the surface for a breath. Every living thing seems bright and gay, stimulated by the brilliant conditions of the weather, which seems to throw crispness and life into the very ice itself, and makes the saddest think that there is joy in living.
Then the scene changes, as the sun, skirting the horizon, paints the white ice world with colour, with tints that are absolutely beyond conception if you have not seen them, and that no Ruskin can describe. These beautiful scenes so—soft and so delicate—produce impressions that can never be obliterated; different altogether from the effect produced by the brilliant scene described above. Soothing—not stimulating! Making one think of the world as kind and gentle, recalling the past, picturing the future. Making one think what a lonely unit one is in this world; making one compassionate and sympathetic to one's fellow men.
The cold grey scene depresses the spirit. The air is motionless, the sea of oily glassiness, and a dull whitish grey mantle of fog or mist hides everything from view, except the ship's deck and a few pieces of white ice near by, resting in dull grey water, fading away indefinitely in the mist. It is a time of inaction: there is no object to go in one direction or another: nothing can be seen ahead. Some-
