For five days and a half, it seemed quite useless and hopeless to alter the ship’s course so as to stand out of the way of this ice.  I made what southing I could; but, all that time, we were beset by it.  Mrs. Atherfield after standing by me on deck once, looking for some time in an awed manner at the great bergs that surrounded us, said in a whisper, “O!  Captain Ravender, it looks as if the whole solid earth had changed into ice, and broken up!” I said to her, laughing, “I don’t wonder that it does, to your inexperienced eyes, my dear.”  But I had never seen a twentieth part of the quantity, and, in reality, I was pretty much of her opinion.

However, at two p.m. on the afternoon of the sixth day, that is to say, when we were sixty-six days out, John Steadiman who had gone aloft, sang out from the top, that the sea was clear ahead.  Before four p.m. a strong breeze springing up right astern, we were in open water at sunset.  The breeze then freshening into half a gale of wind, and the Golden Mary being a very fast sailer, we went before the wind merrily, all night.

I had thought it impossible that it could be darker than it had been, until the sun, moon, and stars should fall out of the Heavens, and Time should be destroyed; but, it had been next to light, in comparison with what it was now.  The darkness was so profound, that looking into it was painful and oppressive—­like looking, without a ray of light, into a dense black bandage put as close before the eyes as it could be, without touching them.  I doubled the look-out, and John and I stood in the bow side-by-side, never leaving it all night.  Yet I should no more have known that he was near me when he was silent, without putting out my arm and touching him, than I should if he had turned in and been fast asleep below.  We were not so much looking out, all of us, as listening to the utmost, both with our eyes and ears.

Next day, I found that the mercury in the barometer, which had risen steadily since we cleared the ice, remained steady.  I had had very good observations, with now and then the interruption of a day or so, since our departure.  I got the sun at noon, and found that we were in Lat. 58 degrees S., Long. 60 degrees W., off New South Shetland; in the neighbourhood of Cape Horn.  We were sixty-seven days out, that day.  The ship’s reckoning was accurately worked and made up.  The ship did her duty admirably, all on board were well, and all hands were as smart, efficient, and contented, as it was possible to be.

When the night came on again as dark as before, it was the eighth night I had been on deck.  Nor had I taken more than a very little sleep in the day-time, my station being always near the helm, and often at it, while we were among the ice.  Few but those who have tried it can imagine the difficulty and pain of only keeping the eyes open—­physically open—­under such circumstances, in such darkness.  They get struck by the darkness, and