winter its waters would be frozen—­and in navigating it, the ships would, under their experienced and judicious commander, pursue their unknown way with extreme caution and prudence.  It is more probable that they were at length fast frozen up in some inlet, or that small floating fields of ice have conglomerated around them, and bound them in icy fetters to the mainland.  Or it may be that Franklin sailed slowly along this mystic polar sea, until he reached its extremity and could get no farther; and that extremity would actually seem to be towards the Siberian coasts.  One thing is quite certain—­namely, that so far as Captain Penny’s people were able to penetrate the channel—­several hundred miles—­there was no indication whatever that up to that point Franklin had met with any serious calamity, or that he had suffered from a fatal deficiency of the necessaries of life.

Wherever his exact position may be, there is every reason to suppose that the country around him produces a supply of food at least equal to any other part of the arctic regions; and probably much more than equal, owing to the greater mildness of the climate.  But we will only base our opinion on the fair average supply of food obtainable in the arctic regions generally; and now let us see what result we shall fairly arrive at.

The first consideration that strikes us, is the fact that all over these icy regions isolated tribes of natives are to be met with; and they do not exist in a starved and almost famished condition, like the miserable dwellers in Terra del Fuego, but in absolute abundance—­such as it is.  When Sir John Ross’s ship was frozen up during the remarkably severe winter of 1829-30, in latitude 69 degrees 58 minutes, and longitude 90 degrees, he made the following remarks concerning a tribe of Esquimaux in his vicinity, which we quote as being peculiarly applicable to our view of the subject:—­’It was for philosophers to interest themselves in speculating on a horde so small and so secluded, occupying so apparently hopeless a country—­so barren, so wild, and so repulsive, and yet enjoying the most perfect vigour, the most well-fed health, and all else that here constitutes not merely wealth, but the opulence of luxury, since they were as amply furnished with provisions as with every other thing that could be here necessary to their wants.’

‘Yes,’ exclaims our friend the reasoner, ’but the constitution of an Esquimaux is peculiarly adapted to the climate and food:  what he enjoys would poison a European; and he also possesses skill to capture wild animals and fish, which the civilised man cannot exercise.’  Is this true?  We answer to the first objection:  only partially true; and the second, we utterly deny.  The constitution of vigorous men—­and all Franklin’s crew were fine, picked young fellows—­has a marvellous adaptability.  It is incredible how soon a man becomes reconciled to, and healthful under, a totally different diet from that to which he has