THE SAIL TO FOX HARBOR.—A DAY WITH THE ESQUIMAUX, AND OUR
RETURN.
MONDAY, _July 11_. After icebergs in St. Michael’s Bay, was to have been
the order of the morning. It lies northward forty miles, and usually
abounds in icebergs of the largest size, Mr. Hutchinson informs us.
There is not, however, the least necessity for passing Cape St. Louis,
south of which there is ice enough in sight for all the painters in the
world. But the charm of novelty is almost irresistible. Had we the time,
we would see the glaciers themselves, of which these bergs are merely
the chippings. What has suddenly caused this change in our plans is an
approaching storm. It will never do for us to be out at sea in a cold
northeaster, if it possibly can be avoided. The painter and I are so
given over to sea-sickness, in rough weather, that nothing can be
enjoyed, and nothing done with pen or pencil. The work and play of the
day are finally determined. C—— with the Captain will cruise southerly
among the bergs of Belle Isle, and I will go with Mr. Hutchinson and
Botwood north, across St. Louis water to Fox Harbor, one of the points
of this extended parish.
We leave, past noon a little, sailing very pleasantly by the ices, which
appear to be in considerable motion. Several are going to sea, and may
reach the track of New Yorkers voyaging to Europe, and be thought very
wonderful and fine; and so indeed they will be, should they lose half of
their present bulk. There appears to be no end to the combinations of
these icy edifices. They mimic all the styles of architecture upon
earth; rather, all styles of architecture may be said to imitate them,
inasmuch as they were floating here in what we please to call Greek and
Gothic forms long before Greek or Goth were in existence. Yonder, now,
is a cluster of Gothic cottages. I trace out a multitude of peaked
gables and low porches, and think of Sunny Side upon the Hudson.
Two hours have slipped away, and we approach the northern shore,
attended by no less a travelling companion than a small whale. Now he
blows just behind us, disappears, and blows again upon our right. There
he blows ahead of us. Here he is close upon our left. The fellow is
diving under us. All this may be very pretty sport for the whale, but
with all the merry remarks of Hutchinson, respecting the good nature of
our twenty-foot out-rider, I confess I am relieved to find that he is
gradually enlarging the field of his amusements.
The mouth of Fox Harbor all at once discovers itself, and lets us in
upon a small sheet of water, not unlike a mountain lake with its
back-ground of black, wild hills. A few huts, a wharf, and fish-house
appear upon the margin of the narrow peninsula that lies between the
harbor and the bay. The people are pure Esquimaux and English, with a
mixture from intermarriage. The patriarch of the place, perhaps sixty
years of age, with his wife, and, I believe, the elder members of the
family, are natives of a high latitude, and a good specimen of the
arctic race. They are now members of the English Church, and for piety
and virtue compare well with Christians anywhere.
In the course of the afternoon, their pastor held divine service, and
administered the sacrament of baptism. There were between twenty and
thirty present, old and young, some of whom had prayer-books and
responded. The sermon, which I was invited to preach, I made as simple
and practical as possible, and found earnest and honest listeners. After
an examination of furs and snow-shoes, reindeer horns, and seal-skin,
fresh from the seal, and still loaded with its fat or blubber, we had an
exhibition of the kayak. It was light and tight, and ringy as a drum,
and floated on the water like a bubble. Under the strokes of the
kayaker, it darted forward over the low swells with a grace and
fleetness unknown to the birch-bark canoe. After tea, and a very good
tea, too; in fact, after two teas, we bade the Esquimaux farewell and
sailed away, taking one of their number along with us, who had formerly
been a servant, and was now to resume her old place as such, in the
parsonage. About half way across the bay, a squall from sea struck us
with startling suddenness. But our bold young sailing-master, McDonald,
the mate and owner of our vessel, managed the boat admirably, and we
fairly flew through the white-caps to the smooth water of our harbor. In
the evening we gathered in at the parsonage, taking tea, made and served
by the Esquimaux woman, telling the adventures of the day, both north
and south, and returning at midnight to our cabin.