The winter, though long and dark, has no terrors for the jolly Hammerfesters, for all the traders and shopkeepers form a united aristocracy, and rarely a night passes without a feast, a dance, and a drinking-bout. The day when the sun re-appears is one of general rejoicing; the first who sees the great luminary proclaims it with a loud voice, and every body rushes into the street to exchange congratulations with his neighbors. The island of Hvalö has a most dreary, sterile aspect, and considerable masses of snow fill the ravines even in summer. The birch, however, is still found growing 620 feet above the sea, but the fir has disappeared. It may well be supposed that no stranger has ever sojourned in this interesting place, the farthest outpost of civilization towards the Pole, without visiting, or at least attempting to visit, the far-famed North Cape, situated about sixty miles from Hammerfest, on the island of Magerö, where a few Norwegians live in earthen huts, and still manage to rear a few heads of cattle. The voyage to this magnificent headland, which fronts the sea with a steep rock-wall nearly a thousand feet high, is frequently difficult and precarious, nor can it be scaled without considerable fatigue; but the view from the summit amply rewards the trouble, and it is no small satisfaction to stand on the brink of the most northern promontory of Europe. “It is impossible,” says Mr. W. Hurton, “adequately to describe the emotion experienced by me as I stepped up to the dizzy verge. I only know that I devoutly returned thanks to the Almighty for thus permitting me to realize one darling dream of my boyhood. Despite the wind, which here blew violently and bitterly cold, I sat down, and wrapping my cloak around me, long contemplated the spectacle of Nature in one of her sublimest aspects. I was truly alone. Not a living object was in sight; beneath my feet was the boundless expanse of ocean, with a sail or two on its bosom at an immense distance; above me was the canopy of heaven, flecked with fleecy cloudlets; the sun was luridly gleaming over a broad belt of blood-red mist; the only sounds were the whistling of the wandering winds and the occasional plaintive scream of the hovering sea-fowl. The only living creature which came near me was a bee, which hummed merrily by. What did the busy insect seek there? Not a blade of grass grew, and the only vegetable matter on this point was a cluster of withered moss at the very edge of the awful precipice, and this I gathered, at considerable risk, as a memorial of the visit.” [Illustration: 70. MIDNIGHT SUN OFF SPITZBERGEN.] CHAPTER X. SPITZBERGEN--BEAR ISLAND--JAN MEYEN.