rather a jolly party,--the veriest Mark Tapleys of travelers. We are leading a novel sort of life, and I can imagine that the time will come when I shall turn over the pages of this diary and be amused at the strangeness of the contrast of these events with the humdrum routine of ordinary existence. I have no doubt that I shall then wonder if this is not all set down in a dream, so singular will it appear; and yet so quickly do the human body and the human mind accommodate themselves to the changing circumstances of life that, in every thing we do, the events seem at the time always natural, and cause us no astonishment; still, when we review the past, we are continually amazed that we have undergone so many transformations, and can scarcely recognize ourselves in our chamelion dresses. If it should ever again be my luck to eat canvas-back at Delmonico's I shall no doubt very heartily despise the dried beef and potato hash which now constitute, with bread and coffee, my only fare; and yet no canvas-back was ever enjoyed as much as this same hash; and no coffee distilled through French percolator was ever so fine as the pint pot which is passed along to me, smoking hot, in the morning; and the best treasures of Périgord forest were never relished more than are the few little chips of ship's biscuit which the coffee washes down. In fact, our pleasures are but relative. They are never absolute; and happiness is quite probably, as Paley has wisely hinted, but a certain state of that "nervous net-work lining the whole region of the præcordia;" and, therefore, since this cold pencil only gives me pain in the fingers, while nothing disturbs the harmony of the præcordia, I do not know but that I am about as well off as I ever was in my life. True, I have not the means which I expected to have for the execution of my designs, and I am beset with difficulties and embarrassments; but if happiness lies in that quarter, pleasure lies in the future, for we willingly forget the present in the anticipations,--in the delights to come from the contests and struggles ahead; and it is well that this is so; for that which we spend most time in getting is often not worth the having. The Preacher tells us that "All is vanity;" and what says the Poet?-- "----pleasures are like poppies spread; You seize the flower--its bloom is shed; Or like the snow-fall in the river-- A moment white, then melts forever; Or like the borealis race, That flits ere you can point the place." [Illustration] CHAPTER XXVII. THE STORM CONTINUES.--AT WORK.--AMONG THE HUMMOCKS.--DIFFICULTIES OF THE TRACK.--THE SNOW-DRIFTS.--SLOW PROGRESS.--THE SMITH SOUND ICE.--FORMATION OF THE HUMMOCKS.--THE OLD ICE-FIELDS GROWTH OF ICE-FIELDS.--THICKNESS OF ICE.--THE PROSPECT.