May 2d.
STORM-STAYED.
Storm-stayed in the camp of yesterday, and miserable enough. We came back in the morning for another load, and, when ready to return, it was blowing and drifting so hard from the north that we could not face it, and so were forced to seek shelter. The rest is much needed by the dogs, and this is my only satisfaction. Our camp fixtures were all left in the camp of last night, and we have nothing to lie upon but the snow, which is only a shade softer than ice. Out of one of our provision tins we made a kettle, and of another a lamp, and so got some supper. Jensen is still partially snow-blind, and his sufferings have not diminished. This snow-blindness is simply an inflammation of the entire eye-ball, originating in the retina in consequence of the intense light produced by the glare of the sun reflected from the universal whiteness.
May 3d.
The storm detained us in our miserable den for twelve hours. The rest did the dogs good, and we have made the cheeriest day's work yet. But, as every rose has its thorn, so every day must have its drawback. Jensen, stumbling along with his bad eyes, got his leg into a crack and gave it a severe wrench. He tells me that the leg was broken two years ago; and the fracture having been oblique, and the parts allowed to overlap each other while healing, the union has been imperfect.
May 4th.
A FINE DAY'S RUN.
A fine day's run. We had some smooth ice, and got on briskly. Jensen's snow-blindness has disappeared, and our route having led us over old floes, his leg has not hurt him much and has improved. He is now digging a pit for our night shelter, and sings a Danish song as cheerily as the grave-digger in Hamlet. Knorr and McDonald are chopping up the cakes of desiccated beef for the dogs; and the wolfish brutes fill the air with the most hideous cries. The spectral pack of the wild Hartz huntsman never split the ear of belated traveler with more awful sounds than those which come from the throats of my wild beasts at this present moment. The wretches would eat us up if we gave them the least chance. Knorr stumbled among the pack yesterday, while feeding them, and, had not McDonald pounced upon them on the instant, I believe they would have made a meal of him before he could rise.
THE "DELECTABLE MOUNTAINS."
The hour is exactly midnight, and, for the first time since starting, I write in the open air. The temperature is only one degree below zero, and a more beautiful sunshine never was beheld. This vast sea of whiteness, this great wilderness of glittering peaks, possesses a stern, quiet sublimity that is wonderfully imposing. The mountains before us, unlike those of the Greenland coast, stand up in multiplied lines of heaven-piercing cones, looking like giant stacks of cannon-balls, sprinkled with snow. The midnight sun streams over them from the north, and softens their outlines through tinted vapors which float from the eastward. Oh! that I was across the barrier that separates me from that land of my desires! Those mountains are my "delectable mountains,"—the fleecy clouds which rest upon them are the flocks of the "city" of my ambitious hopes—the mystic sea which I am seeking through these days of weariness and toil.