On June 26, 1854, Morton reached the bold headland of Cape Constitution, where the surf dashed so furiously against the high, overhanging cliffs, that further progress was impossible. Climbing from rock to rock, in the hope of finding a pass, he stood at last at a height of three hundred feet and looked out upon a great waste of waters, stretching as far as the eye could reach into the unknown north. About him the flocks of sea-swallows, kittiwakes, and brent-geese blended their discordant notes with the thunderous roll of the sea. From Cape Constitution the coast of Washington Land trended to the east, but far to the northwest, beyond the open waters of the channel, a peak terminating a range of mountains was seen towering at a height of from twenty-five hundred to three thousand feet, and this remote landmark received the name of Mount Parry. On the 25th of June, Morton commenced his return and reached the brig on the 10th of July, “staggering by the side of the limping dogs, one of which was riding as a passenger upon the sledge.” Meanwhile, the brief summer was rapidly waning; there seemed no promise of the ice breaking up, and the alarming prospect of passing a second winter in the ice forced itself upon the gallant commander and his brave and suffering crew. “We have no coal for a second winter here,” he writes; “our stock of fresh provisions is utterly exhausted; and our sick need change, as essential to their recovery.” An unsuccessful attempt was made to reach Sir Edward Belcher’s squadron at Beechey Island. “The season travels on,” writes Dr. Kane on August 15; “the young ice grows thicker, and my messmates’ faces grow longer every day. I have again to play buffoon to keep up the spirits of the party. A raven! The snowbirds begin to fly to the south in groups; coming at night to our brig to hover on the rigging. Winter is hurrying upon us. The poppies are quite wilted.” Two days later we find the entry:— “In five days the spring tides come back: should we fail in passing with them, I think our fortunes are fixed. The young ice bore a man this morning: it had a bad look, this man-supporting August ice! The temperature never falls below 28°; but it is cold o’ nights with no fire.” “August 18, Friday,” he writes, “reduced our allowance of wood to six pounds a meal. This, among eighteen mouths, is one-third of a pound of fuel each. It allows us coffee twice a day, and soup once. Our fare besides this is cold pork boiled in quantity and eaten as required. This sort of thing works badly; but I must save coal for other emergencies. I see ‘darkness ahead’!