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water enough to quench our intolerable thirst. This allowed us an opportunity to rest and eat a light lunch, while we studied the strange scene before us.

The day of our climb was unusually beautiful. Not a cloud obscured the sky. In the lower world it must have been an exceedingly warm summer day. In the rarer atmosphere with which we were surrounded the sun's rays poured down with dazzling splendor and scorching intensity. We wore deeply colored glasses to protect our eyes, but our faces, although tanned and weather-beaten by nearly two months' constant exposure, were blistered by the heat. Those of my readers who have not climbed high mountains will be surprised, perhaps, when I say that while our faces were actually blistering beneath the intensity of the sun's heat, our shoes immersed in the light snow were frozen stiff. At noon the temperature in the shade was 160 Fahr. The snow was light and dry, and showed no indications of softening, even at the surface. The white cliffs about us glittered like hoarfrost in the intense light.

Having finished our lunch, we passed on up the steep ridge leading from the divide to the summit of Mount St. Elias. We slowly cut our way up the slope, having a sheer descent of from 5000 to 6000 feet below us all the time. The breaking away of a foothold, or the loss of an alpenstock, might at any time have precipitated us down those fearful cliffs, where not even the crevasses would have stopped us before reaching the bottom of the amphitheater in which our tent was placed, fully a mile in vertical descent below. We were now above the region of avalanches, but an occasional roar came faintly through the rarified air, telling that large bodies of snow had broken away somewhere on the slopes below. With these exceptions the only sounds that broke the stillness were from the blows of our ice-ax and the beating of our own hearts. There is no stillness more profound than the silence of the mountains. As we slowly climbed up above the divide we could see more of the country to the northeast of Mount Newton, but in other directions the great panorama remained the same, or became less distinct. A change in the atmosphere, which obscured distant objects while it slightly lessened the painful intensity of the sunlight on the cliffs about us, told that an atmospheric disturbance was in progress, and that a storm was gathering. We pressed on, although the work of cutting steps at the altitude we had reached was exceedingly laborious, and gained a second outcrop of rock. At four o'clock we had attained an elevation of somewhat more than 14,500 feet, as determined by measurements made with two aneroid barometers. The great snow-slope continued to tower VOL. XLIV.-27.

far above us, and we saw with deep regret that we had not the strength to reach the summit and return to our camp, already 6500 feet below us. Concluding that the only practicable plan would be for us to advance our camp on to the divide between Mount St. Elias and Mount Newton, and from there to attempt to reach the summit, we reluctantly turned back. The descent began at five o'clock, and we experienced but little difficulty in regaining the divide, but had to be exceedingly careful in crossing the snow-bridge on the ice-slope below. In three places the steps cut during the ascent had been swept away by avalanches. At one locality where the trail went down the face of a steep bluff for about a hundred feet, and then ran diagonally along beneath an overhanging precipice of snow, we found that the cliff had broken away, carrying with it the steps cut on our way up. Below where the cliff had been, the avalanche caused by its fall had cut across a loop in our own trail in two places, but had filled a crevasse that had been troublesome to cross on our way up, and thus proved of some assistance. On reaching the top of the cliff where our steps had been we were at a loss to tell what had become of them, until we noticed the trail of the avalanche below. Had the shadows of evening been a little more dense, our return to camp would have been delayed until the next morning. As it was, however, McCarty scrambled down the slope with a rope fastened about his waist, and cut new steps. As we neared the bottom of the valley the light faded, and we had to find our way as best we could, since it was impossible to see the trail. The slopes were less steep than above, however, and we gained the level floor of the amphitheater without mishap. We reached our tent at ten o'clock, just twenty hours after leaving it. Allowing one hour for the cooking of our breakfast and another for preparing supper, but two hours out of twenty-four remained unaccounted for. The deficiency in the number of hours for sleep was compensated, however, by the fact that it was approaching noon the next day before we awoke.

A heavy cloud gathered about the summit of Mount St. Elias on the afternoon of July 25, and on the following day a snow-storm was in full force and continued until the evening of the next day. At one o'clock in the morning of July 27, I looked out of our tent and found a dense fog filling the valley; but at three o'clock the air was clear, and the absence of cloud banners on the high peaks assured us that the day would be fine. We immediately began preparations for climbing to the divide between Mount Newton and Mount St. Elias. Our plan was to make a cache of rations on the divide, and to advance our camp during the next

favorable day. Owing to the delay at the start, we did not reach the foot of the ice-cliffs leading to the divide until the sun was shining full upon them. We began the ascent, but soon the snow, softened by the sun, began to fall in avalanches, which warned us that it was dangerous to proceed. A great avalanche starting far above us on the side of Mount St. Elias cane rushing down the roof-like slope with the speed of an express-train. From the foot of the descending mass, tongue-like protrusions of snow shot out in advance, while all above was one vast rolling cloud of snow-spray. Blue crevasses which seemed wide enough to engulf the talling snow were crossed without making the slightest change in its course. On reachmg the upper lip of such a gulf the base of the moving mass would shoot out into the air, and scemingly not curve downward at all until it struck the slope below and rushed on with accelerated speed. The rushing, roaring mass was irresistible. Heavy clouds of spray rolling onward, or blown back by the wind that the avalanche generated, became so dense that all beneath was concealed from view. Only a roar hke thunder, and the trembling of the glacier on which we stood, told that many tons of ice and snow were involved in the catastrophe. The rushing monster, starting a mile above, me directly toward us until it poured down upon the border of the slope we were ascendg, then, changing its course, it thundered on until it reached the floor of the amphitheater ta below. The cloud of spray rolled on down the valley, and hung in the air long after the of the avalanche had ceased. When it did duit away we saw the fan-shaped mass of broken snow, in which the avalanche ended, looking like the delta of a stream, extending out half a mile into the valley.

With avalanches threatening us from the precipices on either hand, and from the slope which we wished to ascend, it seemed foolhandy to persist in the attempt to reach the hide that day; so we left our packs in as sheltered a spot as we could find and beat a teit. The next morning another snow-storm wept over the mountains, and the weather Continued stormy for several days.

While Stamy, McCarty, and I were living in the snow, we had a single tent of light cotto cloth, seven feet square at the bottom and five feet high. Our bedding consisted of two sheets of light canvas, used for protecting blankets, one double woolen blanket, and light feather-quilt. Our cooking was done a small coal-oil stove, and our food consted almost entirely of corn griddle-cakes, hason or corned beef, and coffee. To live unthese conditions at an altitude of 8000 luring snow-storms and dense fogs, and

especially when the snow was melting so as to wet our blankets through and through, was very trying. Fearing that if we held on too long we should not have the strength and steadiness of nerve requisite to reach the summit, should the weather permit, I decided, although with great reluctance, to abandon the undertaking and return to Icy Bay. Whether we could advance or not depended on the direction of the wind; should it blow from the north across the broad ice-fields we had seen from the divide, it would bring clear, cold weather, the clouds would vanish from the mountains, and the avalanches be silenced; should it come from the south, it would be warm and moist, the clouds would thicken, and snow-storms and avalanches would render mountain-climbing impossible. The north side of St. Elias is not too steep to climb and offers no insurmountable obstacles, but the climate is very changeable, and clouds and snow-storms are the rule. Reaching the summit depends more upon the chance of getting clear weather at the proper time than on skill in Alpine work.

We began the descent on August 1. The trail leading back had been snowed over and could scarcely be traced; but the fog had lifted, although heavy storm-clouds still enveloped the higher peaks, and we were able to descend without much difficulty. We slowly worked our way through the great crevasses in the fall just below our highest camp, and thence over a comparatively even surface to White Cliff, which we descended with some little difficulty, the steps previously cut having melted away so as to be almost useless. The next day we rejoined the remainder of the party and reached "Sled Camp" on the Agassiz glacier. During our journey down the mountain until reaching the Samovar Hills rain fell almost continuously. At the Samovar Hills we reoccupied our old camp-ground. The flowers were still in bloom, and the air had that delightful fragrance one notices when first venturing into the woods in early spring. The change from the region of eternal snow and ice to an oasis of verdure and of flowers was welcome indeed. From the Samovar Hills we crossed the broad, gently sloping snow-field extending southwest, and made our next camp on a small island in the glacier separated from the northeast end of the Chaix Hills by about two miles of rugged ice. This bright little garden of flowers and ferns we named Moore's Nunatak, in memory of our comrade who was drowned at Icy Bay.

With McCarty and Warner for companions, I again entered the snow-covered region to the north, and made a side trip to the hills intermediate between Mount St. Elias and the Chaix Hills. During this trip, which lasted three days, we had one perfect day of uninterrupted sun

shine, the beauty of which was enhanced to us by heavy clouds along the mountain-sides, thus furnishing the contrast necessary to bring out the full magnificence of the frozen heights that towered above us. The lakes to the north of the Chaix Hills were still heavily encumbered with ice, and on the hills bare of snow the earliest of spring-flowers were just awakening. It was springtime to us also, after having been in the wintry mountains for several weeks. We enjoyed the warmth of the glad sunshine, the fresh odors that filled the air, and the delicate tints on the flower-covered slopes around us, far more than we did the stern magnificence of the snow-covered precipices of the great mountains. The storms that had recently passed had left the mountains covered with a fresh mantle of brilliant white down to a level of 4000 feet above the sea. The new snow had not yet been torn from the precipices by avalanches, but was clinging to many of the steepest slopes. In the full splendor of a blazing sun the great ranges seemed mountains of light.

Returning to Moore's Nunatak we passed a night, and then rejoined the rest of our party below at our old camp on the south side of the Chaix Hills. A day or two later we crossed the extreme western end of the Malaspina glacier, just at its junction with another vast plateau of ice stretching westward. Where these two ice-fields join there is a depression which marks the subglacial course of the Yahtse River. We encamped near the spot where this strange river emerges in a roaring, rushing torrent of intensely muddy water, and divides into hundreds of branches as it rushes toward the sea. Another short march took us into the dead forest bordering the river on the east, and partially buried by its sediments, and the following day we occupied the site of our first camp at Icy Bay. After reaching Icy Bay we measured a base-line about three miles long on the beach, and from its extremities obtained the angles necessary to determine the height of Mount St. Elias and neighboring peaks. These measurements were repeated many times in order to obtain an accuracy as great as was possible with the method employed. The height

of Mount St. Elias, thus obtained, is 18,100 feet, plus or minus a probable error of less than 100 feet. From this elevation and certain observations made at Port Mulgrave by the United States Coast Survey in 1874, the position of Mount St. Elias is computed to be approximately, lat. 60° 17′ 51′′, long. 140° 55' 30". This result is of considerable interest in connection with the position of the eastern boundary of Alaska.

In the convention between Great Britain and Russia, wherein the boundaries of Alaska are agreed upon, it is stated that the eastern boundary shall begin at the south at Portland Channel, and from there follow the summit of the mountains situated parallel to the coast as far as the intersection of the 141st degree of west longitude. From that point north, the said degree of longitude shall form the boundary to the frozen ocean. Wherever the mountains parallel to the coast to the east of the 141st meridian are "more than ten marine leagues from the ocean, the limit between the British possessions and the line of coast which is to belong to Russia, as above mentioned, shall be formed by a line parallel to the windings of the coast, and which shall never exceed the distance of ten marine leagues therefrom." The distance of Mount St. Elias from the nearest point on the coast is 33 statute miles. As 10 marine leagues are equal to 341⁄2 statute miles, the mountainpeak is a mile and a half south of the boundary, and therefore in United States territory. It is also 4' 30" longitude, or 21⁄2 miles east of the 141st meridian. The mountain is thus practically at the intersection of the boundary of southeastern Alaska with the 141st meridian, and is one of the corner monuments of our national boundary.

Our return from Mount St. Elias was no less interesting than the journey up the mountain, but space has not permitted me to linger over its details. Nor can I give at this time a sketch of our long tramp along the margin of the Malaspina glacier from Icy Bay to Yakutat Bay, or of the exploration of Disenchantment Bay, which was fully as novel and instructive as our life above the snow-line.

Israel C. Russel.

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Of the gallant days of yore

When the brig of seven guns

Fought the fleet of seven score,

From the set of sun till morn, through the long September night-
Ninety men against two thousand, and the ninety won the fight-
In the harbor of Fayal the Azore.

Three lofty British ships came a-sailing to Fayal:

One was a line-of-battle ship, and two were frigates tall;

Nelson's valiant men of war, brave as Britons ever are,

Manned the guns they served so well at Aboukir and Trafalgar.

Lord Dundonald and his fleet at Jamaica far away

Waited eager for their coming, fretted sore at their delay.

There was work for men of mettle ere the shameful peace was made,
And the sword was overbalanced in the sordid scales of trade;
There were rebel knaves to swing, there were prisoners to bring
Home in fetters to old England for the glory of the king!

At the setting of the sun and the ebbing of the tide
Came the great ships one by one, with their portals opened wide,
And their cannon frowning down on the castle and the town
And the privateer that lay close inside;

Came the eighteen-gun Carnation and the Rota, forty-four,
And the triple-decked Plantagenet an admiral's pennon bore;
And the privateer grew smaller as their topmasts towered taller,
And she bent her springs and anchored by the castle on the shore.

Spake the noble Portuguese to the stranger: "Have no fear;
They are neutral waters these, and your ship is sacred here
As if fifty stout armadas stood to shelter you from harm,
For the honor of the Briton will defend you from his arm."
But the privateersmen said: "Well we know the Englishmen,
And their faith is written red in the Dartmoor slaughter-pen.
Come what fortune God may send, we will fight them to the end,
And the mercy of the sharks may spare us then."

"Seize the pirate where she lies!" cried the English admiral:
"If the Portuguese protect her, all the worse for Portugal!"

And four launches at his bidding leaped impatient for the fray,
Speeding shoreward where the Armstrong grim and dark and ready lay.
Twice she hailed and gave them warning; but the feeble menace scorning,
On they came in splendid silence, till a cable's-length away-
Then the Yankee pivot spoke; Pico's thousand echoes woke,
And four baffled, beaten launches drifted helpless on the bay.

Then the wrath of Lloyd arose till the lion roared again,

And he called out all his launches and he called five hundred men;

And he gave the word, "No quarter!" and he sent them forth to smite.
Heaven help the foe before him when the Briton comes in might!
Heaven helped the little Armstrong in her hour of bitter need;
God Almighty nerved the heart and guided well the arm of Reid.

Launches to port and starboard, launches forward and aft,
Fourteen launches together striking the little craft.

They hacked at the boarding-nettings, they swarmed above the rail;
But the Long Tom roared from his pivot and the grape-shot fell like hail :
Pike and pistol and cutlas, and hearts that knew not fear,

Bulwarks of brawn and mettle, guarded the privateer.

And ever where fight was fiercest the form of Reid was seen;

Ever where foes drew nearest, his quick sword fell between.
Once in the deadly strife

The boarders' leader pressed
Forward of all the rest,
Challenging life for life;

But ere their blades had crossed,
A dying sailor tossed

His pistol to Reid, and cried,

"Now riddle the lubber's hide!"

But the privateersman laughed and flung the weapon aside,

And he drove his blade to the hilt, and the foeman gasped and died.
Then the boarders took to their launches laden with hurt and dead,
But little with glory burdened, and out of the battle fled.

Now the tide was at flood again, and the night was almost done,
When the sloop-of-war came up with her odds of two to one,
And she opened fire; but the Armstrong answered her gun for gun,
And the gay Carnation wilted in half an hour of sun.

Then the Armstrong, looking seaward, saw the mighty seventy-four,
With her triple tier of cannon, drawing slowly to the shore.
And the dauntless captain said: "Take our wounded and our dead,
Bear them tenderly to land, for the Armstrong's days are o'er;
But no foe shall tread her deck and no flag above it wave-
To the ship that saved our honor we will give a shipman's grave."
So they did as he commanded, and they bore their mates to land,

With the figurehead of Armstrong and the good sword in his hand.

Then they turned the Long Tom downward, and they pierced her oaken side, And they cheered her, and they blessed her, and they sunk her in the tide.

Tell the story to your sons,

When the haughty stranger boasts

Of his mighty ships and guns

And the muster of his hosts,

How the word of God was witnessed in the gallant days of yore

When the twenty fled from one ere the rising of the sun,

In the harbor of Fayal the Azore!

James Jeffrey Roche.

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