THE NORTHWEST PASSAGE.
"And now there came both mist and snow,
And it grew wondrous cold;
And ice, mast high, came floating by,
As green as emerald.
And through the drifts and snowy clifts
Did send a dismal sheen:
Nor shape of men, nor beasts we ken—
The ice was all between—
The ice was here, the ice was there—
The ice was all around:
It crack'd and growl'd, and roar'd and howl'd,
Like noises in a swound."
Coleridge. Rime of the Ancient Mariner.
The secret wonders of the gloomy North bid proud defiance, in their solitude, to man's triumphant daring. Who shall pierce the ancient prison-house where Nature's might, in mightier chains of adamantine frost, lies fettered, since Creation? Who shall live where promontories huge, of pilèd ice, like monstrous fragments of primeval worlds tossed on the surge of Chaos, over the waves rear their triumphant heads, and laugh to scorn the undreaded kinghood of the lordly sea?
A fearful challenge! yet the charmèd spell, which summons man to high discovery, is ever vocal in the outward world, though they alone may hear it, who have hearts responsive to its tone. The gale of spring, breathing sweet balm over the western waters, called forth that gifted old adventurer[10] to seek the perfumes of spice-laden winds, far in the Indian Isles. Yea, there is power in Nature's solemn music. All have heard the sighs of Winter in the middle air, and seen the skirts of his cloud-woven robe lingering upon the misty mountain-top: but years rolled on, ere man might understand the mystic invitation of that call to seek the Monarch in his Arctic home.
At length that call is answered. Daringly yon gallant ship, towards the Polar Star, walks the untrodden pathways of old Ocean, leaving the haunts of man. Even now, the bounds are passed where silently the Boreal Morn[11] folds and unfolds, in swiftest interchange, her silver robe of alternating light over the midnight Heaven. There is a change in every sight and sound. White glaciers clash on the tormented waves, in fierce career waving eternally, and hoary whales, with musical din[12] booming along the deep, breathe forth in giant chorus, wondrously, the welcome of the Spirit of the North.
Joy to the brave! That old phantasmal veil which checked the view of dim antiquity, shrinks from their eagle glance, while fabled hills and regions of impenetrable ice fade in the blue expanse of mighty bays[13]—now spread the bosom of the expectant sail unto the Eastern breeze, and while the prow furrows the yielding waters, image forth high dreams of lofty hope—the joyous bound of billows gushing between parted shores, where Asia's rocky brow for ever frowns on the opposing continent. And, borne on spirit-plumed wings, let fancy soar far from that sunless clime, to the warm South, where soft skies slumber through the cloudless noon, o'er the gold palaces of fair Cathay.
Why pause ye in mid ocean? Still the sail swells to the voiceful breeze; the high mast bends with hideous creak, and every separate rib in the huge fabric quivers. Yet the ship on the unmoved waters motionless struggles, as one, who in a feverish dream nervelessly fleeing o'er a haunted waste, strives horribly to shun some fiendish shape, with straining sinews, and convulsive gasp, and faint limbs, magic-stricken. There is rest, dismal and dreary, on the silent sea: most dismal quiet: for the viewless might of the keen frost-wind[14] crisps the curling waves, binding their motion with a clankless chain along the far horizon. Fruitlessly the imprisoned vessel writhes, until the gale, lulled in the embrace of evening, leaves its prey, to share the torpor of the lifeless waste, till earth awaken from her half-year's sleep.
Yet, in those daring hearts, the cheerless voice of boding Fear or dull Despondency can find no answering tone, whether the storm, round the snow-rampart[15] howling, interweaves his solemn moans with the rejoicing shouts of the glad theatre,[16] or simple strains of homely music leave that warm recess—vibrating far into the tremulous air. Here, even here are pleasures; those stray[17] forms of joy, which Nature spreads throughout the world, that he who seeks may find them. When the Sun, uprising from his long and gloomy trance, beams through the clearer air, how beautiful, in some obscurest dell[18] of that lone land, led by the music of an unseen river to see fair flowers, with light-awakened buds, salute the spring tide. Happily, they smile in the midst of nakedness, like sweet memories of laughing infancy, beaming around the desolation of an aged heart.
Oh, that the might of Man's majestic will were self-sufficing! that the meaner chains which bind him to this dark, material world, before the lightning glance of Enterprise might fade, as those Philistian bonds, that fell from him of Zorah. Back—in sorrow back—the ocean-wanderers turn the unwilling prow; for Nature may not yield, and all is lost, save gloomy thoughts of unrequited toil in the storm-beaten deep; and phantasies of gorgeous dreams, for ever desolate; and hopes, which were, and will not be again.
Yet if the race of Man, as some have deemed[19], form but one mighty Being, who doth live, yea with intenser life, while kingly Death benumbs each separate atom with the touch of his pale sceptre—one unchanging ocean of everchanging waves—one deathless heaven of clouds, which to their graves roll ceaselessly: if it be so, not vainly have long years sent forth their heralds on the trackless deep, where high endeavors of exalted will which in themselves find no accomplishment, shall build at length perfection. Peacefully he[20] sleeps, who erst beheld the rifted shores of Greenland "glister in the sun, like gold:" and that deserted chief[21] whose angry moan once mingled wildly with the screaming winds and the hoarse gurgle of ingulfing waves, is unremembered now. But high Emprise died not with them. Have not our latter days beheld, with awe, the ice-borne Muscovite[22] ride the fierce billows of the Polar Sea? Has not the Northern hunter seen the flag of England, o'er her floating palaces, unfurled in his dominions crystalline? And who shall mourn, while, in the mystic race, from hand to hand still moves the unquenched torch, that none have reached the goal? Not suddenly doth the sweet warmth of universal life, from brumal caves advancing, interfuse the vast abysmal air, or penetrate the deep heart of the frost-entranced Earth. Gentle, and in its very gentleness invincible, it moves, though ruthlessly stern Winter calls his rallied armies on, and snow-blasts violate the joyous prime. So is it, with the silent victories of Man's enduring spirit: we have seen Winter and Spring; and shall we not behold the full rejoicing of the complete year?
The hour shall come, nor shall the longing heart in that dark interval be all unblest with glance prophetic. Though no meteor shape glare from the speaking sky, no sheeted ghost wander dim-moving in the weird midnight, with such forshadowings true as ever wait on him who, with a calm and reverend eye, hath viewed the mysteries of things, and dared to image forth the future from the past—bind on the mystic robe, and from the brow of Hope's enchanted hill look boldly forth upon the coming ages. Saw ye not white fog-wreaths floating through the cold gray dawn over ice-laden billows, as they roll through yon rock-cinctured chasm? A dusky shape looms through the hazy atmosphere, and sails, as of some struggling bark that wearily breasts the opposing strength of angry waves,[23] float with a fitful motion to and fro. Still on and on—a breath-suspending sight of pale Solicitude, and fearful hope—and hark! the triple crash of Britain's joy, the magical music of her wild hurra, peals with a sound of mighty exultation through the aerial depths. The cloven mist unwraps its folded canopy, and lo! the blue Pacific, boundlessly outspread, far glitters in the silvery light of morn.