PEN AND PENCIL SKETCHES
OF
FARÖE AND ICELAND.
-------
“To the ocean now I fly,
And those _northern_ climes that lie
Where Day never shuts his eye.”
_Comus._
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: THE GREAT GEYSER IN ERUPTION.—_See page 117._]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PEN AND PENCIL SKETCHES
OF
FARÖE AND ICELAND
WITH AN APPENDIX
CONTAINING TRANSLATIONS FROM THE ICELANDIC
AND 51 ILLUSTRATIONS ENGRAVED ON WOOD BY W. J. LINTON
BY
ANDREW JAMES SYMINGTON
Author of “Harebell Chimes,” “The Beautiful in Nature, Art, and Life,”
&c.
LONDON
LONGMAN, GREEN, LONGMAN, AND ROBERTS
1862
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TO
LAURENCE EDMONDSTON, ESQ., M.D.,
OF SHETLAND,
CORRESPONDING MEMBER OF THE ROYAL PHYSICAL AND WERNERIAN SOCIETIES,
EDINBURGH;
HONORARY MEMBER OF THE YORKSHIRE PHILOSOPHICAL AND MANCHESTER
NATURAL HISTORY SOCIETIES, ETC.,
THIS VOLUME
IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED BY HIS SON-IN-LAW
A.J.S.
MAY 1862.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PREFACE.
-------
The greater part of this volume consists of a diary jotted down in
presence of the scenes described, so as to preserve for the reader, as
far as possible, the freshness of first impressions, and invest the
whole with an atmosphere of human interest.
The route taken may be thus shortly indicated: Thorshavn; Portland Huk;
the Westmanna Islands; Reykjavik; the Geysers; then, by sea, round the
south coast of the island, with its magnificent Jökul-range of
volcanoes; along the east coast, with its picturesque Fiords, as far
north as Seydisfiord; and thence home again, by the Faröe Isles.
The aim, throughout, has been both to present pictures and condense
information on matters relating to Faröe and Iceland. In obtaining the
latter I have had the advantages of frequent intercourse with
Icelanders, both personal and by letter, since my visit to the North in
the summer of 1859, and would here mention, in particular, the Rev. Olaf
Pálsson, Dean and Rector of Reykjavik Cathedral; Mr. Jón Arnason,
Secretary to the Bishop, and Librarian; Mr. Gísli Brynjúlfsson, the
Icelandic poet and M.P.; Mr. Sigurdur Sivertsen, a retired merchant, and
Mr. Jacobson.
And so too with the Faröese.
I acknowledge obligations to Dr. David Mackinlay of Glasgow, Dr. Lauder
Lindsay of Perth, and several other friends who have visited Iceland and
rendered me assistance of various kinds. Thanks are also due to Mr. P.
L. Henderson, for transmitting, by the _Arcturus_, letters, books and
newspapers to and from the north.
The APPENDIX comprises thirteen Icelandic stories and fairy tales
translated by the Rev. Olaf Pálsson; specimens of old Icelandic poetry;
poems on northern subjects in English and Icelandic; information for
intending tourists; a glossary; and lastly, a chapter on our
Scandinavian ancestors—treating of race, history, characteristics,
language and tendencies. This paper, originally intended for an
introduction, may be perused either first or last, at the option of the
reader. There is also a copious INDEX to the volume.
The illustrations, engraved by Mr. W. J. Linton, are all from original
drawings by the writer, with the exception of half a dozen,[1] taken
from plates in the large French folio which contains the account of
Gaimard’s Expedition.
Should these pages induce photographers and other artists to visit this
strange trahytic island resting on an ocean of fire in the lone North
Sea, or students to become familiar with its stirring history and grand
old literature, I shall feel solaced, under a feeling almost akin to
regret, that this self-imposed task—which, in spite of sundry vexatious
delays and interruptions, has afforded me much true enjoyment—should at
length have come to an end.
A.J.S.
MAY 1862.
-----
Footnote 1:
Nos. 19, 20, 21, 23, 24, and 31.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS.
-------
PAGE
PREFACE v
LEITH TO THORSHAVN 1
WESTMANNA ISLANDS—REYKJAVIK 35
RIDE TO THE GEYSERS 69
REYKJAVIK 143
JÖKUL-RANGES AND VOLCANOES ON THE SOUTH COAST 160
KÖTLUGJÁ’S ERUPTIONS 163
ICELANDIC STATISTICS 180
ERUPTION OF SKAPTÁR JÖKUL 187
VOLCANIC HISTORY OF ICELAND 193
THE EAST COAST. BREIDAMERKR—SEYDISFIORD 197
SEYDISFIORD, BY FARÖE, TO LEITH 208
APPENDIX.
I. ICELANDIC STORIES AND FAIRY TALES
STORIES OF SÆMUNDUR FRODI CALLED THE LEARNED.
I. The dark School 219
II. Sæmund gets the living of Oddi 221
III. The Goblin and the Cowherd 222
IV. Old Nick made himself as little as he was able 224
V. The Fly 224
VI. The Goblin’s Whistle 225
FAIRY TALES
Biarni Sveinsson and his sister Salvör 226
Una the Fairy 235
Gilitrutt 240
Hildur the Fairy Queen 244
A Clergyman’s daughter married to a Fairy Man 253
The Clergyman’s daughter in Prestsbakki 256
The Changeling 257
II. SPECIMENS OF OLD ICELANDIC POETRY
From the “Völuspá” 260
From the “Sólar Ljód” or “Sun Song” 262
From the Poems relating to Sigurd & Brynhild 265
“The Hávamál” or “High Song of Odin” 265
III. POEMS ON NORTHERN SUBJECTS
The Lay of the Vikings, by M.S.E.S. 278
Do. Translated into Icelandic by the Rev. Olaf Pálsson 279
The Viking’s Raven, by M.S.E.S. 281
Death of the Old Norse King, by A.J.S. 286
Do. Translated into Icelandic by the Rev. Olaf Pálsson 287
IV. INFORMATION FOR INTENDING TOURISTS 289
V. GLOSSARY 292
VI. CHAPTER ON OUR SCANDINAVIAN ANCESTORS 293
INDEX 309
------------------------------------------------------------------------
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
-------
PAGE
1. The Great Geyser in Eruption Frontispiece.
2. Little Dimon—Faröe 1
3. Foola 10
4. Naalsöe 15
5. Thorshavn, the capital of Faröe 20
6. Fort, at Thorshavn 23
7. From Thorshavn—showing Faröese Boats 27
8. Hans Petersen; a Faröese boatman 28
9. Basalt Caves—South point of Stromoe 32
10. Portland Huk—looking south 35
11. Needle Rocks or Drongs—off Portland Huk 38
12. Bjarnarey 43
13. Westmanna Skerries 43
14. Cape Reykjanes—showing Karl’s Klip (cliff) 45
15. Coast near Reykjavik 45
16. Eldey 46
17. Icelandic shoes, snuff-box, distaff, head-dress, & 53
fishermen’s two-thumbed mits
18. Reykjavik, from behind the town 67
19. Icelandic Lady in full dress, from a Photograph 68
20. View on the Route to Thingvalla 69
21. Ravine 73
22. Descent into the Almannagjá 81
23. Almannagjá 82
24. Fording the Oxerá 83
25. Priest’s House at Thingvalla 84
26. Althing and Lögberg from behind the church 87
27. Lake of Thingvalla from the Lögberg 89
28. Waterfall of the Oxerá as seen from the Lögberg 90
29. Vent of Tintron 94
30. Cinder-range of Vari-coloured Hills 95
31. Crossing the Bruará 104
32. The Great Geyser 129
33. Skaptár Jökul 134
34. Mount Hekla 135
35. Lake of Thingvalla from the north-west 139
36. Icelandic Farm, two hours’ ride from Reykjavik 142
37. Music in an Icelandic home (playing the langspiel) 145
38. Common Gull (_Larus canus_) 159
39. Oræfa Jökul, the highest mountain in Iceland 160
40. Snæfell Jökul, from fifty miles at sea 161
41. Part of Myrdals Jökul and Kötlugjá range 184
42. Oræfa Jökul, from the sea 185
43. Entrance to Reydarfiord—east coast 197
44. Near the entrance to Hornafiord 198
45. Mr. Henderson’s Factory at the head of Seydisfiord 202
46. Farm House, Seydisfiord 206
47. Seydisfiord, looking east towards the sea 207
48. Brimnæs Fjall 208
49. Naalsöe—Faröe 212
50. Entrance to the Sound leading to Thorshavn 213
51. Stromoe—Faröe, looking north-east from below the Fort at 216
Thorshavn
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: LITTLE DIMON—FARÖE.]
PEN AND PENCIL SKETCHES
OF
FARÖE AND ICELAND.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
LEITH TO THORSHAVN.
Can Iceland—that distant island of the North Sea, that land of Eddas and
Sagas, of lava-wastes, snow-jökuls, volcanoes, and boiling geysers—be
visited during a summer’s holiday? This was the question which for years
I had vaguely proposed to myself. Now I wished definitely to ascertain
particulars, and, if at all practicable, to accomplish such a journey
during the present season.
Three ways presented themselves—the chance of getting north in a private
yacht—to charter a sloop from Lerwick—or to take the mail-steamer from
Copenhagen. The first way seemed very doubtful; I was dissuaded from the
second by the great uncertainty as to when one might get back, and the
earnest entreaties of friends, who, with long faces, insinuated that
these wild northern seas were not to be trifled with. However, the
uncertainty as to time, and the expense, which for one person would have
been considerable, weighed more with me than any idea of danger. Of the
mail-steamer it was difficult to obtain any information.
One morning, when in this dilemma, my eye fell on an advertisement in
the _Times_, headed “Steam to Iceland,” informing all whom it might
concern that the Danish mail-steamer “Arcturus,” would, about the 20th
of July, touch at Leith on its way north, affording passengers a week to
visit the interior of the island, and would return to Leith within a
month. I subsequently ascertained that it was to call at the Faröe and
Westmanna Isles, and that it would also sail from Reykjavik round to
Seydisfiord, on the east of Iceland, so that one might obtain a view of
the magnificent range of jökuls and numerous glaciers along the south
coast.
The day of sailing was a fortnight earlier than I could have desired,
but such an opportunity was not to be missed. Providing myself with a
long waterproof overcoat, overboots of the same material—both absolutely
essential for riding with any degree of comfort in Iceland, to protect
from lashing rains, and when splashing through mud-puddles or deep river
fordings—getting together a supply of preserved meats, soups, &c. in tin
cans, a mariner’s compass, thermometer, one of De La Rue’s solid
sketch-books, files of newspapers, a few articles for presents, and
other needful things, my traps were speedily put up; and, on Wednesday
the 20th of July, I found myself on board the “Arcturus” in Leith dock.
It was a Clyde-built screw-steamer, of 400 tons burden. Captain
Andriessen, a Dane, received me kindly; the crew, with the exception of
the engineer, a Scotchman, were all foreigners. In the first cabin were
eight fellow-passengers, strangers to each other; but, as is usual at
sea, acquaintanceships were soon formed; by degrees we came to know each
other, and all got along very pleasantly together.
There was only one lady passenger, to whom I was introduced, Miss
Löbner, daughter of the late governor of Faröe, who had been south,
visiting friends in Edinburgh. Afraid of being ill, she speedily
disappeared, and did not leave her cabin till we reached Thorshavn. Of
our number were Professor Chadbourne, of William’s College,
Massachusetts, and Bowdoin College, Maine, U.S.; Capt. Forbes, R.N.; Mr.
Haycock, a gentleman from Norfolk, who had recently visited Norway in
his yacht; Mr. Cleghorn, lately an officer in the Indian army; Mr.
Douglas Murray, an intelligent Scottish farmer, from the neighbourhood
of Haddington, taking his annual holiday; Dr. Livingston, an American
M.D.; and Capt. B——, a Danish artillery officer, _en route_ from
Copenhagen to Reykjavik.
There were also several passengers in the second cabin, some of whom
were students returning home from their studies in the Danish
universities.
There was a large boat to be got on board, for discharging the steamer’s
cargo at Iceland, which took several hours to get fastened aloft on the
right side of the hurricane deck—with the comfortable prospect of its
top-heaviness acting like a pendulum, and adding considerably to the
roll of the ship, should the weather prove rough.
Shortly after seven P.M. we got fairly clear of the dock. Strange to
think, as the last hawser was being cast off, that, till our return, we
should hear no postman’s ring, receive no letters with either good
tidings or annoyances—for we carry the mail,—and see no later newspapers
than those we take with us! Friends may be well or ill. The stirring
events of the Continent, too, leave us to speculate on changes that may
suddenly occur in the aspect of European affairs, with the chances of
peace, or declarations of war.
However, allowing such thoughts to disturb me as little as possible, and
trusting that, under a kind Providence, all would be well with those
dear to me, hopefully, and not without a deep feeling of inward
satisfaction that a long cherished dream of boyhood was now about to be
realised, I turned my face to the North.
A dense mist having settled on the Frith of Forth, the captain deemed it
prudent to anchor in the roads. During the night it cleared off, and at
five o’clock on Thursday morning, 21st July, our star was in the
ascendant, and the “Arcturus” got fairly under way.
The morning, bright and clear, was truly splendid; the day sunny and
warm; many sails in sight, and numerous sea-birds kept following the
ship.
Breakfast, dinner, and tea follow each other in regular succession,
making, with their pleasant reunions and friendly intercourse, a
threefold division of the day. On shipboard the steward’s bell becomes
an important institution, a sort of repeating gastronomical chronometer,
and is not an unpleasant sound when the fresh sea-air has sharpened
one’s appetite into expectancy.
The commissariat supplies were liberal, and the department well attended
to by a worthy Dane, who spoke no English, and who was only observed to
smile once during the voyage. Captain Andriessen’s fluent English, and
the obliging Danish stewardess’ German, enabled us all to get along in a
sort of way; although the conversation at times assumed a polyglot
aspect, the ludicrous _olla-podrida_ nature of which afforded us many a
good hearty laugh.
The chief peculiarities in our bill of fare were _lax_ or red-smoked
salmon; the sweet soups of Denmark, with raisins floating in them; black
stale rye-bread; and a substantial dish, generally produced thrice a
day, which, in forgetfulness of the technical nomenclature, we shall
venture to call beef-steak fried with onions or garlic—that bulb which
Don Quixote denounced as pertaining to scullions and low fellows,
entreating Sancho to eschew it above all things when he came to his
Island. At sea, however, we found it not unpalatable. There must ever be
some drawbacks on shipboard. One of these was the water produced at
table, of which Captain Forbes funnily remarked, that it “tasted badly
of bung cloth—and dirty cloth, too!” But, such as it was, the Professor
and I preferred it to wine.
Thus much of culinary matters, for, with the exception of a few
surprises, which, according to all our previous ideas, confused the
chronology of the dishes—making a literal mess of it—and sundry minor
variations in the cycle of desserts proper, the service of one day
resembled that of another.
There was only wind enough to fill the mainsail, and in it, on the lea
side of the boom, as if in a hammock, sheltered from the broiling sun, I
lay resting for hours. Off Peterhead, we saw innumerable fishing
boats—counted 205 in one fleet. Off Inverness, far out at sea, we
counted as many, ere we gave in and stopped. Their sails were mostly
down, and we, passing quite near, could observe the process of the
fishermen shooting their nets; the sea to the north-east all thickly
dotted with boats, which appeared like black specks. A steamer was
sailing among them, probably to receive and convey the fish ashore.
Perilous is the calling of the fisherman! Calm to-day, squalls may
overtake him on the morrow—
“But men must work, and women must weep,
Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,
And the harbour bar be moaning.”
As the sun went down, from the forecastle we watched a dense bank of
cloud resting on the sea; its dark purple ranges here and there shewing
openings, with hopeful silver linings intensely bright—glimpses, as it
were, into the land of Beulah. Then the lights and shadows grandly
massed themselves, gradually assuming a sombre hue; while starry
thoughts of dear ones at home rose, welling up within us, as the
daylight ebbed slowly away over the horizon’s rim.
_Friday morning, July 22._—Rose at seven; weather dull; neither land,
sky, nor sail, visible; our position not very accurately known. At four
in the morning the engine had been stopped, the look-out having seen
breakers a-head—no observation to be had. Our course to the North Sea
lay between the Orkney and Shetland Islands. After breakfast it cleared,
and on the starboard bow, we saw Fair Isle, so that our course was
right, although we had not known in what part of it we were.
There was cause for thankfulness that the Orkneys had been passed in
safety. Where the navigation is intricate and requires care at best, our
chances of danger during the uncertainty of the night had doubtless been
great. The south of the Shetland Isles also appeared to rise from the
sea, dim and blue, resting on the horizon, like clouds ethereal and
dreamlike.
At 11 o’clock A.M., sailing past Fair Isle, made several sketches of its
varied aspects, as seen from different points. Green and fair, this
lonely island lies about thirty miles south-west of the Shetland group,
and in the very track of vessels going north.
It has no light-house, and is dreaded by sailors; for many are the
shipwrecks which it occasions. Before now, we had heard captains, in
their anxiety, wish it were at the bottom of the sea. Could not a light
be placed upon it by the Admiralty, and a fearful loss of life thus be
averted?
The island contains about a hundred inhabitants, who live chiefly by
fishing and knitting. They are both skilful and industrious. During the
winter months, the men, as well as the women, knit caps, gloves, and
waistcoats; and for dyeing the wool, procure a variety of colours from
native herbs and lichens.
True happiness, springing as it ever does from above and from within,
may have its peaceful abode here among those lonely islanders quite
apart from the noise and bustle of what is called the great world,
although the stranger sailing past is apt to think such places “remote,
unfriended, melancholy, slow.”[2]
Ere long we could distinguish the bold headland of Sumburgh, which is
the southern extremity of Shetland; and a little to the north-west of
it, by the aid of an opera-glass, Fitful Head,[3] rendered famous by Sir
Walter Scott as the dwelling place of Norna, in “The Pirate.”
Last summer I visited this the most northern group of British islands,
famed alike for skilful seamen, fearless fishermen, and fairy-fingered
knitters; for its hardy ponies, and for that soft, warm, fleecy wool
which is peculiar to its sheep.
Gazing on the blue outline of the islands, I now involuntarily recalled
their many voes, wild caves, and splintered skerries, alive with sea
gulls and kittiwakes. The magnificent land-locked sound of Bressay too,
where her Majesty’s fleet might ride in safety, and where Lerwick—the
capital of the islands, and the most northerly town in the British
dominions—with its quaint, foreign, gabled aspect, rises, crowning the
heights, from the very water’s edge, so that sillacks might be fished
from the windows of those houses next the sea. Boating excursions and
pony scamperings are also recalled; the Noss Head, with its mural
precipice rising sheer from the sea to a height of 700 feet, vividly
reminding one of Edgar’s description of Dover Cliff, in “Lear,” or of
that which Horatio pictured to Hamlet—
“The dreadful summit of the cliff,
That beetles o’er his base into the sea....
The very place puts toys of desperation,
Without more motive, into every brain
That looks so many fathoms to the sea,
And hears it roar beneath.”
Nor is the much talked of _cradle_ forgotten, slung on ropes, for
crossing the chasm between a lower cliff and the Holm of Noss;—a
detached rocky islet, the top of which only affords pasture, during the
summer months, for some half dozen sheep.
The curious and singularly-perfect ancient Pictish or Scandinavian
Burgh, in the Island of Moosa, rises again before me; Scalloway Bay,
with its old Castle in ruins, its fishermen’s cots, and fish-drying
sheds. A high, long, out-jutting rocky promontory too, on which I had
stood watching the “yeasty waves” far below, as they rolled thundering
into an irregular cave, which, in the course of ages, they had scooped
out among the basaltic crags, and, leaping up, scattered drenching
showers of diamond spray. Every succeeding dash of the billows produced
a loud report like the discharge of artillery, the reverberations
echoing along the shore. In the black creek below, the brine seething
like a caldron was literally churned into white foam-flakes, which,
rising into the air on sudden gusts of wind, sailed away inland, high
overhead, like a flock of sea-birds. These flakes were of all sizes,
large masses of froth at times floating down, and alighting at our very
feet, from so great a height that they had merely shewed as black specks
against the bright sunlight. In lulls one could actually lift them
bodily from the ground, upwards of two cubic feet in size; but when the
wind rose, such masses of whipped sea-cream were again seized upon,
swept aloft, divided into smaller portions, and carried away across the
island. These and other pleasing memories presented themselves as we now
gazed on the distant, dim-blue Shetland Isles.
Saw a large vessel disabled and being towed southwards from Shetland,
where she appears to have come to grief. Topmasts gone, sides battered
and patched with boards. She is high out of the water, so that the cargo
must have been discharged. All our opera-glasses and telescopes are in
requisition.
[Illustration: FOOLA.]
Sat on the boom for hours, the vessel rolling heavily over the great
smooth Atlantic billows. In the afternoon passed the island of Foola,
which has been called the St. Kilda of Shetland. It lies about sixteen
miles west of Mainland, and is high and precipitous. The cliffs are
tenanted by innumerable sea-fowls, which are caught in thousands by the
cragsmen, and afford a considerable source of revenue to the
inhabitants.
Blue and cloudlike the detached and isolated heights of Mainland, Yell,
and Unst—the promontory of Hermanness, on the latter, being the most
northerly point of the British islands—are fast sinking beneath the
horizon. Ere long Foola, left astern, follows the others. No land in
sight, not a sail on the horizon; all round is now one smooth heaving
circular plain of blue water—the ever changing level producing a most
singular optical effect.
In the evening walked the deck with Mr. Haycock, discoursing of
Norwegian scenery, and of yacht excursions thither. The evening clear
and pleasant, although the ground-swell continued to increase. Turned
in, at half-past ten o’clock. The vessel rolled much during the night.
Professor Chadbourne, Mr. Murray, and Mr. Cleghorn’s berths were in the
same state-room as mine. The quarter-deck being elevated, one of our
windows opened towards the deck, and _could_ at all times afford good
and safe ventilation; but the stewards always _would_ shut it, watching
their opportunity of doing so when we were asleep. We always opened it
again, when on waking we found the deed had been done; and all of us
made a point of shouting out ferociously when we caught them stealthily
at it. This shutting and opening occurred several times every night, and
seemed destined to go on, spite of all our remonstrances; a nuisance
only relieved by a slight dash of the ludicrous. Danes don’t seem to
like fresh air.
_Saturday morning, July 23._—No land in sight, open sea from Norway to
America; heavy swell on the Atlantic, and wind changing from N.E. to
N.W.; numerous whales blowing, quite close to the vessel; gulls and
kittiwakes flying about.
At mid-day came in sight of the Faröe Islands rising above the horizon;
fixed the first glimpse of them, and continued sketching their outline
from time to time, as on nearing them it developed itself—watching with
great interest the seeming clouds slowly becoming crags. Little Dimon, a
lofty rock-island, somewhat resembling Ailsa, and purple in the
distance, was, from the first, the most prominent and singular object on
the horizon line.
The waves rolling so heavily that not only the hull, but the mast of a
sloop, not very far off, is quite hid by each long swell. The Professor,
Dr. Livingston, and Mr. Murray all agree in saying that they never had
such heavy seas in crossing the Atlantic.
The Faröe group consists of twenty-two islands, seventeen of which are
inhabited. A bird’s-eye view of them would exhibit a series of bare,
steep, oblong hills, in parallel ranges; with either valleys or narrow
arms of the sea between them, and all lying north-west and south-east.
The name Faröe is said to be derived from _faar_ or _foer_, the old word
for a sheep; that animal having probably been introduced by the Norse
sea-rovers long before these islands were permanently colonised in the
time of Harold. However, _fier_—the Danish word for feathers—is more
likely to be the correct etymology; for these islands are the native
habitat of innumerable sea-birds.
They lie 185 miles north-west of the Shetland Isles, 400 west of Norway,
and 320 south-east of Iceland; population upwards of 3000, and subject
to Denmark.
We are now approaching Suderoe, the most southerly of the islands. On
our left lie several curious detached rocks, near one of which, called
the Monk, is a whirlpool, dangerous in some states of the tide; although
its perils, like those of Corrivreckan between Jura and Scarba in the
Hebrides, have been greatly exaggerated. On one occasion I sailed over
the latter unharmed by Sirens, Mermaids, or Kelpies; only observing an
irregular fresh on the water, where the tide-ways met, and hearing
nothing save a dripping, plashing noise in the cross-cut ripple, as if
many fish were leaping around the boat.
In storms, however, such places had better receive a wide berth.
The approach to the Faröe group is very fine, presenting to our view a
magnificent panorama of fantastically-shaped islands—peaked sharp
angular bare precipitous rocks, rising sheer from the sea; the
larger-sized islands being regularly terraced in two or more successive
grades of columnar trap-rock. Some of these singular hill-islets are
sharp along the top, like the ridge of a house, and slope down on either
side to the sea, at an angle of fifty degrees. Others of them are
isolated stacks.
The hard trap-rock, nearly everywhere alternating with soft tufa, or
claystone, sufficiently accounts for the regular, stair-like terraces
which form a striking and characteristic feature of these picturesque
islands. The whole have evidently, in remote epochs, been subjected to
violent physical abrasion, probably glacial, during the period of the
ice-drift; and, subsequently, to the disintegrating crumbling influences
of moisture, and of the atmosphere itself. Frost converts each particle
of moisture into a crystal expanding wedge of ice, which does its work
silently but surely and to an extent which few people would imagine.
We now pass that singular rock-island, Little Dimon, which supports
a few wild sheep; and Store Dimon, on which only one family resides.
The cliffs here, as also on others of the islands, are so steep that
boats are lowered with ropes into the sea; and people landing are
either pulled up by ropes, or are obliged to clamber up by fixing
their toes and fingers in holes cut on the face of the rock.
Sea-fowls and eggs are every year collected in thousands from these
islets by the bold cragsmen. These men climb from below; or, like
the samphire-gatherer—“dreadful trade”—are let down to the nests by
means of a rope, and there they pursue their perilous calling while
hanging in “midway air” over the sea. They also sometimes approach
the cliffs at night, in boats, carrying lighted torches, which lure
and dazzle the birds that come flying around them, so that they are
easily knocked down with sticks, and the boat is thus speedily
filled. As many as five thousand birds have been taken in one year
from Store Dimon alone, and in former times they were much more
numerous.
We watch clouds like white fleecy wool rolling past, and apparently
being raked by the violet-coloured peaks; whilst others lower down are
pierced and rest peacefully among them.
Having passed Sandoe, through the Skaapen Fiord, we see Hestoe, Kolter,
Vaagoe, and other distant blue island heights in the direction of
Myggenaes, the most western island of the group. We now sail between
Stromoe on the west, and Naalsöe on the east. Stromoe is the central and
largest island of the group, being twenty-seven miles long and seven
broad. It contains Thorshavn, the capital of Faröe. Naalsöe, the needle
island, is so called from a curious cave at the south end which
penetrates the island from side to side like the eye of a needle—larger,
by a long way, than Cleopatra’s. Daylight shews through it, and, in calm
weather, boats can sail from the one side to the other. We observe a
succession of sea-caves in the rocks as we sail along, the action of the
waves having evidently scooped out the softer strata, and left the
columnar trap-rock hanging like a pent-house over each entrance. These
caves are tenanted by innumerable sea-birds. On the brink of the water
stand restless glossy cormorants; along the horizontal rock-ledges above
them, sit skua-gulls, kittiwakes, auks, guillemots, and puffins, in
rows; and generally ranged in the order we have indicated, beginning
with the cormorant on the lower stones or rocks next the sea, and ending
with the puffin, which takes the highest station in this bird congress.
If disturbed, they raise a harsh, confused, deafening noise; screaming
and fluttering about in myriads. Their numbers are so frequently
thinned, and in such a variety of ways, that old birds may, on these
occasions, be excused for exhibiting signs of alarm.
[Illustration: NAALSÖE.]
The Faröese eat every kind of sea-fowl, with the exception of gulls,
skuas, and cormorants; but are partial to auks, guillemots, and puffins.
They use them either fresh, salted or dried. The rancid fishy taste of
sea-birds resides, for the most part, in the skin only—that removed, the
rest is generally palatable. In the month of May the inhabitants of many
of the islands subsist chiefly on eggs. Feathers form an important
article of export.
We watched several gulls confidingly following the steamer; one in
particular, now flying over the deck as far as the funnel, now falling
astern to pick up bits of biscuit that were thrown overboard to it. Long
I stood admiring its beautiful soft downy plumage, its easy graceful
motions, the great distance to which a few strokes of its powerful
pinions urged it forward, or, spread bow-like and motionless, allowed it
simply to float and at times remain poised in the air right over the
deck, now peering down with its keen yet mild eyes, and leaving us to
surmise what embryo ideas of wonder might now be passing through its
little bird-brain.
The Danish officer raised, levelled his piece, and fired; the poor thing
screamed like a child, threw up its wings, turned round, and fell upon
the sea like a stone; its companions came flying confusedly in crowds to
see what was wrong with it, and received another shower of lead for
their pains.
Holding no peace-society, vegetarian, homeopathic &c. views, I do not
object to the _bona fide_ clearing of a country from dangerous animals;
or to shooting, when rendered necessary for supplying our wants;
but—from the higher, healthier platform of Christian manliness, reason
and common sense—would most emphatically protest against thoughtless or
wanton cruelty. Such barbarism could not be indulged in, much less be
regarded as sport, but from sheer thoughtlessness in the best; while,
under almost any circumstances, the destruction of animal life will, by
the true gentleman, be regarded as a painful necessity.
Those who love sport for its own sake may be divided into three
classes—the majority of sportsmen it is to be hoped belonging to the
first of these divisions;—viz., the thoughtless, who have never
considered the subject at all, or looked at any of its bearings; those
whose blunted feelings are, in one direction, estranged from the beauty
and joy of existence; and the third and last class, where civilization
makes so near an approach to the depravity of savage natures, that a
tiger-like eagerness to destroy life takes possession of a man and
becomes a passion. He then only reckons the number of braces bagged, and
considers not desolate nests, broken-winged pining birds, and the many
dire tragedies wrought on the moor by his murderous gun.
A study of the habits of birds, taking cognizance of all the interesting
ongoings of their daily lives, of their wonderful instincts and labours
of love, would, we should think, make a man of rightly-constituted mind
feel the necessity of destroying them to be painful; and he certainly
would not choose to engage in it as sport. The fable of the boys and the
frogs is in point, and the term “sport,” thus applied, is surely a
cruel, and certainly a one-sided word. In low natures, sympathy becomes
totally eclipsed and obscured by selfishness; and all selfishness is
sin.
Although shocked at witnessing the needless destruction of the poor
gull, for the sake of the officer, who was of a gentle kindly nature,
doubtless belonging to the “first division,” we tried hard to palliate
the deed; but that pitiful cry of agony haunts us yet!
“Farewell, farewell! but this I tell
To thee, thou Wedding guest!
He prayeth well, who loveth well
Both man, and bird, and beast.
“He prayeth best, who loveth best
All things both great and small;
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.”
Whales rising to the surface and spouting around the vessel; also shoals
of porpoises tumbling and gambolling about; sometimes swimming in line
so as closely to resemble the coils of a snake moving along; such an
appearance has probably originated the mythic sea-serpent.
There are still many caves in the rocks close on the sea; innumerable
birds flying out of them and settling on the surface of the heaving
water close under the cliffs.
We now approach a little bay, surrounded by an amphitheatre of bare
hills; the hollow, for a wonder, slopes down to the shore; we observe
patches of green among the rocks, and a flag flying. Several fishing
sloops lie at anchor, but there is no appearance of a town. Here we are
told is Thorshavn, the capital of Faröe—the haven of Thor. As we
approach, we discover that it is a town, the chief part of it built upon
a rocky promontory which divides the bay; we can also distinguish the
church and fort. The green tint we had observed is grassy turf—but it
happens to be growing on the roofs of the wooden houses; and the houses
are scattered irregularly among the brown rocks. On the promontory,
house rises above house from the water’s edge; and the black, wooden
church tower rising behind appears to crown them all. On an eminence, to
the right of the town, is the battery or fort, with a flagstaff in
front. All glasses in requisition, we curiously examine the place and
discover several wooden jetties—landing places for fishing boats.
Beneath the fort and all round, split fish are spread on the rocks to
dry; many square fish-heaps also are being pressed under boards, with
heavy stones placed above them.
The scenery around is not unlike that of Loch Long in Scotland, while
the general aspect of Thorshavn itself resembles the pictures of old
towns given in the corners of maps of the fifteenth century.
As we enter the bay with colours flying, the Danish flag is run up at
the fort, displayed by the sloops, and flutters from the flagstaff at
Mr. Müller’s house. This gentleman is one of the local authorities and
also agent for the steamer. A cold wind blows down the ravine, boats are
coming off, the steam-whistle rejoices on hearing itself echoed among
the hills, and the anchor is let go. Now, that we are near it, the town
appears really picturesque and carries one several hundred years back,
with its veritable old-world, higgledy-piggledy quaintness.
[Illustration: THORSHAVN.]
_Saturday night_, 6 P.M.—Went on shore in the captain’s boat, called at
Mr. Müller’s office—a comfortable new erection—and then separated into
parties to explore the place. Crowds of men, women, and children,
standing at every door, stare at us with undisguised child-like wonder;
the men—middle-sized stalwart fellows with light hair and weathered
faces—taking off their caps to us as we pass along returning their
salutes.
“An ancient fishy smell,” together with a strong flavour of turf-smoke,
decidedly predominate over sundry other nondescript odours in this
strange out-landish town. The results of our exploration are embodied in
the following jottings, which, at all events, participate so far in the
spirit of the place as to resemble its ground-plan.
Houses, stone for a few feet next the ground, then wood, tarred or
painted black, and generally two stories in height; small windows, the
sashes of which are painted white; green turf on the roofs. The
interiors of the poorer sort of houses are very dark; an utter absence
of _voluntary_ ventilation; one fire, and that in the kitchen, the
chimney often only a hole in the roof. Yet even in these hovels there is
generally a guest-room, comfortably boarded and furnished. In such
apartments we observed chairs, tables, chests of drawers, feather-beds,
down coverlets, a few books, engravings on the walls, specimens of
ingenious native handiwork, curiosities, &c. This juxtaposition under
the same roof was new to us, and struck every one as something quite
peculiar and contrary to all our previous experiences. The streets of
Thorshavn are only narrow dirty irregular passages, often not more than
two or three feet wide; one walks upon bare rock or mud. These passages
wind up steep places, and run in all manner of zigzag directions, so
that the most direct line from one point to another generally leads
“straight down crooked lane and all round the square.” Observed a man on
the top of a house cutting grass with a sickle. Here the approach of
spring is first indicated by the turf roofs of the houses becoming
green. Being invited, we entered several fishermen’s houses; they seemed
dark, smoky, and dirty; and, in all, the air was close and stifling. In
one, observed a savoury pot of puffin broth, suspended from the ceiling
and boiling on a turf fire built open like a smith’s forge, the smoke
finding only a very partial egress by the hole overhead; on the wall
hung a number of plucked puffins and guillemots; several hens seen
through the smoke sitting contentedly perched on a spar evidently
intended for their accommodation in the corner of the apartment; a stone
hand-mill for grinding barley, such as Sarah may have used, lay on the
floor; reminding one of the East, from whence the Scandinavians came in
the days of Odin.
In passing along the street we saw strips of whale-flesh, black and
reddish-coloured, hanging outside the gable of almost every house to
dry, just as we have seen herrings in fishing-villages on our own
coasts. When a shoal of whales is driven ashore by the boatmen, there
are great rejoicings among the islanders, whose faces, we were told,
actually shine for weeks after this their season of feasting. What
cannot be eaten at the time is dried for future use. Boiled or roasted
it is nutritious, and not very unpalatable. The dried flesh which I
tasted resembled tough beef, with a flavour of venison. Being
“blood-meat,” I would not have known it to be from the sea; and have
been told that, when fresh and properly cooked, tender steaks from a
young whale can scarcely be distinguished from beef-steak.
The costume of the men is curious, and somewhat like that of the
Neapolitans;—a woollen cap, like the Phrygian, generally dark-blue or
reddish; a long jacket and knee-breeches, both of coarse home-made
cloth, blue or brown; long stockings; and thin, soft, buff-coloured
lamb-skin shoes, made of one piece of leather, and without hard soles,
so that they can find sure footing with them on the rocks, or use their
toes when climbing crags almost as well as if they had their bare feet.
There is less peculiarity in the female costume. The men and women
generally have light hair and blue eyes. Honest and industrious, crime
is scarcely known amongst them.
Visited the Fort, which is very primitive; simply a little space on a
hill-side, enclosed with a low rough stone wall; four small useless
cannon lying on the grass, enjoying a sinecure—literally lying in
clover; a wooden sentry-box in the corner; a flagstaff in front of it,
and two little cottages behind, to accommodate several of the garrison,
who prefer living there to lodging in the town, as their comrades do.
There are only some eight or ten soldiers altogether; and these, with
the commander, constitute the sole military establishment in Faröe. They
appear to occupy themselves with fishing, &c., very much like the other
inhabitants of the place.
[Illustration: FORT.]
Visited the library, which was established by a former Amptman or
Governor. It occupies two rooms, which are shelved all round and
comfortably heated with a stove. We observed many standard Danish,
German, French and English books, several valuable folio works of
reference, and many trashy modern novels. The Faröese are inquisitive
and intelligent, show a taste for reading, but possess no native
literature like the Icelanders.
Visited the church, which is built of wood. The service performed in it
is the Lutheran, as in Denmark. It contains an altar-piece intended to
represent “Joseph of Arimathea with the dead body of Christ,” two large
candles, and a silver and ebony crucifix. The galleries, of plain
unvarnished wood, are arranged like opera stalls, one above the other
from the floor, and with green curtains to each. At the right side of
the pulpit were three large sand-glasses, an old custom once common in
all our churches; fronting the altar was the organ-loft. Everything
about the church was neat, clean, and primitive. Flower-beds were
planted so as to form wreaths or crosses on the graves in the
churchyard; and all appeared to be carefully tended and kept in order by
loving hands.
Went by invitation of Fraulein Löbner to drink tea at her mother’s, the
Danish officer with me. We were ushered into a charming old-fashioned
room with low panelled roof; everything in it was neat, scrupulously
clean, and primitive. A valance of white Nottingham lace-curtain ran
along the top of the diamond-paned lattice windows; while a row of
flower-pots, with blooming roses and geraniums, stood in the
window-sill. There were cabinets with rich old china-ware; several
paintings on the wall, two of which were really excellent—one, a
portrait in oil of her late father who had been Governor of Faröe; the
other a portrait of her brother, also deceased. Her father was a Dane of
German extraction; and her mother—a kindly old lady to whom we were now
introduced—a native of Faröe.
At tea we had preserves, made from rhubarb grown in their own garden; a
silver ewer of delicious cream highly creditable to Faröese dairyship;
and buns, tarts, almond-cakes, &c., baked by the one baker of Thorshavn,
and quite as good as could be had in London.
While the officer was sketching from the window, our kind hostess wound
up a musical box, at the same time expressing her regret that the
piano-forte, which I had observed standing in the room, was under
repair. She also showed us a folio of her own drawings, and many
engravings. Here a lady of cultivated mind, and who has mingled in good
society, is happy and content to dwell in this remote isle; for to her
it possesses the magic of that endearing word—home!
She tells us that wool, fish, feathers, and skins form the chief
articles of export; that barley is the only grain raised in Faröe, but
the summer is so short that it has not time to ripen. The ears are
plucked by the hand and dried in a kiln. The rye, of which their black
bread is made, is imported chiefly from Denmark. The hay-harvest is of
great importance to the inhabitants. There are numerous sheep in the
islands—some individuals possessing flocks of from four to five hundred,
besides a few ponies and cows. Dried, the mutton is serviceable for food
during winter, when frequent storms interfere with fishing operations.
As in Shetland, the wool is collected from the sheep by the hand, at the
season of the year when they are casting their fleeces; for shearing,
besides being a more painful process, would deprive them of the long
hair so necessary for their protection in an uncertain climate, and
leave them to shiver exposed to the untempered fury of the northern
blast. The sheep thus enables the islanders to supply their own home
wants, and also annually to export many thousand pairs of knitted
stockings and gloves, together with the overplus raw material.
Miss L. informs us that Thorshavn contains about eight hundred
inhabitants. Of these, most of the men are fishers when the weather will
admit of their going off. The people are very ingenious, and make knives
of all sizes, with curiously inlaid wooden handles and sheaths. The wood
for such purposes is obtained from logs of mahogany, which are
frequently found as drift-wood among these islands. We were shewn a
home-made fancy work-table, neatly put together in a very ingenious and
workman-like manner.
Each man here is a sort of Jack-of-all-trades, from the mending of boats
or nets, to the killing of sheep and drying them in sheds for the winter
store of provisions; from the making of lamb-skin shoes to the building
of houses, or the manufacture of implements.
Miss Löbner has kindly and obligingly undertaken to procure some
specimens of these manufactures and local curiosities against my return
from Iceland.
Gazing round, as we take leave of our kind entertainers, I fix in my
mind’s eye the lady-like air and quaint point-devise costume of the
elder lady, who, with silvery hair combed back from her brow, had moved
about most assiduously performing all the sacred rites of hospitality to
her guests; the mediæval aspect of everything in the room,—from the
stove to the timepiece, from the polished wooden floor to the panelled
ceiling; the diamond-paned lattice windows, with their old-world outlook
on the town and the flat wooden bridge, close by, which crosses a
brawling stream rushing impetuously over rocks from the gully behind;
the absolute cleanness and polish of everything; and the monthly roses
blooming freshly as of old;—all so vividly impress themselves upon my
mind that the whole becomes a waking dream of other days; and it would
not seem much out of keeping, or at all surprising, were the Emperor
Charles V. himself to open the door and walk into the quaint old
apartment we are now about to leave.
[Illustration: FROM THORSHAVN—SHOWING FARÖESE BOATS.]
Nine P.M.—Wandered alone by the shore, and sketched the view, looking
north, from beneath the fort; also made a drawing of the bay from the
wooden jetty; while engaged on the latter, crowds of fishermen gathered
around me making odd remarks of wonder, the general scope of which I
could gather, as they recognised the steamer, boats, hills, &c., coming
up on the paper; sketched one of the onlookers, an intelligent looking
fellow, and here he is.
[Illustration: FARÖESE BOATMAN.]