And still it near’d and near’d:
As if it dodged a water sprite,
It plunged and tack’d and veer’d.”
But it proved to be no water sprite—no phantom ship, but a good and substantial whaler, of New Bedford, bound home after a successful cruise. Right glad were we to fall in with her on this frozen realm of waters. We saluted her with “Hail Columbia!” She sent a boat alongside, and her mate came on board. She had just doubled Cape Horn, where she fell in with several vessels waiting for a change of the wind. She had been out eighteen months, and was in good condition. In half an hour our letter-bag was ready, the mate took it on board, and she filled away. She is again but a speck on the slope of the ocean, and is now beneath its blue verge.
Friday, Jan. 29. Our wind, which the thunder-storm had crushed, has at last sprung up again with renewed vigor, like truth overpowered for a time by falsehood. As if to make up for its temporary overthrow, it is now overdoing the business. We have been obliged to take in our top-gallant-sails, and fetch a reef in our topsails. We are now between the Falkland islands and the Patagonian coast, some three hundred miles from the Cape. We are heading, close hauled, for the Strait Le Mair. The sea is pretty rough, but we are tumbling over it at the rate of nine knots the hour. The air is cold and searching, sleet and hail are on our deck. What a transition from the melting rays of Rio! A leap from a lightning cloud into an iceberg!
The wind has hauled, and we are now heading in for the Patagonians. We shall find them, says one of our mess, who has been among them, not a diminutive race, as is generally represented, but tall, well formed, and possessing great muscular power. They live in huts, which resemble gipsy tents, are clad in skins, and subsist on seals, guanacoes, and birds. The women dress like the men, plait their long hair, but wear no ornament in the ear or nose. They have all a bronze complexion, smooth skin, and one accredited evidence of nobility, small hands and feet. The men are fond of the chase, and are dexterous in the use of the lance and bow. The women are attached to their children, but are kept in vassalage to the other sex. Their religion is that of nature, and its spirit partakes of the wild and dreary elements which prevail around them. Let those who prefer the savage state embark for Patagonia,
And rid themselves of ills and ails
With every meal they make on snails.
Saturday, Jan. 31. We gave up the Patagonians as soon as the wind permitted, and are steering again for the Strait Le Mair. The wind is fitful and uncertain, and the air cold enough to make you snap your fingers; but the sky, which through the morning was overhung with clouds, now throws its blue and brilliant lake on the eye.
The Falkland Islands lie on our larboard quarter, and serve as huge ice-breakers to the coast. Nothing can be imagined more terrible and sublime than the rush of a steep iceberg against these towering masses of rock. The tumult and roar of an Austerlitz or Marengo might pass unheeded. So much does nature outdo man, even when he rouses in flames and blood.