cliffs encompassed the Bay of Mercy.  When therefore any one came on deck, the first thing he felt on groping his way about was the cold noses of the dogs pushed against his hands, as they frisked and gambolled round him.  They howled at the appearance of an accidental light, as if they hoped the sun, or at least the moon, were going to rise once more, and they rejoiced on being taken below, and leaped up in the men’s faces for sympathy, and whined, and all but spoke with excess of satisfaction.

The effect of the monotony of long-continued darkness and the absence of novelty had much to do also with the indifferent health of many of the men.  After the two expeditions were sent out, those who remained behind became much more low spirited, and the symptoms of scurvy increased.  In these circumstances Captain Guy taxed his inventive genius to the utmost to keep up their spirits and engage their minds.  He assumed an air of bustling activity, and attached a degree of importance to the regular performance of the light duties of the ship that they did not in reality possess apart from their influence as discipline.  The cabin was swept and aired, the stove cleaned, the fittings dusted, the beds made, the tides, thermometers, and barometers registered; the logs posted up, clothes mended, food cooked, traps visited, etc., with the regularity of clockwork, and every possible plan adopted to occupy every waking hour, and to prevent the men from brooding over their position.  When the labours of the day were over, plans were proposed for getting up a concert, or a new play, in order to surprise the absentees on their return.  Stories were told over and over again, and enjoyed if good, or valued far beyond their worth if bad.  When old stories failed, and old books were read, new stories were invented; and here the genius of some was drawn out, while the varied information of others became of great importance.  Tom Singleton, in particular, entertained the men with songs and lively tunes on the flute, and told stories, as one of them remarked, “like a book.”  Joseph West, too, was an invaluable comrade in this respect.  He had been a studious boy at school, and a lover of books of all kinds, especially books of travel and adventure.  His memory was good, and his inventive powers excellent, so that he recalled wonderful and endless anecdotes from the unfathomable stores of his memory, strung them together into a sort of story, and told them in a soft, pleasant voice that captivated the ears of his audience; but poor West was in delicate health, and could not speak so long as his messmates would have wished.  The rough life they led, and the frequent exposure to intense cold, had considerably weakened a frame which had never been robust, and an occasional cough, when he told a long story, sometimes warned him to desist.  Games, too, were got up.  “Hide and seek” was revived with all the enthusiasm of boyhood, and “fox-chase” was got up with tremendous energy.  In all this