more importance than you will think; it really made me feel that the
stuff in the books and the sermons about the mariners' needle was not
quite poetry.

As you shall see, if I ever get through. (Since I began, I have seen the
Consul,--and heard the glorious news from home,--and am to be presented
to the port authorities to-morrow.) It was the most open summer, Mary,
ever known there. If I had not had to be here in October, I would have
driven right through Lancaster Sound, by Baring's Island, and come out
into the Pacific. But here was the honor of the country, and we merely
stole back through the Straits. It was well enough there,--all daylight,
you know. But after we passed Cape Farewell, we worked her into such
fogs, child, as you never saw out of Hyde Park. Did not I long for that
compass-card! We sailed, and we sailed, and we sailed. For thirty-seven
days I did not get an observation, nor speak a ship! October! It was
October before we were warm. At noon we used to sail where we thought it
was lightest. At night I used to keep two men up for a lookout, lash the
wheel, and let her drift like a Dutchman. One way as good as another.
Mary, when I saw the sun at last, enough to get any kind of observation,
we were wellnigh three hundred miles northeast of Iceland! Talk of fogs
to me!

Well, I set her south again, but how long can you know if you are
sailing south, in those places where the northeast winds and Scotch
mists come from! Thank Heaven, we got south, or we should have frozen to
death. We got into November, and we got into December. We were as far
south as 37° 29'; and were in 31° 17' west on New Year's Day, 1866, when
the second officer wished me a happy new year, congratulated me on the
fine weather, said we should get a good observation, and asked me for
the new nautical almanac! You know they are only calculated for five