NOTRE DAME BAY.—FOGO ISLAND AND THE THREE HUNDRED ISLES.—THE
FREEDOM OF THE SEAS.—THE ICEBERG OF THE SUNSET, AND THE FLIGHT
INTO TWILLINGATE.
AFTER noon, with the faintest breeze, and the sea like a flowing mirror.
We have sailed by the most eastern promontories, Cape Bonavista and Cape
Freels, and have now arrived at a point where the coast falls off far to
the west, and gives place to Notre Dame Bay, the great Archipelago of
Newfoundland, of which there is comparatively little known. Our true
course is nearly north, and along the eastern or Atlantic side of Fogo,
which is now before us, the first and largest of some three hundred
islands. For the sake of the romantic scenery, we conclude to take the
inside route.
From the shores of Fogo, which are broken, and exceedingly picturesque
further on, as Captain Knight informs us, the land rises into moderate
hills, thinly wooded with evergreens, with here and there a little farm
and dwelling. Perhaps there are twenty rural smokes in sight and a spire
or two. Under the full-blown summer all looks pleasant and inviting.
What will not the glorious sunshine bless and beautify? A dark and dusty
garret wakes up to life and brightness, give it an open window and the
morning sun.
The western headlands of Fogo are exceedingly attractive, lofty, finely
broken, of a red and purplish brown, tinted here and there with pale
green. The painter is busy with his colors. As we pass the bold
prominences and deep, narrow bays or fiords, they are continually
changing and surprising us with a new scenery. And now the great
sea-wall, on our right, opens and discloses the harbor and village of
Fogo, the chief place of the island, gleaming in the setting sun as if
there were flames shining through the windows. Looking to the left, all
the western region is one fine Ægean, a sea filled with a multitude of
isles, of manifold forms and sizes, and of every height, from mountain
pyramids and crested ridges down to rounded knolls and tables, rocky
ruins split and shattered, giant slabs sliding edgewise into the deep,
columns and grotesque masses ruffled with curling surf—the Cyclades of
the west. I climb the shrouds, and behold fields and lanes of water, an
endless and beautiful network, a little Switzerland with her vales and
gorges filled with the purple sea.
After dinner, and nearly sunset. We are breaking away from the isles
into the open Atlantic, bearing northerly for Cape St. John, where
Captain Knight promises the very finest coast scenery. Far away on the
blue, floats a solitary pyramid of ice, while a few miles to the east of
us there stands the image of some grand Capitol, in shining marble.
Looking back upon the isles, as they retire in the south and west, with
the hues of sunset upon their green and cloud-like blue, we behold, the
painter tells me, a likeness to some West-Indian views.
Once again the breeze swells every sail, and we are speeding forward
after the icebergs. All goes merrily. It sings and cracks aloft, and
roars around the prow. We speed onward. The little ship, like a very
falcon, flies down the wind after the game, and promises to reach it by
the last of daylight. A long line of gilding tracks the violet sea, and
expands in a lake of dazzling brightness under the sun. Beneath all this
press of sail, we ride on fast and steadily, as a car over the prairies.
We seem to be all alive. This is fine, inexpressibly fine! This is
freedom! I lean forward and look over the bow, and, like a rider in a
race, feel a new delight and excitement. Wonderful and beautiful! Like
the Arab on his sands, I say, almost involuntarily, God is great! How
soft is the feeling of this breeze, and how balmy is the smell, “like
the smell of Lebanon,” and yet how powerful to bear us onward! We rise
and bow gracefully to the passing swells, but keep right on. Fogo is
sinking in the south, a line of roseate heights, and fresh ice sparkles
like stars on the northern horizon.
We dart off a mile or more from our right path in order to bring a small
berg between us and the sun, that we may look into his sunset beauties.
A dull cloud, close down upon the waves, may defeat this manœuvre. We
shall conquer yet. There, he rises from the sea, a sphinx of pure white
against the glowing sky, and every man aboard is as full of fine
excitement as if we were to grapple with, and chain him. We pass
directly under the great face, the upper line of which overlooks our
top-mast. Every curve, swell and depression have the finish of the most
exquisite sculpture, and all drips with silvery water as if newly risen
from the deep. In the pure, white mass there is the suspicion of green.
Every wave, by contrast, and by some optical effect, nearly black as it
approaches, is instantly changed into the loveliest green as it rolls up
to the silvery bright ice. And all the adjacent deep is a luminous
pea-green. The eye follows the ice into its awful depths, and is at once
startled and delighted to find that the mighty crystal hangs suspended
in a vast transparency, or floats in an abyss of liquid emerald.
We pass on the shadow side, soft and delicate as satin; and changeable
as costliest silk; the white, the dove-color and the green playing into
each other with the subtlety and fleetness of an Aurora-Borealis. As the
light streams over and around from the illuminated side, the entire
outline of the berg shines like newly-burnished silver in the blaze of
noon. The painter is working with all possible rapidity; but we pass too
quick to harvest all this beauty: he can only glean some golden straws.
A few sharp words from the captain bring the vessel to, and we pause
long enough for some finishing touches. He has them, and we are off
again. An iceberg is an object most difficult to study, for which many
facilities, much time, and some danger are indispensable. The voyager,
passing at a safe distance, really knows little or nothing of one.
Ten o’clock, and only twilight. We are now about to put up note-book and
painting-box, and join our English companions in a walk up and down our
little deck. Notwithstanding their familiarity with icebergs, they
appear to enjoy them with as keen a zest as we, now that they are
brought into this familiar contact with them. After the walk, and by
candle-light in the cabin. The wind is strengthening, and promises a
gale. The black and jagged coast of Twillingate island, to the south,
frowns upon us, and the great pyramid berg of sunset awaits us close at
hand. For some time past, it has borne the appearance of the cathedral
of Milan, shorn of all its pinnacles, but it now resumes its pyramidal
form, and towers, in the dusk of evening, to a great height. After a
brief consultation, we resolve to slip into the harbor of Twillingate, a
safe retreat from the coming storm, and there pass our first Sunday out
of St. Johns. To dare this precipitous coast, haunted with icebergs, and
a gale blowing right on, in so light a craft as ours, would be rash.
Much as I wish to make the most of our time, I am glad to find that we
are making harbor, and intend to rest, according to the law.
I cannot take my mind’s eye from the brilliant spectacle of the waves in
conflict with the iceberg. I still hear the surf in the blue chasms. But
with all the power of its charge, it is the merest toy to the great
arctic mass, a playful kitten on the paws of the lion.
After ten, and after prayer. We are rolling most uncomfortably while we
are beating towards our anchorage between the headlands of the harbor.
It is midnight nearly, and yet I am not in the least sleepy. The day is
so lengthy, and we are so continually stimulated with the grandeur and
novelty of these scenes that it is quite troublesome to sleep at all. A
few hours of slumber, so thin that the sounds on deck easily break
through and wake the mind, is about all I have. We are coming about, and
roll down almost upon the vessel’s side. The sails are loose, and roar
in the breeze. The anchor drops home to its bed. The chain rattles and
runs its length. We repose in safe waters, and I turn in thankfully to
my berth.