The squalls which strike us are perfectly terrific, and the calms which follow them are suggestive of gathering strength for another stroke. Fortunately the blows are of short duration, else our already damaged canvas, which is reduced to the smallest possible dimensions, would fly into ribbons. [Sidenote: SEEKING SHELTER.] The coast which gives us this spasmodic protection is bleak enough. The cliffs are about twelve hundred feet high, and their tops and the hills behind them are covered with the recent snows. The wind blows a cloud of drift over the lofty wall, and, after whirling it about in the air, in a manner which, under other circumstances, would no doubt be pretty enough, drops it upon us in great showers. The winter is setting in early. At this time of the season in 1853-54 these same hills were free from snow, and so remained until two weeks later. 10 o'clock, P. M. [Sidenote: A WILD SCENE.] We have gained nothing upon the land, and are almost where we were at noon. The gale continues as before, and hits us now and then as hard as ever. The view from the deck is magnificent beyond description. The imagination cannot conceive of a scene more wild. A dark cloud hangs to the northward, bringing the white slopes of Cape Alexander into bold relief. Over the cliffs roll great sheets of drifting snow, and streams of it pour down every ravine and gorge. Whirlwinds shoot it up from the hill-tops, and spin it through the air. The streams which pour through the ravines resemble the spray of mammoth waterfalls, and here and there through the fickle cloud the dark rocks protrude and disappear and protrude again. A glacier which descends through a valley to the bay below is covered with a broad cloak of revolving whiteness. The sun is setting in a black and ominous horizon. But the wildest scene is upon the sea. Off the cape it is one mass of foam. The water, carried along by the wind, flies through the air and breaches over the lofty icebergs. It is a most wonderful exhibition. I have tried in vain to illustrate it with my pencil. My pen is equally powerless. It is impossible for me to convey to this page a picture of that vast volume of foam which flutters over the sea, and, rising and falling with each pulsation of the inconstant wind, stands out against the dark sky, or of the clouds which fly overhead, rushing, wild and fearful, across the heavens, on the howling storm. Earth and sea are charged with bellowing sounds. Upon the air are borne shrieks and wailings, loud and dismal as those of the infernal blast which, down in the second circle of the damned, appalled the Italian bard; and the clouds of snow and vapor are tossed upon the angry gusts,--now up, now down,--as spirits, condemned of Minos, wheel their unhappy flight in endless squadrons, "Swept by the dreadful hurricane along."