Chapter I

VOYAGE OF THE GERMANIA AND HANSA FROM THE 15TH
JUNE TO THE 4TH JULY, 1869.

First evening at sea.--Life on board.--The first
storm.--Cabin life.--In 57° N.L.--Dutch fishing-boat.--Visits
exchanged.--Fresh storm and fog.--Entrance to the North Sea.--A
clear night.--Animal life.

The departure of the expedition from Bremerhaven took place on the 15th of June, 1869, in the presence of his Majesty the King of Prussia, whose warm interest in this great national undertaking showed itself in this solemn hour in a manner never to be forgotten. Amongst the numerous gentlemen in attendance on his Majesty were his Royal Highness the Grand Duke of Mecklenburg Schwerin, Count Bismarck, the Minister of War and Marine, von Roon, General von Moltke, and Vice-Admiral Jachman. The ships lay at the entrance of the new harbour just outside the sluice. The king having been introduced to the scientific gentlemen and the commander of the expedition, and having greeted them with a hearty shake of the hand, the President of the Bremen Committee, Herr A. G. Mosle, requested his Majesty’s permission to speak a few parting words; and in an earnest and impressive manner the speaker referred to the greatness and importance of the object, the self-denial, difficulties, and dangers which lay before them, but which they all willingly braved for the honour of their native land, for the honour of the German navy and of German science. That the Second German Arctic Expedition should put to sea under the eyes of his Majesty, would, he was sure, be looked upon by all present as a happy omen; and all might with good reason join in cheering the august Monarch of their country, whose mighty representative and protector he was, as well as those on board the two vessels, who were about to sail under the national flag lent by his Majesty, to unknown lands in search of knowledge. Cheers from a thousand voices then rent the air, after which the king once more shook hands with those belonging to the expedition, at the same time expressing hearty good wishes for their safe return. The king then passed on to the Germania at the head of his suite, and inspected the now finished preparations with great attention. But the decisive moment had arrived; cannon roared; three more cheers rose from either side, and the Germania towed by the steam-tug Simson, and the Hansa by the Vulcan, made for the mouth of the Weser, the king watching the ships to the very mouth of the harbour. It was an exciting time, as we glided over the quiet liquid mirror alongside of the quay--the banks decked with the fresh green of spring-time and enlivened by a gaily-dressed crowd, and the flags flying from the ships, large and small,--and took our last view of the houses and towers of the town.

With heads uncovered and handkerchiefs waving, our friends sent their last farewell. But with these feelings of pleasure were mixed thoughts regarding the future. Would it be permitted to us some day to return home? How many of us might be missing, sick, or infirm? How should we find our country? Would it still be, as now, enjoying the blessings of peace, and its grey-headed king still be living?

But we were not yet quite parted from it. Besides the pilot, two staunch friends, who would not be deprived of the pleasure of accompanying us to sea, were still on board. One was the director of the North German Marine Observatory, Mr. von Freeden, and the other the director of the Observatory of Göttingen, Professor Klinkerfues, who wished to take his last farewell of his pupils on the sea.

The town was now fast disappearing from our eyes; the flat green banks on either side, with their solitary houses and church towers, were receding; and the lighthouse, visible for a long distance, was looming nearer and nearer.

In the meantime the crew had not been idle on deck. Everything that had come on board in the hurry of the last hour had either been put in its proper place or made fast, and everywhere the last touch put. But in the cabin, where a magnificent bouquet had been placed by some loving hand, accompanied by a few appropriate poetical words of farewell, a most pleasing surprise to us, we sat with our friends over a good glass of wine, once more renewing every kind wish and hope for the future. One was hurriedly scribbling a last good-bye to relations and friends, another entrusting his money to those who were about to return (for in such an expedition it would have been comparatively useless), a third had only a greeting and a commission to send. Once more the glasses clinked over wishes for success and a happy return; and then we went on deck, for the increased motion of the ship reminded us that we were nearing the sea. Indeed, we had already left the lighthouse and fire-ship far behind us, and passed the last sea-mark, the “Schlüsseltonne.” The tug stopped, the hawser was cast off, a boat came off from the pilot-cutter close by, and the pilot left us. Immediately afterwards a boat came alongside, and we were obliged to take leave of our friends. A hearty shake of the hand said more than words could. A last nod, and they too set off, not to reach the harbour until a late hour. By this time the Hansa had reached us and dismissed her tug. At first starting, she had had the misfortune to break her towing cable, from which circumstance, had we been superstitious, we should have drawn a bad augury. But this weakness, so much indulged in by seamen of all nations, was wanting in our community.

We were now fairly left to ourselves, and with a cheerful song the sailors set one sail after another; and thus, with a light south-westerly breeze, which had just sprung up, under full sail for the north we left our native land, to meet an uncertain future. The prevailing frame of mind was serious; every man of us knew what depended individually upon himself, and what was expected of us; that the whole world of letters was watching the undertaking; but still we had full confidence in the cause, and were fully determined to return to our native shore only with honour.

The ships sailed pretty well together, though the light breeze gave the Hansa a little advantage, the mainsail of the Germania not being large enough for such a wind. Under these circumstances, we had no difficulty in keeping company.

Below, there was still enough to do to get things in order. Our chests were already unpacked, and the cabin, whither most of our effects had been brought, somewhat cleared, that we might at least have room for ourselves. At eight o’clock the two captains met once more to have a necessary consultation as to the course they should now take. We then, for the first time, took our tea and supper all together at a modestly-laid table, took one more walk on the deck of the ship, now gaily sailing northward, sent one more long earnest look, many a wish, back to our now no longer visible country, and then, tired and worn out with the noise and excitement of the day, sought an early rest in our berths.

The wind remained in the same quarter during the night, so that about midnight we passed the beacon off Heligoland.

The daily ship’s life, that is, the occupation of the community on the Germania while at sea, was, of course, like that on any other ship: and the gentlemen in the cabin did their best to divide their time as follows:--“We are” (writes one of them) “awakened at half-past six, dress, and take our turns in the small washing-room, finish our toilet, and go on deck to enjoy the fresh morning air, and look after the weather, which at sea is a much more important object than on land. In the cabin, meanwhile, where cleaning has been begun quite early, the table is laid, and punctually at seven o’clock we sit down to breakfast, to which, besides bread and butter, is added cold meat of some kind or other, to which we were unaccustomed. The captain takes his meals with us, so that, as one officer is obliged to be on deck, we are seven. After breakfast, we generally stay a short time on deck, either sitting on the bulwarks or walking up and down, whistling a tune or smoking a morning cigar. Before dinner, we generally have some work to do in the cabin, though at first, in the dry weather, nothing much comes of it. At twelve, the work-table is changed into the dining-table, and with hungry stomachs we sit down to steaming soup. After dinner, we take a nap in the cabin, or (which is more agreeable) in fine weather on deck, where a sail or one of our airing counterpanes serves as a couch. Then another cigar; and about four o’clock we have coffee, which we frequently take in the open air. In the afternoon each goes to his own work or amusement; and, punctually at seven, the evening meal is on the table, tea with bread and butter and cold meat. The evening finds us at different occupations, either above or below; some playing chess or cards, smoking, and trying, in mutual reminiscences of home and talk of future plans, to divert our thoughts, which, under the scouted name of home-sickness, will creep in now and then, particularly when we are out on a moonlight night. Between ten and twelve o’clock, we climb into our berths, and enjoy (except on stormy nights) a sound and healthy sleep. Over the smoking in the cabin there soon arose a lively debate. We found that amongst us, a thing very common in Germany, three were inveterate smokers; that three were decidedly the contrary, and that the seventh was neutral. On account of the smallness of the cabin, this was a decided difficulty. At last we came to an agreement, that there should be perfect liberty to smoke in the cabin from twelve until an hour before the evening meal; for the rest of the day it was forbidden. Should this interdict prove too burdensome for any one, he must have recourse to the deck; and he who at any time would not miss this enjoyment, could at least fall back upon a ‘deck cigar.’”

In the first part of the time the want of longer walks was much felt, particularly in a rough sea, when it was impossible even to walk up and down. For this reason we often helped to furl the sails, or take the helm for an hour. Dr. Pansch even took part in the watches for a certain time, partly for amusement and the interest he took in sea life, which he had learnt in his native seaport town, and partly to become acquainted with the ship and the character of the men, which, in case of accidents, might be of great advantage. On the second day of our voyage the sea began to make itself seriously felt. The wind had veered to the north-west, and rose to a miniature storm, so it was no wonder that the greater part of us had to sacrifice to Neptune. The beginning of seasickness (writes one) was decidedly partly brought on by the fact that everything on board was _new_; the smell of paint and varnish was mixed with the vapour of woollen coverings; and this atmosphere found no vent, the door as well as the skylight being kept closely shut on account of the sea. And, as is often the case on board a new vessel, the seams were not perfectly caulked, so that water was constantly dropping into the cabin, and even into the berths on the sleepers. Besides that which ran down the stairs and was brought in with the clothes, a great deal collected under the matting, so that we lived in a very moist and vapoury atmosphere. If such inconveniences were not quite agreeable to experienced seamen, upon us, some of whom had come from the interior, and had never even smelt sea-water, they made a very disagreeable impression. Then the narrow space in which we were cramped, the very greasy food, and the impossibility of finding any work to occupy us, all acted greatly on both mind and stomach. But we got accustomed to it in time; and the day comes when a man is able to look at such disagreeables in a brighter light. Droll accidents, however, sometimes came to enliven the dulness of our situation. We scientific men found ourselves badly enough off in our berths. Like bedsteads, they were provided with a board that the occupants should not be thrown out. But as we had packed the greater part of our books, clothes, and small instruments under the mattresses, that means of protection answered no longer; and those lying on the leeward side were obliged every evening to prop it up with heaps of books. Even then, it often happened, if the ship rolled heavily, that one of us would be pitched from the upper berth into the middle of the cabin near the stove, and there lie in a state of astonishment.

The stay on deck, too, was not always very agreeable, for boxes and packages of all kinds lessened the already narrow space to a painful degree. In a high rolling sea the ship was nearly always on her leeside, and more often took water on both sides, so that it was really only aft that we could keep our feet dry, or indeed move at all.

The stormy weather of the 17th and 18th of June brought on a heavy sea, so that, in order not to get too far from each other the Hansa was obliged to keep more to leeward, but towards evening neared us again. The first look and the first words upon coming on deck naturally related to the Hansa, and so the oft-repeated question came to be a by-word, “Where is the Hansa?” “To leeward!”

On the 19th, it was calm with fine weather, and a slight sea-roll to windward from the north. We took this opportunity of trying our machinery, and endeavoured to tow the Hansa. We succeeded beyond our expectations. With a steam pressure of only forty pounds we were able to bring the Hansa along at the rate of two and a half knots against the breeze, which seemed quite enough for our purpose. In the afternoon a light breeze from the north-east got up; the boiler was therefore dispensed with, the cable hauled in, and sail set, which gave us about eighty-eight nautical miles for the day’s run.[3] Then followed more than a week of almost uninterrupted violent north-west wind, which for many days kept us in 57° N.L.

This long stand-still was very unsatisfactory, and tried our patience sorely. With every fresh morning did we hope for a change in the wind. The scientific men were particularly impatient, as the constant rolling of the ship prevented them from doing anything but read and read again.

The zoologists were the only persons fortunate enough to find work in their department, although on board the Germania it seemed to result in nothing more than angling either on the surface or in deep water. Dr. Buchholz on the Hansa was busy with his task, helped by Dr. Laube, the geologist, with all his might, as well as by the whole of the sailors. As often as the weather permitted nets were thrown out, then drawn in from time to time, and emptied of their contents. The only good gained by this involuntary delay (so writes Dr. Pansch on board the Germania) was that we thoroughly learnt all the qualities of our vessel. The captain was delighted to find that she not only tacked well and easily, but that she worked well off the wind.

The Hansa in this respect was far behind us, and we were often obliged to stand before the wind, that she might come up with us.

The sailors on both ships soon showed their good qualities, and between them and the learned part of the ship’s company there was very soon a good understanding.

The 26th of June formed a salutary pause in this stormy week; the wind, which had been fitful since the afternoon before, died quite away in the night, and the ship on the following morning was gently rolling with the now diminished breeze. This morning, in 57° N.L. and 2° 43′ E.L., we came up with a small vessel, which our sailors had already recognized as a fishing-smack. On approaching nearer this was confirmed by the fish hung up to dry in the rigging; and immediately a lively longing awoke within us to have some cheap and fresh-caught members of the “scaly tribe” for our table. With this aim in view, one of our company hailed the northmen with a loud cry of, “Ship ahoy! have you any fish on board?” “Yes.” “Fresh fish?” “Yes.” “Come on board!” The small vessel was at once full of life; a boat was lowered, and in a short time was alongside of us, and two young sailors, looking like Dutchmen, came up with a basket of the finest kinds of large turbot and soles. In the jargon which all seafaring frequenters of the North Sea soon learn, be their native language Low Dutch, Flemish, Danish, Norwegian, Swedish, or English, we managed to negotiate with them, and with bright faces the fishermen took back as the price a piece of salt meat and bacon, together with a flask of brandy. They then asked if we had a doctor on board, and begged of him to go with them, as their “captain was sick.” For such an adventure, and unexpected extension of his practice, Dr. Pansch did not want a second invitation. He paid a visit to the worthy old Dutchman, and with the help of a limited stock of Dutch once gained in Holland, he succeeded in holding a conversation in the national gibberish with the honest fisher-people, giving his best advice to the “captain,” who had been struck with a bar on the breast, and also to an old sailor ill with scurvy, promising to send something to do them good. As a fee he brought back with him a second basketful of fish, and thus we had the pleasure of knowing that the whole of the ship, or as the sailors expressed it “all hands,” both at noon and in the evening could participate in the dainty food. When the sailors mentioned the direction of our voyage, the Dutchmen took us for whale-fishers; but on really understanding the unusual task that had been allotted to our ship, instead of opening their mouths wide with, perhaps, unintelligible pity, their eyes brightened. “Oh, new discoveries in Greenland!” they exclaimed, and became at once quite at home with us. It seemed as if the proud remembrance of a time long past, when Dutch ships made millions every year by the northern fisheries, and Dutch seamen enriched geography by the grandest discoveries, was still alive in the minds of these people. They now looked upon the ship with heightened interest, put many intelligent questions with regard to our wintering, and took leave of us with such repeated and hearty good wishes that many of our seamen at home, who thought fit to look upon our voyage with indifference or derision, would have been thoroughly put to shame by these simple Dutch fishermen. And the captain did not forget, immediately upon running his craft into the harbour, to enter his meeting with the Germania in the _Shipping News_; this notice being the first news of the expedition seen in the papers.

_Captain of the Hansa_.]

These fishermen, with their old-fashioned craft, hang about the banks of the North Sea for weeks together. They fish with the line and the net, and catch turbot, soles, and cod more particularly. These are at once cleaned, cut into suitable pieces, salted in barrels, and then packed. When they have a good cargo they run into harbour, unload, and run out again. This practice they carry on as long as the weather will allow. For many years their captains and their steersmen have been familiar with the neighbourhood of the North Sea, and often, from hard-earned experience, know better than the most learned seaman how to take their bearings. Nautical instruments they do not use; they do not even understand them. According to the depth of the line and the nature of the matter brought up from the bottom by the lead, they know their whereabouts.

With a light breeze rising, we continued our course, and about noon our sister-ship joined us. Captain Hegemann and Dr. Laube came on board, while Mr. Sengstacke and Dr. Pansch went over to the Hansa to shake hands with their friends once more.

“It was interesting” (writes Dr. Pansch) “to see, from another ship, the Germania under sail, with her peculiar build, strong masts, and black body without any streaks. The peculiar pleasure one naturally feels at being stationed on the chief ship, and that a steamer, was to a certain degree corrected. What we Germania people had to bear from deprivations and want of room we fully realized, now that we saw the complete, and well-ordered space on the Hansa. In the handsome bright cabin (he continues) there were only five people. Dr. Buchholz showed me his nice cabin, which he enjoyed all to himself. In front of his bunk was room enough for chests and boxes, not piled one on another, but placed so that they could be got at; and besides that, a place for a writing-table, where he could work quietly and undisturbed. The deck-space was not encroached upon by all sorts of stores, and even now seemed to offer accommodation for working upon large animals, without being in the way of the sailors. There was room enough for a zoologist in cold and windy weather to put up his table there. We pictured to ourselves our united activity in the brightest colours; we agreed upon the plan of attack, and carrying out of our future work amongst the ice Fauna; we supplemented our literature by changing some books; in short, we lived entirely in the delightful contemplation of our great task. Fate had, however, ordered our future far otherwise. Besides this, every one on board both ships was overjoyed at last by a sunny day, and all tried their best to dry all their wet things. On board the Hansa this seemed particularly necessary, for lying in the sun on the quarter-deck were some thousands of cigars which in the storm had made too intimate an acquaintance with the sea-water. At noon each party returned to their own ship.”

Then followed a two-days’ gale, which blew stubbornly from the north-west. It flooded the deck and cabin once more with water; but these days were the last to bring us any sad remembrance of the German Ocean. Upon nearing 59° N.L., exactly a fortnight after our departure, the influence of the north wind came to an end, and it came on to blow from the south.

This last storm ended on the 28th of June, and the next day we went slowly forward. It was a clear, warm day, so that we opened and aired every place, and all dampness was once more got rid of. The deck, too, was perfectly dry; so it was cleared, and in some places caulked by the carpenter.

In the last days of June the freshening north wind brought us another hindrance, which was to follow us for many days. As long as the temperature stood at 50° F. a fog rose about noon, which in the evening grew so dense, that for fear of being separated from the Hansa each ship was obliged to blow the fog-horn alternately for sixteen hours, the broken tones of which sounded most melancholy through the troubled atmosphere.

Slowly but surely we cruised onwards, so that on the evening of the 1st of July we had the pleasure of finding ourselves in 61° N.L., and of passing the entrance between Norway and the Shetland Isles. With that, the German Ocean was left behind and the open sea reached, which already made itself felt by the peculiar “Atlantic swell.” We now found ourselves in that part of the Atlantic known to Germans as the “Nordmeer.”

For this first part of our voyage, which a ship with a fair wind would have made in about two days and a half, we had taken sixteen days. From the clear space before us we might now hope for greater progress, the more so, as the Norwegian coast here runs somewhat to the north-east, and we of course, even in a continuous north-west wind, could still make, on the starboard tack, some northward progress.

On account of this continuous northerly wind, and the easterly-setting Gulf Stream, we came so near the Norwegian coast, that one evening we thought we could see it from the top. It was not until we reached the latitude of Drontheim that we were able to return to our north-westerly course.

The darkness of the nights had in the meantime visibly diminished; and at midnight between the 1st and 2nd of July, when the sun left us at about a quarter past ten, lamplight on deck, even by the binnacle, was unnecessary. We could read the finest print comfortably. As a glance at the map will show, we were now in a neighbourhood frequented comparatively by few ships, except those going to the northern Norwegian harbours or visiting the Arctic region proper. Whilst in the North Sea, one or more sail might generally be seen on the horizon, or in the distance the smoke of a steamer. Now we found ourselves alone upon the broad surface, which to some offers only a picture of boundless void and lasting sameness, but in others excites a deep feeling of the might and sublimity of boundless Nature.

Animal life, too, now prevailed to a remarkable degree, which is in a great measure, at least as far as birds are concerned, connected with the neighbourhood of land. The ship was surrounded nearly the whole day by the three-toed sea-gull (_Larus tridactylus_, L.) in flocks of from twenty to fifty, with the swiftness and lightness of wing peculiar to this small gull, following the ship with manifold unwearying windings and turnings, spying for prey in the dead-water, and then darting like lightning upon some little crab tossed in the current; or sitting sociably some short distance from the ship’s side upon the smooth or even strongly-heaving water, sunning themselves, trimming their plumage, or fishing. They also liked to whirl round the mast, accompanying the truck in all its waving to and fro, and sometimes settling upon it. If we mounted into the top, the birds were not at all shy, but hovered about with fluttering wings, apparently standing still, and from time to time shooting nearer to the observer, who might almost fancy that he could clasp them easily in his hand, thus having a good opportunity of observing this really handsome bird at his leisure. The round head, with the knowing dark eyes, turns backwards and forwards upon the short neck, the wings move in graceful lines, the small black feet are drawn tight under the tail. The whole under part of the bird is a pure white, whilst the upper part is bluish grey. But what strikes the eye the most is that the tips of the slender wings and the fan-shaped tail are jet black. In rather lighter black, differing according to the age and time of year, are marks on the head and neck, one in particular looking like a collar. In spite of all this outward beauty (in which property they are far surpassed by the ivory gull) there remains an ugly peculiarity common to this species, namely, their ever harsh and grating cry. In fair or foul weather, in slow and in swift flight, the sharp “ih, ih, ha, ha,” is ever heard without intermission and in every possible cadence. These are the same gulls that in northern neighbourhoods flock together in thousands, make their nests in the rocks, and thus form the so-called “gull mountains” of which Fr. Boie, Faber, Brehm, and other travellers cannot relate enough. These creatures are, upon the whole, known to be very sociable and gentle, so their cry only expresses contentment and liveliness. Now and then, however, our attention would be aroused when those tones were quicker, more decided, and fell heavily on the ear. We naturally looked round for the cause, and saw three of them flying terror-stricken, followed by another bird with darker plumage, longer wings, and a quicker, stronger flight. It is the robber gull (_Lestris_); and now an odd spectacle is presented to our sight. One of our small gulls has just caught a little fish which, prompted by curiosity, had come to the surface, and flies hurriedly forward anxious to devour it. His plundering dark cousin, not far off, roving apparently purposeless above the waves, scarce has time to espy this, when he darts swiftly down, catches the flying gull, and sets upon it unmercifully, until bursting into this scream of terror, it opens its beak and lets the booty fall. The robber having now gained his end, quits the chase, and rushes after the falling fish which, with incredible agility, he catches half-way. In the next moment we see the bird again quietly circling above the waves as if nothing had happened, or sailing slowly in the distance, bent upon robbing other gulls of their hard-earned meal.

Besides the gulls, we saw in stormy weather a small bird known to all sailors as the stormy petrel (_Thalassidroma pelagica_, L.). It is almost entirely dark brown, and is chiefly seen in violent stormy weather, when it seems to run unwearily on the water, seldom rising higher. To old sailors it is an unlucky bird; they believe that its appearance denotes storm, putting, as is usually the case, the cause for the effect. The old idea, from which they are called “Mother Carey’s Chickens,” is at least poetical.

We chased the gulls but little; only once a calm sea rendered it possible to secure our booty, and this chance was very nearly the cause of a misfortune on board the Germania.

It was the 4th of July about noon. Several gulls had been circling over the after part of the ship, followed with longing eyes by the doctor, who was far too ready to make a nearer inspection of one of them with his knife. Dr. Copeland caught up a gun, and soon one bird lost its life, and fell into the water close to the ship’s side. The men hurried forward to hook it out. This, however, failed, and the ship glided quietly onwards. To let down the boat would have taken too much time, as during the storm it had been lashed with several ropes. A sailor passing by, without thinking and certainly most rashly, wishing to pick up the floating bird, before any one thought or could prevent it, jumped dressed as he was into the water, and swam with well practised and strong arms towards it. In the meantime, the vessel glided onwards, and (as we now noticed) with great speed. This must soon have been apparent to our sailor, whose chest would be cramped by the low temperature of the water (47½° F.), so that he must soon have realized his critical position. He reached the goal, and then in a weak voice called for the boat. Meanwhile, Mr. Tramnitz had called together the rest of the watch, turned the ship’s head to the wind, and thrown out the life-buoy. Quickly two men climbed into the boat. Loosening the ropes was not to be thought of; they fell under the heavy gashes of an ever-ready knife; it rattled down; another cut or two and it was free, and flying under the strong and long drawn strokes. Those were long and fearful moments as we stood silently and with bated breath following with our eyes the little craft, and for the first time realizing how great the distance was.

Would the attempt to save him prove successful? or would this act of youthful thoughtlessness be punished? No! we saw the boat reach its mark, we saw them rest on their oars, and one lean over; and now the drowning man is drawn in alive. Then the gull and the life-buoy had to be got in, and they pulled hurriedly back to the vessel. Like a drowned poodle the sinner soon stood once more amongst us, receiving as a reward a sound lecture from the captain, followed by a good draught of brandy. But the doctor took the _corpus delicti_ (the gull) in hand. On this occasion we unfortunately lost a basket containing some fine flower bulbs, which had been given us by some friendly hand with the hope that, if successful, they might cheer our long Arctic winter with their blossom, and had been placed in the boat as being a dry airy position.

In the North Sea we had already seen some spouting dolphins; now they often came up close to us. In the beginning of July, they came so near, that our zoologist had the great satisfaction of taking an exact drawing of the back. It was the species well known to all sailors, the “Nordkaper” or “Killer” (_Delphinus orca_, Fabr.), one of the largest kind in the whale family, being sometimes twenty-five feet long. It is distinguished, and for the same reason easily recognized at a great distance, by the small, long, and sharp upright back-fin, which has also earned for it the name of “sword fish.” These enormous creatures come to the surface to take breath, and mostly move in zig-zag windings along the top of the water, so they may be seen from three to half-a-dozen times, though only the upper part of their shining black bodies. First the snout is to be seen, and from the “blow-hole” is forced the breath and spray; then the fins and the hinder parts of the back make their appearance. The tail is only to be seen when the creature dives under, when it is sometimes straight out of the water. The name “Nordkaper” by which our sailors call it, was received long ago, when it frequented the North Cape in droves. The Americans call it “Killer,” and the Norwegians “Whale-catcher,” from a circumstance which for a long time was considered a fable, but is now confirmed by the least prejudiced whalers of the present day, namely, that they are the whale’s greatest enemies, following and attacking it in large droves.

Besides the “Nordkapers,” one day (the 10th of July), we observed another kind of dolphin, three or four of which played under our bows. They were quite brown, without any upright back-fin, having a thick head and steep forehead. It was a strange and fascinating sight to watch these boorish, uncouth cetacea of nearly fifteen feet long, playing in the water so peaceably and securely and yet so nimbly.

Unfortunately the disturbing hand of man, in the attempt to make use of the breech-loader, startled these peaceful creatures. Before we were prepared for it shots were heard, and the dolphins hurriedly withdrew from the further observation of the “lords of the creation.” For the sake of the zoologist and his science, it was to be wished that such a creature should be killed and examined. But the Germania was wanting both in the apparatus and means for taking it, as well as in accommodation for working.

We also saw, though only in the distance, the blowing of some rorquals.

Meanwhile a number of soundings had been taken on the Hansa, which gave the following result: 1st of July, in 60° 45′ North lat. and 2° 4′ 3″ East long., a depth of 65 fathoms, with stony ground, Norwegian granite; 7th of July, in 68° 18′ North lat. and 7° 14′ East long., 700 fathoms, hard sand.

A series of other soundings gave no decided result. The temperature of the sea was taken daily.