It is sad to reflect upon the future of these strange people; and yet they contemplate a fate which they view as inevitable, with an air of indifference difficult to comprehend. The only person who seemed seriously to feel any pang at the prospect of the desolation which will soon come over the villages, is Kalutunah. This singular being—a mixture of seriousness, good-*nature, and intelligence—seems truly to take pride in the traditions of his race, and to be really pained at the prospect of their downfall. When I took his hand to-day and told him that I would not come ashore any more, the tears actually started to his eyes, and I was much touched with his earnest words,—it was almost an entreaty,—"Come back and save us." Save them I would and will, if I am spared to return; and I am quite sure that upon no beings in the whole wide world could Christian love and Christian charity more worthily fall.
July 14th.
ADIEU TO PORT FOULKE. Moving out to sea under full sail, with a light wind from the eastward. We make little progress, but are able to pick our way among the loose ice. As we pass along, I see shoals of old tin cans, dead dogs, piles of ashes, and other debris of the winter, floating on ice-rafts upon the sea,—relics of the ten months which are gone, with all its dreary and all its pleasant memories. As I retreated from the deck, I saw the Esquimaux standing on the beach, gazing after us; the little white Observatory grew dim in the distance; and I have come below with a kindly "Adieu, Port Foulke," lingering on the lip.
