THE FIRST ICEBERGS.
NEWFOUNDLAND seems to be wreathed with fogs forever. As a
dwelling-place, this world certainly appears far from complete,—an
argument for a better country. But yonder is the blue sky peeping
through the mist, an intimation of that better country. A solitary bird
sits upon a stick floating by, looking back curiously as it grows less
and less. Now it merely dots the gleaming wave, and now it is quite
wiped away. Thus float off into the past the winged pleasures of the
hour.
Again we are at blindman’s-buff in the fog. The whistle and the bell
remind us of the perils of this play. The gloom of evening deepens, and
we go below with the hope of rounding Cape Race, and of wheeling down
the northern sea direct for port, before daylight. _Down_ the northern
sea!—This calling north _down_ instead of _up_, appears to me to be
reversing the right order of things. It is _against_ the stream, which,
inshore, sets from Baffin’s Bay south; and, in respect of latitude, it
is _up-hill_: the nearer the pole, the higher the latitude. And besides,
it is _up_ on the map, and was _up_ all through my boyhood, when
geography was a favorite study. But as down seems to be the direction
settled upon in common parlance, _down_ it shall be in all these pages.
Icebergs! Icebergs!—The cry brought us upon deck at sunrise. There they
were, two of them, a large one and a smaller: the latter pitched upon
the dark and misty desert of the sea like an Arab’s tent; and the larger
like a domed mosque in marble of a greenish white. The vaporous
atmosphere veiled its sharp outlines, and gave it a softened, dreamy and
mysterious character. Distant and dim, it was yet very grand and
impressive. Enthroned on the deep in lonely majesty, the dread of
mariners, and the wonder of the traveller, it was one of those imperial
creations of nature that awaken powerful emotions, and illumine the
imagination. Wonderful structure! Fashioned by those fingers that
wrought the glittering fabrics of the upper deep, and launched upon
those adamantine ways into Arctic seas, how beautiful, how strong and
terrible! A glacier slipped into the ocean, and henceforth a wandering
cape, a restless headland, a revolving island, to compromise the
security of the world’s broad highway. No chart, no sounding, no
knowledge of latitude avails to fix thy whereabout, thou roving Ishmael
of the sea. No look-out, and no friendly hail or authoritative warning
can cope with thy secrecy or thy silence. Mist and darkness are thy
work-day raiment. Though the watchman lay his ear to the water, he may
not hear thy coming footsteps.
We gazed at the great ark of nature’s building with steady, silent eyes.
Motionless and solemn as a tomb, it seemed to look back over the waves
as we sped forward into its grand presence. The captain changed the
course of the steamer a few points so as to pass it as closely as
possible. C—— was quietly making preparation to sketch it. The
interest was momentarily increasing. We were on our way to hunt
icebergs, and had unexpectedly come up with the game. We fancied it was
growing colder, and felt delighted at the chilly air, as if it had been
so much breath fresh from the living ice. To our regret, I may say, to
our grief, the fog suddenly closed the view. No drop-curtain could have
shut out the spectacle more quickly and more completely. The steamer was
at once put on her true course, and the icebergs were left to pursue
their solitary way along the misty Atlantic.