The Arctic World

by Anonymous

The effect of the prolonged darkness upon these animals was most extraordinary. Every attention was paid to their wants; they were kept below, tended, fed, cleansed, caressed, and doctored; still they grew worse and worse. Strange to say, their disease was as clearly mental as in the case of any human being. There was no physical disorganization; they ate voraciously; they slept soundly, they retained their strength. But first they were stricken by epilepsy, and this was followed by true lunacy. They barked frenziedly at nothing; they walked in straight and curved lines with anxious and unwearying perseverance. They fawned on the seamen, but without seeming to appreciate any caresses bestowed upon them; pushing their head against the friend who noticed them, or oscillating with a strange pantomime of fear. Their most intelligent actions seemed of an automatic character; sometimes they clawed at their masters, as if seeking to burrow into their seal-skins; sometimes they preserved for hours a moody silence, and then started off howling, as if pursued, and ran to and fro for a considerable period.

When spring returned Dr. Kane had to mourn the loss of nine splendid Newfoundland and thirty-five Eskimo dogs; of the whole pack only six survived, and one of these was unfit for draught.

Having dwelt at some length on the characteristics of the Arctic winter, we now turn to consider those of the Arctic spring. This begins in April, but does not exhibit itself in all the freshness of its beauty until May. The temperature rises daily in the interval; the winter fall of snow, which has so long shrouded the gaunt hills and lain upon the valleys, rolls up before the rays of the rising sun; and the melted snow pours in noisy torrents and flashing cascades through the rugged ravines and over the dark sides of the lofty cliffs: everywhere the air resounds with the din of falling waters. Early in June the traveller sees with delight the signs of returning vegetation. The willow-stems grow green with the fresh and living sap; mosses, and poppies, and saxifrages, and the cochlearia, with other hardy plants, begin to sprout; the welcome whirr of wings is brought upon the breeze; the cliffs are alive with the little auks; flocks of stately eider-ducks sail into the creeks and sounds; the graceful terns scream and dart over the sea; the burgomasters and the gyrfalcons move to and fro with greater dignity; the long-tailed duck fills the echoes with its shrill voice; the snipes hover about the fresh-water pools; the sparrows chirp from rock to rock; long lines of cackling geese sail in the blue clearness overhead on their way to a remoter north; the walrus and the seal bask on the ice-floes which have broken up into small rafts, and drift lazily with the currents; and a fleet of icebergs move southwards in solemn and stately procession, their spires and towers flashing and coruscating in the sunlight.

ADVENT OF SPRING IN THE POLAR REGIONS.

We transcribe a sketch of a spring landscape in the Polar world from the pages of Dr. Hayes:—

We arrived at the lake, he says, in the midst of a very enlivening scene. The snow had mainly disappeared from the valley, and, although no flowers had yet appeared, the early vegetation was covering the banks with green, and the feeble growths opened their little leaves almost under the very snow, and stood alive and fresh in the frozen turf, looking as glad of the spring as their more ambitious cousins of the warm South. Numerous small herds of reindeer had come down from the mountains to fatten on this newly budding life. Gushing rivulets and fantastic waterfalls mingled their pleasant music with the ceaseless hum of birds, myriads of which sat upon the rocks of the hill-side, or were perched upon the cliffs, or sailed through the air in swarms so thick that they seemed like a dark cloud passing before the sun. These birds were the little auk, a water-fowl not larger than a quail. The swift flutter of their wings and their constant cry filled the air with a roar like that of a storm advancing among the forest trees. The valley was glowing with the sunlight of the early morning, which streamed in over the glacier, and robed hill, mountain, and plain in brightness.

Spring passes into summer, and all nature seems endowed with a new life. The death-like silence, the oppressive darkness, the sense of fear and despondency, all have passed away; and earth and water echo with cheerful voices, the landscape is bathed in a glorious radiance, the human soul is conscious of a sentiment of hope and expectation. The winter is past and gone; the flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come. The snow has melted from the hills, and the streams run with a merry music, and the scanty flora of the far northern world attains its full development. By day and night the sun pours forth its invigorating rays, and even the butterfly is encouraged to sport among the blossoms. The Aurora no longer exhibits its many-coloured fires, and the sky is as clear and cloudless as in genial Italy. But this season of life and warmth is of short duration, and when July has passed the sun begins to sink lower and lower, as if to visit another world; a shadow gradually steals over the sky; winds blow fiercely, and bring with them blinding showers of sleet and icicles; the fountains and the streams cease their pleasant flow; the broad crust of ice spreads over the imprisoned sea; the snow-mantle rests on the hill-sides and the valleys; the birds wing their way to the warmer South; and the Polar world is once more given over to the silence, the loneliness, and the gloom of the long Arctic night.

Turning our attention now to the “starry heavens,” we observe that conspicuous among the glorious host is the North Star, which, from earliest times, has been the friend and guide of the navigator.

The Pole-Star, or Polaris, is the star α in the constellation of Ursa Minor, and is the nearest large star to the north pole of the celestial equator. We say the “nearest,” because it does not actually mark the position of the pole, but is about 1° 30’ from it. Owing, however, to the motion of the pole of the celestial equator round that of the ecliptic, it will, in about 2000 A.D., approach within 28’ of the north pole; but after reaching this point of approximation it will begin to recede. At the time of Hipparchus it was 12° distant from it (that is, in 156 B.C.); in 1785, 2° 2’. You may easily find its place in the “stellar firmament,” for a line drawn between the stars α and β (hence called the “Pointers”) of the constellation Ursa Major, or the Great Bear, and produced in a northerly direction for about four and a half times its own length, will almost touch the Pole-Star. Two thousand years this post of honour, so to speak, was occupied by the star β of Ursa Major; while, in about twelve thousand years, it will be occupied by the star Vega in Lyra, which will be within 5° of the north pole.