298 
LETTERS FROM HIGH LATITUDES. 
And now, how shall I give yon an idea of the 
wonderful panorama in the midst of which we found 
ourselves? I think, perhaps, its most striking feature 
was the stillness—and deadness—and impassibility of 
this new world : ice, and rock, and water surrounded 
us; not a sound of any kind interrupted the silence; 
the sea did not break upon the shore; no bird or any 
living thing was visible; the midnight sun—by this 
time muffled in a transparent mist—shed an awful, 
mysterious lustre on glacier and mountain; no atom of 
vegetation gave token of the earth's vitality; an universal 
numbness and dumbness seemed to pervade the soli¬ 
tude. I suppose in scarcely any other part of the world 
is this appearance of deadness so strikingly exhibited. 
On the stillest summer day in England, there is always 
perceptible an under-tone of life thrilling through the 
atmosphere; and though no breeze should stir a single 
leaf, yet—in default of motion—there is always a sense 
of growth ; but here not so much as a blade of grass 
was to be seen, on the sides of the bald excoriated 
hills. Primeval rocks—and eternal ice—constitute the 
landscape. 
The anchorage where we had brought up is the best 
