lished articles written on the revenue cutter were of great interest; but in his more intimate letters to me there was a note of disappointment.
"There have been no mountains to climb," he wrote, "although I have had entrancing long-distance views of many. I have not had a chance to visit any glaciers. There were no trees in those arctic regions, and but few flowers. Of God's process of modeling the world I saw but little—nothing for days but that limitless, relentless ice-pack. I was confined within the narrow prison of the ship; I had no freedom, I went at the will of other men; not of my own. It was very different from those glorious canoe voyages with you in your beautiful, fruitful wilderness."
A very brief visit at Muir's home near Martinez, California, in the spring of 1883 found him at what he
