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My unfortunate guest regards me with the tenderest compassion. He

endeavours to fill me with hope and talks as if life were a

possession which he valued. He reminds me how often the same

accidents have happened to other navigators who have attempted

this sea, and in spite of myself, he fills me with cheerful

auguries. Even the sailors feel the power of his eloquence; when

he speaks, they no longer despair; he rouses their energies, and

while they hear his voice they believe these vast mountains of

ice are mole-hills which will vanish before the resolutions of

man. These feelings are transitory; each day of expectation

delayed fills them with fear, and I almost dread a mutiny caused

by this despair.

September 5th.

A scene has just passed of such uncommon interest that, although

it is highly probable that these papers may never reach you, yet

I cannot forbear recording it.