The blackness of desolation and a silence deep as death was over all the scene.
Think not, reader, that the beautiful stars were always shining, or that even when a full moon was in the sky there was somewhat of light and cheerfulness. No, for there were days—ay, and weeks—when neither moon, stars, nor aurora were visible for the dark clouds and whirling drift and snow.
At other times, perhaps, after a fall of silent snow, without as much wind as would serve to move one downy fleck, the clouds would disperse, and the stars would glitter like a million diamonds, when suddenly a murmuring roar would be heard among the mountains, and on looking in that direction from the ship’s deck, or from the huts on shore, a sight would be presented to the wondering gaze of Claude and his crew that my poor feeble pen would struggle in vain to describe. It seemed as if a wind from every point of the compass had marched forth to meet and do battle with each other among the hills, and that each wind was accompanied by a ghostly storm spirit. High as the stars were those whirling sheeted ghosts; if they crossed the moon’s disc they looked unearthly and fearful; but see! they meet in fury, and all is a bewildering chaos. Describe to me the foam of Atlantic billows dashing high in the air after striking a black, bare rock in the sea; describe to me in words the smoky spray of a geyser, and I will try to paint to you the battle of the snow-squalls. But, behold! while we yet look, half awed at the rage of elements among the jagged mountain peaks, the chaotic tempest comes nearer and nearer, other ghosts arise and whirl along on the plains, and a moaning sound as if nature were in pain falls upon the ear. This may be but momentary, and ere you can dive below, the tempest is on the vessel, the war of elements is raging around it. The very masts bend and crack and yield, and high above the roar of the wind is heard wild shrieks and yells and groans, as if demons really danced and fought on every side. These latter sounds are emitted by the ice rubbing against the ship’s hull.
Then, even while one is expecting every moment that some jagged edge of ice will penetrate through the vessel’s timbers—lo! all becomes hushed and silent. You creep on deck as quickly as the drifted snow will permit you, and look around. The stars are all out again, the moon’s rays throwing shadows from the mountain peaks, and all is still. And such a stillness! It is the silence of space—the silence of a dead and buried universe. You can almost fancy the stars are near enough to whisper to; that the flickering aurora borealis will presently emit some sound. If you talk aloud your own voice seems harsh, and you find yourself talking in a strangely subdued tone, as if Nature were asleep—as, indeed, she seems—and you dreaded to wake her. At all times in Greenland, when no wind is blowing, the silence is fearfully impressive; but it is after a snow-squall such as I have endeavoured to depict that it is most so.
“Do you think,” said Claude to Dr Barrett one day—“do you think, doctor, I might venture to send off another seagull?”
“I think,” was the reply, “that the bird will be far more likely to fly southward now—to seek the sun—than it would in summer.”
So a little fond note was attached as usual to a seagull’s thigh.
“Go!” whispered Claude, pressing his lips to the soft, warm head for a moment.
“Go, beautiful and gentle bird,
Oh! southwards quickly go;
Though moon and stars shine bright above.
How sad is all below!
“No longer drooping here, confined
In this cold prison, dwell;
Go, free to sunshine and to wind,
Sweet bird, go forth—farewell!
“Oh! beautiful and gentle bird,
Thy welcome sweet will be.
And yonder thou shalt hear the voice
Of Love’s fond melody.”
