I could but contrast my situation with that of a few days before, when I was sweltering in the summer heat of New York. The atmosphere was soft like that of budding spring, though close to the Arctic Circle, and within the region lighted by the midnight sun.
The scenery was everywhere grand and inspiring. The shores, though destitute of human life, were yet rich in historical association. As we passed along, it was hard to realize that voices were not calling to us from the shore; and where miles of rich meadow-land stretched before us, girdling the cliffs with green, the fancy, now catching the lowing of cattle and the bleating of sheep, would sometimes detect the shouts of herdsmen; while again we seemed to hear,
“By distance mellowed, o’er the water’s sweep,”
the “song and oar” of some gay inhabitant of the fiord, descendant of that brave band of men who, under the leadership of sturdy Eric, had on these sloping plains, beneath the ice-crowned hills and within the rampart of the ice-girt isles, sought an asylum from their enemies.
But if the fancy discovered those evidences of life, as it recalled the people who once were happy here in this peaceful, pastoral scene, the eye failed to detect any such tokens whatever. An occasional seal, that put up its half-human head to peer at us, or a sparrow or butterfly, that hovered about us when we neared the shore, or now and then a flock of water-fowl, were the only living things we saw.
The spirit of the scene was contagious. Even our native crew were not wanting in the emotional feelings of the hour. Encouraged by their pastor, they broke forth in concert, and with rich melodious voices, timed to the paddles’ stroke, they sang an old Norse hymn:
“Oh, hear thou me, thou mighty Lord,
And this my cry, oh, heed;
Oh, give me faith; I trust thy word;
Oh, help me in my need;”