genious remarks on the
subject of the formation of ice in high latitudes; but it is impossible
to do justice to them within the compass of a note, and perhaps most
readers are of opinion that the text is abundantly copious on this part
of the voyage.--E.]

If this imperfect account of the formation of these extraordinary
floating islands of ice, which is written wholly from my own
observations, does not convey some useful hints to an abler pen, it
will, however, convey some idea of the lands where they are formed:
Lands doomed by Nature to perpetual frigidness; never to feel the warmth
of the sun's rays; whose horrible and savage aspect I have not words to
describe. Such are the lands we have discovered; what then may we expect
those to be which lie still farther to the south? For we may reasonably
suppose that we have seen the best, as lying most to the north. If any
one should have resolution and perseverance to clear up this point by
proceeding farther than I have done, I shall not envy him the honour of
the discovery; but I will be bold to say, that the world will not be
benefited by it.

I had, at this time, some thoughts of revisiting the place where the
French discovery is said to lie. But then I considered that, if they had
really made this discovery, the end would be as fully answered as if I
had done it myself. We know it can only be an island; and if we may
judge from the degree of cold we found in that latitude, it cannot be a
fertile one. Besides, this would have kept me two months longer at sea,
and in a tempestuous latitude, which we were not in a condition to
struggle with. Our sails and rigging were so much worn, that something
was giving way every hour; and we had nothing left either to repair or
to replace them. Our provisions were in a state of decay, and
consequently afforded little nourishment, and we had been a long time
without refreshments. My people, indeed, were yet healthy, and would
have cheerfully gone wherever I had thought proper to lead them; but I

William Babington Maxwell (18661938) was a British novelist. He was a son of novelist Mary Elizabeth Braddon. Though nearly 50 years old at the outbreak of the First World War, he was accepted as a lieutenant in the Royal Fusiliers and served in France until 1917.

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