It wanted but a few days to Christmas 1760—a seasonable Christmas,
and in keeping with that festive season of the year. Snow and sharp
north-east winds had been plentiful for nearly a week past. The flat
country all around the time-honoured cathedral city of Fridswold had
been covered with a vast sheet of drifted snow, which had found its
way into every nook and crevice, filling up all the ditches and dikes
until they were level with the surrounding country. The minster tower
was embellished with an innumerable number of white patches, and the
minster roofs were hidden under a thick covering of frozen snow. It was
evident that King Christmas had things to his liking this time, and
was bent upon enjoying his own particular time in his own particular
way. Meanwhile the wind roared on, roared and whistled, and whisked
the sharp frozen snowflakes round and round, dashing them, as if in
impotent rage, against the sturdy walls of the minster. The air was so
thick that, although the hour was not late, darkness had set in with
a density that obscured every object from view, while the tolling of
the great vespers-bell was drowned by the distracting uproar of the
elements.
It was during one of the uncertain lulls which occurred from time to
time, that a figure emerged from the protecting shelter of one of the
cathedral buttresses, and wrapping himself in the folds of a horseman’s
cloak, strode hastily forward, evidently intending to take advantage
of the brief calm and reach some haven of shelter. Scarcely a single
person was to be seen in the deserted streets, through which the blast
tore with such mad fury that the buffeted wayfarer staggered again.
Visions of glowing fires, dry clothes, and comfortable shelter rose
before his imagination as he passed a brightly lighted window. But
there was no stopping for him; he must on and fight this tough battle
with the pitiless wind as best he may. His destination is at length
reached. The weather-beaten traveller descends a couple of steps,
passes through an open doorway, and emerges from the outer darkness
into a warm, cosy-looking bar—his clothes half-frozen, and crusted
with patches of snow. He is apparently known here, for he is instantly
relieved of his cloak and hat by a neat-looking damsel, who up to the
present moment has been engaged in a light and refreshing flirtation
with a large, hot-visaged man lounging before the fire.
‘Sharp weather this, sir,’ remarked that worthy, slightly moving from
his place.
‘Sharp indeed!’ returned the other in a deep voice, as he shook some
loose particles of snow from his person.
‘Ah, this’ll be a bad time for many people,’ was the next remark the
large man ventured upon.
A muttered exclamation dropped from the lips of the last comer, but was
too indistinct to be heard.
‘There’ll be many a person remember this night,’ continued he of the
fiery countenance, with an insane notion that he was getting along
capitally.
The individual addressed turned sharply round, fixing a pair of dark
eyes upon the other’s face, but he did not speak.
Somewhat discouraged, the large man paused for a minute ere he spoke
again. The person he seemed so wishful to converse with was a tall,
handsome, young fellow, dressed in a sort of half-military costume, and
with a bold dashing look, sufficient in itself to attract notice. By
his side was a silver-hilted rapier, the ordinary weapon of a gentleman
of the day; and the martial look of the wearer was sufficient proof
that he would be prompt to use it in any emergency. Seemingly not
satisfied with the long inspection he had thought fit to take, our
red-faced friend once more endeavoured to enter into conversation; but
the gentleman, after giving the maid some orders, quitted the room.
‘Is that gentleman staying in the house, Peggy, my dear?’ asked the
red-faced one of the waiting-maid.
‘Yes; he came here last night,’ replied the girl, who was perfectly
ready to resume the aforesaid flirtation, which had been interrupted by
the entrance of the visitor.
But the man with the fiery face now seemed to be persistently
interested in the stranger. ‘What may his name be, Peg?’ he asked in a
tone of affected carelessness.
‘That’s no business of yours, Mr Goff,’ retorted the damsel a trifle
tartly, for the swain’s indifference somewhat nettled her.
‘Now, Peggy, my chuck, don’t get crusty,’ said the big man in wheedling
accents. ‘What’s that you’ve got in your pretty hand?’
‘It’s the gentleman’s hat,’ replied the fair maid, somewhat relaxing.
‘I’m going to dry it by the fire with his cloak. They’re sopping wet,
now the snow’s melted on them.’
‘He’s not likely to lose his headpiece, whoever he may be,’ remarked
Mr Goff. ‘I can see “R. Ainslie” on the lining quite plain, as you’re
holding it now.’
‘You seem to take a deal of interest in the gentleman,’ laughed Peggy
as she turned the hat away.
‘It’s mighty little interest I take in any one except you, my beauty,’
returned Mr Goff. ‘I only thought the young fellow looked wonderful
weary and tired like.’
‘He looked that yesterday,’ said Peggy, warming to the subject. ‘I felt
quite sorry for him when he rode up. It wasn’t fit weather to turn a
dog out in.’
‘And he’s been out again to-day?’ hazarded the big man.
‘Yes,’ replied Peggy, depositing the hat and cloak in front of the
roaring blaze. ‘He went out early on foot, leaving his horse in the
stable, and we saw nothing more of him till two o’clock. He came back
then, and ordered something to eat; but, as I’m a living creature, I
think he scarcely touched it. After that, he went out again, and did
not return till just now.’
‘It seems wonderful curious,’ said Mr Goff slowly, as he buttoned up
his coat and prepared to go—‘seems wonderful curious that a young gent
should go on in that fashion. When I see ’em a-doing so, I always have
a sort of notion that they’ve got something on their minds, and are
going to act rash.’
‘That’s your experience, is it?’ said the girl with a laugh. ‘I don’t
think much of it.’
‘Possibly not,’ returned the other. ‘Good-night.’
A SOLITARY ISLAND.
The government of Iceland have commissioned Mr Thoroddsen to undertake
systematic explorations of that island, with a view to investigating
its physical features and describing its natural history. While on a
visit to Grimsey, a small island twenty-two miles due north of Iceland,
he found it inhabited by eighty-eight human beings, debarred from all
communication with the mainland, excepting once or twice every year,
when, at great risk, the natives contrived to visit the mainland in
their small open boats.
After describing the flora and meteorology of this secluded islet,
Mr Thoroddsen informs us that the ‘pastor of the island, M. Pjetur
Gudmundsson, has for many years been engaged in exceedingly careful
meteorological observations on behalf of the Meteorological Institute
of Copenhagen. This most worthy gentleman, living here in conspicuous
poverty, like a hermit divorced from the world, though he has the
comfort of a good wife to be thankful for, is not only regarded as
a father by his primitive congregation, but enjoys, moreover, the
reputation of being in the front rank among sacred poets in modern
Iceland.
‘The inhabitants derive their livelihood for the most part from
bird-catching, nest-robbing, and deep-sea fisheries. The precipices
that form the eastern face of the island are crowded with myriads of
various kinds of sea-fowl. On every ledge the birds are seen thickly
packed together; the rocks are white with guano, or green-tufted with
scurvy-grass; here everything is in ceaseless movement, stir, and
flutter, accompanied by a myriad-voiced concert from screamers on the
wing, from chatterers on domestic affairs in the rock-ledges, and
from brawlers at the parliament of love out at sea, the surface of
which beneath the rocks is literally thatched at this time of the year
with the wooing multitudes of this happy commonwealth. If the peace
is broken by a stone rolled over the precipice or by the report of
a gunshot, the air is suddenly darkened by the rising clouds of the
disturbed birds, which, viewed from the rocks, resemble what might be
taken for gigantic swarms of bees or midges.
‘The method adopted for collecting eggs is the following: Provided with
a strong rope, some nine or ten stalwart men go to the precipice, where
it is some three hundred feet high, and one of the number volunteers
or is singled out by the rest for the perilous _sig_, that is, “sink”
or “drop,” over the edge of the rocks. Round his thighs and waist,
thickly padded generally with bags stuffed with feathers or hay, the
_sigamadr_, “sinkman” or “dropman,” adjusts the rope in such a manner
that he may hang, when dropped, in a sitting posture. He is also
dressed in a wide smock or sack of coarse calico, open at the breast,
and tied round the waist with a belt, into the ample folds of which
he slips the eggs he gathers, the capacity of the smock affording
accommodation to from one hundred to one hundred and fifty eggs at a
time. In one hand the sinkman holds a pole, sixteen feet long, with a
ladle tied to one end, and by this means scoops the eggs out of nests
which are beyond the reach of his own hands. When the purpose of this
“breath-fetching” sink is accomplished, on a given sign the dropman is
hauled up again by his comrades. This, as may readily be imagined, is
a most dangerous undertaking, and many a life has been lost over it in
Grimsey from accidents occurring to the rope.
‘For the pursuit of the fishery, the island possesses fourteen small
open boats, in which the men will venture out as far as four to six
miles cod-fishing; but this is a most hazardous industry, owing both
to the sudden manner in which the sea will rise, sometimes even a
long time in advance of travelling storms, and to the difficulty of
effecting a landing on the harbourless island.
‘Now and then the monotony of the life of the inhabitants is broken by
visits from foreigners, mostly Icelandic shark-fishers, or English or
French fishermen.
‘Of domestic animals the islanders now possess only a few sheep.
Formerly there were five cows in the island; but the hard winter
of 1860 necessitated their extermination, and since that time, for
twenty-four years, the people have had to do without a cow! Of horses
there are only two at present (1884) in the island! Strange to say, the
health of the people seems on the whole to bear a fair comparison with
more favoured localities. Scurvy, which formerly was very prevalent,
has now almost disappeared, as has also a disease peculiar to children,
which, in the form of spasm or convulsive fit, used to be very fatal to
infant life in former years.
‘Inexpressibly solitary must be the life of these people in winter,
shut out from all communication with the outer world, and having
in view, as far as the eye can reach, nothing but arctic ice. The
existence of generation after generation here seems to be spent in
one continuous and unavailing arctic expedition. The only diversion
afforded by nature consists in the shifting colours of the flickering
aurora borealis, in the twinkling of the stars in the heavens, and
the fantastic forms of wandering icebergs. No wonder that such
surroundings should serve to produce a quiet, serious, devout, and
down-hearted race, in which respect the Grimsey men may perhaps be
said to constitute a typical group among their compatriots. However,
to dispel the heavy tedium of the long winter days, they seek their
amusements in the reading of the Sagas, in chess-playing, and in such
mild dissipations at mutual entertainments at Christmas-time as their
splendid poverty will allow.’
FORESTRY AND FARMING.
At one of the evening lectures in connection with the late Edinburgh
Forestry Exhibition, Mr J. Meldrum spoke of the ‘Johore Forests’ which
are situated in the Malayan Peninsula between the British settlements
of Singapore and Malacca. The greater part of the interior, he said,
consisted of a virgin forest, and abounded in timber trees of a large
size, no fewer than three hundred and fifty specimens of which were to
be seen in the Forestry Exhibition. About three hundred kinds awaited
the advent of the papermaker, who would be able to convert them into
useful wood-pulp at a very low cost. Railways were required to make
this wealth of timber available for commercial purposes.
Another lecture by Mr Cracknell at the model of the Manitoba Farm
embodied some interesting information regarding the Canadian
north-west. The Bell Farm in Qu’appelle he described as the largest
farm in the world. There were eight thousand acres under crop, five
thousand under wheat, and a portion of the remainder under flax. From
this farm, ten thousand bushels of wheat had been exported at a good
price last year; and this year’s crop was estimated to be forty per
cent. better. The estimated wheat acreage this year in Manitoba is
three hundred and fifty thousand; and in the north-west territories
sixty-five thousand, with an estimated yield of twenty-three bushels
an acre. There was thus a total of four hundred and fifteen thousand
acres, and nine million five hundred and forty-five thousand bushels;
but deducting two million seven hundred and sixty thousand bushels for
home consumption and seed, there remained a surplus of six million
seven hundred and eighty-five thousand bushels. There is little
consolation here for the British farmer, who finds wheat-growing at the
present low prices positively unremunerative.
A LOVE-THOUGHT.
If thou wert only, love, a tiny flower,
And I a butterfly with gaudy wings,
Flitting to changing scenes each changing hour,
Careless of aught save that which pleasure brings—
Not even I could leave the lowliest glade
That held thy loveliness within its shade.
If thou wert but a streamlet in the vale,
And I a sailor on a stormy sea,
Flying through whirling foam beneath the gale,
Chartless in all that wild immensity—
Thy murmuring voice would echo in my soul
Through howling storm or crashing thunder-roll.
If, darling, thou wert but a far-off star,
And I a weary wanderer o’er the plain,
Unwitting of celestial worlds afar,
And knowing naught of all the shining train—
My glance would single out thy ray serene,
Though blazing suns and planets rolled between.
Yet, dear one, thou art these to me, and more:
My flower, whose radiance passeth all decay;
My streamlet of sweet thoughts in endless store;
My star, to guide my steps to perfect day;
My hope in earth’s dark dungeon of despair;
My refuge ’mid life’s weary noonday glare.
H. ERNEST NICHOL.
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Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON,
and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.
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_All Rights Reserved._