A WILD SCENE. 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."
In striking contrast to the cold and confusion above is the warmth and quiet here below. I write in the officers' cabin. The stove is red-hot, the tea-kettle sings a homelike song. Jensen is reading. McCormick, thoroughly worn out with work and anxiety, sleeps soundly, and Knorr and Radcliffe keep him company. Dodge has the deck; and here comes the cook staggering along with his pot of coffee. I will fortify myself with a cup of it, and send Dodge below for a little comfort.
The cook had no easy task in reaching the cabin over the slippery decks.
