In this icy wilderness there is an overpowering sense of solitude, which adds greatly to the weird effect of moonlight on the floebergs, fantastically-shaped and vague. There is complete silence, but it is broken every now and then by sudden unearthly yells and shrieks from the still moving pack, harsh and loud as a steam siren, but unlike anything else in art or nature. As we return to the ship our attention is caught by a brilliant star, so close to the rough and indistinct horizon that it looks as if some one was carrying a lantern on the floes. As we watch it, it moves, at first but a little, but afterwards in long curves like the sweep of a goshawk. It took us some time to find out that the motion was an optical delusion, most distinct when no other stars were near. The cheery sound of the first dinner gong has brought every one in off the ice; and as we enter the ship, we find a group of our messmates brushing each other down with a housemaid’s brush, for one must be careful not to carry any snow into the warmth below. A lantern lights the way into a snow-hall built over the hatchway. We open the inner door, a rush of cold air precedes us down the ladder, and we descend in a cloud of vapour like an Olympian deity. For a moment the changed atmosphere and a suspicion of tobacco smoke makes us cough, and the glare of lanterns and lamps dazzles. There must be no delay in taking off our sealskins; they are already moist with condensation, and a cold steam streams from them to the floor. Little lumps of ice on the eyelashes and brows soon melt, but a solid mass cementing beard and moustache together resists even warm water for a time. Hair about the mouth is a nuisance in the Arctic regions, and everyone keeps close cropped. Our vice-president’s two sharp taps on the table announce grace; he will wait for no one when the soup is cooling, and quite right too. Our dinner is the same as the men’s: a piece of salt meat left from yesterday _rechauffé_, preserved meat—there is a discussion whether the pie is mutton or beef—preserved potatoes, and preserved onions; we shall have carrots to-morrow. Lime juice replaces beer, for the latter has become a rare luxury, reserved for birthdays and other state occasions. Presently some one throws a good conversational fly; if it is very successful, a brisk controversy follows. The subject is immaterial, all are more or less exhausted, and none is proscribed except theology. It is wonderful how many subjects became theological before the end of the winter. We have laid in a small stock of wine, which allows us to have two glasses of sherry or Madeira with dinner. When that is disposed of, conversation flags, and the table is soon cleared. As soon as the cloth, which looks as if it had been used before, is removed, our white cat springs upon the table, and seats herself in the centre with all the assurance of a spoiled pet. It is not a little strange that both she and “Ginger,” her sister, forward