CHAPTER II._The Arctic World

THE ARCTIC HEAVENS: ATMOSPHERIC AND METEORIC PHENOMENA.

Let the reader fancy himself--should he be reading these pages on a

warm summer’s day, the fancy will not be unpleasant!--let the reader

fancy himself on board a well-found, stoutly-built whaling-vessel,

and rapidly approaching the coast of Greenland. But the heavy mist

hangs over the legend-haunted shores, and we can but catch the sound

of the clanging surf as it rolls upon them. All around us spreads the

mist,--dense, impenetrable. What is that before us? The dead white mass

of an iceberg, slowly drifting with the current, and almost upon us

before the look-out man discovered it. But the helm has been sharply

handled; our good ship has put about; and we sail clear of the mighty

pyramid. Fully one hundred and fifty feet high, we can assure you, and

twice as broad at its base. A sudden break in the mist reveals its

radiant spire, with white cloud-wreaths circling and dancing round it

in the sunlight.

And now, as we steadily move forward, the fog is lifted up like a

curtain, and before us, like a scene in a panorama, looms the Greenland

coast in all its austere magnificence: yonder are its broad ice-filled

valleys, its snow-clad ravines, its noble mountains, its iron-bound

range of cliffs, its general aspect of solemn desolation.

Away over the westward sea fly the scattered vapours, disclosing

iceberg after iceberg, like the magical towers in some of Turner’s

pictures. We seem to have been drawn by some irresistible spell into

a world of enchantment, and all the old Norse romance comes back

upon the memory, with its picturesque associations. Yonder lies the

Valhalla of the ancient ocean-rovers; yonder the dazzling city of the

sun-god Freya, one of the most popular of the Scandinavian divinities,

as well he might be; yonder the elfin caves of Alfheim; and Glitner,

with its walls of gold and roofs of silver; and the radiant Gimele,

the home of the blessed; and there, too, towering above the clouds,

the bridge Bifrost, by which the heroes ascended from earth to heaven.

Heimdall, who can see for fully a hundred leagues, as well by night as

by day, stands sentinel upon it, prepared to sound his horn Gjallar, if

intruders should attempt to cross it!

The sea is smooth as glass; not a ripple breaks the wonderful calmness

of its surface. It is midnight, but in this strange Arctic world the

sun still hangs close upon the northern horizon; the icebergs rear

their dazzling crests around, like floating spires, and turrets, and

many-towered minsters; the dark headlands are boldly outlined against

the sky; and sea, and sky, and mountains, and icebergs are suffused

in a wildly beautiful atmosphere of crimson, gold, and purple. The

picture is like a poet’s vision; and so startlingly unreal, that it is

difficult for the unaccustomed spectator to believe it other than an

illusion.

[Illustration: THE MIDNIGHT SUN.]

We adopt the following description from the vivid language of Dr.

Hayes, who displays a keen feeling for the beauties of the Polar world.

The air was warm, he says, almost as a summer’s night at home, and

yet there were the icebergs and the bleak mountains, with which the

fancy, in our own land of green hills and waving woods, can associate

nothing but what is cold and repellent. Bright was the sky, and soft

and strangely inspiring as the skies of Italy. The bergs had wholly

lost their chilly aspect, and, glittering in the blaze of the brilliant

heavens, seemed, in the distance, like masses of burnished metal or

solid flame. Nearer at hand they were huge blocks of Parian marble,

encrusted with colossal gems of pearl and opal. One in particular

exhibited the perfection of grandeur. Its form was not unlike that of

the Coliseum, and it lay so far away that half its height was buried

beneath the line of blood-red waters. The sun, slow moving along its

path of glory, passed behind it, and the old Roman ruin seemed suddenly

to break into flame.

[Illustration: OFF THE COAST OF GREENLAND.]

Nothing, indeed, but the pencil of the artist could depict the

wonderful richness of this combined landscape and seascape. Church, in

his great picture of “The Icebergs,” has grandly exhibited a scene not

unlike that we have attempted to describe.

In the shadows of the bergs the water was a rich green, and nothing

could be more soft and tender than the gradations of colour made by the

sea shoaling on the sloping tongues of some of these floating masses.

The tint increased in intensity where the ice overhung the waters,

and a deep cavern in one of them exhibited the solid colour of the

malachite mingled with the transparency of the emerald, while, in

strange contrast, a broad belt of cobalt blue shot diagonally through

its body.

The enchantment of the scene was heightened by a thousand little

cascades which flashed into the sea from the icebergs, the water being

discharged from basins of melted snow and ice which tranquilly reposed

far up in the hollows of their topmost surface. From other bergs large

boulders were occasionally detached, and these plunged into the water

with a deafening din, while the roll and rush of the ocean resounded

like the music of a solemn dirge through their broken archways.

* * * * *

The contrasts and combinations of colour in the Polar world are,

indeed, among its particular attractions, and of their kind they cannot

be surpassed or imitated even in the gorgeous realms of the Tropics.

The pale azure gleam of the ice, the dazzling whiteness of the snow,

the vivid verdure of the sunlit plains, the deep emerald tints, crossed

with sapphire and ultramarine, of the waters, would in themselves

afford a multiplicity of rich and beautiful effects; but to these we

must add the magical influences of the coruscations of the Arctic

heavens, with the glories of the midnight sun and the wonders of the

Aurora.

[Illustration: MOONLIGHT IN THE POLAR WORLD.]

Even moonlight in the Polar world is unlike moonlight anywhere else; it

has a character all its own,--strange, weird, supernatural. Night after

night the sky will be free from cloud or shadow, and the radiant stars

shine out with a singular intensity, seeming to cut the air like keen

swords. The moonbeams are thrown back with a pale lustre by ice-floe

and glacier and snow-drift, and the only relief to the brightness is

where the dark cliffs throw a shadow over the landscape. Gloriously

beautiful look the snow-clad mountains, as the moonlight pours upon

them its serene splendour, interrupted only by the occasional passage

of a wreath of mist, which is soon transformed into sparkling silver.

The whole scene produces an impression of awe on the mind of the

thoughtful spectator, and he feels as if brought face to face with the

visible presence of another world.

The prolonged winter night is in itself well calculated to affect the

imagination of the European. He reads of it in travels and books of

astronomy; but to know what it _is_, and what it _means_, he

must submit himself to its influence,--he must “winter” in the Polar

Regions. Not to see sunrise and sunset, and the changes they bring with

them, day after day, enlivening, inspiriting, strengthening, is felt

at first as an intolerable burden. The stars shining at all hours with

equal brilliancy, and the lasting darkness which reigns for twenty

days of each winter month when the moon is below the horizon, become a

weariness and a discomfort. The traveller longs for the reappearance

of the moon; and yet before she has run her ten days’ course, he feels

fatigued by the uniform illumination.

But sometimes a relief is supplied by the phenomenon of the Aurora

Borealis. We inhabitants of the United Kingdom know something of the

rare beauty of the “northern lights,” when the heavens kindle with

a mysterious play of colours which reminds us of the strange weird

radiance that occasionally kindles in our dreams; yet these are poor

and trivial when compared with the auroral display. Let us endeavour

to realize it from the glowing description painted by one of the most

eloquent and observant of Arctic explorers.

He was groping his way among the ice-hummocks, in the deep obscurity

of the mid-winter, when suddenly a bright ray darted up from behind

the black cloud which lay low down on the horizon before him. It

lasted but an instant, and, having filled the air with a strange

illumination, it died away, leaving the darkness even greater darkness

than before. Presently an arc of coloured light sprang across the

sky, and the aurora became gradually more fixed. The space enclosed

by the arc was very dark, and was filled with the cloud. The play of

the rays which rose from its gradually brightening border was for some

time very capricious, modifying the burst of flame from what seemed a

conflagration of the heavens to the soft glow of early morn.

Gradually the light grew more and more intense, and from irregular

bursts it settled into an almost steady sheet of splendour. This sheet,

however, was far from uniform, and may best be described as “a flood of

mingling and variously-tinted streaks.”

The exhibition, at first tame and quiet, developed by degrees into

startling brilliancy. The broad dome of night seemed all ablaze. Lurid

fires, fiercer than those which reddened the heavens from burning

Troy, flashed angrily across the zenith. The stars waned before the

marvellous outburst, and seemed to recede further and further from the

Earth; “as when the chariot of the sun, driven by Phaeton, and carried

from its beaten track by the ungovernable steeds, rushed madly through

the skies, parching the world and withering the constellations. The

gentle Andromeda flies trembling from the flame; Perseus, with his

flashing sword and Gorgon shield, retreats in fear; the Pole-Star is

chased from the night; and the Great Bear, faithful sentinel of the

North, quits his guardian watch, following the feeble trail.”

The colour of the light was chiefly red, but this was not permanent,

and every hue mingled in the wonderful display.

Blue and yellow streamers shot athwart the lurid fire; and, sometimes

starting side by side from the wide expanse of the illumined arc,

they melted into each other, and flung a weird glare of green over the

landscape.

[Illustration: THE AURORA BOREALIS.]

Again this green overcame the red; blue and yellow blended with each

other in their swift flight; violet-tinted arrows flashed through a

broad glow of orange, and countless tongues of white flame, formed of

these uniting streams, rushed aloft and clasped the skies. The effect

of the many-coloured lustre upon the surrounding objects was singularly

wonderful. The weird forms of innumerable icebergs, singly and in

clusters, loomed above the sea, and around their summits hovered the

strange gleam, like the fires of Vesuvius over the villas and temples

of Pompeii. All along the white surface of the frozen sea, upon the

mountain-peaks and the lofty cliffs, the light glowed and dimmed

and glowed again, as if the air were filled with graveyard meteors,

flitting wildly above some vast illimitable city of the dead. The scene

was noiseless, yet the senses were deceived, for sounds not of earth or

sea seemed to follow the swift coruscations, and to fall upon the ear

“The tread

Of phantoms dread,

With banner, and spear, and flame.”

Though the details, so to speak, are not always the same, the general

character of the aurora changes very slightly, and, from a comparison

of numerous accounts, the gradation of the phenomenon would seem to be

as follows:--

The sky slowly assumes a tint of brown, on which, as on a background,

is soon developed a nebulous segment, bordered by a spacious arc of

dazzling whiteness, which seems incessantly agitated by a tremulous

motion. From this arc an incredible number of shafts and rays of light

leap upwards to the zenith. These luminous columns pass through all

the hues of the rainbow,--from softest violet and intensest sapphire

to green and purple-red. Sometimes the rays issue from the resplendent

arc mingled with darker flashes; sometimes they rise simultaneously at

different points of the horizon, and unite in one broad sea of flame

pervaded by rapid undulations. On other occasions it would seem as if

invisible hands were unfurling fiery dazzling banners, to stream, like

meteors, in the troubled air. A kind of canopy, of soft and tranquil

light, which is known as the _corona_, indicates the close of the

marvellous exhibition; and shortly after its appearance the luminous

rays begin to decrease in splendour, the richly-coloured arcs dissolve

and die out, and soon of all the gorgeous spectacle nothing remains but

a whitish cloudy haze in those parts of the firmament which, but a few

minutes before, blazed with the mysterious fires of the aurora borealis.

[Illustration: THE AURORA BOREALIS--THE CORONA.]

The arc of the aurora is only part of a broad circle of light, which is

elevated considerably above the surface of our globe, and the centre

of which is situated in the vicinity of the Pole. It is not difficult,

therefore, to account for the different aspects under which it is

presented to observers placed at different angles to the focus of the

display. A person some degrees _south_ of the ring necessarily

sees but a very small arc of it towards the north, owing to the

interposition of the earth between him and it; if he stood nearer the

north, the arc would appear larger and higher; if immediately below

it, he would see it apparently traversing the zenith; or if within

the ring, and still further north, he would see it culminating in the

south. It has been supposed that the centre of the ring corresponds

with the magnetic north pole in the island of Boothia Felix.

Generally the phenomenon lasts for several hours, and at times it

will be varied by peculiar features. Now it will seem to present the

hemispherical segment of a colossal wheel; now it will wave and droop

like a rich tapestry of many-coloured light, in a thousand prismatic

folds; and now it exhibits the array of innumerable dazzling streamers,

waving in the dark and intense sky.

The arc varies in elevation, but is seldom more than ninety miles above

the terrestrial surface. Its diameter, however, must be enormous,

for it has been known to extend southward to Italy, and has been

simultaneously visible in Sardinia, Connecticut, and at New Orleans.

According to some authorities, the phenomenon is accompanied by noises

resembling the discharge of fireworks, or the crackling of silk when

one piece is folded over another; but this statement is discredited by

the most trustworthy observers.

Mrs. Somerville’s description is worth quoting, as taking up more

emphatically some points to which we have already alluded:--

The aurora, she says, is decidedly an electrical (or, more strictly

speaking, a magneto-electrical) phenomenon. It generally appears

soon after sunset in the form of a luminous arc stretching more or

less from east to west, the most elevated point being always in the

magnetic meridian of the place of the observer; across the arc the

coruscations are rapid, vivid, and of various colours, darting like

lightning to the zenith, and at the same time flitting laterally with

incessant velocity. The brightness of the rays varies in an instant;

they sometimes surpass the splendour of stars of the first magnitude,

and often exhibit colours of admirable transparency,--blood-red at

the base, emerald-green in the middle, and clear yellow towards

their extremity. Sometimes one, and sometimes a quick succession of

luminous currents run from one end of the arc or bow to the other, so

that the rays rapidly increase in brightness; but it is impossible

to say whether the coruscations themselves are actually affected by

a horizontal motion of translation, or whether the more vivid light

is conveyed from ray to ray. The rays occasionally dart far past the

zenith, vanish, suddenly reappear, and, being joined by others from the

arc, form a magnificent corona or immense dome of light. The segment of

the sky below the arc is quite black, as if formed by dense clouds; yet

M. Struve is said to have seen stars in it, and so it would appear that

the blackness of which several observers speak must be the effect of

contrast. The lower edge of the arc is evenly defined; its upper margin

is fringed by the coruscations, their convergence towards the north,

and that of the arc itself, being probably an effect of perspective.

The aurora exercises a remarkable influence on the magnetic needle,

even in places where the display is not visible. Its vibrations seem

to be slower or quicker according as the auroral light is quiescent or

in motion, and the variations of the compass during the day show that

the aurora is not peculiar to night. It has been ascertained by careful

observations that the disturbances of the magnetic needle and the

auroral displays were simultaneous at Toronto, in Canada, on thirteen

days out of twenty-four, the remaining days having been clouded; and

contemporaneous observations show that in these thirteen days there

were also magnetic disturbances at Prague and Tasmania; so that the

occurrence of auroral phenomena at Toronto on these occasions may be

viewed as a local manifestation connected with magnetic effects, which,

whatever may have been their origin, probably prevailed _on the same

day over the whole surface of the globe_.

Among the _atmospheric_ phenomena of the outer world we are

justified in reckoning the Winds, which are remarkable for their

variability. Their force is considerably diminished when they pass over

a wide surface of ice; sometimes the ice seems even to beat back the

breeze, and turn it in a contrary direction. The warm airs from the

south grow cool as they sweep across the frozen expanse, and give up

their moisture in the form of snow. In a region so bleak and chill it

is not often that clouds are created, the atmospheric vapours being

condensed into snow or hail without passing through any intermediate

condition.

Whirlwinds of frozen snow are formidable enemies to the seaman forced

to traverse the ice on foot, or in a sledge drawn by Eskimo dogs. Dense

showers lash and sting the unfortunate traveller’s face, penetrate his

mouth and nostrils, freeze together his very eyelids, and almost blind

him. His skin assumes a bluish tint, and burns as if scarred by the

keen thongs of a knout.

An optical illusion of frequent occurrence in the Polar Regions makes

objects appear of dimensions much larger than they really possess. A

fox assumes the proportions of a bear; low banks of ice are elevated

into lofty mountains. The eye is fatigued by dwelling upon the horizon

of lands which are never approached. Just as in the sandy deserts of

the Sahara the distances of real objects are apparently diminished, so

the Arctic explorer, misled by the aërial illusion, advances towards a

goal which seems always near at hand, but is never attained.

Another source of error, common both to the Arctic and the Tropical

deserts, is the mirage, a phenomenon of refraction, which represents

as suspended in air the images of remote objects, and thus gives rise

to the most curious illusions and fantastic scenes. Dr. Scoresby one

day perceived in the air the reversed representation of a ship which he

recognized as the _Fame_, commanded by his father. He afterwards

discovered that it had been lying moored in a creek about ten leagues

from the point where the mirage had played with his imagination.

Again, in approaching a field of ice or snow, the traveller invariably

descries a belt of resplendent white immediately above the horizon.

This is known as the “ice-blink,” and it reveals to the Arctic

navigator beforehand the character of the ice he is approaching. At

times, too, a range of icebergs, or of broken masses of ice, will be

reflected in colossal shadows on the sky, with a strange and even weird

effect.

But, after all, the special distinction between the Arctic lands and

the other regions of the globe is their long day and longer night.

Describing an immense spiral curve upon the horizon, the sun gradually

mounts to 30°, the highest point of its course; then, in the same

manner, it returns towards the horizon, and bids farewell to the

wildernesses of the North, slowly passing away behind the veil of a

gloomy and ghastly twilight.

When the navigator, says Captain Parry, finds himself for the first

time buried in the silent shadows of the Arctic night, he cannot

conquer an involuntary emotion of dread; he feels transported out of

the sphere of ordinary, commonplace existence. The deadly and sombre

deserts of the Pole seem like those uncreated voids which Milton has

placed between the realms of life and death. The very animals are

affected by the profound melancholy which saddens the face of Nature.

[Illustration: ATMOSPHERIC PHENOMENON IN THE ARCTIC

REGIONS:--REFLECTION OF ICEBERGS.]

Who can read without emotion the following passages from Dr. Kane’s

Journal?--

“_October 28, Friday._--The moon has reached her greatest northern

declination of about 25° 35’. She is a glorious object; sweeping around

the heavens, at the lowest part of her curve she is still 14° above the

horizon. For eight days she has been making her circuit with nearly

unvarying brightness. It is one of those sparkling nights that bring

back the memory of sleigh-bells and songs and glad communings of hearts

in lands that are far away.

“The weather outside is at 25° below zero.”

A few days later, and the heroic explorer writes:--

“_November 7, Monday._--The darkness is coming on with insidious

steadiness, and its advances can be perceived only by comparing one

day with its fellow of some time back. We still read the thermometer

at noonday without a light, and the black masses of the hills are

plain for about five hours with their glaring patches of snow; but all

the rest is darkness. Lanterns are always on the spar-deck, and the

lard-lamps never extinguished below. The stars of the sixth magnitude

shine out at noonday.

“Our darkness has ninety days to run before we shall get back again

even to the contested twilight of to-day. Altogether, our winter will

have been sunless for one hundred and forty days.”

Here is another significant passage; yet all its significance can

scarcely be appreciated by the dwellers in temperate climes:--

“_November 27, Sunday._--The thermometer was in the neighbourhood

of 40° _below zero_, and the day was too dark to read at noon.”

“_December 15, Thursday._--We have lost the last vestige of our

mid-day twilight. We cannot see print, and hardly paper: the fingers

cannot be counted a foot from the eyes. Noonday and midnight are alike;

and, except a vague glimmer on the sky that seems to define the hill

outlines to the south, we have nothing to tell us that this Arctic

world of ours has a sun.”

On the 11th of January (1854), Dr. Kane’s thermometer stood at 49°

below zero; and on the 20th the range of those at the observatory

was at -64° to -67°. On the 5th of February they began to show an

unexampled temperature. They ranged from 60° to 75° below zero, and one

very admirable instrument on the taffrail of the brig stood at -65°.

The reduced mean of the best spirit-standards gave -67°, or 97° below

the freezing-point of water.

At these temperatures chloric ether became solid, and carefully

prepared chloroform exhibited a granular film or pellicle on its

surface. Spirit of naphtha froze at -54°, and oil of sassafras at -49°.

The oil of winter-green assumes a flocculent appearance at -56°, and

solid at -63° and -65°.

Some further details, borrowed from Dr. Kane’s experiences, will

illustrate still more powerfully the singular atmospheric conditions of

the Arctic winter.

The exhalations from the surface of the body invested any exposed or

partially-clad part with a wreath of vapour. The air had a perceptible

pungency when inspired, but Dr. Kane did not undergo the painful

sensation described by some Siberian travellers. When breathed for any

length of time it imparted a sensation of dryness to the air-passages;

and Dr. Kane observed that all his party, as it were involuntarily,

breathed gradually, and with compressed lips.

It was at noon on the 21st of January that the first glimmer of

returning light became visible, the southern horizon being touched

for a short time with a distinct orange hue. The sun had, perhaps,

afforded them a kind of illumination before, but if so, it was not to

be distinguished from the “cold light of stars.” They had been nearing

the sunshine for thirty-two days, and had just reached that degree of

mitigated darkness which made the extreme midnight of Sir Edward Parry

in lat. 74° 47’.

We have already alluded to the depressing influence exercised by

the prolonged and intense darkness of the Arctic night, and we have

referred to the singular effect it has upon animals. Dr. Kane’s dogs,

though most of them were natives of the Arctic Circle, proved unable

to bear up against it. Most of them died from an anomalous form of

disease, to which the absence of light would seem to have contributed

as much as the extreme cold. This circumstance seems worthy of fuller

notice, and we quote, therefore, Dr. Kane’s observation upon it:--

“_January 20._--This morning at five o’clock--for I am so

afflicted with the _insomnium_ of this eternal night, that I

rise at any time between midnight and noon--I went upon deck. It was

absolutely dark, the cold not permitting a swinging lamp. There was not

a glimmer came to me through the ice-crusted window-panes of the cabin.

While I was feeling my way, half puzzled as to the best method of

steering clear of whatever might be before me, two of my Newfoundland

dogs put their cold noses against my hand, and instantly commenced

the most exuberant antics of satisfaction. It then occurred to me how

very dreary and forlorn must these poor animals be, at atmospheres

+10° in-doors and -50° without,--living in darkness, howling at an

accidental light, as if it reminded them of the moon,--and with

nothing, either of instinct or sensation, to tell them of the passing

hours, or to explain the long-lost daylight.”

The effect of the prolonged darkness upon these animals was most

extraordinary. Every attention was paid to their wants; they were kept

below, tended, fed, cleansed, caressed, and _doctored_; still they

grew worse and worse. Strange to say, their disease was as clearly

_mental_ as in the case of any human being. There was no physical

disorganization; they ate voraciously; they slept soundly, they

retained their strength. But first they were stricken by epilepsy, and

this was followed by true lunacy. They barked frenziedly at nothing;

they walked in straight and curved lines with anxious and unwearying

perseverance. They fawned on the seamen, but without seeming to

appreciate any caresses bestowed upon them; pushing their head against

the friend who noticed them, or oscillating with a strange pantomime of

fear. Their most intelligent actions seemed of an automatic character;

sometimes they clawed at their masters, as if seeking to burrow into

their seal-skins; sometimes they preserved for hours a moody silence,

and then started off howling, as if pursued, and ran to and fro for a

considerable period.

When spring returned Dr. Kane had to mourn the loss of nine splendid

Newfoundland and thirty-five Eskimo dogs; of the whole pack only six

survived, and one of these was unfit for draught.

Having dwelt at some length on the characteristics of the Arctic

winter, we now turn to consider those of the Arctic spring. This

begins in April, but does not exhibit itself in all the freshness of

its beauty until May. The temperature rises daily in the interval; the

winter fall of snow, which has so long shrouded the gaunt hills and

lain upon the valleys, rolls up before the rays of the rising sun;

and the melted snow pours in noisy torrents and flashing cascades

through the rugged ravines and over the dark sides of the lofty cliffs:

everywhere the air resounds with the din of falling waters. Early in

June the traveller sees with delight the signs of returning vegetation.

The willow-stems grow green with the fresh and living sap; mosses,

and poppies, and saxifrages, and the cochlearia, with other hardy

plants, begin to sprout; the welcome whirr of wings is brought upon the

breeze; the cliffs are alive with the little auks; flocks of stately

eider-ducks sail into the creeks and sounds; the graceful terns scream

and dart over the sea; the burgomasters and the gyrfalcons move to and

fro with greater dignity; the long-tailed duck fills the echoes with

its shrill voice; the snipes hover about the fresh-water pools; the

sparrows chirp from rock to rock; long lines of cackling geese sail in

the blue clearness overhead on their way to a remoter north; the walrus

and the seal bask on the ice-floes which have broken up into small

rafts, and drift lazily with the currents; and a fleet of icebergs move

southwards in solemn and stately procession, their spires and towers

flashing and coruscating in the sunlight.

[Illustration: ADVENT OF SPRING IN THE POLAR REGIONS.]

We transcribe a sketch of a spring landscape in the Polar world from

the pages of Dr. Hayes:--

We arrived at the lake, he says, in the midst of a very enlivening

scene. The snow had mainly disappeared from the valley, and, although

no flowers had yet appeared, the early vegetation was covering the

banks with green, and the feeble growths opened their little leaves

almost under the very snow, and stood alive and fresh in the frozen

turf, looking as glad of the spring as their more ambitious cousins of

the warm South. Numerous small herds of reindeer had come down from the

mountains to fatten on this newly budding life. Gushing rivulets and

fantastic waterfalls mingled their pleasant music with the ceaseless

hum of birds, myriads of which sat upon the rocks of the hill-side,

or were perched upon the cliffs, or sailed through the air in swarms

so thick that they seemed like a dark cloud passing before the sun.

These birds were the little auk, a water-fowl not larger than a quail.

The swift flutter of their wings and their constant cry filled the air

with a roar like that of a storm advancing among the forest trees.

The valley was glowing with the sunlight of the early morning, which

streamed in over the glacier, and robed hill, mountain, and plain in

brightness.

Spring passes into summer, and all nature seems endowed with a new

life. The death-like silence, the oppressive darkness, the sense of

fear and despondency, all have passed away; and earth and water echo

with cheerful voices, the landscape is bathed in a glorious radiance,

the human soul is conscious of a sentiment of hope and expectation. The

winter is past and gone; the flowers appear on the earth; the time of

the singing of birds is come. The snow has melted from the hills, and

the streams run with a merry music, and the scanty flora of the far

northern world attains its full development. By day and night the sun

pours forth its invigorating rays, and even the butterfly is encouraged

to sport among the blossoms. The Aurora no longer exhibits its

many-coloured fires, and the sky is as clear and cloudless as in genial

Italy. But this season of life and warmth is of short duration, and

when July has passed the sun begins to sink lower and lower, as if to

visit another world; a shadow gradually steals over the sky; winds blow

fiercely, and bring with them blinding showers of sleet and icicles;

the fountains and the streams cease their pleasant flow; the broad

crust of ice spreads over the imprisoned sea; the snow-mantle rests on

the hill-sides and the valleys; the birds wing their way to the warmer

South; and the Polar world is once more given over to the silence, the

loneliness, and the gloom of the long Arctic night.

Turning our attention now to the “starry heavens,” we observe that

conspicuous among the glorious host is the North Star, which, from

earliest times, has been the friend and guide of the navigator.

The Pole-Star, or Polaris, is the star α in the constellation of

_Ursa Minor_, and is the nearest large star to the north pole

of the celestial equator. We say the “nearest,” because it does not

actually mark the position of the pole, but is about 1° 30’ from it.

Owing, however, to the motion of the pole of the celestial equator

round that of the ecliptic, it will, in about 2000 A.D.,

approach within 28’ of the north pole; but after reaching this point

of approximation it will begin to recede. At the time of Hipparchus it

was 12° distant from it (that is, in 156 B.C.); in 1785, 2°

2’. You may easily find its place in the “stellar firmament,” for a

line drawn between the stars α and β (hence called the “Pointers”) of

the constellation _Ursa Major_, or the Great Bear, and produced in

a northerly direction for about four and a half times its own length,

will almost touch the Pole-Star. Two thousand years this post of

honour, so to speak, was occupied by the star β of _Ursa Major_;

while, in about twelve thousand years, it will be occupied by the star

Vega in _Lyra_, which will be within 5° of the north pole.

The constellation of _Ursa Major_ is always above the horizon of

Europe, and hence it has been an object of curiosity to its inhabitants

from the remotest antiquity. Our readers may easily recognize it by

three stars which form a triangle in its tail, while four more form

a quadrangle in the body of the imaginary bear. In the triangle,

the first star at the tip of the tail is Benetnasch of the second

magnitude; the second, Mizar; and the third, Alioth. In the quadrangle,

the first star at the root of the tail is named Megrez; the second

below it, Phad; the third, in a horizontal direction, Merak; and the

fourth, above the latter, Dubhe, of the first magnitude.

[Illustration: URSA MAJOR AND URSA MINOR.]

In _Ursa Minor_ the only conspicuous star is Polaris, of which we

have recently spoken.

We subjoin a list of the northern constellations, including the names

of those who formed them, the number of their visible stars, and the

names of the most important and conspicuous.

NORTHERN CONSTELLATIONS.

+----------------------------------|-----------+--------+----------------------+

+----------------------------------|-----------+--------+----------------------+

| | Brahe. | 43 | |

+----------------------------------|-----------+--------+----------------------+

A few remarks in reference to some of these constellations, and the

glorious orbs which they help to indicate to mortal eyes, may fitly

close this chapter.

We have already alluded to _Ursa Major_, which forms one of

the most conspicuous objects of the northern heavens. It has borne

different names, at different times, and among different peoples.

It was the Ἄρκτος μεγάλη of the Greeks; the “Septem triones” of the

Latins. It is known in some parts as David’s Chariot; the Chinese call

it, _Tcheou-pey_.

Night and day this constellation watches above the northern horizon,

revolving, with slow and majestic march, around Polaris, in four

and twenty hours. The quadrangle of stars in the body of the Great

Bear forms the wheels of the chariot; the triangle in its tail, the

chariot-pole. Above the second of the three latter shines the small

star Alcor, also named the Horseman. The Arabs call it Saidak, or “the

Test,” because they use it to try the range and strength of a person’s

vision.

This brilliant northern constellation, composed, with the exception of

δ, of stars of the second magnitude, has frequently been celebrated by

poets. We may paraphrase, for the advantage of our readers, a glowing

apostrophe from the pen of the American Ware:--

With what grand and majestic steps, he says, it moves forward in its

eternal circle, following among the stars its regal way in a slow

and silent splendour! Mighty creation, I salute thee! I love to see

thee wandering in the shining paths like a giant proud of his strong

girdle--severe, indefatigable, resolved--whose feet never lag in the

road which lies before them. Other tribes abandon their nocturnal

course and rest their weary orbs under the waves; but thou, thou

never closest thy burning eyes, and never suspendest thy determined

steps. Forward, ever forward! While systems change, and suns retire,

and worlds fall to sleep and awake again, thou pursuest thy endless

march. The near horizon attempts to check thee, but in vain. A watchful

sentinel, thou never quittest thy age-long duty; but, without allowing

thyself to be surprised by sleep, thou guardest the fixed light of the

universe, and preventest the north from ever forgetting its place.

Seven stars dwell in that shining company; the eye embraces them all

at a single glance; their distances from one another, however, are

not less than the distance of each from Earth. And this again is the

reciprocal distance of the celestial centres or foci. From depths of

heaven, unexplored by thought, the piercing rays dart across the void,

revealing to our senses innumerable worlds and systems. Let us arm

our vision with the telescope, and let us survey the firmament. The

skies open wide; a shower of sparkling fires descends upon our head;

the stars close up their ranks, are condensed in regions so remote

that their swift rays (swifter than aught else in creation) must

travel for centuries before they can reach our Earth. Earth, sun, and

ye constellations, what are ye among this infinite immensity and the

multitude of the Divine works!

If we face towards the Pole-Star, which, as we have seen, preserves

its place in the centre of the northern region of the sky, we have the

south behind us, the east is on our right, the west upon our left. All

the stars revolving round the Pole-Star, from right to left, should be

recognized according to their mutual relations rather than referred

to the cardinal points. On the other side of Polaris, as compared

with the Great Bear, we find another constellation which is easily

recognized. If from the central star δ we carry a line to the Pole, and

then prolong it for an equal distance, we traverse the constellation

of _Cassiopeia_, composed of five stars of the third magnitude,

disposed somewhat like the outer jambs of the letter M. The small star

χ, terminating the square, gives it also the form of a chair. This

group occupies every possible situation in revolving round the Pole,

being at one time above it, at another below, now on the left, and then

on the right; but it is always readily found, because, like _Ursa

Major_, to which it is invariably opposite, it never sets. The

Pole-Star is the axle round which these two constellations revolve.

If we now draw, from the stars α and δ in _Ursa Major_, two

lines meeting at the Pole, and afterwards extend them beyond

_Cassiopeia_, they will abut on the square of _Pegasus_,

which is bounded on one of its sides by a group, or series, of three

stars resembling the triangle in _Ursa Major_. These three belong

to the constellation of _Andromeda_ (α, β, and γ), and themselves

abut on another three-orbed group, that of _Perseus_.

The last star in the square of _Perseus_ is also the first α of

_Andromeda_: the other three are named, Algenib, γ; Markab, α;

and Scheat, β. To the north of _Andromeda_ β, and near a small

star, ν, the Arctic traveller will discern an oblong nebula, which

may be compared to the light of a taper seen through a sheet of horn;

this is the first nebula to which any allusion occurs in the annals

of astronomy. In _Perseus_ α, an orb of great brilliancy, on the

prolonged plane of the three principal stars of _Andromeda_,

shines with steady lustre between two less dazzling spheres, and forms

in conjunction with them a concave arc very easily distinguished.

Of this arc we may avail ourselves as a new point of departure. By

prolonging it in the direction of δ, we come to a very bright star of

the first magnitude, the _Goat_. By forming a right angle to this

prolongation in a southerly direction we come to that glorious mass of

stars, not very frequently above the Polar horizon, the _Pleiads_.

These were held in evil repute among the ancients. Their appearance was

supposed to be ominous of violent storms, and Valerius Flaccus speaks

of them as fatal to ships.

[Illustration: NEBULA IN ANDROMEDA.]

Algol, or Medusa’s Head, known to astronomers as Perseus β, belongs

to the singular class of Variable Stars. Instead of shining with a

constant lustre, like other orbs, it is sometimes very brilliant,

and sometimes very pale; passing, apparently, from the second to the

fourth magnitude. According to Goodricke, its period of variation is 2

days 20 hours 48 minutes. This phenomenal character was first observed

by Maraldi in 1694; but the duration of the change was determined by

Goodricke in 1782. For two days and fourteen hours it continues at

its brightest, and shines a glory in the heavens. Then its lustre

suddenly begins to wane, and in three hours and a half is reduced to

its minimum. Its weakest period, however, does not last more than about

fifteen minutes. It then begins to increase in brightness, and in

three hours and a half more it is restored to its full splendour; thus

passing through its succession of changes in 2 days 20 hours 48 minutes.

This singular periodicity suggested to Goodricke the idea of some

opaque body revolving around the star, and by interposing between it

and the Earth cutting off a portion of its light. Algol is one of the

most interesting of the welcome stars which kindle in the long Arctic

darkness.

The star ζ in _Perseus_, situated above the “stormy Pleiads,” is

double; that is, a binary star. ξ in Ursa Major is also a twin-star;

and so is Polaris, the second and smaller star appearing a mere speck

in comparison with its companion.

* * * * *

These are the principal stars and starry groups in the Circumpolar

Regions of the heavens, on one side; let us now turn our attention to

the other.

For this purpose we must again take the Great Bear as our

starting-point. Prolonging the tail in its curvature, the Arctic

traveller notes, at some distance from it, a star of the first

magnitude, Arcturus, or Boötes α. This star, though without any

authority, was at one time considered the nearest to the Earth of all

the starry host. About 10° to the north-east of it is Mirac, or ε

Boötes; one of the most beautiful objects in the heavens, on account of

the contrasted hues, yellow and azure, of the two stars composing it.

Unfortunately, the twin-orbs cannot be distinctly seen except with a

telescope of two hundred magnifying power.

A small ring of stars to the left of Boötes is appropriately known as

_Corona Borealis_, or the Northern Crown.

The constellation of _Boötes_ forms a pentagon; and the stars

composing it are all of the third magnitude, with the exception of

α, which is of the first. Arcturus, as we have said, was anciently

considered the star nearest to the Earth. It is, at all events,

_one_ of the nearest, and belongs to the small number of those

whose distance our astronomers have succeeded in calculating. It is 61

trillions, 712,000 millions of leagues from our planet; a distance of

which we can form no appreciable conception. Moreover, it is a coloured

star; on examining it through a telescope we see that it is of the same

hue as the “red planet Mars.”

By carrying a line from the Polar Star to Arcturus, and raising

a perpendicular in the middle of this line, opposite to _Ursa

Major_, the observer of the Arctic skies will discover one of the

most luminous orbs of night, _Vega_, or α Lyra, near the Milky

Way. The star β Lyra, or Sheliak, is a variable star, changing from

the third to the fifth magnitude, and accomplishing its variation in 6

days 10 hours and 34 minutes. β and ε Lyra are quadruple systems, each

composed of binary or twin-stars.

The line drawn from Arcturus to Vega cuts the constellation of Hercules.

Between Ursa Major and Ursa Minor may be observed a prolonged series

of small stars, coiling, as it were, in a number of convolutions,

and extending towards Vega: these belong to the constellation of the

_Dragon_.

Such are the principal objects which attract the attention of the

traveller, when contemplating the star-studded firmament of the Arctic

night.