THE ICEBERG OF TWILLINGATE.
TWELVE o’clock. The day we celebrate. Three cheers! How we are after the
iceberg. Upon getting near, we find it grounded in fifty fathoms of
water, apparently storm-worn, and much the worse for the terrible
buffeting of the recent gale. Masses of the huge, glassy precipices seem
to have been blasted off within the last hour, and gone away in a
lengthy line of white fragments upon the mighty stream. We are now
bearing down upon it, under full sail, intending to pass close under it.
Our good angels bear us company as we pass.
What an exquisite specimen of nature’s handiwork it looks to be, in the
blaze of noon! It shines like polished silver dripping with dews. The
painter is all ready with his colors, having sketched the outlines with
lead. The water streams down in all directions in little rills and
falls, glistening in the light like molten glass. Veins of gem-like
transparency, blue as sapphire, obliquely cross the opaque white of the
prodigious mass, the precious beauty of which no language can picture.
Fragments lie upon the slopes, like bowlders, ready to be dislodged at
any moment, and launched into the waves. Now we dash across his cool
shadow, and take his breath. There looks to be the permanency of
adamant, while in reality all is perishable as a cloud, and charged with
awful peril. Imagine the impressive grandeur and terrific character of
cliffs, broad and lofty cliffs, at once so solid, and yet so liable at
any moment to burst asunder into countless pieces. We all know the
danger, and I confess that I feel it painfully, and wish ourselves at a
safe distance.
The wind increases, and all is alive on deck. To my relief, we have
fallen off to leeward beyond all harm. But we are on the back track, and
mean to take him again, and take the risques also of his terrible, but
very beautiful presence. Now we run. If he were a hostile castle, he
would open upon us his big guns, at this instant. Bravely and busily the
waves beat under the hollow of the long, straight water-line, rushing
through the low archways with a variety of noises,—roaring, hissing,
slapping, cracking, lashing the icy vaults, and polishing and mining
away with a wild, joyous energy. Poor Ishmael of the sea! every hand and
every force is against him. If he move, he dashes a foot against the
deep down stones. While he reposes, the sun pierces his gleaming helmet,
and strikes through the joints of his glassy armor.
In the seams and fissures the shadows are the softest blue of the skies,
and as plain and palpable as smoke. It melts at every pore, and streams
as if a perpetually overflowing fountain were upon the summit, and
flashes and scintillates like one vast brilliant. Prongs and reefs of
ice jutting from the body of the berg below, and over which we pass,
give the water that emerald clearness so lovely to the eye, and open to
the view something like the fanciful sea-green caves. We now lie to,
under the lee side, fearfully close, it seems to me, when I recollect
the warning of the Bishop, never, on any account, to venture near an
iceberg. Its water-line, under which the waves disappear in a lengthy,
piazza-like cavern, with explosive sounds, is certainly a remarkable
feature. Occasional glimpses unfold the polish, the colors, and the
graceful winding of sea-shells. A strong current in connection with the
wind forces us, I am glad to say, to a more safe and comfortable
distance. The last ten minutes has given us a startling illustration of
the dangers of which we have been forewarned: a crack like a field-piece
was followed by the falling of ice, on the opposite side of the berg,
attended with a sullen roar.
We round to, and take the breeze in our faces. The ice is up the wind,
square before us, and we must after it by a tack or two. The stars and
stripes yet float aloft, and seem to tremble with delight as we sport
through these splendid hours of Freedom’s holiday. The berg with its
dazzling white, and dove-colored shadows,—the electric breeze,—the
dark sea with its draperies of sparkling foam, north, east, south, out
to the pure azure of the encircling sky,—the sunshine, that bright
spirit and ceaseless miracle of the firmament,—the white-winged vessel
boxing the billow, now rolling on black and cloud-like, now falling off
with the spotless purity of a snow-drift,—the battle of the surges and
the solid cliffs, all conspire to enliven and excite.
While the painter is busy, overlooked by Mr. Hutchinson, and I lean over
the bow and scribble in my note-book, a sailor comes forward and gazes
upon the iceberg as if he, too, was looking at something new. He has
passed them by, time out of mind, either idly or with dislike, as things
to be shunned, and not to be looked back at when safely weathered. Now
that his attention is called, he finds that this useless mass, tumbling
about in the path of mariners, is truly a most wonderful creation. Like
all the larger structures of nature, these crystalline vessels are
freighted with God’s power and glory, and must be reverently and
thoughtfully studied, to “see into the life of them.” The common clouds,
which unnoticed drop their shadows upon our dwellings, and spot the
landscape, are found to be wonderful by those alone who watch them
patiently and thoughtfully. “The witchery of the soft blue sky did never
melt into the poet’s heart; he never felt the witchery of the soft blue
sky” but from silent, loving study.
Captain Knight backs the sails, and we hold on near enough to the ice to
see the zone of emerald water, a fearfully close proximity. Look up to
those massy folds and wreaths of icy drapery, all flashing in the sun!
See that gigantic wing, not unlike the pictured wings of angels,
unfolded from one of the vast shoulders, and spread upon the high air.
As the wind sweeps over and falls upon us, we feel an icy chilliness.
Beyond a very short distance, however, we are unable to perceive the
smallest influence.
We are now to the leeward, half a mile or so, and are watching the
Captain, who has gone with the boat and a couple of men to gather ice
out of the drift, which stretches from the berg in a broken line for two
miles or more. Portions of this have fallen within the last hour,
keeping up a kind of artillery discharge, very agreeable to hear at this
distance, and quite in harmony with the day at home. They have struck
the ice, a mile off, and the chips sparkle in the sunshine as they ply
the axe. As they return, we drop down the wind to meet them. Here they
come with a cart-load of the real arctic alabaster, the very same, I
have no question, that hung an hour ago as one of the shining crags of
the lofty ice-cliff. And now, with all sail spread, and a spirited
breeze, away to the north-west for Cape St. John.