61. CHAPTER LXI.
THEY ROUND THE STORMY CAPE OF CAPES.
Long leagues, for weary days, we voyaged along that coast,
till we came to regions where we multiplied our mantles.
The sky grew overcast. Each a night, black storm-clouds
swept the wintry sea; and like Sahara caravans,
which leave their sandy wakes—so, thick and fleet, slanted
the scud behind. Through all this rack and mist, ten thousand
foam-flaked dromedary-humps uprose.
Deep among those panting, moaning fugitives, the three
canoes raced on.
And now, the air grew nipping cold. The clouds shed
off their fleeces; a snow-hillock, each canoe; our beards,
white-frosted.
And so, as seated in our shrouds, we sailed in among
great mountain passes of ice-isles; from icy ledges scaring
shivering seals, and white bears, musical with icicles, jingling
from their shaggy ermine.
Far and near, in towering ridges, stretched the glassy
Andes; with their own frost, shuddering through all their
domes and pinnacles. Ice-splinters rattled down the cliffs,
and seethed into the sea.
Broad away, in amphitheaters undermined by currents,
whole cities of ice-towers, in crashes, toward one center,
fell.—In their earthquakes, Lisbon and Lima never saw the
like. Churned and broken in the boiling tide, they swept
off amain;—over and over rolling; like porpoises to vessels
tranced in calms, bringing down the gale.
At last, rounding an antlered headland, that seemed a
moose at bay—ere long, we launched upon blue lake-like
waters, serene as Windermere, or Horicon. Thus, from the
boisterous storms of youth, we glide upon senility.
But as we northward voyaged, another aspect wore the sea.
In far-off, endless vistas, colonnades of water-spouts were
seen: all heaven's dome upholding on their shafts: and
bright forms gliding up and down within. So at Luz, in
his strange vision, Jacob saw the angels.
A boundless cave of stalactites, it seemed; the cloud-born
vapors downward spiraling, till they met the whirlpool-column
from the sea; then, uniting, over the waters stalked,
like ghosts of gods. Or midway sundered—down, sullen,
sunk the watery half; and far up into heaven, was drawn
the vapory. As, at death, we mortals part in twain; our
earthy half still here abiding; but our spirits flying whence
they came.
In good time, we gained the thither side of great Kolumbo
of the South; and sailing on, long waited for the
day; and wondered at the darkness.
“What steadfast clouds!" cried Yoomy, “yonder! far
aloft: that ridge, with many points; it fades below, but
shows a faint white crest."
“Not clouds, but mountains," said Babbalanja, “the vast
spine, that traverses Kolumbo; spurring off in ribs, that
nestle loamy valleys, veined with silver streams, and silver
ores."
It was a long, embattled line of pinnacles. And high posted
in the East, those thousand bucklered peaks stood forth, and
breasted back the Dawn. Before their purple bastions bold,
Aurora long arrayed her spears, and clashed her golden shells.
The summons dies away. But now, her lancers charge the
steep, and gain its crest a-glow;—their glittering spears and
blazoned shields triumphant in the morn.
But ere that sight, we glided on for hours in twilight;
when, on those mountains' farther side, the hunters must
have been abroad, morning-glories all astir.
