CHAPTER XIV.

A GREENLAND BALL.

Monday was occupied by our party in a very agreeable and profitable

manner—by the photographers especially, who, early in the day, took

possession of one of the governor’s rooms, and photographed the whole

town and nearly every body in it. The following day was fixed upon

for our departure; but the only pilot in the place was otherwise

employed, and we were forced to wait until he was ready for us. In

short, he was bringing in another vessel, and one of infinitely more

importance to Julianashaab than any number of _Panthers_. It was the

one ship of the year, a ship bringing to the colonists their supplies

for the next twelve months, and was to return home laden with the

wealth which they had gathered.

I do not remember any thing in all my experience in Greenland that

has left a stronger impression upon my mind than the arrival of this

ship, nor any thing which made the isolation of the Danes who dwelt

there so apparent. In these days of telegraphs, and steamships,

and quick transit everywhere, it is rather painful to contemplate

civilized, refined, and Christian families being a whole year without

once hearing from the world. To be sure, it has its advantages, for

they are saved many annoyances, and are spared the everlasting bore

of writing letters for the mail. But then, what hopes and fears the

mail must come charged with when it comes but once a year! with what

almost terrible anxiety they must look for news from home! what

changes may have taken place in the year gone by! what may Death

not have done with the loved ones in that long interval! Fathers and

mothers, brothers, sisters, and friends, are sending tokens by that

winged messenger across the sea; but what if they should be sad ones,

and not those they hoped for?

When the announcement was made that the ship was in the offing, the

excitement was at first intense, and the hours of the day while the

ship was coming up the fiord, with baffling winds, were most anxious

ones. Of course, there were many exceptions. Indeed, the people

generally could have no other possible interest in the arrival of

the ship than the mere selfish one of what they would gain thereby.

I speak only of those Danish residents who were bred in Denmark, and

whose friends dwell there now. To these, the arrival had something in

it of a painful character, mingled with anticipated pleasure. Hope

and fear seemed alternately to prevail in the breasts of the families

of the governor, the pastor, and the doctor.

Meanwhile, every boat in the settlement had gone down to assist

in towing up the ship; and at length the sound of splashing oars

was heard upon the still night air; then voices were distinguished

calling to each other or issuing the word of command. Soon, above

the rocky point of the harbor, we saw the tops of two masts, with

their black yards, creeping nearer and nearer; then a vessel burst

in view, through the brilliant moonlight. The ship was now pointed

for the harbor, and was coming slowly up beside us, towed by half a

dozen boats, and surrounded by a swarm of men in their little kayaks,

shouting, talking, and gesticulating, in their exuberant happiness.

I stood upon the _Panther’s_ deck watching this scene of animation,

until the anchor had gone into the phosphorescent sea with its

unearthly “cr-r-r-r-r-r-r-up.” The mooring-lines were soon all out

and made fast. The crowd of people then left the sea, and no sounds

were heard but the orders on board the newly-arrived vessel for

stowing the sails and making every thing snug on board. Then I heard

people getting down into a boat; the oars were splashing again, and,

as I traced the streak of phosphorescent light that trailed away and

lengthened as the boat receded, I knew that it was carrying ashore

the mail, with all its freight of words.

The vessel proved to be the _Tjalfe_, one of the best of the

Company’s vessels—a brig of three hundred tons, and as taut and tidy

as a man-of-war. I had a visit from her master in the morning, and

was rejoiced to find in him an old friend, to whom, in 1855, when I

had escaped with Dr. Kane from the abandoned brig _Advance_, I was

indebted for many serviceable attentions—Captain Ammondsen, one of

the most tried and trusty servants of the Royal Company.

Upon going ashore in the morning with Captain Ammondsen, I was

pleased to learn that every body’s letters brought good news. We

found them in a wilderness of papers, and books, and packages,

containing every conceivable thing that thoughtful friends would

think of sending to cheer and gladden lives that must be at times

overwhelmed with loneliness. It was very touching to see these

evidences of remembrance scattered about, and very gratifying to be

a partaker of the general joy. Photographs were there by the dozen;

one of a little stranger that had come into the world within the

twelvemonth, and sent his compliments and his picture; another, of a

newly-married couple, who looked peculiarly happy for people who had

been married nearly six months, and sent their picture in proof of

it; another was from an aged mother; another, from a brother who had

gone into the army; another, from a boy at school. I went from house

to house, and everywhere it was the same. Happiness was universal;

and it really seemed as if solitude might be “sweet society,” if

retirement brought such occasional bliss: only, the retirement of a

year for the sake of the emotion is a little too much for ordinary

mortals.

As for the people in general, they were delighted beyond expression.

Nothing but the presence of actual starvation could possibly have

induced any hunter to go out at such a time. Shouting and singing

were the order of the day. The harbor was alive with their cunning

little kayaks, shooting hither and thither, the boatmen indulging

themselves in the most ludicrous speech and gesture, by way of

exhibiting their satisfaction, not only at the arrival of the Danish

ship, but that two vessels were in the harbor at one time—a sight

which they had never seen before. Then, to cap the climax, when the

evening came they would have a dance. Every body was invited, and, of

course, none of the sailors of the two ships made any objection to a

frolic of that nature. They had not shared the people’s satisfaction

in the least; they would be glad enough, on the other hand, to be

anywhere else almost; but a dance! what sailor could resist that? And

as for our officers and passengers, all were alike ready for a little

fun, to break the monotony of life, either as actors or spectators,

and willing to take a hand in any thing that might be turning up.

I asked the governor if there was nothing to be feared from letting

two ships’ companies loose among the peaceful villagers, where

there were no police to take rude fellows into custody? “Oh no,” he

answered, “not in the least; let them come. If the men are rude, the

women will take care of themselves, I promise you; and if not, they

have big brothers plenty. Have no fear; there are no more modest

women in the world than these Greenland girls, and sailors are

notoriously quick to detect honesty, and, when found, to respect it.”

So a dance was arranged for, or a “ball,” as our people facetiously

called it. The carpenter-shop was secured for the occasion, and a

neighboring shed for a supper-room; and the preparations went on

all the afternoon. The orchestra of Julianashaab (consisting of a

dilapidated keg with heads of tanned seal-hide, and the cracked

fiddle already mentioned) was secured, and all was ready by eight

o’clock, when I went ashore to see the opening.

The decorations of the ball-room in the way of flags, and Danish and

American bunting generally, were astonishing to the natives. Candles

were stuck around the room in reckless profusion. Maria had about a

bushel of coffee, which she was roasting and boiling in the shed. The

whole village was in commotion. Women in red boots, women in white

boots, women in blue, and green, and yellow boots, were hurrying to

the ball-room from every quarter. They had all turned out in their

very best, and some of the toilets were, to say the least, stunning.

Boots, beads, pantaloons, and ribbons were all of the gayest and

the finest. The maidens and matrons of Julianashaab sustained the

credit of their sex; and they showed, too, that they were conscious

of appearing to better advantage than usual; for they looked about

with less timidity than on ordinary occasions, as if to say, “Look

at me _now_, and see what I _can_ do when a great occasion makes it

worth my while.” Several of them were pretty, and quite stylish, and

certainly this is saying much, for their peculiar style of costume

is rather trying to the ordinary female figure. As for dancing, no

costume could possibly be more suitable, and, when on the floor,

its advantages were quite apparent, for I have rarely seen dancers

that were more light and graceful in their movements. I would not,

however, be understood to recommend the dress for general adoption by

dancing girls.

The confidence with which the ladies approached the ball-room seemed

to forsake them when they had got inside and there awaited the men;

for the moment they had passed the door they darted to the remotest

corner, where they all huddled together as close as they could

pack themselves, like a flock of frightened sheep run one by one

into a pen. The men did not keep them long in this state of timid

embarrassment; but they seemed, however, to be in no very particular

hurry, sauntering along quite leisurely, with their hands in their

pockets, and short clay pipes in their mouths. Most of them were

capless, and none of them seemed to have thought of “dressing” for

the occasion, except the Parliamentarians, who, out of respect for

their own dignity (as I suppose), wore the official scarlet on their

heads, royal emblems, gold lace, and all—a top-covering which, taken

in connection with their Guernsey frocks, broad suspenders, and huge

seal-skin pantaloons, coming up under the arm-pits, made a style of

official get-up not, I fancy, to be seen in any other country. Yet

the lord chancellor wears his frizzled wig, and why not they their

scarlet caps?

The sailors came ashore from the two ships, jabbering away at each

other quite frantically, in Danish and English; and the officers and

passengers came likewise.

But where was Concordia the while, and where was the Prince? for they

were to open the ball. The question was asked repeatedly, and as

often remained unanswered. Whispers began to pass around the room.

Had there been an elopement? Marcus was there, trying hard to look

unconcerned by smoking a short clay pipe, and keeping his hands in

their usual place of safety. Every body seemed to look to him for

explanation.

At length the mystery was cleared up, and very suddenly, for the

Prince came bouncing into the room holding Concordia by the hand. The

arrival created a sensation. Concordia was literally dazzling. The

Prince had clearly been assisting at her toilet. She was covered with

beads and jewelry. A magnificent plaid shawl which the Prince had

sported through the voyage, and which had two days before suddenly

disappeared, now reappeared in the shape of a jaunty jacket, trimmed

with eider-down, on Concordia’s graceful shoulders. And then, what

shining pantaloons of the softest silver seal-skin! what spotless,

snow-white boots inclosed her dainty little feet! But the Prince—ah!

what a stunning get-up, to be sure! Sea-boots matching Concordia’s

for length, if not in purity of color; a bright scarf across his

shoulders and around his waist; a Scotch cap, with a dissipated

feather in it—what a picture for a ball-room! No wonder that Marcus

grew several shades lighter in color; no wonder that his pipe fell

out of his mouth and broke in pieces on the floor; no wonder that

he stole out of the room as if the place were too hot for him, and

should show himself no more in the ball-room that night!

“Strike up!” shouted the Prince, bringing down a sea-boot on the

floor. “Rat-tat-a-tat” went the keg, “cr-r-r-p cr-r-r-p cr-r-r-p”

went the cracked fiddle, and then both went in to do their best and

win; but the keg, having got the lead, kept it, and the cracked

fiddle was nowhere. When both had become well warmed up in the

race, the Prince brought down his sea-boot again, making the old

carpenter-shop fairly quake and tremble; then, with a shout which

was probably taken for an American war-whoop, he seized Concordia by

the waist; others followed his example, and never did “Pop goes the

Weasel” do duty before to such a whirl as followed.

[Illustration: CONCORDIA DRESSED FOR THE BALL.]

The ball was opened! The Prince and Concordia had gracefully done

their duty, and satisfied the public expectation. They had given

countenance to the revelry, and the revelry went on. To say that it

never stopped, would be to exaggerate; but to say that it never would

have stopped had there been something of what Dick Swiveller called

“the rosy,” might possibly be, to speak the truth, within bounds. The

revellers certainly made “a night of it,” if a night ever was made in

a Greenland summer. As it was, the coffee had all given out, a whole

box of tobacco had disappeared, the keg had resolved itself into its

original staves, and the cracked fiddle had but one string left, and

that had been twice tied, when the ladies, with their beautiful boots

all knocked out of shape, began to drag their weary bodies off to

their huts, and the sailors, with their coats on their arms, hailed

for boats.

Meanwhile, much consternation had been produced by a report which was

set in circulation, that a Parliamentarian had danced himself away,

all but his cap; and a girl had, in like manner, disappeared, all

but a ribbon. The consternation was allayed, however, when it was

discovered that the two had stolen away together, and were getting

married at the parson’s.

Marcus never appeared again in the ball-room after his discomfiture;

but I saw him crawling in the shadow of a rock, where he could look

through the door and catch an occasional glimpse of his lady-love

as she swung round in the Prince’s arms. He beckoned me to him, and

whispered in my ear, pointing to the gay and festive room from which

the bright light was streaming out into the night, “He no good;

me” (pointing to his breast) “son of head man of Bungetak.” Saying

which, he smiled in a self-satisfied and “bland-like” manner, and

immediately drew himself deep within the shadow of the rock. Then I

went my way on board, marvelling how very much a man was half-savage

Marcus.

As this was my last visit ashore, I had bidden my friends good-bye,

after exchanging some little souvenirs with them. Early in the

morning the anchor was tripped, and we were away. The little town

in the wilderness was at our backs, and we were threading once more

the winding fiord among the islands and icebergs, rejoiced at having

seen a spot of earth so full of romantic associations; had beheld its

ruins,

“Trod upon them, and had set

Our foot upon a rev’rend history.”

“But these recede. Above me are the Alps,

The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls

Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps,

And throned Eternity in icy halls

Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls

The avalanche—the thunderbolt of snow!

All that expands the spirit, yet appalls,

Gather around these summits, as to show

How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man below.”

_Childe Harold._

_PART THE SECOND._

PALACES OF NATURE.

CHAPTER I.

ICE AND SNOW.

In the previous chapters we have traced the history of the

Norman-Greenlanders from their first appearance to their decay. We

have witnessed their early struggles, have observed them in their

prosperity, and have stood beside the ruined edifices erected by

their hands, and read there a mournful story of a fallen race.

Upon the causes of their fall we have, however, barely speculated.

Among them all, none possess an interest to equal that one mighty

cause which has been silently working there for countless ages.

Beside those determined Northmen, Nature herself was erecting

edifices which, by destroying the life-giving heat of the atmosphere,

paved the way for poverty and death. With just propriety we may call

these edifices palaces of Nature; and now to examine them will be

our task. To do that, we leave the fiord of “the deserted homes” and

steam into one that lies to the north of it. This is called the fiord

of Sermitsialik, which signifies “the place of ice.”

And here we will witness phenomena such as are not to be witnessed

elsewhere in the whole known world. These phenomena exhibit results

grand beyond any thing in or upon the earth, not excepting the

earthquake and volcano.

This fiord of the ice is about of equal length with that of the

“deserted homes.” The two are separated from each other by a

mountain-ridge which culminates in the Redkammen. The same ridge

continues to the south, and, reaching the sea again, incloses the

region of Ericsfiord, and the little earthly paradise where dwelt the

kings of the sea in ancient times.

The mountain-ridge which thus encircles Ericsfiord like a horse-shoe

has no break in it, and it is therefore a barrier. Northward of it

there is another great ridge, and between the two there is a wide

valley. This valley comes down to the sea at the head of the fiord of

Sermitsialik, but it is not green like the valleys that lie beneath

the shelter of the ridge of the Redkammen, but is filled with ice.

This ice is in places more than a thousand feet in depth, and from

two to four miles wide—occupying the valley completely.

The ice which thus fills the valley is called a glacier.

_Ice-stream_, however, the Danes distinguish it, thus marking the

difference between it and the _eis blinken_, which we call the _mer

de glace_, or ice-sea.

The ice-sea is the great reservoir of ice which covers the interior

of Greenland, and the glacier of the fiord of Sermitsialik is but

a branch—a stream—that descends from it through the valley to the

fiord. It is one of many hundreds of similar streams which are to be

seen upon the Greenland coast, and by which the precipitations from

the atmosphere are discharged into the ocean. They correspond to the

rivers of other lands. These precipitations are in the form of snow.

The air, which dispenses heat and cold, drought and moisture, life

and death to the uttermost ends of the earth, is not neglectful of

Greenland. The air soaks up the vapor from the sea, and drops it as

snow-flakes upon the sides and summits of the Greenland mountains.

These snow-flakes harden to ice, and the process goes on until the

mountains are covered, as Mont Blanc of the Alps is covered, and the

ice flowing down their sides has filled the lower lands between them.

In many places this process has so long continued, that the valleys

between the mountains here and there have become level with the

summits of the mountains themselves, and there is a desert waste of

whiteness, smooth almost as the sea, as void of life as Sahara, and

more dreary to look upon.

I ascended once to such a level plane, reaching eighty miles from

the coast, at an altitude of five thousand feet. This ascent was

upon the glacier, at an angle, when I first set out, of about six

degrees with the horizon; but afterwards, upon the _mer de glace_,

it was by a scarcely perceptible acclivity. Unhappily I was set upon

by a tempest. The temperature sank to thirty-four degrees below

zero, having steadily fallen to that point as I climbed higher and

higher in the air. Nothing could possibly be more terrible than a

wind under such conditions, except, perhaps, a furnace-blast. Mercury

hardened almost to the consistency of lead. The moisture of the

breath froze on the beard in solid lumps of ice. The nose and cheeks

grew white, and life was in danger. The drifting snow which came

whirling along the icy plain was like the sand-clouds of the desert,

which oftentimes overwhelm travellers. There was no chance for life

except in flight. I was accompanied by five persons, who were all

less accustomed to such exposure than myself. We turned our backs to

the wind, and descended as rapidly as possible to the level of the

sea, where the temperature was zero, at which degree of cold life is

supported without inconvenience.

It would be difficult to inflict upon a man greater torture than

to expose him to such a storm. The effect, after a time, is to

make life undesirable. First comes alarm, then pain, then lack of

perception. When one dies from freezing, it is the brain which first

suffers eclipse. True, the cold has not solidified it, but has made

it torpid, like certain animals in the winter-time, with which one

may do any thing and they will not resist, being quite incapable of

receiving an impression. One of my comrades said, “I can not go any

farther; I do not want to; I am sleepy; I can not walk.” Another

said, “I am no longer cold; I am quite warm again; shall we not

camp?” This proved that there was the greater need of haste and

exertion, if we would not all be destroyed.

The whole continent of Greenland is, say, 1200 miles long by 600

broad. This gives 720,000 square miles of superficial area, and,

assuming the ice, which covers the greater part of it, to have the

very moderate average depth of 500 feet, we have a grand total of

70,000 cubic miles of ice—a result which seems almost fabulous.

It is not uninteresting to know that all this vast accumulation of

ice is the property of Denmark. And there are probably few persons

who understand fully the loss we suffered when we failed to purchase

from that country the earthquake island of St. Thomas; for it was

then in contemplation, should the Senate ratify the treaty of

annexation, to open negotiations for buying up all these Greenland

glaciers and the Iceland Yokuls besides. And there can be little

doubt that the Danish king would have gladly sold out the whole of

them. A king who does not appreciate the value of an earthquake can

hardly be expected to bestow his confidence on glaciers.

CHAPTER II.

GLACIERS AND ICEBERGS.

Before proceeding with our narrative we will dwell a little upon

the great phenomena of nature to which the previous chapter called

attention.

We have seen that the great sea of ice which covers Greenland,

and makes it the Land of Desolation that it is, is formed from

snow-flakes. That formation takes place only in certain conditions of

temperature, which of course vary with the degrees of latitude.

The formation of glaciers has been for a long time a fruitful source

of speculation among men of science. Into these we will not enter at

any length, for my purpose is rather to give the results of personal

observation and incidents of adventure, than to recite either the

facts or reflections of others. Yet a few words of discussion may not

be here out of place.

Every reader is aware that in the upper regions of the atmosphere the

moisture which is precipitated on the mountain-top assumes the form

of snow, while down at the mountain’s base it is rain. In descending

a mountain nothing is more common than to pass from one condition to

the other—first a storm of dry snow, then moist snow, then water. In

Greenland the snow falls dry. The mountains are lofty, and it never

rains upon them at all. A fresh layer of snow is laid on every year.

Should this continue uninterruptedly, of course the mountains would

rise to an indefinite extent. Enormous quantities break loose and

roll down the mountain-sides in avalanches; but this is but a small

amount in comparison with the deposit. The glaciers are the means of

drainage of these great snow-fields. These snow-fields are turned to

ice by a very simple process, and the ice flows to the sea.

The surface snow on the mountain is white, dry, and light. Deeper

down, it is hard; still deeper, it is clear transparent ice. The

clear ice which forms such grand and beautiful arches of blue and

green in the glaciers as seen along the Greenland coast, was once

powdery snow upon the loftiest mountains, probably in the very

interior of the continent. The transformation is an interesting

process, and the movement of the ice itself from the mountain to the

sea is one of the strange mysteries of nature. With respect to the

former, Professor Tyndall has stated the case so clearly that I can

not refrain from quoting the following passage from his excellent

work entitled “The Glaciers of the Alps:”

“Could our vision penetrate into the body of the glacier, we

should find that the change from white to blue essentially

consists in the gradual expulsion of the air which was originally

entangled in the meshes of the fallen snow. Whiteness always

results from the intimate and irregular mixture of air and a

transparent solid; a crushed diamond would resemble snow. If

we pound the more transparent rock-salt into powder, we have

a substance as white as the whitest culinary salt; and the

colorless glass vessel which holds the salt would also, if

pounded, give a powder as white as the salt itself. It is a

law of light that, in passing from one substance to another

possessing a different power of refraction, a portion of it is

always reflected. Hence, when light falls upon a transparent

solid mixed with air, at each passage of light from the air to

the solid and from the solid to the air, a portion of it is

reflected; and in the case of a powder, this reflection occurs so

frequently that the passage of the light is practically cut off.

Thus, from the mixture of two perfectly transparent substances we

obtain an opaque one; from the intimate mixture of air and water

we obtain foam. Clouds owe their opacity to the same principle;

and the condensed steam of a locomotive casts a shadow upon the

fields adjacent to the line, because the sunlight is wasted in

echoes at the innumerable limiting surfaces of water and air.

“The snow which falls upon high mountain-eminences has often a

temperature far below the freezing-point of water. Such snow is

_dry_, and if it always continued so the formation of a glacier

from it would be impossible. The first action of the summer’s

sun is to raise the temperature of the superficial snow to 32°,

and afterwards to melt it. The water thus formed percolates

through the colder mass underneath, and this I take to be the

first active agency in expelling the air entangled in the snow.

But as the liquid trickles over the surfaces of granules colder

than itself, it is partially deposited in a solid form on the

surfaces, thus augmenting the size of the granules, and cementing

them together. When the mass thus formed is examined, the air

within it is found as _round bubbles_. Now it is manifest that

the air caught in the irregular interstices of the snow can have

no tendency to assume this form so long as the snow remains

solid; but the process to which I have referred—the saturation

of the lower portions of the snow by the water produced by the

melting of the superficial portions—enables the air to form

itself into globules, and to give the ice of the _névé_ its

peculiar character. Thus we see that, though the sun can not get

directly at the deeper portions of the snow, by liquefying the

upper layer he charges it with heat, and makes it a messenger to

the cold subjacent mass.

“The frost of the succeeding winter may, I think, or may not,

according to circumstances, penetrate through this layer, and

solidify the water which it still retains in its interstices. If

the winter set in with clear frosty weather, the penetration will

probably take place; but if heavy snow occur at the commencement

of winter, thus throwing a protective covering over the _névé_,

freezing to any great depth may be prevented. Mr. Huxley’s

idea seems to be quite within the range of possibility, that

water-cells may be transmitted from the origin of the glacier to

its end, retaining their contents always liquid.”

We have thus briefly explained the process by which the mountain-snow

changes its character, and, without actually melting and again

freezing, the clearest ice may be formed from it, and go on

accumulating, layer by layer, to an almost inconceivable extent.

I allude now to mountains generally, for Greenland is not the only

ice-factory of the world. That country has by no means a monopoly

of the business, for nearly all parts of the earth have their great

reservoirs of ice formed in the same manner from snow as the ice

of Greenland, only with this difference, that the climate and the

temperature necessary to the formation of glaciers from snow is

higher above the sea-level in most other places than in Greenland.

This climate and temperature are found above what is called the

“snow-line”—that is to say, a line above which the snow does not

disappear in the summer, and is therefore perpetual. At the equator

this snow-line is of course higher than either to the north or south

of that point. Towards both poles it descends steadily. For instance,

on the two great equatorial mountains of Chimborazo and Popocatapetl,

it is about 15,000 feet; above which all is ice and snow, and below

which vegetation, beginning with an arctic type, passes through all

the stages of climate, until at its base we find the rich vegetation

of the tropics. Frequently glaciers from that upper region descend

into the lower regions of vegetation to a considerable distance, but

they are gradually melted away at the end, and can not, therefore,

go beyond a certain line, terminating in, or rather changing from

streams of ice to rivers of water.

[Illustration]

By the time we have gone so far north as Greenland we have discovered

a great depression in this snow-line. In latitude 61° north, I have

observed it to be 2400 feet. I have found it to be 1700 feet at

latitude 69°; at latitude 78°, it was 500; and at between 80° and 82°

the snow-line appeared to touch the sea, having no belt whatever for

vegetation.

The piling up of these mountain-snows is like the processes of a

geological epoch in the steady growth by deposit. There is this

difference, however, that ice formed in this manner is not, like

rock, hard and unyielding, but, like putty, is, in a measure,

ductile. In fact, it _flows_ downward, and the superabundant

accumulations find their way thus to the ocean. It is estimated

that the snows of the Alps would increase the altitude of those

mountains four thousand feet in a thousand years but for this strange

ductile property of ice. As we have before seen, an ice-stream is,

in effect, a frozen river, flowing at a very slow, but still at a

very perceptible rate. The rate of flow in the Alps, variously

estimated by different explorers and at different places, where

there were different degrees of descent, is from six to fourteen

inches daily. In Greenland the rate, as determined by me, is about

from five to eight inches daily. The Greenland glaciers possess

another marked difference from those of the Alps. The ends of the

latter, descending into a lower and warmer level, are melted off, and

disappear as the end of a tallow candle would disappear if held near

a hot stove. Before this takes place, the ice, descending through

the valley, conforms to all its inequalities, and the actual river

which ultimately takes its rise from the glacier front does not more

readily mould itself to the rocky bed over which it flows—widening

and contracting, deepening or shoaling as the river-bed expands and

narrows, or increases and diminishes its declination. An ice-stream,

or glacier, like the river, has therefore its cascades, its rapids,

its broad lagoons (so to speak), and its smooth, steady, even flow.

It carries rocks along with it upon its surface (rocks which have

fallen upon it from the cliffs along its sides), as the river carries

sticks of wood and, when the ice melts, these rocks fall in front,

and, rolling down the valley, form _moraines_. But with the Greenland

glaciers the result is different. The end of the glacier never

descends into a level that is warm enough to melt away the end of

it, as in the Alps, but it reaches the sea in all the glory of its

cold and crystal hardness. When this happens, its end penetrates the

water, and makes a coast-line of ice. The temperature of Greenland,

down even to the water-level, is too low to allow of any considerable

melting, but the result is the same. A fragment breaks off from the

glacier and floats away upon the ocean, and is drifted to and fro

with the ocean currents. Rocks which may have fallen upon the glacier

from the cliffs are inclosed within it, or are carried upon the top

of it.

The fragment which has been broken off, as above described, is known

as an _iceberg_. This iceberg is dissolved but slowly as it drifts

south with the arctic current, often reaching as far as the Banks

of Newfoundland before it disappears entirely. Often it endangers

vessels crossing the ocean, and it deposits at the bottom of the

sea its burden of rock and sand, as it melts down. The Banks of

Newfoundland have received constant accessions in this way. It was in

like manner that those great boulders which we find upon plains, like

our Western prairies, were deposited at a period when they were the

bed of the ocean, and icebergs drifted that way from the Arctics.

And thus it will be seen that the Alpine glaciers and the Greenland

glaciers, although disappearing by different direct processes, come

to the same final end—the mountain-snows reach their natural home in

the sea at last.

Many of the Greenland glaciers are of amazing extent. There is one

sixty miles wide. Its front is in the water, and it is washed by the

waves like any other coast-line. The rock-cliffs on either side of it

are very lofty, from five hundred to a thousand feet. The ice-cliffs

are from fifty to three hundred. Below the surface of the water this

wall of ice extends downward to the bottom, and in places the depth

is over two thousand feet. This great glacier, the largest known,

lies at the head of Smith’s Sound, and was discovered by Dr. Kane,

who called it the Great Humboldt Glacier.

Another, twenty miles across, may be seen in North Greenland, in the

fiord of Aukpadlartok. This I have surveyed, and shall have occasion

to refer to it hereafter. There are several that are five miles over;

others two and three, and indeed of every size, down to the very

diminutive one that might be called an ice rivulet. Many of them have

reached the sea, as already stated—some of them ages ago, others

very recently; others have not yet flowed so far; but in all cases

the flow is steady, and the accumulation within the inland reservoir

goes on. The flow of a glacier may be likened to the great flood

which sweeps down the valley from a broken dam. Though it comes very

slowly, it comes very surely. It is irresistible. It moulds itself

to the hill, it swells up over an acclivity, it pours over a cliff,

and pursues its course with a strength and impulse that is grand and

terrible to behold. And it is not noiseless, for its movement is

attended with constant breaks, sometimes extending through its entire

body. The sound occasioned thereby is truly appalling. The glacier

is, therefore, often an object of real terror. The whole region is,

in fact, full of startling wonders and novelties of nature. Its

history is replete with violent convulsions. Once those were of fire,

for the country shows evidence of volcanic heat; now they are of

frost. The Land of Desolation is worthy of more consideration than

it has ever yet received from the learned and curious, or even the

adventurous.

CHAPTER III.

THE SOLITARY HOUSE OF PETER MOTZFELDT.

It is time now that I should recur again to the _Panther_, which we

left steaming out of Ericsfiord.

When the revellers from the Julianashaab ball appeared after

breakfast we were well away at sea. Most of them had either forgotten

or had never been aware of the intention of the captain to sail so

early in the day. When, however, they discovered where the steamer’s

head was pointed, they were well pleased with the sudden change,

and found a lively satisfaction in the prospect of new fields for

adventure; all except the Prince, who was (or at least so affected)

much grieved that no opportunity was allowed him to go ashore after

the ball. The captain may, indeed, have anticipated some possible

mischief to the young gentleman, and so lifted his anchor when all

were sound asleep. What, indeed, might possibly have happened may

be readily guessed from an account of what actually transpired,

according to our sagaman, who wrote the following description of it:

“It was a thousand pities, sure, to wound a tender youth in his

most tender spot; the ship had sailed three hours when first he

found that she was steaming off at least ‘six knot.’ The youth was

furious, vowed he would go back, and cried, in anguish, ‘Launch me

that kayak.’ The kayak was the pilot’s, so he failed to sacrifice his

very wretched life; then, after groaning once or twice, he hailed the

steward: ‘Here, man, as you love your wife, go quick and bring me

paper, pen, and ink. I’ll write a letter; then my will, I think.’

“Sad are these partings to the virgin heart—I mean the heart that

never felt decay; when all the life has been the sunny part; no

shadows flung into the gladsome day; and hard, indeed, it was upon

our Prince; it was his first affair, and made him wince. No wonder!

But the ink and pen were here; and so our hero grew more reconciled;

he dashed away—they say it was a tear; and wrote, and wrote, and grew

exceeding wild. Here’s what it was, and, if you’re so inclined, you

may learn something of a tortured mind:

“‘Concordia, dear! Concordia, dear! My heart is with thee on the

lonely isle; I’m forced to say adieu to thee, I fear, for I am

carried off; I slept the while; I did but sleep that I might dream

of thee, and, sleeping, off they carried me to sea. Concordia, dear!

Concordia, dear! Thou only on this earth my heart hast got. Oh,

listen to me while I shed a tear, of which I have shed enough to fill

a pot. I’d fill a dozen could I go to thee; then from this lonely

isle away we’d flee, o’er the glad waters of the deep blue sea; our

thoughts quite boundless, and our hopes quite glad. Those seal-skin

breeches! oh, Concordia! they are bewitching, and they make me mad;

and then that top-knot on thy head so fair, I’ve yards of ribbon for

thy raven hair. My messmates all, hard-hearted fellows they! do call

me spooney when my pain they see. Ah! who can tell my sufferings,

thou away? I’ll ever be a faithful spoon to thee. My image in thy

bosom once install, I’ll take them then, ay, breeches, boots, and

all.’

“Which, and much more such stuff outlandish, our hero wrote unto his

lady-love; doing it in very bad Greenlandish; he’d billed and cooed

with her like turtle-dove; learning thereby a string of _koos_ and

_kahs_, and these he emphasized with ohs and ahs. A language which

all maidens understand, of each and every nationality; you may write

Greek and Choctaw with the hand; a maid will comprehend a sigh, you

see; and every lover, be he green as grass, will wisely sigh, if he

would catch his lass.

“The letter written, then the pilot went, bearing the missive with

abundant warning, to take it safe and go where he was sent, and

give it to the maiden in the morning. It must have touched her,

Heaven only knows! the steamer steamed away; and thus it goes!—The

tender-hearted must be torn away—sometimes it is ‘stern parent,’

sometimes steam. In this particular case you’d surely say, ‘The

Prince is certain now to kick the beam.’ Oh no, not he! The youth but

went below, slept, woke, then cried, ‘Now for another go!’”

And another “go” he had, and we all had, sure enough, but of a very

different character from the Julianashaab “go.”

By keeping well inside the islands, which almost everywhere form a

barrier along the Greenland coast, we managed to escape, in a great

measure, the ice which had so much annoyed and alarmed us when we

first “made” the Land of Desolation. Towards evening, our pilot, who

had been on the bridge most of the day, approached the captain, and

said:

“Captain, you see?”

“Yes,” said the captain.

“Two icebergs there—go between.”

“Yes,” said the captain.

“Starboard then”—explaining further the route into the port—“no, hit

rock—go for iceberg—port, no deep water—starboard, plenty ice—port,

small—starboard, plenty—let go—Kraksimeut—you see?”

“Yes, pilot,” said the captain, “certainly, clear as mud;” then,

addressing himself to another quarter, he cried out, “For’ad, there!”

“Ay, ay, sir.”

“Lay out on the jib-boom and keep a sharp look-out for rocks. Stand

by to heave the lead.”

“Ay, ay, sir.”

And now, what with dodging first one way and then the other, and with

taking the ice first on one bow and then on the other, with shaving

the rocks most uncomfortably close, they managed, between the pilot

and the captain, to give the _Panther_ a pretty lively time of it,

until we had finally come into a very narrow basin of water, where,

in apparent danger of running our jib-boom into a solitary house, the

order was given to “let go”—and we were at anchor in the harbor of

Kraksimeut.

There was a great number of people about the solitary house. So far

as appearances went, Kraksimeut comprised this one house only, and it

was but one story high. Over it floated a Danish flag about the size

of a pocket-handkerchief.

“My house,” said our pilot. “Governor’s house, Kraksimeut—me

Governor.”

Our pilot was Peter Motzfeldt, already mentioned in a previous

chapter; and a right noble fellow is Peter Motzfeldt, if he does live

in a solitary house, and _is_ governor of Kraksimeut.

Kraksimeut stands upon a very small island, on the very outer

extremity of the dividing ridge between the fiord which we had left

and the fiord for which we were bound. In order to reach it, we have

sailed north-west; to reach our next halting-place in the other

fiord, we are to sail north-east. It is a good half-way station, and

we resolve to spend the night there.

Peter Motzfeldt invites us ashore, and ashore we go to the

government-house. The people we see are like those of Julianashaab;

they smell of fish exceedingly. There is not another white man

except Peter Motzfeldt. His wife is there, but she is a native, and

has the inevitable native boots, and seal-skin pantaloons, and short

jacket, and horn-like top-knot of hair, tied about with a profuse

quantity of ribbons. Peter Motzfeldt’s twenty odd children are there,

including the two boat-loads heretofore mentioned, who had gone down

to Julianashaab to see the sights, and have returned in anticipation

of our arrival.

The scenery around this solitary house is dreary enough; there are

only faint traces of vegetation in the crevasses of the rocks, and

there is a glimpse of water only to be seen here and there among the

icebergs and islands; but there is a golden sky above the setting

sun, and golden splendors dropped from heaven upon the sparkling

jewelry of the sea.

I took a walk about the island, and came back to the solitary house,

after all my comrades had assembled there, to encounter a great

surprise. Instead of finding this only white inhabitant of the place

“Steeped in poverty to the very lips,”

he was rejoicing in abundance. Eatables and drinkables were on the

table in great profusion; pipes, tobacco, and even cigars, were

circulating freely, and a livelier party than that which greeted me

on my arrival would be difficult to imagine. They had literally taken

possession of all there was to see of Kraksimeut, including Motzfeldt

himself, whose genial face beamed upon me through the mists which

arose from a steaming punch-bowl; and, as he stretched out a hand to

give me welcome, he bowled down at least half a dozen bottles.

“Have a cigar?” said the Prince, passing along a box out of a smoky

cloud. “Capital Havanas! plenty of the same sort left.”

The Prince was clearly quite at home, as usual, and was already

looking out generally for the public pleasures; for he continued:

“Lively times expected. Old chap there has sent for girls, and we’re

to have a dance.”

And sure enough he had; for the girls came streaming in presently,

and there was a repetition of the Julianashaab “break-down” (I know

no better title by which to distinguish it). Of course, the Prince

managed to pick out the prettiest girl, who had the advantage of

being the daughter of Motzfeldt, and, by a pleasant coincidence,

bore also the name of Concordia. This one had black hair and eyes,

however. But, since there did not appear to be any Marcus to torment,

the young gentleman clearly preferred the girl (with the auburn hair)

he had left behind him.

Kraksimeut is one of the dozen principal outposts of the Julianashaab

district, and the most remote one on the north; and it is, besides,

one of the most productive. Its products are exclusively (if we

except a little eider-down), the skins and blubber of seals; and

during the season it is, according to all accounts, a very lively

place. Peter Motzfeldt gets his pay out of the colony’s production,

upon which he receives five per cent. This, added to his salary (one

hundred Danish dollars), makes his income over a thousand dollars of

that money annually, and sometimes reaches fifteen hundred, which

equals about seven hundred and fifty of ours. Upon this he has lived

happily, as he says, and I do not doubt it, for fifty years. He

has raised two families, and provides now for twenty-four persons,

himself and wife included. This wife is a most tidy person, a native,

with a slight mixture of Danish blood, and dresses always in the

native costume. Indeed, there is not, and never was, a petticoat in

Kraksimeut. From pitying Peter Motzfeldt, as I did at first, I began

in the end to wonder whether he was not a most sensible fellow after

all, when I discovered that his income was more than sufficient for

his needs, and that even, although his family was large, he lacked

for nothing that he wished to send for from Copenhagen. Really, it

is not so bad after all, to be the solitary white man, in a solitary

house, on a solitary island.

Besides the Motzfeldt family, there are about forty other

inhabitants, all natives, who live in the usual native huts, that are

scarcely distinguishable in the general waste of rock.

I found that an American had been at Kraksimeut before, and that

Motzfeldt preserved the most lively recollection of the “Americana,”

who had taught him the little English he knew, and instructed him

to sing “Yank Doodle” and “Hail Columby,” which he repeated for us

with variations not originally made and provided. This American was

Colonel Shaffner, who some years ago, after the first failure of the

Atlantic Cable, interested himself to establish a line by way of

the Faröe Islands, Iceland, Greenland, and Labrador; and it was a

pity that his scheme was impossible of success. You would think so

at least if you heard Peter Motzfeldt praise him; and I doubt not

that he well deserved it all, for there have been few more spirited

enterprises set on foot this many a day. I say it was impossible

of success; not that the cable might not be laid and the shore-end

secured, but it would be simply absurd to think of keeping it in a

sea where icebergs ground in two or three hundred fathoms water.

On board the steamship _Panther_ there was a man, common enough in

point of rank, but the like of which never was seen before with

respect to qualities. He was the _mate_. Why he was ever put there

in that capacity, unless it was to “try our virtue by affliction,”

I can not imagine. He would beat a “reformer” any day for

wrong-headedness, or a discontented donkey for obstinacy. As if these

qualities were not enough, he was afflicted with the curiosity of a

magpie. But the particular direction of his curiosity was aquatic. He

was great on finding bottom. Upon one occasion he tried to find it by

dropping overboard a gun; on another he got into a kayak and shoved

off from the ship’s side, to find himself very quickly head downward,

with the boat fast to his heels; and he would have been as certain

of drowning as if he had undertaken to swim with his feet fast to

a bladder, had his head not struck bottom, where luckily there was

a lot of sea-weed, which he grasped and drew himself out among the

shells and slime; there he got a footing, and, the water being shoal,

he came right side up, with a great deal of water and very little

breath in him. Had his disposition to find the bottom with the top

of his head terminated there, it would have been well; but unhappily

his weakness extended to the _Panther’s_ keel. If there was the

remotest chance of putting her on the rocks at any time, he was sure

to make the effort. And he was, moreover, very sly. He always waited

until the captain was down below or had gone ashore, before he gave

his mind to it. At Kraksimeut, he waited until the captain was well

enveloped in a cloud of smoke, in the house of Peter Motzfeldt,

before he tried the depth of the water in the harbor. Slacking up

a rope, or neglecting to put out one, it matters not which, he let

the _Panther_ swing with the tide, and her stern slid up as nicely

on a rock as if she were coming to her bearings in a dry-dock. This

astonishing mate then, with great apparent satisfaction, looked over

the stern, and amidst the mud and sea-weed, which had been loosened,

and which was bubbling up about the rudder-post, there read XIV.; and

thus he had found the depth of Kraksimeut harbor, and was satisfied.

Then he smoked his pipe while waiting for the water to fall; and we

came on board to find the _Panther’s_ stern going steadily out of the

sea, with great danger of breaking her unfortunate back. Meanwhile

the mate was never before known to be in such capital spirits.

Fortunately, as it happened, the _Panther_ was not materially

damaged, owing to her amazing strength of back-bone; but we were

detained nearly a whole tide beyond our time. But when at length

under way, we had a splendid sail among the islands, until we struck

the open water of the fiord of Sermitsialik, when we stood fairly up

midway between its lofty banks, directly for the glacier.

For a time we could not see the object that our eyes so eagerly

sought, owing to a bend in the fiord, but, passing this, a great long

line of whiteness came gradually out against the sky, and beneath

it dropped a white curtain to the sea. As we proceeded this seeming

curtain became a solid wall.

CHAPTER IV.

THE GLACIER.

How shall I describe the scene which steadily opened to us as we

steamed rapidly up the fiord.

Imagine it! The fiord is two miles wide; the valley beyond is of

corresponding width, and the glacier fills it perfectly. How thick

it is, of course, can not be told, but hundreds of feet it must be

everywhere; it is probably from one to two thousand feet in many

places. The banks of the fiord continued to be the banks of the

glacier for about ten miles, gradually vanishing to a wedge-like

point, and merging then into the great _mer de glace_, which,

expanding to the right and left above the highest hills, carries the

eye away upon its boundless surface as upon the ocean.

At length the inclined plane was lost; the distant line of the _mer

de glace_ was lost also, and we were beneath a line of ice-cliffs

from one to two hundred feet high, as clear as the purest crystal,

and emblazoned with all the hues of heaven.

A cold shudder crept over me as the vessel steamed in close to the

front of this great reservoir of frost. The sound of falling waters

filled the air, and ever and anon deep sounds, which seemed like

convulsions of the earth, were emitted from it. The falling waters

were of melted snow and ice from the surface of the glacier, which,

gathering into streams of considerable size, leaped over the cliffs,

and sent a cloud of spray floating away upon the air to resolve the

sun’s rays, giving back to the eye the fluttering fragment of a

rainbow. The sounds were occasioned by the movement of the glacier in

its bed, and the resulting chasms which opened from time to time in

the ice.

[Illustration: FRONT OF THE GLACIER.]

We probably enjoyed here an opportunity such as was never enjoyed by

any previous explorer. I know of no glacier accessible as this is,

for the reason that the fiords are interrupted either with islands

or shoals, which, by preventing the free discharge of the icebergs

that break from the glacier front, render the navigation of the

waters quite impossible, even to a boat. Such is the character of

the glacier of Jacobshavn, in Disco Bay, North Greenland, which I

have made the most strenuous efforts to ascend, and which is crowded

with a perfect wilderness of icebergs for the space of nearly thirty

miles, often being so tightly packed together as to be scarcely

distinguishable from the surface of the glacier itself, even when one

looks down upon the fiord from an elevation of a thousand feet.

But the fiord of Sermitsialik presents no such embarrassing feature.

The water steadily deepens from the glacier front (where in one place

it is 270 fathoms) towards the sea; and the current being rapid,

owing to causes which I shall presently have occasion to explain, the

icebergs float away as fast as formed. While coming up, we passed

several of large and many of small size, but none of them were

aground, and all were hurrying out to the ocean, as if in haste to

mingle their crystal particles with the rolling waves, and once more

enjoy the freedom of the boundless sea.

We approached the glacier to the left, and when so near that we had

barely more than room to wheel about we changed our course, and

slowly steamed over to the opposite side, a distance, as I have

before observed, of nearly two miles.

I have spoken of the glacier front as a wall, a cliff, and a

coast-line. As a coast-line it is winding; as a wall or cliff it is

perfectly vertical; but it is far from smooth. On the contrary, it

presents the most fantastic collection of forms that can be conceived

of—caves that are apparently limitless, peaks like church spires

in symmetry, Gothic arches, clefts that wind away until they are

lost in deep blue. And in this blue we see the most perfect of all

transparent hues, changing too with every moment, and subtle as the

colors of the opal. Talk of painting it! the “light of a dark eye in

woman” would not be more difficult. The green of the caves is not

less subtle, nor less beautiful. This green is observed wherever the

ice overhangs the water. In the sunlight the surface is pure white,

except where there has occurred a recent fracture; and the effect

is that of the most delicate satin, in all its changes of surface,

produced by the different angles in which the light is reflected to

the eye.

We enjoyed a most excellent opportunity of observing all these

phenomena while passing over, as we went only at half speed, and

spent almost an hour in reaching the opposite side. Near the centre,

and not far from the front of the glacier, we found the deepest

water, the color of which changed, soon after passing the centre,

from a light green to a dirty brown. The cause of this was soon

explained. The eastern side of the valley, in which the glacier

rests, is much deeper than the other side, and the waters from the

surface of the _mer de glace_, and the glacier itself, which find

their way down through the chasms, gather in the deepest portion of

the valley, and, rushing on over the rocks beneath the ice, reach,

finally, the front of the glacier, where they bubble up like a

huge, seething caldron—a Stygian pool of fearful aspect. This muddy

water discolors that side of the fiord all the way to the sea; a

circumstance which I was quite at a loss to account for until I had

actually witnessed the cause of it, and seen the _Panther_ carried,

by the force of the current, bodily off from the glacier against the

action of her helm.

I have mentioned the irregularity of the line of the glacier front.

It presented numerous projecting angles. Near the centre, it forms

almost a right angle. Thus do we observe how much more rapidly the

centre of the glacier moves than its sides.

Having reached the southern shore, we discovered the water to shoal

very rapidly at thirty fathoms from the rocks, showing that there

was a wide shelf there; and, upon ascertaining that it was good

holding-ground, and finding nineteen fathoms, we anchored, and

swung into the stream, which was there found to flow at the rate of

four knots, thus accounting for our inability to cross over without

drifting away from the glacier. Our anchorage was a hundred fathoms

only from the ice-cliff, and this rising two hundred feet above

the surface of the water, it seemed, at that short distance, to be

hanging almost over us. To one at all familiar with the tricks of

glaciers it was evident, from the first, that the situation was

one of danger. But the captain, who was solely responsible for the

vessel, appeared to like his holding-ground, which was thick mud,

and said that if we were going to stay at the glacier, there’s where

the _Panther_ must continue, for there was no other anchorage, as he

could see. It was accordingly determined to take the risks, such as

they might be, and hold on there until the morning, at the least.

We went ashore after supper and, climbing over the rugged rocks,

ascended to the summit of a hill twelve hundred feet above the

sea, and saw the sun go down behind the mountains; and against the

brightness of the sky, in the lingering twilight, we beheld the

great ice-sea of Greenland, lighted with the gorgeous tintings of the

clouds. Oh, what a sight it was!—that desert waste—its cold, hard

surface glittering with a borrowed splendor, and taking to itself the

robes of heaven, as if to cheat the memory of its right to hold it as

the very type of what might ever bear the name of Desolate.

CHAPTER V.

CROSSING THE GLACIER.

The night did not prove promising for the safety of the _Panther_.

At intervals alarming sounds proceeded from the glacier, and now

and then a quick sharp crack, followed by a heavy thud, would tell

us that a mass had split from it and fallen to the sea, which in

the morning was covered with small fragments that had been thus

disengaged; and masses, some of them of considerable size, were

drifting past the vessel with the current.

At an early hour I set out to cross the fiord, accompanied by

the captain, with the purpose of seeking a harbor, or at least a

more safe anchorage. Owing to the loose ice, the passage was not

accomplished without difficulty. In many places the boat could not

be propelled with oars, and we were obliged to push our way along by

main force, using the boat-hooks and the oars as poles.

The scene had greatly changed in every respect from the day before.

Besides the fragments of ice upon the sea that had been broken off

during the night, the sky was leaden, and there was a perfect absence

of color everywhere. The ice was a dull cold gray, the atmosphere was

chilly, and, although our labors were by no means light, overcoats

were not uncomfortably warm. The sun had scarcely risen above the

hills when we reached our destination, where we were fortunate enough

to find a good anchoring-ground, with plenty of room to swing, in

a bay where there was no current and very little ice. There being

only five fathoms water, there was no chance of any large pieces of

ice coming down upon us. Accordingly it was determined to shift our

ground; but, since we had come so far, we concluded that we would

go farther; and so we landed, to find ourselves upon a green slope,

with the side of the glacier to our right, a cliff to our left, and

a gorge in front. Over the green slope we walked half a mile, then

through the gorge a mile farther; and, having arrived at this point,

we concluded to cross the glacier, and to return to the opposite side

of the fiord on foot rather than by boat. So we sent back our crew

and set out upon a hazardous adventure.

The captain, always ready for any proposition of an adventurous

nature, had quickly responded to my own desires; in fact, he was the

only man on board who was always prepared for whatever might turn up.

Such another captain there never was, as I believe. Brave almost to

temerity; yet, possessing excellent judgment, he was just the man to

get into a difficulty, and the very man to get out of it. Although

only twenty-five years old, he had, nevertheless, been eight years in

command of one sort of craft or another, and was a thorough sailor.

Buoyant and clever besides, he was always good company; but on a

journey his indefatigable zeal and long legs were apt to lead his

companions a lively race.

We had no difficulty in climbing the side of the glacier, at a point

where the slope was almost thirty degrees. The ice here contained

much foreign matter—stones and sand—which deprived it entirely of

a slippery character. In a few minutes we were on the summit, and

a dreary scene it was that met us there. Imagine the rapids above

Niagara Falls congealed to the very bottom; the falls and river

frozen everywhere, and Lake Erie solid: then imagine the banks

above the falls lofty like those below, and yourself standing on

the rapids. Imagine Lake Erie so near that you can see its frozen

surface, and you have, on a small scale, the _mer de glace_ which we

saw when looking at the glacier. The frozen rapids are the glacier

itself; the falls below, the glacier’s front (with the horse-shoe

reversed); the river sweeping down to Lake Ontario is the fiord; and

Ontario itself the ocean, into which the icebergs drift that break

away from the glacier, and go off with the current.

There is this great difference, however—the river, from bank to

bank, is straight upon the surface, while the glacier curves. The

accompanying cuts will better illustrate my meaning.

[Illustration]

It was along the gorge formed by the curve of the glacier on the

one side, and the slope of the land on the other, that we made our

way up from the sea, all except the first half mile, which, as I

have said before, was over a green slope, formed by the lofty land

breaking away and leaving a beautiful spot which is one day destined

to be completely covered with the ice-flood. And it was such a

beautiful spot that I could but regret its ultimate blotting out;

for, notwithstanding the wall of ice that was so close to it, it was

covered with thick brush-wood, consisting of birch, dwarf-willow, and

juniper; among which were matted tufts of heather, crake-berry, and

whortle-berry; and many bright flowers were here and there scattered

over a rich turf of grass and moss. A greater contrast could hardly

be imagined than between this spot of green which we had left and the

glacier upon which we stood.

Here the glacier is two and a half miles wide. To cross it was no

easy matter; nor was the effort without danger, for it was full of

cracks, into which we were constantly in dread of falling from the

slippery ridges which separated them. These cracks, or crevasses,

were, in a general way, parallel, running inward and upward from the

shore at angles varying with the locality, but averaging about forty

degrees. In places they were very near together, being separated by

only a few yards; in other places they were twenty or thirty yards

apart. But they were continually running into and crossing each

other, although pursuing a general sameness of direction. It was this

circumstance that gave to our journey its dangerous character; for

as we followed the ridges in their course inward and upward we were,

from time to time, brought to a stand at a sharp point where the two

chasms united. We had then to spring over an unfathomable abyss, or

to retrace our steps and seek a better track. Sometimes we did the

one, sometimes the other. Luckily we were both sure of foot; yet the

leaps were often such as could only have been made under the spur

of curiosity to see, or the no less common one of unwillingness to

abandon an undertaking.

Towards the middle the travelling became better. Here, for the space

of a couple of miles, there was a dead level, and the ice was very

little disturbed; while above, where the glacier appeared to have

poured over a precipice, or at least down a very rapid descent,

there was the most wonderful jumble that can be conceived of. The

crevasses there ran in every direction, though the prevailing one

was, as in other places, inward and upward. The ice appeared at one

point to have been let down by successive stages, forming a series of

terraces, or escalades, which might be likened to the steps of some

giant temple. Indeed, it was a stairway befitting the grand palaces

of nature which lie away upon the mountain-tops beyond.

I never tread these ice-wildernesses without awe. One sees so much,

and yet so little. There is nothing to withdraw the attention from

one sole manifestation of nature. In other places as in the forest,

where there is life in various forms; by the sea-shore, where there

is perceptible movement, and at all times something suggestive of

life; anywhere, indeed, almost, the thoughts are not concentrated

upon one, and only one, peculiar force. There is something almost

terrible in this boundless desolation. God seems nearer in these

deserts; His laws, which never change, are not hidden from the

consciousness by delighted senses; and the mind is there inspired

with a lofty emotion when contemplating the simple grandeur of His

handiwork.

I was particularly impressed on the present occasion. The groaning

of the mighty river of ice, which could not have been less than a

thousand feet in depth, was constant, and proceeded from every side;

even beneath my feet there seemed to be an uneasy trembling; and

how much soever I might have been alarmed, I would not have been

surprised had a yawning chasm opened beside me or underneath me at

any moment.

These deep voices of the ice were, however, not the only sounds that

greeted the ear; for rivulets meandered here and there over the icy

plain. In one place many of these uniting formed a considerable

stream, that ultimately found a crack into which it fell roaring and

hissing down through all the vast depth of ice to the glacier’s bed,

there to help swell the stream which, as before described, pours out

from beneath the glacier into the fiord.

By this time the sun was well up, and the day was growing warm. Even

here, upon the summit of the glacier, the temperature was not at

all chilly or uncomfortable. The ice and snow were melting rapidly,

and our inconvenience was rather from dampness than from cold, for

we were often, in our efforts to get along, compelled to crawl upon

all-fours, or even flat upon our bellies, to get over treacherous

places, so that our clothing was soon thoroughly water-soaked.

In crossing the middle part of the glacier we experienced little

difficulty; but when we had begun to descend towards the opposite

shore from where we had started, our troubles of the beginning were

renewed, and even magnified. It became often a serious question

whether we could proceed at all—whether we would not, after all our

labor, be compelled to return. The crevasses were then of great

width, much too wide for us to spring over, and, after winding to and

fro, springing here and there, we were several times forced to take

our leaps over again on the backward track, as there was no place

to be found where a leap forward seemed possible. At length, as we

neared the shore, the case became desperate. After much effort we

found ourselves out upon a very acute angle, with a deep chasm on

each side. Two crevasses had here crossed; but from the two sharp

points there appeared to be a bridge, or at least a connecting link.

When the cracks were formed a large mass of ice had apparently

fallen off, and become wedged between the walls as one sometimes

sees a rock in a mountain gorge. It had not fallen far, and was not

difficult of access, but it was sharp like a house-roof, and slippery

as a house-roof when covered with sleet. It was, clearly, take this

natural bridge, or turn back and return over all the tedious distance

which we had already traversed. This, however, was not to be thought

of while there was a possible chance; so we tossed hats for the first

venture, and the lot fell to me.

[Illustration: CROSSING THE CREVASSE ON AN ICE-BRIDGE.]

Getting down on all-fours, I crawled out as far as I could go in that

way. I then bestrode the ridge, and propelled myself along upon my

bare hands, making a few inches headway with each effort. On either

side there was a bridge, with a yawning depth of blue beneath me

melting into “darkness most profound,” from which came the roar of

falling waters. It fairly made my head swim as I clung insecurely

to the sharp, narrow, slippery bridge and looked down first one

side, then the other, into the abyss. Retreat I could not, even if

so disposed, for I had descended from the start, and could not back

myself up with my hands, nor could I turn round. There was nothing

to do but push ahead; and this I did, cheered on by the captain’s

shouts to be careful and not break down the bridge, for he wanted

the use of it. Finally, the effort was rewarded with success, and

as I scrambled up the slope and along the ridge of the other side

to a place where I could sit down and rest myself, I experienced

a profound sensation of relief. The captain followed, and, after

accomplishing the feat successfully, as I had done, he said, looking

back at the dangerous pass, “Well, I don’t want any more of that

sort of thing,” a sentiment which I very heartily echoed. But the

very next crack we took, although having much less the appearance of

risk, had like to have proved fatal to me, for, on a leap of about

eight feet I partly missed my footing, and fell short of my intended

mark. When I felt myself going back I experienced that horrid sinking

feeling which comes over one only with the prospect of immediate

death, without the chance for a struggle. So far as I could know, I

was gone; and in an instant more I should have been plunging down

into the chasm, had not my foot brought up on a slight projection,

which gave me an opportunity to use my hands; and the captain coming

now to my assistance, I scrambled up to a place of safety. After

this we encountered no more serious difficulties, and, discovering a

smooth slope, we descended by it to the shore, which we reached very

wet, very sore, and much fatigued.

[Illustration: MAP OF THE GLACIER.]

We were about two miles now from the vessel, which distance was

traversed through a gorge corresponding to that by which we had

ascended on the opposite side of the glacier. It was, however,

much rougher, and the shore being more abrupt, the disturbance,

both of rock and ice, was much greater. And here we observe a

most interesting feature of the glacier movement and formation.

The glacier, in its progress down the valley into the fiord, must

necessarily adapt itself to every inequality of the bank. But this

is not done without serious resistance. Thousands and millions

of tons of earth, sand, and rock are rooted up, and pushed aside

when the glacier expands into the side valleys, and, when a solid

cliff receives the pressure, the crushed and disturbed condition

of the ice, as the glacier impinges against the rock, shows how

immensely powerful is the force. Something must give way before

this irresistible flood. In one place there was a ridge rolled up to

the height of fifty feet, and rocks weighing hundreds of tons were

treated as if they were the merest pebbles turned over and scattered

by the mould-board of a plough.

Our descent through the gorge was not without interest of another

character. Down near the fiord the disturbance of the ice had been

greatest in consequence of passing over a more rapid declivity, and

here several cracks opened from the bottom, and, closing more or less

perfectly at about fifty feet altitude, appeared like the mouths to

great caverns. Inspired by curiosity, I entered one of these, to find

myself scrambling along over rocks and through deep mud, while water

dropped down upon my head in torrents, for a distance of about thirty

yards, when I came upon the border of a rushing stream of muddy

water. This was the stream already mentioned, which gushes out from

beneath the glacier’s front.

Of all the signs and tokens of watery tumult that I have ever

witnessed this excelled them all. The roar of the fast-flowing stream

as it dashed down the steep declivity over the rocks beneath, and

against the ice above, breaking around the enormous boulders upon

which the glacier was supported, was perfectly deafening. I had come

in alongside of a ledge of a rock about ten feet high, upon which

the ice rested firmly. This ledge, terminating where I stood, formed

a protecting barrier, behind which I could witness the spectacle in

perfect security, though not with comfort, for to be drenched with

ice-water is not at all agreeable.

As I stood here, I realized more perfectly than ever before the

process by which have been formed those markings on the rocks which

Professor Agassiz has so conspicuously pointed out in regions which

were once covered with ice during the glacial epoch. The effect of

this enormous pressure of these hundreds of feet of ice that were

above my head, sliding down over the rocks, and rolling upon the

boulders, was there evident to the senses. The movable rocks were

being rounded or ground to powder, and the bed was being scarred with

deep and ineffaceable scratches. Below me the bottom of the cavern

allowed of my continuing down beside the stream about fifty feet

to a point where both a stream of light and a stream of water were

admitted into the blackness through a wide crevasse.

Curiosity once satisfied, I began to realize the perilous situation

into which I had thus voluntarily come. The darkness through which I

was groping made it not improbable that I might stumble and plunge

headlong into the muddy river and be borne away by the

“Dark water that tumbled through the gloom.”

Then it seemed as if the great arch might give way and bury me in its

ruins, or a mass might break off from above, and, falling upon my

head, crush me to death; and while creeping cautiously along, with my

face turned towards the opening by which I had rashly entered, and

with no longer an unsatisfied longing to quiet my fears, I could not

but accuse myself of an absurd temerity, when I suffered myself to be

led into a place where,

“Bellowing, there groaned

A voice as of a sea in tempest torn

By warring winds.”

I was soon, however, in the open air again, and as thoroughly

water-soaked as if I had fallen bodily into the sea; and being

perfectly chilled, I did not long delay in finding my way down to

the beach, where I joined the captain, who was awaiting me. He had

hailed for a boat, and I was soon out of my shivering condition, but

not soon enough to prevent me from moralizing over the unfathomable

depths of human folly, while yet reflecting upon the wonders we

had seen, and the unusual adventures we had experienced during our

morning walk; for be it known we had started off without breakfast,

and after six hours’ continuous labor we were returning at eleven

o’clock, with stomachs which could not be beaten for emptiness. It is

only in such a bracing air as that of the Arctic regions that one can

endure such continued exposure without suffering severe prostration.

The idea that people necessarily consume more food in that region

than another, is a popular error. Excessive feeding is everywhere a

habit and not a necessity; but as “the sleep of the laboring man is

sweet,” so is his appetite vigorous everywhere.

CHAPTER VI.

SPECULATIONS.

I trust that I have made plain, even to the least scientific of my

readers, the nature of the glacier which we are visiting, as well as

the general principles of glacier formation and movement. Why ice,

a solid, firm substance, should move in obedience to the same laws

which govern the movements of fluids; why, for instance, a glacier

should, like a river, move more rapidly at its centre than near its

banks, is a question which the wisest philosophers have sufficiently

discussed without my attempting it here. Taking the fact for granted,

and knowing that the vast reservoir of ice in the interior of

Greenland is the great source of supply to all the glaciers that pour

to the sea through the mountain-passes, we may here, I think, not

inappropriately, pause a little to watch the progress of this glacier

of Sermitsialik.

Even within the period of a generation it has undergone very

perceptible changes. Peter Motzfeldt has told me that fifty years

ago he walked across the valley in front of it, and plucked

whortle-berries upon the identical spot where I had gone into the

ice-cavern to hear the waters rushing to the sea. He pointed out to

me the line of the glacier front at that time, so far as he could

remember it (and the memory of such men is apt to be accurate); and,

accepting his memory as correct, the movement of the glacier from

that time to the present has been about seven (7) inches daily, the

distance being a fraction over two miles.

[Illustration: THE GLACIER OF SERMITSIALIK.]

With this positive assurance before us we may, in imagination,

witness the spectacle of this glacier’s growth. Going back to the

time when it first emerged from the _mer de glace_ (to the time when

the ice first began to bulge downward into the valley which it now

fills completely), we see the valley clothed with verdure, sparrows

chirruping among the branches of the stunted trees, herds of reindeer

browsing upon its abundant pastures, and drinking from a stream of

limpid water which, melting from the glacier, pours down over the

same precipices, and through the same defiles which the ice now fills

and covers. This must have been about two hundred and fifty years

ago, since the distance from the sea to where the break occurs in the

mountain-chain through which the ice-stream emerges into the valley

is about ten miles. We see it then just appearing, and we watch

its progress through this long time. Its front is hundreds of feet

high and miles across. We observe the icy flood moving steadily and

irresistibly onward, over precipices, down steep declivities, upon

level plains—sometimes advancing with comparative rapidity, sometimes

slowly, but steadily, year by year, coming towards the fiord. We

see it swallowing up rocks and pastures; we see the deer retire

farther and farther down the valley with each returning year; we see

the hillocks within the valley overwhelmed with the flood of ice,

the crystal stream pouring over and around them as if it were some

semi-fluid substance; we hear the cracking of the ice as the strain

here and there becomes too great; and we hear, too, the echoing sound

of the avalanche of ice and snow, crumbling from its front, and

crashing down into the plain beneath. We thus watch the ice-stream

until the front of it has reached the fiord. But here it does not

stop. The bed of the sea is but a continuation of the same inclined

plain as the bed of the valley, and its onward course is continued.

It pushes back the water; it makes a coast-line of ice where there

had been a beach; and a white wall now stretches from one side of

the fiord to the other. As it flows onward, it gets into deeper and

deeper water, its foot still resting on the bottom of the sea. Thus

the icy wall sinks gradually down as it moves along, and in course of

time it has almost gone out of sight. Then it gets beyond its depth.

[Illustration: VERTICAL SECTION OF GLACIER.]

When fresh ice floats freely in sea-water, there is one-eighth of it

above the surface to seven-eighths below. If these proportions become

disturbed—that is to say, if the glacier should project far enough

out into the sea and deep water to present more than seven-eighths

below to one-eighth above, then the buoyancy of the water will lift

the end of the ice-stream until it attains its natural equilibrium.

To do this, of course, a break must occur, as the ice will not bend.

But for a long time the continuity of the ice is not interrupted—so

great is its depth (many hundreds of feet), so great is its width

(two miles). But finally it is compelled to give way; the force

applied becomes too great for its powers of resistance. A crack,

beginning at the bottom, is opened, with a fearful crash. The crack

widens, and when it is completed to the top a fragment is detached.

This fragment is buoyed up to its proper level; and while the loud

noise of the disruption is echoing among the hills, and the great

waves of its creating are rolling away, the monstrous mass is coming

slowly to rest, ready to float off with the current to the ocean.

This fragment, as we have already seen, is the _iceberg_. Its birth,

as we shall presently notice, is attended with the most violent

disturbance of the sea and air, and presents a magnificent spectacle.

The accompanying vertical section of the glacier of Sermitsialik, run

up its axis from the fiord to its junction with the _mer de glace_

(a distance of ten miles), will illustrate the fact I wish to prove,

and the theory I wish to illustrate. The view of the same glacier,

on page 147, will still further aid the reader; and this, examined

in connection with the small map on page 162, will explain what any

number of words would fail to make clear. This vertical section shows

an iceberg just broken off and floating away. The line of the section

is from A to B, as shown on the map.

CHAPTER VII.

MEASUREMENT OF GLACIERS.

As we have seen, the glacier does not accommodate itself to the bed

in which it rests very readily. The substance, though possessing a

sort of ductility, is not sufficiently plastic to mould itself with

much rapidity. A sudden squall will snap a twig, or uproot a tree

which a gale would only bend. In like manner, the pressure upon the

ice becomes in places too great, and, unable to bear it, the ice

snaps. Professor Tyndall has said—and this is borne out by my own

experience—“By pressure ice can be moulded to any shape, while the

same ice snaps sharply asunder if subjected to tension.” Hence arise

the great crevasses which so much embarrassed the captain and myself

while crossing over the glacier of Sermitsialik. These cracks are

therefore continually occurring. Beginning as a loud and alarming

peal, they become in the end a crash. This particularly happens when

the glacier, flowing over a quick descent, moves rapidly.

In this manner are opened those crevasses already mentioned as

running inward and upward from the shore, and pursuing a general

parallelism. The force is not that of pressure, but of tension. The

sides hang more or less upon the shore, while the centre moves on,

and thus the ice is drawn apart. The shore-ice thus lags behind, and

the total amount of that lagging is told in the aggregate width of

the crevasses.

I have mentioned that the rate of progress of the centre of the

glacier of Sermitsialik must have been about seven inches daily.

Others move at the rate of five. The process for this determination

is simple enough. I have performed it many times, and may thus

briefly describe it.

After climbing to the surface of the glacier, I staked off a

base-line near the centre, and parallel with its sides. I then

set up a theodolite, first at one, then at the other end of this

base-line, and, having connected it by careful angular measurement

with some well-defined object (readily again recognized) on the land,

at the side of the glacier, the work was done. After an interval of

weeks or months, the process was repeated, and then a very simple

trigonometrical computation revealed the fact that the base-line

was moving down the valley, and the rate was determined to a small

fraction.

The unequal movement between the centre and the sides was shown by

quite another method. A line of stakes was set up across the glacier

from shore to shore. After a few weeks this line became a slight

curve; after a few months the curve was very perceptible. Could the

observation have been continued through years, it would have been

like a well-bent bow, or the letter U.

Such measurements as these I once made upon a glacier at Port

Foulke, North Greenland. The top of the glacier was reached, after

much difficulty, by cutting steps with an axe. The cracks were not,

however, found to be so wide or so numerous as those of the glacier

of Sermitsialik, but they were sufficient to inspire me with a lively

sense of the danger of such exploration. When my first experiments

were made, there was a strong wind howling down from the _mer de

glace_, bringing with it sharp, cutting snow-drifts. The brass

instrument which I used froze to the eye, and had to be covered with

buckskin. The moisture of the breath condensed upon the lenses, and I

had to breathe through a tube while observing. The men who carried

the chain “scorched” their fingers with the cold metal. Under such

circumstances the pursuit of science becomes a species of martyrdom,

and is therefore not much in favor.

In the movement shown by these measurements we have conclusively

exhibited the likeness of the glacier to a river, and the assertion

that it is but a flowing river of ice is fully borne out and proved

by observation with mathematical nicety. In my own experiments upon

the Greenland glaciers I have but followed the example and practised

the methods of Professors Agassiz, Forbes, Tyndall, and others, not

forgetting the experts of the Alpine Club, whose explorations of the

glaciers of the Alps have latterly become so familiar to the public.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE BIRTH OF AN ICEBERG.

I can imagine no more grand and imposing spectacle than the birth

of an iceberg; and we have now, I think, gone far enough in the

examination of glaciers and their movements to contemplate such a

spectacle, which, whatever it may seem to the reader, was to me most

thrilling. It did not happen in connection with the _Panther_, and

may at first, therefore, seem to be a little out of place; but as it

serves my purpose, I make free to use it, by way of illustration.

The scene was in a fiord ten times wider than that of Sermitsialik,

though not much longer. Unlike that of Sermitsialik, it was studded

with islands and shoal places. The glacier which terminated it was

twenty miles across, although not quite uniformly; for the ice had

poured down into the sea, and, while having blotted out some of the

islands, it had barely touched others; otherwise the coast-line of

ice was perfect and continuous. The islands and shoal places in

the fiord arrest the icebergs; and within ten miles or more of the

glacier it is almost impossible to go. With great difficulty I came

within five, in a boat. Farther I could not force my way by any

possibility; and, accordingly, we made the land and climbed a lofty

hill for a view.

The fiord which I thus describe is known as the fiord of

Aukpadlartok, a native word signifying “the place of the red rocks.”

I had gone up the fiord from Upernavik to the hut of a hunter, who

was the bestyrere of a small settlement of that name belonging to

the Upernavik district.

It was a grand spectacle that met my eye as I stood upon the hill-top

overlooking the fiord, with its thousands of icebergs, its dark rocky

islands, and the immense quantity of loose ice which filled up the

space between the bergs and islands, until there was scarcely a patch

of water to be seen anywhere as large as a good-sized duck-pond. Very

different from the fiord of Sermitsialik, where there were no islands

nor shoals to arrest the ice in its progress down the fiord.

I was accompanied by the bestyrere of Aukpadlartok, whose name was

Philip. We stood together looking at the glacier and the great sea of

ice which stretched away into the interior, blending mountains and

valleys into a vast plain, when Philip said, “Listen! the glacier is

going to ‘calve;’” for that is the name by which they distinguish the

breaking off of a fragment.

I heard a loud report, but I could not at once distinguish the source

of it. An instant afterward it was repeated, now louder than before.

It resembled the first warning sound of a coming earthquake.

Philip had detected the spot whence the sound proceeded, and said,

“Look! it is rising.”

I could now see that a portion of the glacier was being lifted by the

water. A great wave was rolled back with this upward movement, and

dashed fiercely against the icebergs that lay farther down the fiord.

Another instant, and the sound, which was before so deep and loud,

broke through the air with a crash that was like the discharge of

heavy artillery near at hand. I knew now that a crack had opened in

the ice-stream, and that a mass had been disengaged.

The position of the crack was quickly apparent, and we could see

that a fragment of enormous proportions had been set at liberty.

It first reared itself aloft as if it were some huge leviathan of

the deep indued with life, and was sporting its unwieldy bulk in

the hitherto undisturbed waters. The crack had now opened wide. The

detached fragment plunged forward; the front, which had been rising,

then sunk down, while the inner side rose up, and volumes of water

that had been lifted with the sudden motion poured from its sides,

hissing, into the foaming and agitated sea.

Thus an iceberg had been born.

It would be impossible with mere words alone to convey any adequate

idea of the action of this new-born child of the Arctic frosts. Think

of a solid lump of ice, a third of a mile deep, and more than half a

mile in lateral diameter, hurled like a mere toy away into the water

and set to rolling to and fro by the impetus of the act—as if it were

Nature’s merest foot-ball—now down one side, until the huge bulk was

nearly capsized; then back again; then down the other side once more,

with the same unresisting force; and so on, up and down, and down and

up, swashing to and fro for hours before it comes finally to rest.

Picture this, and you will have an image of power not to be seen by

the action of any other forces upon the earth.

The disturbance of the water was inconceivably fine. Waves of

enormous magnitude were rolled up with great violence against the

glacier, covering it with spray; and billows came tearing down the

fiord, their progress marked by the crackling and crumbling ice,

which was everywhere in a state of wildest agitation for the space of

several miles. Over the smaller icebergs the water broke completely,

as if a tempest were piling up the seas and heaving them fiercely

against the shore. Then, to add still further to the commotion thus

occasioned, the great wallowing iceberg, which was the cause of it

all, was dropping fragments from its sides with each oscillation, the

reports of the rupture reaching the ear above the general din and

clamor. Other bergs were set in motion by the waves, and these also

dropped pieces from their sides; and at last, as if it were the grand

_finale_ of the piece—the clash of cymbals and the big bass-drum of

nature’s grand orchestra—a monstrous berg near the middle of the

fiord split in two, and, above the sound of breaking waters and

falling ice, this last disruption filled the air with a peal that

rang among the bergs and crags, and, echoing from hill to hill, died

away only in the void beyond the mountain-tops; while to the noisy

tune the icebergs of the fiord danced their wild ungainly dance upon

the waters.

It was many hours before this state of wild unrest was succeeded

by the calm which had preceded the commencement of it; and when at

length the iceberg that had been born came quietly to rest, and

the other icebergs had ceased their dance upon the troubled sea,

and the waves had ceased their lashings, it seemed to me that, in

beholding this birth of an iceberg, I had beheld one of the most

sublime exhibitions of the great forces of nature. It was in truth a

convulsion.

CHAPTER IX.

A NARROW ESCAPE.

The birth of the iceberg described in the preceding chapter will

better enable the reader to comprehend a much more fearful event

which happened in the fiord of Sermitsialik.

During the absence of the captain and myself from the vessel the

artists had not been idle. They had landed near the glacier, and

with brush and camera had begun their work. The day was warm, the

mercury rising to 68° in the shade, and the sun, coming around to

the south, blazed upon the cold, icy wall. This must have produced

some difference of temperature between the ice touched by the solar

rays and that of the interior, which was in all probability several

degrees below the freezing-point, for towards noon there was an

incessant crackling along the entire front of ice. Small pieces were

split off with explosive violence, and, falling to the sea, produced

a fine effect as the spray and water spurted from the spot where they

struck. Scarcely an instant passed without a disturbance occurring of

this kind. It was like a fusillade of artillery. Now and then a mass

of considerable size would break loose, producing an impression both

upon the eye and ear that was very startling.

By one o’clock every body had come on board to dinner, and for a

while we all stood on deck watching the spectacle and noting the

changes that took place with interest. It was observed, among other

curious phenomena, that when the ice broke off the fractured surface

was deep blue, and that if any ice, as sometimes happened, came up

from beneath the water, it bore the same color; but after a short

exposure to the sun, the surface changed, and became almost pure

white, with the satin glitter before described. Our situation for a

view could not have been better chosen, and it is not likely that

such an opportunity was ever enjoyed before by explorers, since it is

not probable that a vessel ever rode before at her anchor so near a

glacier.

After dinner the work was to be resumed. The photographers hastened

ashore, hoping to catch an instantaneous view of some tumbling

fragment, which if they could have done would certainly have exceeded

in interest any other view they had secured. The question of moving

our anchorage was deferred to the captain, who decided to go over to

the other side when the artists had been put ashore with their tools.

Steam was indeed already up.

The boat had reached the shore for this purpose, and had shoved off

for the ship, leaving the artists on the beach; and the order had

been given by the captain to “up anchor,” when loud reports were

heard one after another in quick succession. A number of large pieces

had broken off, and their fall disturbed the sea to such an extent

that the vessel began to roll quite perceptibly, and waves broke with

considerable force upon the shore. Then, without a moment’s warning,

there was a report louder than any we had yet heard. It was evident

that some unusual event was about to happen, and a feeling of alarm

was generally experienced.

Casting my eyes in the direction from which the sound proceeded, the

cause of it was at once explained. The very centre or extreme point

of the glacier was in a state of apparent disintegration. Here the

ice was peculiarly picturesque, and we had never ceased to admire it,

and sketch and photograph it. A perfect forest of Gothic spires,

more or less symmetrical, gave it the appearance of a vast cathedral,

fashioned by the hands of man. The origin of these spires will be

readily understood to be in consequence, first, of the formation of

crevasses far up on the glacier; and secondly, by the spaces between

them widening, and sharpening and rounding off by the action of the

sun as the glacier steadily approaches the sea. At the base of these

spires there were several pointed arches, some of them almost perfect

in form, which still further strengthened the illusion that they

might be of human and not of natural creation. At the extreme point

there was one spire that stood out quite detached, almost from the

water’s edge to its summit. This could not have been much less than

two hundred feet high. I had passed very near this while crossing

over in the boat, and the front of it appeared to extend vertically

down to the bottom. In the clear green water (for the muddy water of

the southern side did not reach over so far) I could trace it a long

way into the sea. I had little idea then how treacherous an object it

was, or I would not have ventured so near, for I was not more than a

boat’s length from it.

The last and loudest report, as above mentioned, came from this

wonderful spire, which was sinking down. It seemed, indeed, as if

the foundations of the earth were giving way, and that the spire was

descending into the yawning depths below. The effect was magnificent.

It did not topple over and fall headlong, but went down bodily, and

in doing so crumbled into numberless pieces. The process was not

instantaneous, but lasted for the space of at least a quarter of a

minute. It broke up as if it were composed of scales, the fastenings

of which had given way, layer after layer, until the very core was

reached, and there was nothing left of it. But we could not witness

this process of disintegration in detail after the first few moments,

for the whole glacier almost to its summit became enveloped in

spray—a semi-transparent cloud through which the crumbling of the ice

could be faintly seen. Shouts of admiration and astonishment burst

from the ship’s company. The greatest danger would scarcely have

been sufficient to withdraw the eye from the fascinating spectacle.

But when the summit of the spire began to sink away amidst the great

white mass of foam and mist, into which it finally disappeared, the

enthusiasm was unbounded.

By this time, however, other portions of the glacier were undergoing

a similar transformation, influenced, no doubt, by the shock which

had been communicated by this first disruption. Other spires, less

perfect in their form, disappeared in the same manner, and great

scales peeling from the glacier in various places fell into the sea

with a prolonged crash, and followed by a loud hissing and crackling

sound. Then, in the general confusion, all particular reports were

swallowed up in one universal roar, which woke the echoes of the

hills and spread consternation to the people on the _Panther’s_ deck.

This consternation increased with every moment; for the roar of the

falling and crumbling ice was drowned in a peal, compared to which

the loudest thunder of the heavens would be but a feeble sound. It

seemed as if the foundations of the earth, which had given way to

admit the sinking ice, were now rent asunder, and the world seemed to

tremble. From the commencement of the crumbling to this moment the

increase of sound was steady and uninterrupted. It was like the wind,

which, moaning through the trees before a storm, elevates its voice

with its multiplying strength, and lays the forest low in the crash

of the tempest.

The whole glacier about the place where these disturbances were

occurring was enveloped in a cloud, which rose up over the glacier as

one sees the mist rising from the abyss below Niagara, and, receiving

the rays of the sun, hold a rainbow fluttering above the vortex.

While the fearful sound was pealing forth, I saw a blue mass rising

through the cloud, at first slowly, then with a bound; and now, from

out the foam and mist, a wave of vast proportions rolled away in a

widening semicircle. I could watch the glacier no more. The instinct

of self-preservation drove me to seize the first firm object I could

lay my hands upon, and grasp it with all my strength. The wave came

down upon us with the speed of the wind. The swell occasioned by an

earthquake can alone compare with it in magnitude. It rolled beneath

the _Panther_, lifted her upon its crest, and swept her towards the

rocks. An instant more and I was flat upon the deck, borne down by

the stroke of falling water. The wave had broken on the abrupt shore,

and, after touching the rocks with its crest a hundred feet above

our heads, had curled backward, and, striking the ship with terrific

force, had deluged the decks. A second wave followed before the shock

of the first had fairly ceased, and broke over us in like manner.

Another and another came after in quick succession; but each was

smaller than the one preceding it. The _Panther_ was driven within

two fathoms of the shore, but she did not strike. Thank Heaven, our

anchor held, or our ship would have been knocked to pieces, or landed

high and dry with the first great wave that rolled under us.

When it became evident that we were safe, our thoughts naturally flew

to our comrades on the shore. To our great joy, they too were safe;

but they had not had time to clamber up the steep acclivity before

the first wave had buried them. Flinging themselves flat upon the

ground when they discovered that escape was hopeless, and clinging

to each other and to the rocks, they prevented themselves from being

carried off or seriously hurt. One had been lifted from his feet and

hurled with much force against a rock, but, excepting a few bruises,

he was not injured, and with much fervor thanked Heaven that it was

no worse. He had, indeed, abundant cause. Had the party not been

favored by the rocks, which were of such formation that they could

readily spring up from ledge to ledge, they must all have perished.

The wave, before it reached them, had expended much of its force. If

they had been upon the beach and received the full force of the blow,

they would inevitably have been killed outright or drowned in the

under-tow. Their implements—bottles, plates, every thing—were either

gone, or were a perfect wreck. Fortunately, their cameras were upon

the hill-side, and beyond the reach of the wave, where they had used

them in the morning. The boat, also, was safe; she had been hauled

out some distance from the shore, and by putting her head to the

waves she rode in security.

The agitation of the sea continued for half an hour after the first

wave broke upon us. This was partly a prolongation of the first

disturbance, but proceeded mainly from the original cause still

operating. The iceberg had been born amidst the great confusion,

and as it was the rolling up of the vast mass which sent that first

wave away in a widening semicircle, so it was the rocking to and fro

of the monster that continued the agitation of the sea; for this

new-born child of the Arctic frosts seemed loath to come to rest in

its watery cradle. And what an azure gem it was! glittering while it

moved there in the bright sunshine like a mammoth _lapis lazuli_ set

in a sea of chased silver, for the waters all around were but one

mass of foam.

I measured this iceberg afterwards and found its height above the

surface of the water to be one hundred and forty feet, which,

supposing the same proportions to continue all the way down, would

give a total depth of eleven hundred and twenty feet, since the

proportion of ice below to that above is as one to seven. Its

circumference was almost a mile. No wonder that its birth was

attended with such fearful consequences.

The part which had been the top of the glacier had become the bottom

of the iceberg. The fragment, when it broke off, had performed an

entire half-revolution. Hence it was that no part of it was white.

But as the day wore on the delicate hue which it first showed

vanished, and before the berg finally disappeared down the fiord it

wore the usual opaque white which distinguishes its older brothers

who have drifted in Baffin’s Bay for perhaps a score of years.

As may well be supposed, we did not wait for another iceberg to catch

us in such a defenseless situation. Our jolly captain was now quite

content to own that he held glaciers in profound respect, and lost

no time, therefore, in picking up his anchor. Then, as soon as our

bruised and thoroughly drenched artists were brought aboard, the

_Panther_ wheeled upon her heel and steamed over to the opposite

side, where, at a more respectful distance, anchorage was found which

promised safety if the glacier should take upon itself once more to

perform such fantastic freaks as the one of which we had like to

have been victims; and we had no mind now for another such dangerous

encounter.

CHAPTER X.

ICEBERGS CRITICALLY EXAMINED.

We named our new harbor “Panther Bay,” and, while resting there

until another day comes to invite us to new work and new adventures,

let us, more critically than we have had opportunity to do before,

examine into the character of these icebergs of the Arctic Sea.

It is, perhaps, not surprising that so few people should really

understand what an iceberg is, seeing how few people go where

they come from. The icebergs of the Northern hemisphere have but

one birthplace: they all come from Greenland—at least all of any

magnitude. There are many glaciers in Spitzbergen, some of which

reach the sea; but they are of diminutive proportions, and the

fragments broken from them are few in number and very small. There

are many glaciers in Iceland, but they are confined to the mountains.

There are also glaciers upon some of the lands north of Hudson’s Bay;

but, like those of Spitzbergen, they occupy a small space compared

with the vast accumulations of Greenland. And from Greenland they

discharge mostly on the Baffin’s Bay side. In a former chapter we

have observed how the ocean current comes from the north along the

eastern coast of Greenland, freighted with ice-fields (not bergs),

sometimes bearing trees from the Siberian forests. This current

sweeps thence around Cape Farewell, and continues north along the

Greenland coast, with greater or less velocity, to almost the

seventy-fifth or seventy-sixth parallel of latitude, before taking

a westerly course, and then again a southerly one to the coasts

of Labrador, Newfoundland, and the United States. The icebergs are

discharged by the fiords into this current, and the result is that,

unless there should be a prevalence of strong northerly winds for a

considerable time, sufficient to force them against or across the

current and out into the Atlantic, their drift is northerly at all

parts of the coast up as far as Melville Bay. The easterly winds,

however, affect them; and they are in great numbers blown across

Baffin’s Bay until they touch the southerly-setting current, when

they drift down into the North Atlantic, as if for no other purpose

than to annoy the crews and captains of Liverpool packets and other

craft sailing in those waters.

It will thus be seen that, unless driven by the wind, they never

leave the great Polar current of the Spitzbergen and Greenland seas,

and the waters of the Labrador—a current which is a mighty one

and has worked mighty changes on the surface of the earth. We all

know and can trace its course now, but that course was once very

different. In a remote geological age it must have swept over the

greater part of what is now North America, when that land was the bed

of the ocean, just as at the present time it sweeps over the growing

Banks of Newfoundland. Then Lake Superior discharged into it as a

gulf: afterwards, when this gulf became an inland sea, Huron and

Michigan were the outlets; afterwards Erie, then Ontario, now the

Gulf of St. Lawrence, which latter will, no doubt, in the course of

time, form another fresh-water lake of the great chain, as the sea

becomes more and more filled up.

We have seen already that many of the icebergs that drift down with

this current carry imbedded in them vast quantities of rock and sand,

which are, necessarily, deposited at the bottom of the sea when the

iceberg melts. Thus do they add something every year, as we have

also seen, to the Newfoundland shoals, and likewise strew the ocean

bed along their path with gatherings from the Greenland hills. When

these now submerged regions come to be elevated above the sea, the

geologists of that day will have less trouble to account for the

boulders being there than our forefathers had to explain the presence

of similar masses of rock on the Illinois prairie, or in the valleys

of the Mohawk and Connecticut rivers.

The melting of an iceberg is far from rapid. Many years are required

to mingle its crystals with the waters of the ocean. Yet its rate

of drift being slow (and it may be held for years grounded among a

cluster of islands or among shoals), and the distance great, by the

time it has reached the track of vessels the largest part of it has

disappeared; and, immense though they sometimes appear to be when

seen from the decks of ships crossing to and fro between America

and Europe, they are then but a fragment of their former greatness.

Indeed, very few of them ever reach so low a latitude at all, going

to pieces, little by little, long before the current has carried them

so far.

A very homely illustration will bring an iceberg more clearly to the

mind of the reader who has never seen one than the most elaborate

description.

Observe the little bit of ice that clinks in your tumbler at

dinner-time. Observe it closely, and you will perceive how very

small a part of it floats above the surface of the water. That part

is about one-tenth, but it floats in fresh water. Change it to

sea-water, and the part above would be one-eighth. Now this little

bit of ice is an iceberg in miniature—an iceberg in every essential

feature except that it did not in all human probability come from

Greenland. In form, in general transparency, in the play of light

upon it, in its prismatic character, in the shape of its projecting

tongues which lie beneath the surface of the water, in the delicate

mist which plays around it in the warm air, it is the very image, on

a small scale, of those great monoliths of the Arctic frost which

come sailing down Baffin’s Bay with the Polar current in all their

stately grandeur and magnificence.

It is difficult for the imagination to conceive of the great

magnitude of some of these Greenland icebergs; and yet, as we have

seen, they are but comparatively trifling pieces, torn by the sea

from glaciers. The iceberg is indeed as the paring of a finger-nail

to the whole body, when compared to the quantity of ice in the

reservoir from which it came. Magnify the bit of ice in your tumbler

until it becomes to your imagination half a mile in diameter each

way, and you have a mass that is far from uncommon. Add to this a

mile, two miles of length, and you have what may be sometimes seen.

I have sailed alongside of an iceberg two miles and a quarter before

coming to the end of it. Yet this is not greater, in proportion to

the entire Greenland accumulation, than the little bit of ice in your

tumbler is to the immense stores which the ice monopolists have in

their store-house when they stand ready to avow, and do avow, that

the stock is nearly exhausted, and that they propose to double their

charges on you just when the hottest weather oppresses the city.