off its cloud mantle, and standing squarely out before us in austere magnificence,—its broad valleys, its deep ravines, its noble mountains, its black, beetling cliffs, its frowning desolation.
AMONG THE ICEBERGS. As the fog lifted and rolled itself up like a scroll over the sea to the westward, iceberg after iceberg burst into view, like castles in a fairy tale. It seemed, indeed, as if we had been drawn by some unseen hand into a land of enchantment, rather than that we had come of our own free will into a region of stern realities, in pursuit of stern purposes;—as if the elves of the North had, in sportive playfulness, thrown a veil about our eyes, and enticed us to the very "seat eternal of the gods." Here was the Valhalla of the sturdy Vikings; here the city of the sun-god Freyer,—Alfheim, with its elfin caves,—and Glitner, with its walls of gold and roofs of silver, and Gimle, more brilliant than the sun,—the home of the happy; and there, piercing the clouds, was Himinborg, the Celestial Mount, where the bridge of the gods touches Heaven.
It would be difficult to imagine a scene more solemnly impressive than that which was disclosed to us by the sudden change in the clouded atmosphere. From my diary I copy the following brief description of it:—
"Midnight.—I have just come below, lost in the
wondrous beauty of the night. The sea is smooth as
glass; not a ripple breaks its dead surface, not a
breath of air stirring. The sun hangs close upon the
northern horizon; the fog has broken up into light
clouds; the icebergs lie thick about us; the dark
headlands stand boldly out against the sky; and the
clouds and sea and bergs and mountains are bathed in
