r. An observation the day before yesterday
gave 80 deg. 15' north latitude, the most northerly we have had yet.

"Sunday, April 15th. So we are in the middle of April! What a ring of
joy in that word, a well-spring of happiness! Visions of spring rise
up in the soul at its very mention--a time when doors and windows are
thrown wide open to the spring air and sun, and the dust of winter
is blown away; a time when one can no longer sit still, but must
perforce go out-of-doors to inhale the perfume of wood and field
and fresh-dug earth, and behold the fjord, free from ice, sparkling
in the sunlight. What an inexhaustible fund of the awakening joys of
nature does that word April contain! But here--here that is not to be
found. True, the sun shines long and bright, but its beams fall not on
forest or mountain or meadow, but only on the dazzling whiteness of the
fresh-fallen snow. Scarcely does it entice one out from one's winter
retreat. This is not the time of revolutions here. If they come at all,
they will come much later. The days roll on uniformly and monotonously;
here I sit, and feel no touch of the restless longings of the spring,
and shut myself up in the snail-shell of my studies. Day after day
I dive down into the world of the microscope, forgetful of time and
surroundings. Now and then, indeed, I may make a little excursion
from darkness to light--the daylight beams around me, and my soul
opens a tiny loophole for light and courage to enter in--and then
down, down into the darkness, and to work once more. Before turning
in for the night I must go on deck. A little while ago the daylight
would by this time have vanished, a few solitary stars would have
been faintly twinkling, while the pale moon shone over the ice. But
now even this has come to an end. The sun no longer sinks beneath
the icy horizon; it is continual day. I gaze into the far distance,
far over the barren plain of snow, a boundless, silent, and lifeless
mass of ice in imperceptible motion. No sound can be heard save the
faint murmur of the air through the rigging, or perhaps far away the
low rumble of packing ice. In the midst of this empty waste of white
there is but one little dark spot, and that is the Fram.

"But beneath this crust, hundreds of fathoms down, there teems a
world of checkered life in all its changing forms, a world of the
same composition as ours, with the same instincts, the same sorrows,
and also, no doubt, the same joys; every