"Then you would be inclined to think there is something unnatural, in short, mysterious, in my being here,--tastes, fancies, inclinations, and all?" "I confess it would so strike me, if I took the liberty to speculate upon it." "Very far from the truth, I do assure you. I am not obliged to be here any more than you are. I came from pure choice, and am at liberty to return when I please. In truth, I do go home with the ship to Copenhagen, once in three or four years, and spend a winter there, living the while in a den much like what you here see; but I am always glad enough to get back again. The salary which I receive from the government does not support me as I live, so you see _that_ is not a motive. But I am perfectly independent, have capital health, lots of adventure, hardship enough (for you must know that, if I do sleep under a sky-blue canopy, I am esteemed one of the most hardy men in all Greenland) to satisfy the most insatiate appetite and perverse disposition." "Sufficient reason, I should say, for a year or so, but hardly one would think, for a lifetime." "Why not?" "Because the novelty of adventure wears off in a little time. Good health never gives us satisfaction, for we do not give it thought until we lose it, so that can never be an impelling motive; and as for independence, what is that, when one can never be freed from himself? In short, I should say one so circumstanced as you are would die of ennui; that his mind, constantly thrown back upon itself, must, sooner or later, result in a weariness even worse than death itself. However, I am only curious, not critical." "But you forget these shelves. Those books are my friends; of them I never grow weary, they never grow weary of me; we understand each other perfectly,--they talk to me when I would listen, they sing to me when I would be charmed, they play for me when I would be amused. Ah! my dear sir, this country is great as all countries are great, each in its way; and this is a great country to read books in. Upon my word, I wonder everybody don't fill ships with books and come up here, burn the ships, as did the great Spaniard, and each spend the remainder of his days in devouring his ship-load of books." "A pretty picture of the country, truly; but let me ask how often do books reach you?" "Once a year,--when the Danish ship comes out to bring us bread, sugar, coffee, coal, and such-like things, and to take home the few little trifles, such as furs, oil, and fish, which the natives have picked up in the interval." "Books to the contrary, I should say the ship would not return more than once without me, were I in your situation." "So you would think me a sensible fellow, no doubt, if I would pick up this box and carry it off to Paris, or may be to New York?" "That's exactly what I was thinking; or rather it would certainly have appeared to me more reasonable if you had built it there in the first instance."