowledged the might of the storm; but as yet the adventurers had not been disturbed, though surrounded by mountains of ice heavy enough, if driven against their encampment, to have crushed them to atoms. Thus far they had floated safely, but the position was one to cause reflection: at some time or other the ice must break up, they knew; but whether they would survive the catastrophe was beyond conjecture. They could only wait and hope.

Here is a picture of the interior of one of the igloes, or snow-huts:—

“Joe and Hannah are sitting in front of the lamp, playing checkers on an old piece of canvas, the squares being marked out with Tyson’s pencil. They use buttons for men, as they have nothing better. The natives easily learn any sort of game; some of them can even play a respectable game of chess; and cards they understand as well as the ‘heathen Chinee.’ Cards go wherever sailors go, and the first lessons that the natives of any uncivilized country get are usually from sailors.

“Little Puney, Joe and Hannah’s adopted child, a little girl, is sitting wrapped in a musk-ox skin; every few minutes she says to her mother, ‘I am so hungry!’ The children often cry with hunger. It makes one’s heart ache, but they are obliged to bear it with the rest.”

The gale continued on the 2nd, with blinding showers of snow—fine, penetrating, pungent. Next day the weather moderated, and the glass rose to 15° below zero. Dark clouds lowered in the horizon, preventing the land from being seen, if any shore were near. But the rapid rise in the temperature, after so strong a north-west gale, allowed Tyson to hope that the wind had mastered the current, and was forcing them towards the Greenland shore.

Though all around nothing was visible but ice and icebergs, the scene had a certain beauty of its own—a strange weird beauty, like that of a dream-picture. When the sun shone on the bergs, and lighted up their massive or fantastic forms, all the prismatic colours of the rainbow flashed through the “crystal pendants” or “projecting peaks.” The interest of the scene was enhanced by the variety of its forms. Every berg appeared to have had its individual history, and its broken outline and furrowed surface bore witness to the experiences it had undergone—storm and rain, wind and water. Some rose up around the castaways like solid ramparts; others represented the spire of a Gothic cathedral, the pinnacle of a Turkish minaret, the glittering walls of a palace: all were beautiful, yet terrible in their beauty, conveying a profound feeling of might and destructive power.

On the 5th, and again on the 7th, a seal was caught, and the little company enjoyed a plentiful meal. On the latter day a couple of narwhals were shot, but both sank before they could be reached. These narwhals are sometimes called sea-unicorns, or monodons, in allusion to the long horn, six to eight feet in measurement—or, rather, the elongated tooth—which projects from the upper jaw; a formidable weapon, tapering from base to point, with a spiral twist from left to right. Strange stories were told of these sea-unicorns by the early navigators; but science has made short work of legend and fable.

Day after day, the history of our navigators was the same; no stirring romance, but harsh reality:—wind and snow, snow and wind—a wind which almost froze the life-blood of those exposed to it, and snow which fell so fast and thick as to wrap the scene in the gloom of desolation. Still, the ice-raft drifted southward; slowly but surely drifted through the darkness of the night and the twilight obscurity of the day; while the little company it carried suffered much from increasing weakness, though better provided with food than formerly, owing to the frequent capture of narwhal and seal. Occasionally the mists cleared off, and the sun streamed out in meridian splendour, lighting up every feature of the “ice-scape”—may we coin the word?—around them. But, too frequently, “snow and blow, blow and snow,” was, as Tyson remarks, “the order of the day.”

Hope lives eternal in the human breast; and though it had sunk very low in the hearts of our adventurers, it suddenly rekindled on the 19th of February, when they caught sight of the west coast, at no greater distance than thirty-eight or forty miles. Its flame was kept alive on the 21st by the discovery that the thermometer had risen to 3° above zero. Next day it had risen to 20°, or within 12° of freezing-point; and men inured to the rigour of an Arctic winter spoke of such weather with cheeriness as “very comfortable.” The cloud upon the prospect now was the want of food, for the game had begun to fail. The hunters went forth every morning, but returned empty-handed. The feebleness of the party increased in an alarming degree. It took several men to carry a light Eskimo kayack, which for an ordinary man is not even a burden. What was to be done? The only chance of life seemed to lie in reaching the shore; but how were these gaunt, frail skeletons to convey their boat across the rugged ice until they reached the open water?

They decided, however, on making the attempt, in the hope of reaching a place called Shaumen, a little to the north of Cape Mercy, in lat. 65° N., where game, and sometimes Eskimos, were to be found. In spite of all their efforts, they were foiled by a succession of blinding, lashing, beating snow-storms. The mercury sank again to 24° below zero, and their position grew desperate. They were reduced to one meal—and such a meal!—per diem. Great was their joy on the 28th when the hunters brought in thirty-seven dove-kies, or two apiece. They were cooked without delay, and eaten up to the last morsel, except the feathers. Greater still was their joy on the 2nd (of March), when Eskimo Joe shot a monster oogjook (a large kind of seal), the largest they had ever seen—such a monster that it took all hands to drag its carcass to the huts. Peter danced and sung in the exuberance of his delight, and everybody felt that for a time they were saved from starvation. On measurement, this glorious oogjook proved to be seven feet nine inches in length, or fully nine feet including the tail.

The ice-raft was now approaching Cumberland Gulf, and Tyson calculated that they had reached lat. 65° N. They drifted more and more rapidly; and if they did not die of famine,—if the ice did not break up too suddenly,—there was a probability of their reaching the whaling ground, and falling in with some friendly ship. The gales, however, were frequent and severe; the thermometer continued very low—32° to 34° below zero; and the sufferings of the whole company were intense. Even the Eskimos were sorely afflicted; though without these bold and patient hunters, the white men must certainly have perished.

On the 7th of March there were indications of the breaking up of the floe. It cracked and snapped beneath them, with a sound like that of distant thunder. So far as the surface was concerned, however, no signs of fracture were visible; the eye, straining in every direction, saw nothing but an unbroken expanse of ice. And thus it continued until the 12th, when, during a terrible storm, the threatened catastrophe took place, the ice-raft being shattered suddenly into hundreds of pieces, on one of which, not more that one hundred yards by seventy-five, the adventurers found themselves adrift! Oh, what a night of dread anxiety they passed, expecting every moment that this piece too would give way, and plunge them into ruin! But it held together; and when the wind abated, and the snow ceased to fall, and the wild hurtling of the broken ice was hushed, they could look around them, and realize their position. The condition of the ice had undergone an absolute change; the “floes” were driven up into a “pack,” and huge blocks, of all shapes and sizes, were heaped up and jammed together in inextricable confusion.

Noting that on the 21st of March seven seals replenished the empty larder of our adventurers, and that on the 26th whales were visible for the first time,—a welcome sign, as indicating their approach to the fishing-grounds,—we pass on to the 29th, which was marked by a curious incident. Shortly after dark, Tyson heard a noise outside his hut; he had just taken off his boots, preparing for rest; Joe, too, was on the point of retiring, but thinking the ice was breaking up, he went out to view the “situation.” In a few seconds he hastily returned, pallid and frightened, and exclaiming, “There is a bear close to my kayack!” The kayack lay within ten feet of the entrance to the hut. Both Joe and Tyson’s rifles were outside; Joe’s within the kayack, and Tyson’s lying close to it; but Joe had his pistol in the hut. The captain put on his boots, and then both crept cautiously out. Seal-skins and lumps of blubber were lying about in all directions; and Bruin, having dragged some of these about thirty feet from the kayack, was banqueting at his ease. Joe crept into the sailors’ hut to alarm them. Meantime Tyson crawled stealthily to his rifle, but in taking it knocked down a shot-gun standing by. The bear heard it, but Tyson’s rifle already covered him; he growled; Tyson pulled the trigger, but the gun would not go off; a second, and a third time—it did not go; but Tyson did, for the bear now rushed full upon him. Retiring to the hut, he put another cartridge in, and then again crept out into the open, taking up a position where he could see the animal, although the night was dark. The bear, too, saw his assailant, and faced towards him; but this time the rifle-ball went straight to its mark; the bear ran about two rods, and fell dead.

The victim was a “sea-bear,” Ursus maritimus, and supplied the company on the ice-raft with a welcome change of diet.

As the piece of ice was gradually wearing away, the adventurers of the Polaris resolved on an effort to regain the main pack, which would necessarily be safer. With their sleeping-gear, tent, and a supply of shot and powder, they embarked on board the boat, and stood to the westward; and on the 4th of April, after a succession of rough experiences, reached the “pack.” Here they were not much better off, for a violent gale blowing from the north-east, the ice began to break off in huge fragments; and soon the area at the command of the navigators was so small, that they were compelled to reload the boat, and prepare for a hurried departure. The wind, however, subsided, the pack closed up, and things returned to their normal condition.

On the 18th of April the castaways were somewhat reinvigorated by the capture of a seal, which Joe brought ashore in his kayack, and by the appearance of land to the south-west. But in this wild Arctic region the weather in spring is subject to surprising changes, and on the 20th another gale began to blow. Such was its fury that it drove a heavy swell of sea across the ice-raft, which washed away every article that was loose. Billow after billow followed with ever-increasing violence; and tent, and skins, and nearly all the bed-gear, were swept into the boiling waters. Only a few articles were saved, which, along with the women and children, had been stowed in the boat. To save the boat tasked the energies of all the party, who had to hold on to it, with might and main, to prevent it from being carried out to sea. All through the dreadful night the men were on the watch against this crowning disaster; all through the dreary night, from 9 P.M. until 7 A.M., straining every nerve, calling into play every resource of energy. Ever and anon, one of the tremendous billows would plunge downward, and lift the boat bodily, and the men with it, and carry it and them forward on the ice, almost to the opposite edge of the floating raft; several times the boat heeled partly over, and was hauled back only by the more than human strength which the crew derived from a knowledge of their position. The boat gone, all was lost! Terrible was the work; had the waters been smooth, the task would not have been easy; but they were filled with loose ice, which rolled about in blocks of all shapes and sizes, and with almost every wave these came toppling and rolling and driving forward like an avalanche, and fell about the heads and limbs of the men as they clung desperately to the boat. But God mercifully supplied them with the strength they needed; and so, labouring to the uttermost, they waited and watched for the day. For twelve hours scarcely a sound was uttered except the crying of the children, and Tyson’s stern command to “Hold on,” or “Bear down,” with the responsive “Ay, ay, sir” of the men.

Day dawned at last, with a dull gray light over the restless sea, and Tyson saw with indescribable thankfulness a large raft of ice floating within reach. He determined to make for it, though the men hesitated to launch the boat into such a “hell of waters.” But it was done; the women and children were first got on board, and then all the men embarked in safety. By dint of hard pulling, they gained the ice, landed, refreshed themselves with a morsel of food, and then, on this new ice-raft, laid down to rest. The following morning found them “safe and sound,” after all their trials, with the exception of a few bruises and contusions.

On the 22nd of April another bear was killed; and just in time, for the whole party were without a morsel of food. This lasted them for three or four days; and then, on the 25th, as starvation once more stared them in the face, they resolved on a desperate effort to make the land. What else were they to do? The rain fell in torrents; the wind blew a hurricane; the ice-raft was constantly wasting away; they had no provisions. True, the boat was frail and leaky, and the sea ran high; but as the ice would not much longer afford them even a footing, a decision was forced upon them.

So in their crippled, overloaded boat they set out, the wind blowing a gale, and a tremendous sea running, full of small knife-like blades of ice. After eight hours’ labour at the oars, they came to a piece of floe, and encamped upon it for the night. At daylight on the 28th they again launched their boat; and after much weary work in threading their way through a fleet of icebergs, they got into comparatively open water.

At half-past four, a joyful sight!—a steamer right ahead, and bearing north of them. The castaways hoisted their colours, and pulled towards her. She was a sealer, going south-west, and making her way through the floating ice. The hearts of the castaways beat with joy at the prospect of speedy relief; but, alas, they were doomed to disappointment! She did not see the miserable little company in the overloaded boat; and it was impossible for them to overtake her. Night gathered over the sea, and she disappeared.

Reaching a suitable piece of floe, they boarded it, and again encamped for the night, under a sky which was clear and calm, and shone with the glory of stars. The sea, too, was tranquil, and, notwithstanding their disappointment, they felt more hopeful than before; it was evident they had reached the borders of civilization, and might rely upon obtaining help. With seals’ blubber they kindled beacon-fires on the ice; and divided their men into two watches.

The next day they sighted another steamer, launched their boat, and pulled lustily towards her. In vain: she did not see them, and after a couple of hours’ hard work they were hemmed in by the ice, and could make no progress. They landed on a floe, and hoisted their colours; collected and loaded all their rifles and pistols, and filled the echoes with the ringing report of three simultaneous volleys. They heard three shots in reply, and—glorious sight!—saw the steamer directing her course towards them. They shouted with all their might; but in the keen air their voices seemed to pass away soundlessly. Presently the steamer changed her course, tacking south, then north, then west, as if she were vainly endeavouring to force a passage through the accumulated ice. Yet there seemed no insuperable obstacle in her path. The fugitives fired again, and again; but she came no nearer, and late in the afternoon steamed away to the south west.

At sunset they descried land in the same direction, about thirty-five miles distant.

On the following day, the 30th of April, Tyson was lying in the boat, his watch having just ended, when the look-out raised a sudden shout: “There’s a steamer! there’s a steamer!” As if fresh life had been poured into his veins, Tyson sprang to his feet, ordered all the guns to be fired, joined his companions in a loud simultaneous cry, and raised their colours to the head of the boat’s mast. Hans leaped into his kayack, and was despatched to intercept the ship, if possible, as there was some danger of losing sight of her in the fog which prevailed; but, happily, she bore down towards them. Hans paddled on, and in his broken English shouted, “American steamer.” He was not understood by those on board, but they kept their course, and in a few minutes lay alongside of the ice-isle which sheltered Tyson and his company. Oh, what three loud, hearty, joyful cheers acknowledged their deliverance! These were immediately returned by the crew of the steamer, which proved to be the sealer Tigress, of Conception Bay, Newfoundland.

We quote from Captain Tyson’s simply-worded narrative:—

“Two or three of their small seal-boats were instantly lowered. We, however, now that relief was certain, threw everything from our own boat, and in a minute’s time she was in the water; while the boats of the Tigress came on, and the crews got on our bit of ice, and peeped curiously into the dirty pans we had used over the oil-fires. We had been making soup out of the blood and entrails of the last little seal which Hans had shot. They soon saw enough to convince them that we were in sore need. No words were required to make that plain.

“Taking the women and children in their boats, we tumbled into our own, and were soon alongside of the Tigress. We left all we had behind, and our all was simply a few battered smoky tin pans and the débris of our last seal. It had already become offal in our eyes, though we had often been glad enough to get such fare.

“On stepping on board, I was at once surrounded by a curious lot of people—I mean men filled with curiosity to know our story, and all asking questions of me and the men. I told them who I was, and where we were from. But when they asked me, ‘How long have you been on the ice?’ and I answered, ‘Since the 15th of last October,’ they were so astonished that they fairly looked blank with wonder.

“One of the party, looking at me with open-eyed surprise, exclaimed,—

“‘And was you on it night and day?’

“The peculiar expression of the tone, with the absurdity of the question, was too much for my politeness. I laughed in spite of myself, and my long unexercised risibles thrilled with an unwonted sensation.”

Tyson and his party were picked up in lat. 53° 35’ N.; a fact which will give the reader some idea of the wonderful voyage they had accomplished on their various ice-rafts.

They were treated with thoughtful kindness on board the Tigress, which on the 7th of May turned her head towards Newfoundland. On the following day she put into Conception Bay, where the Americans landed, and remained until the 12th. They then started for St. John’s; and the news of their remarkable experiences having preceded them, found themselves on their arrival the objects of a very general and lively curiosity. After a short stay, they were conveyed to Washington on board the United States steamship Frolic. And here ends their strange, eventful history.

We must now return to the Polaris.

When she drifted away in the darkness of that stormy night, she had on board fourteen persons: Captain Buddington, Dr. Emil Bessel, Messrs. Bryan and Chester, and ten officers and seamen. What had become of them and their vessel? Such was the natural question which arose on the safe arrival at Washington of Tyson and his companions; and the American Government quickly came to the determination of organizing a relieving party to seek for and bring back the survivors and remains, if any, of the Polaris expedition. The steamship Juniata was immediately despatched to form a depôt of supplies on the coast of Greenland in advance. She reached Upernavik on the 31st of July, and there brought into use her steam-launch, the Little Juniata; which, manned by a gallant crew, pushed forward into the icy waters of Melville Bay, but without coming upon any traces of the missing explorers. Meantime, the American Government purchased the Tigress, and fitted her up for a thorough cruise in the Arctic seas. With Captain Greer in command, and Mr. Tyson as acting-lieutenant, and a crew of eleven officers and forty-two men, “all told,” the Tigress set sail on the evening of July 14th, and dropped anchor at St. John’s on the morning of the 23rd.

On the 11th of August we find her at Upernavik, where she took on board a supply of coal from the Juniata. She then proceeded northward, falling in with the heavy pack-ice near Cape York. The 14th saw her off the Eskimo settlement of Netlik. She was now approaching Northumberland Island, in the neighbourhood of which, or of Littleton Island, it was supposed the Polaris had parted from the ice-floe. Captain Greer carefully examined Northumberland Island, but without success. He then made for Littleton Island; and a boat was lowered to go on shore, carrying Lieutenant White, Captain Tyson, and other officers. What was their surprise, as they approached, to discover some human figures and a couple of tents on the mainland, near Littleton Island. The figures proved to be Eskimos; and through the agency of Eskimo Joe, who was on board the Tigress, it was soon ascertained that Captain Buddington had deserted the Polaris on the day after her separation from the floe; that he and his companions had erected a house on the mainland, and wintered therein; had fitted it up with sleeping-berths for fourteen men, the full number, and furnished it with stove, table, chairs, and other articles removed from the abandoned ship; that during the winter the party had built and equipped a couple of sailing-boats; and that “about the time when the ducks begin to hatch” they had departed for the south.

The Eskimo chief, or leader, added that Captain Buddington had made him a present of the Polaris; but that the gift proved of no effect, for in a violent gale she broke loose from the ice, drifted out into the channel, and foundered.

Further search brought the crew of the Tigress to the winter-camp of the Polaris crew. It was situated in lat. 78° 23’ N., and long. 73° 46’ W. Some manuscripts were found there, with the log-book, the medical stores, and remains of instruments; and these, with whatever else that seemed of intrinsic value, having been removed on board the Tigress, the expedition bore away to the southward, and on the 16th of October reached St. John’s, Newfoundland, where they received the welcome intelligence of the rescue of the Polaris party under the circumstances we shall now relate.

We return to the eventful night of the 15th of October 1872. During the tremendous gale that then raged along the Arctic coast, the bow-hawser of the Polaris snapped like a “pack-thread,” the anchors slipped, and the ship drifted away into the darkness. The wind forced her in a north-easterly direction; and next morning those on board found her “a little north of Littleton Island, in Smith Sound, having been exactly abreast of Sutherland Island during a portion of the night.”

As she was leaking rapidly the pumps were set to work; and the fires with much difficulty being lighted, the ship was got to obey her helm. It was then found that the following officers and men remained on board:—Captain Buddington; Mr. Chester, chief mate; William Merton, second mate; Emil Schuman, chief engineer; Odell, assistant-engineer; Campbell and Booth, firemen; Coffin, carpenter; Sieman, Hobby, Hays, and Manch, seamen; Dr. Emil Bessel, meteorologist; and Mr. Bryan, astronomer and chaplain.

A look-out was kept, it is said, for the nineteen who were missing, but no signs of them being discovered, Captain Buddington came to the comfortable conclusion that they had saved themselves in the boats. Doubting the feasibility of carrying the Polaris to the southward, he determined to abandon her, and winter on shore. With this view she was run in as near land as possible, and finally grounded in Kane’s Life-boat Cove, lat. 78° 23’ 30″ N., and long. 73° 21’ W. Here, on the 17th of October, Captain Buddington prepared to establish a winter-camp; and the next few days were occupied in removing from the stranded vessel all the food and fuel, and such articles as could conduce to the comfort and sustenance of the party through the ensuing winter.

With spars, bulk-heads, and canvas brought from the Polaris a commodious house was erected, measuring twenty-two feet in length, and fourteen feet in width. It was thoroughly water-tight; warmed inside by a stove; and banked outside with masses of compact snow. In the interior the sides were lined with fourteen sleeping-berths. A table and chairs and lamps added to the general comfort; so that our explorers were prepared to brave a Polar winter under more favourable conditions than those experienced by most Arctic navigators.

In the course of a few days a party of native Eskimos, with five sledges, made their appearance, and their friendly labours were found of no little value. They considered themselves amply repaid by a few presents of knives, needles, and the like, and after a short stay returned to their settlement at Etah. However, others soon took their place; and eventually two or three families built their igloes in the neighbourhood of the American camp. The Eskimo women made themselves very useful by making and repairing clothing, and rendering other feminine courtesies; while the men, when game became plentiful, supplied the little settlement with a welcome abundance of fresh meat. Nor was this the only advantage derived from the presence of the Eskimos; on the contrary, it had an excellent effect on the morale of the men, who did not feel that utter isolation, that sense of being cut off from human companionship, and separated from the rest of the world, which is one of the severest trials of wintering in the Arctic regions. The heavy pressure of the long, dark Polar night was wonderfully lightened by the kindly attentions and mirthful society of the Eskimos.

It is probable that some of the Polaris crew never spent a happier winter. There was no want of food, no suffering from cold; their quarters were warm, cheerful, and well-lighted. Time did not hang heavily on their hands; for when the house-work was done, when the fires were replenished, the lamps trimmed, and the day’s provisions cooked, they amused themselves with reading or writing, or played at chess, draughts, and cards. It is true they had no communication with the world without, and no intelligence could reach them from friends or kinsmen; but, surgit amari aliquid—in the cup of human happiness a bitter drop is always found!

When the worst of the winter was past, they began, under the direction of the carpenter, to construct a couple of boats, with the view of returning homeward as soon as the ice broke up. Each was twenty-five feet long, square fore and aft, and five feet beam; capable, that is, of carrying seven men, with provisions for about two months, in which time they might reasonably calculate on reaching the civilized settlements. It was the end of May before the condition of the ice enabled them to set out. Then they broke up their camp, rewarded their Eskimo friends, carried on board stores and provisions; and, finally, early on the morning of the 1st of June they bade farewell to their winter-home, and sailed out into the waters of Smith Sound.

Their voyage was unmarked by any disastrous incident, and presents a strange contrast to the dangerous experiences of Tyson and his companions. Wherever they landed, they obtained an abundant supply of aquatic birds, seal, and other game. They were all in good health, well-fed, well-clothed. Their boats were sound and strong. The winter had long passed away, and the glorious summer sun poured its full radiance on the calm surface of the Arctic sea. Sailing pleasantly along, they touched at Hakluyt Island, and subsequently landed on the west shore of Northumberland Island. The pack-ice detained them there until the 10th. They then entered a water-way toward Cape Parry, but were subsequently forced back by the ice to the place whence they had started. On the 12th the channel was clearer. They set sail again; crossed the southern part of Murchison Sound; doubled Cape Parry; and halted for rest and refreshment on Blackwood Point, near Fitz Clarence Rock. Thence they made, in due succession, for Wolstenholme Island, and Cape York,—names which recall the adventures of the earlier explorers.

Their course now assumed a more difficult character, as they had come face to face with the ice of Melville Bay,—that great expanse of Arctic waters which is surrounded by glacier-loaded shores, and has always been a favourite “whaling-ground.” Here they encountered some difficulty with the “pack;” the “leads,” or water-ways, curiously intersecting one another, and striking far into the ice, and so closing up that it was often necessary to haul their boats across a kind of promontory, or tongue, from one lead to another. Their troubles, however, were of brief duration. On the twentieth day after leaving Life-boat Cove, they sighted a steamer, beset in the ice, at a distance of thirty or thirty-five miles from Cape York. She could not come to them, it was true, but they could go to her; and this they prepared to do. They had not traversed half the distance, however, before they met a body of eighteen men from the ship; for they too had been seen, and recognized as white men, and relief immediately despatched. The friendly vessel proved to be the Ravenscraig of Dundee, Captain Allen, lying in lat. 75° 38’ N., and long. 65° 35’ W.

It was now found, according to the narrative of the expedition, that the relief did not come much too soon, for the boats had been considerably injured by contact with the rough hummocky ice. And the fatigue of hauling them over such a surface may be inferred from the fact that it took the Polaris crew, with their eighteen relief-men from the Ravenscraig, six hours to reach the latter vessel. The difficulty was increased by a deep slushy snow, which lay thick upon the ice, and which was not only heavy and disagreeable to the wayfarer, but exceedingly dangerous, as more than one found by sinking into the pitfalls it treacherously concealed.

But they reached the Ravenscraig at midnight, and received a hearty welcome from Captain Allen, who was able also to communicate the grateful intelligence that their comrades, the little company sent adrift on the ice-raft, were all in safety.

It has been well said that the Polaris expedition proved curiously prolific of startling and exciting incidents. From the time when Captain Bartlett of the Tigress rescued the “exhausted waifs” of the ice-floe, until the last scene in this romantic drama was enacted, the public mind had been kept in a condition of continual expectancy by the progress of events connected with the story of these Arctic explorers. The lamentable death of Captain Hall,—the long voyage on the ice-floe through the gloom of the Polar night,—the return of the nineteen castaways after so many hairbreadth escapes and wonderful adventures,—the departure of the Tigress,—the discovery of Buddington’s winter-camp,—and now the rescue of him and his crew by the Dundee whaler, formed a series of surprising and exciting events, which, if not of epical interest, would certainly seem to furnish matter for a poet’s song. Even the early annals of Arctic exploration, with their narratives of the achievements and sufferings of Hudson, Davis, Barentz, present no incidents of a more remarkable character. As men dwelt upon them, they came to acknowledge that the “age of romance” was not ended yet.

On the 18th of September 1873, the Arctic whaling-steamer arrived at Dundee with eleven of the Polaris survivors, who had been transferred to her from the Ravenscraig, as the latter was not homeward bound. Three others reached America in the Intrepid; and thus the expedition of the Polaris terminated without any loss of life, if we except the unfortunate death of her enthusiastic commander, Captain Hall.

It added nothing, it is true, to our geographical knowledge of the Arctic World; and yet it was not without some useful results. The Polaris, at all events, approached nearer to the North Pole than any one of her predecessors; and men of science were thenceforth justified in asserting that the hope of complete success was no longer chimerical. The distance to the pole from the point reached by the Polaris was comparatively so trivial, as to afford good reason for believing that it would not long baffle human resolution and enterprise. Then, again, it was established as a fact beyond doubt that Europeans could securely winter in a latitude of 81° 38’; that a ship well built and well equipped might push northward as far as 82° 16’; and that no insuperable obstacles to its further advance could then be detected. It was also shown that the temperature, even in lat. 82°, was not of a nature to overcome the energy and enthusiasm of men accustomed to life and adventure in the Arctic World. These data, so conclusively established by experience, constituted a source of great encouragement to future navigators, and permit the conclusion that the Polaris expedition, with all its disasters and mismanagement, helped forward the great work of discovering the North Pole.

“We now know,” says Mr. Markham, “that the American vessel commanded by Captain Hall passed up the strait, in one working season, for a direct distance of two hundred and fifty miles, without a check of any kind, reaching lat. 82° 16’ N.; and that at her furthest point the sea was still navigable, with a water-sky to the northward.”

The Polaris, however, was nothing better than a river-steamer of small power, ill adapted for encountering the perils of Arctic navigation,—with a crew, all told, of thirty men, women, and children, including eight Eskimos. If she could accomplish such a voyage without difficulty, and could attain so high a latitude, it was reasonable to anticipate that a properly equipped English expedition, under equally favourable circumstances, would do, not only as much, but much more, and carry the British flag into the waters of the circumpolar sea, if such existed. With this view, the Admiralty fitted out the Alert and the Discovery, under Captains Nares and Stephenson. Every precaution that science could suggest was adopted to ensure the completeness of their equipment; and the two ships, accompanied as far as Disco by H.M.S. Valorous as a tender, left England on the 29th May 1875.

The British Expedition, consisting of the Alert and the Discovery, did not succeed in all it was intended to accomplish; and yet it can hardly be spoken of as a failure. It did not reach that conventional point of geographers, the North Pole, but it penetrated within four hundred miles of it; and it ascertained the exact nature of the obstacles which render access impossible, except under conditions not at present in existence. We agree with a thoughtful writer in the Spectator that this was a most important service rendered both to Science and the State. We now know that by the Smith Sound route a ship may attain to within 450 miles of the Pole; and that, afterwards, a journey about as long as from London to Edinburgh must be undertaken, in a rigorous climate, with the thermometer 50° below zero, over ice packed up into hillocks and hummocks which render sledge-travelling almost impracticable, or practicable only by hewing out a path with the pickaxe at the rate of a mile and a half a day. And further: the work would have to be begun and completed in four months, or, from lack of light and warmth, it could not be done at all. These are serious difficulties, and whether it is worth while for men to encounter them, where the gain would be problematical, we need not here inquire. Before any attempt can be made, some provision must be discovered for protecting those who make it against the excessive cold, and for a surer and swifter mode of conveyance than the sledge affords. The journalist to whom we have referred speculates that science may furnish future expeditions with undreamt-of resources,—with portable light and heat, for instance, from the newly-discovered mines at Disco; preventives against scurvy; electric lights; supplies of dynamite for blowing up the ice; and a traction-engine to traverse the road thus constructed; but, in the meantime, these appliances are not at our command. We must be content with the measure of success achieved by Captain Nares and his gallant followers.

And these well deserve the gratitude of all who think the fame and honour of a nation are precious possessions. They have shown clearly that the “race” has not degenerated; that Englishmen can do and suffer now as they did and suffered in the old time. They displayed a courage and a fortitude of truly heroic proportions. And the experiences of Arctic voyaging are always of a nature to require the highest courage and the sternest fortitude. The long Arctic night is in itself as severe a test of true manhood as can well be devised. The miner works under conditions for less laborious than those to which the Arctic explorer submits, for he enjoys an alternation of light and darkness; his underground toil lasts but for a few hours at a time. Yet we know that it tries a man’s manly qualities sorely! What, then, must it be to keep brave and cheerful and true throughout a prolonged night of one hundred and forty-two days—that apparently endless darkness, almost the darkness of a sunless world?

We know, too, that continuous work, without relaxation, for month after month, will break down the nerves and shatter the intellect of the strongest. Yet we read that the men of the Alert toiled like slaves, on one occasion, for seventy-two days, in cold so extreme that the reader can form no conception of its severity, and with the dread constantly hanging over them of that terrible and most depressing disease, scurvy. Owing to their inability to procure any fresh game, as most former expeditions had done, each of the extended sledge-parties, when at their farthest distance from any help, was attacked by it. The return-journeys were, therefore, a prolonged homeward struggle of men who grew weaker at every step, the available force to draw the sledge continually decreasing, and the weight to be dragged as steadily increasing, as, one after another, the men stricken down had to be carried by their enfeebled comrades.

It has been well said that in such exploits as these there is a sustained heroism which we cannot fully appreciate, because we cannot fully realize the terrible character of the sacrifices involved. But it is comparatively easy for us to understand, and therefore to admire, the courage of Lieutenant Parr, when he started alone on a journey of thirty-five miles, with no other guide for his adventurous steps than the fresh track of a wandering wolf over the ice and snow, in order to carry help and comfort to his failing comrades. It is easy to understand, and therefore to admire, the devotion of Mr. Egerton and Lieutenant Rawson, when, at the imminent risk of their own lives, they nursed Petersen, the interpreter, while travelling from the Alert to the Discovery, with the temperature 40° below zero. Petersen, who had accompanied them with the dog-sledge, fell ill; and with a noble unselfishness they succeeded in retaining heat in the poor fellow’s body by alternately lying one at a time alongside of him, while the other by exercise was recovering his own vital warmth. We can also acknowledge and admire the constancy of Captain Nares, who, in that horrible climate, lived thirty-six days in the “crow’s-nest,” while his ship laboured among the grinding, shivering, crushing ice, until exhaustion overcame him. And we can acknowledge and admire the bravery and faithfulness of the men of the sledge-parties who, for days and weeks, drew the sledges and their comrades, with gloom above and around them, ice and snow everywhere bounding the prospect, and in a temperature which seemed to freeze the blood and benumb the heart.

What a tale, says a writer in the Times, what a tale of unrequited suffering it is! Surely not “unrequited;” for those who suffered, suffered at the call of duty, and have been rewarded by the approval of their countrymen, and by the consciousness of having done something great, of not having lived in vain. “How lightly do all talk of glory; how little do they know what it means! The little army had to cut its way through the ice-barriers, dragging heavily-laden sledges, and going to and fro, the whole force being often required for each sledge, content to make a mile and a quarter a day, in pursuit of an object still four hundred miles off, through increasing difficulties, and with barely five months, or one hundred and fifty days, wherein to go and return. The labour is a dreadful reality; the scheme itself a nightmare, the phantasy of a disordered brain. Even the smaller and subsidiary expedition for planting a depôt last autumn cost three amputations. The cold was beyond all former experience for intensity and length, and the physical effect of a long winter spent in the ships under such conditions is particularized as one reason why the men were less able to endure cold, labour, and the want of proper food. Every one of the expeditions, whatever the direction, came back in the saddest plight,—some dragging the rest, and in one case only reaching the ship through the heroism of an officer pushing on many miles alone to announce his returning comrades, and to procure the aid by which alone they were saved from destruction. These are episodes, but they are the matter which redeems the story and makes its truest value. They tell us what Englishmen will do on occasions beyond our feeble home apprehensions, when once they have accepted a call, and are in duty bound.”

At the time we write no elaborate record of the expedition has been published, and the materials of the following sketch are collected therefore from various narratives which have appeared in the daily journals. We shall begin by endeavouring to place before the reader, with the assistance of Mr. Clements R. Markham, a rapid summary of what the expedition accomplished. And then we shall describe its more interesting incidents.

The object of Captain Nares and his followers was to discover and explore as considerable a portion of the unknown area in the Polar Regions as was possible with reference to the means at their disposal, and to the positions the vessels succeeded in reaching as starting-points. The theories about open Polar basins and navigable waters which once obtained have long been discarded by practical Arctic geographers. A coast-line, however, is needful as a means of progress to “the threshold of work;” and it is needful, too, in order to secure the desired results of Arctic discovery in the various departments of scientific inquiry.

The expedition, then, in the first place, had to force its way through the ice-encumbered channel which connects Baffin Bay with the Polar Ocean; a channel which successively bears the names of Smith Sound, Kane Basin, Kennedy Channel, Hall Basin, and Robeson Strait. Smith Sound opens out of Baffin Bay between Capes Alexander and Isabella. The Alert and the Discovery passed these famous headlands and entered the Sound on July 29, 1875; and from that date until September 1, when the Alert crossed the Threshold of the Unknown Region, they fought one continuous battle with the ice. The Polaris, it is true, had made a rapid passage on the occasion of its memorable voyage; but the circumstances were exceptional. Generally the Sound is blocked up by heavy floes, with winding waters caused by the action of wind and tide. With great difficulty our two ships forced the barrier; but their success was due in no small measure to the skill and vigilance of Captain Nares, who allowed himself no rest until they were out of danger. At length, after many hairbreadth escapes, and many laborious nights and days, and much energy and devotion on the part of the officers, and equal courage and industry on the part of the men, the expedition reached the north shore of Lady Franklin Inlet, and found a safe, commodious harbour in lat. 81° 44’ N. Here the Discovery took up her winter quarters, as had previously been arranged; and the Alert, after a brief interval of repose, continued her northward progress.

This she was enabled to do through the opportune opening up of a water-lane between the shore and the ice. Bravely she dashed ahead, rounded Cape Union, so named by the men of the Polaris expedition, and entered the open Polar Ocean. Then, in lat. 82° 20’ N., the white ensign was hoisted on board a British man-of-war in a latitude further north than the ship of any nation had reached before. Soon afterwards the solid masses of the Polar pack-ice began to close around the adventurous vessel; and on the 3rd of September 1875, the Alert was fast fixed in her winter quarters, on the ice-bound shore of the inhospitable Polar Sea in lat. 82° 27’ N.

This, says Mr. Markham,[11] was the first grand success; and it assured the eventual completion of the work. For, owing to the admirable seamanship of Captain Nares, and to the zeal and devotion of the officers and crew, the Alert had been carried across the Threshold, and was within the Unknown Region. A point of departure was thus obtained, which rendered certain the achievement of complete success; inasmuch as in whatever direction the sledge-parties travelled, valuable discoveries could not fail to be the result.

The autumnal excursions, during which depôts of provisions were established for use in the work of the coming spring, were not performed without a very considerable amount of suffering. Lieutenant May and two seamen were so severely frost-bitten, that, to save their lives, amputation was found necessary.

As will be seen from the latitude given, the ships wintered further north than any ships had ever previously wintered. The cold exceeded anything previously registered, and darkness extended over a dreary period. The winter, however, was not spent idly: observatories were erected, and a mass of valuable scientific data industriously accumulated.

“But the crowning glories of this ever-memorable campaign were,” as Mr. Markham exclaims, “achieved during the spring.” Three main sledge-expeditions were organized: one, under Commander Markham and Lieutenant Parr, instructed to keep due north, as far as possible, into the newly-discovered Polar Ocean; another, under Lieutenant Aldrich, to explore the American coast, westward; and the third, under Lieutenant Beaumont of the Discovery, to survey the north coast of Greenland, facing eastward. Each party consisted of two sledges; and the six, with their gallant crews, set out on the 3rd of April 1876, determined to vindicate and maintain the reputation of British seamen. They separated at Cape Joseph Henry; and before they again met, this was what they achieved:—

Commander Markham and Lieutenant Parr pushed northward as far as lat. 83° 20’ 26″ N.; being the most northerly point which any explorers have attained. They may therefore be fairly and justly regarded as “the Champions” of Arctic Discovery, until some successors, more fortunate than they, shall surpass their glorious feat.

Lieutenant Aldrich struck westward; rounded Cape Colombia in lat. 83° 7’ N.; and explored 220 miles of the American coast-line, previously not laid down on any map.

Lieutenant Beaumont crossed Robeson Strait, and surveyed the northern coast of Greenland for about seventy miles.

“In order,” it is said, “that these three main parties might do their work successfully, every soul in the two ships was actively employed. The depôt and relieving parties did most arduous work, and the officers vied with each other in promoting the objects of the expedition, while the most perfect harmony and unanimity prevailed. Captain Feilden and Mr. Hart were especially active in making natural history collections; and Lieutenants Giffard, Archer, Rawson, Egerton, and Conybeare did admirable work in exploring and keeping open communications.” When the sledge-parties returned to the ships, Captain Nares found that they had suffered terribly; but he also found that their success had been complete. They had solved a geographical problem; no open sea surrounded the Pole, as so many sanguine spirits had anticipated. The way northward was over a waste of ice—of ice broken up into hummocks and ponderous masses. And with the appliances they possessed further progress was impossible; the expedition had reached its ne plus ultra.

The work was done, and Captain Nares perceived that nothing more could be gained, while valuable lives might be lost by remaining longer in the Polar Ocean. He decided upon returning to England, with the following rich results to show as the reward of an heroic enterprise:—

First, the expedition had discovered a great Polar Ocean, a knowledge of which cannot fail to prove of exceeding value to the hydrographer. Next, the shores of this ocean had been explored along fifty degrees of longitude, and important collections formed of specimens of the Arctic fauna, flora, and geology. The channel connecting the Polar Ocean with Smith Sound had also been carefully surveyed, and an accurate delineation effected of either shore. Geological discoveries of high value had also been made; as, for example, that of the former existence of an evergreen forest in lat. 82° 44’ N.,—a fact significant of vast climatic changes. And, lastly, interesting observations in meteorology, magnetism, tidal and electric phenomena, and spectrum analysis had been carefully recorded. The expedition of 1875–76 must, therefore, in view of these results, be classed among the most successful which ever adventured into Arctic waters; though it failed, like its predecessors, to gain the North Pole.

The Alert and the Discovery left the shores of England in May 1875. After a voyage of five weeks’ duration they arrived at Lievely, the port of Disco Island, on the west coast of Greenland. This small settlement numbers about ninety-six inhabitants, Danes and Eskimos,—generally speaking, a mixed race. The Danish Inspector of North Greenland resides here, and he received the expedition with a salute from three brass cannon planted in front of his house. There is a well-conducted school, attended by about sixteen children; and a small church, where the schoolmaster reads the Lutheran service on Sundays,—the priest coming over from Upernavik occasionally, to perform marriages, christenings, and other religious services.

The Alert having taken on board thirty Eskimo dogs and a driver, the expedition left Disco at one o’clock on July 16th, and next morning reached Kiltenbunto, about thirty miles further north.

Kiltenbunto is a little island in the Strait of Weigattet, between Disco and the mainland. Here the Discovery took on board thirty dogs; and shooting-parties from both ships made a descent on a “loomery,” or “bird-bazaar,” frequented by guillemots, kittiwakes, and other ocean-birds. Two or three days later the expedition arrived at a settlement named Proven, where it was joined by the Eskimo dog-driver, Hans Christian, the attendant of Kane, Hayes, and Hall, in their several expeditions. At Proven the adventurers received and answered their last letters from “home.”

Striking northward through Baffin Bay, they reached Cape York on the 25th of July, and met with a company of the misnamed Arctic Highlanders, who traversed the ice-floes in their dog-sledges, and soon fraternized with the seamen. A narwhal having been harpooned, a quantity of the skin and blubber was given to these Eskimos. Mr. Hodson, the chaplain of the Discovery, describes them as exceedingly greedy and barbarous, eating whatever fell in their way, but living chiefly upon seals. They were not so far advanced in civilization as to be able to construct kayacks, and apparently they had never before seen Europeans. They wore trousers of bear-skin, and an upper garment of seal-skin.

Proceeding northward by Dr. Kane’s Crimson Cliffs, they soon reached that brave explorer’s celebrated winter quarters, Port Foulke, and took advantage of a day’s delay to visit the Brother John Glacier. They found Dr. Kane’s journal, but no relics; shot a reindeer, and a large number of birds.

Between Melville Bay and the entrance to Smith Sound no ice was met with; but on the 30th of July the “pack” was sighted, off Cape Sabine, in lat. 78° 41´ N. Here, at Port Payer, the ships were fast held by the ice for several days. An attempt to proceed further northward was made to the west of the islands in Hayes Sound; but the water-way not leading in the right direction, the ships returned. On the 6th of August they made a fresh start, and thenceforward maintained an uninterrupted struggle with the ice. The Alert led the way, with Captain Nares in her “crow’s-nest,” anxiously looking out for practicable channels. At Cape Frazer the huge solid mass again delayed them. Then they succeeded in crossing Kennedy Channel to the east side, and taking shelter in Petermann Fiord—so named after the great German geographer. After a few days they again pushed northward; and on the 25th of August, after many narrow escapes from being crushed in the ice, a well-sheltered harbour received them, on the west side of Hall Basin, north of Lady Franklin Sound, in lat. 81° 44´ N. This was at once selected as the winter quarters of the Discovery. Her sister-ship, continuing her course, rounded the north-east point of Grant Land; but instead of falling in with a continuous coast-line, stretching one hundred miles further towards the north, as all had anticipated, found herself on the border of what was evidently a very extensive sea, with impenetrable ice on every side. As no harbour could be found, the ship was secured as far north as possible, inside a kind of embankment of grounded ice close to the land. There she passed the winter; and during the eleven months of her detention no navigable water-way, through which she could move further to the north, presented itself.

Far from meeting with the “great Polar Sea” dreamed of by Kane and Hayes, our adventurers discovered that the ice-barrier before them was unusually thick and solid. It looked as if composed of floating icebergs which had gradually been jammed and welded together. Henceforth it will be known on our maps as the Palæocrystic Sea, or Sea of Ancient Ice; and a stranded mass of ice disrupted from an ice-floe is to be termed a floeberg.

Ordinary ice does not exceed ten feet in thickness; but in the Polar Sea, generation after generation, layer has been superimposed on layer, until the whole mass measures from eighty feet to one hundred and twenty feet; it floats with its surface nowhere less than fifteen feet above the water-line. It was this wonderful thickness which prevented the Alert from driving ashore. Owing to its great depth of flotation, sixty feet to one hundred feet, the mass grounded on coming into shallow water, and formed a breakwater within which the ship was comparatively secure. “When two pieces of ordinary ice are driven one against the other, and the edges broken up, the crushed pieces are raised by the pressure into a high, long, wall-like hedge of ice. When two of the ancient floes of the Polar Sea meet, the intermediate lighter broken-up ice which may happen to be floating about between them alone suffers; it is pressed up between the two closing masses to a great height, producing a chaotic wilderness of angular blocks of all shapes and sizes, varying in height up to fifty feet above water, and frequently covering an area upwards of a mile in diameter.”

We must now return to the Discovery. As soon as she had taken up her winter quarters, her crew began to unload her, landing the boats, stores, and spare spars, and otherwise preparing for the winter. The first day ashore they shot a herd of eleven musk-oxen. A few days afterwards the sea was frozen all round the ship, so that they could freely move to and fro about the ice. A week later they saw a large number of musk-oxen, and shot about forty—thus laying in a considerable supply of provisions.

Their winter port, which was surrounded by snow-clad hills, about two thousand feet high, they christened Discovery Harbour.

As soon as the sea was completely frozen over, the sledging-parties were organized and duly despatched; but as the autumn was rapidly passing, very little could be done in this direction. The usual preparations on the part of Arctic explorers were then made for “hybernating.” Houses were built; also a magnetic observatory and a theatre of ice—recalling the glittering edifice constructed by Catherine II. of Russia on the Neva, and celebrated by Cowper in the well-known lines,—