Norwegian yawl; square lug-sails very broad and carried low are the most
common. The weather is so very uncertain, the gusts so sudden and
violent, that, preceded by a lull during which a lighted candle may be
carried in the open air, they come roaring down the valleys or between
the islands, bellowing with a noise like thunder, and sometimes strip
the turf from the hill side, roll it up like a sheet of lead and carry
it away into the sea, while the air is darkened by clouds of dust and
stones.
Felt comfortably warm when sketching in the open air between ten and
eleven P.M., for, though the climate is moist, the mean temperature is
warmer than that of Denmark, and, on account of the gulf stream, not
much below our own. Forchhammer states that at Thorshavn in mild years,
it is 49·2°; in cold years, 42·3°; the average temperature being 45·4°.
The greatest height of the thermometer during his observations was
72·5°, and the lowest 18·5°.
Shortly before eleven o’clock the soldiers of the fort manned their
boat, and rowed us off to the steamer.
After narrating our various experiences on shore, had a pleasant quiet
home-talk with Professor Chadbourne, read a few verses of the New
Testament, and as the week was drawing to a close we retired to our
berths, wishing each other a good night’s rest after all the novel
excitement, wonder, and fatigues of the day.
_Sabbath, July 24._—Wind high, and the lashing rain pouring down in
torrents. Went ashore at ten o’clock to attend church; heard the
pleasing sound of psalm-singing in various of the fishermen’s dwellings
as we passed along. Called for Mr. Müller, who had invited me to his
pew. The service was Lutheran, and began at eleven o’clock. The pastor
was absent, but the assistant, M. Lützen, who is also schoolmaster and
organist, officiated. All the people, singing lowly, joined in several
fine old German chorales, led by the organist, who also played some of
Sebastian Bach’s music with much taste and feeling—although little
indebted to the instrument, which was old and infirm, piping feebly and
tremulously in its second childhood.
The area of the church was entirely occupied by women, many of them with
their bare heads, but most of them with a quaint little covering on the
back part of the head for hair and comb; only saw two bonnets in the
whole congregation. One old lady—with her hair combed back, a black silk
covering on the back part of her head, and, from where it terminated
behind her ears, a stiff white frill sticking right out—looked as if she
had just stepped out from one of Holbein’s pictures; others resembled
Gerard Dow’s old women. The men “were drest, in their Sunday’s
best;”—long jackets and knee-breeches of coarse blue or brown cloth,
frequently ornamented with rows of metal buttons; stockings of the same
colours; and the never-varying buff-coloured lamb-skin shoes.
It was pleasing to see these stalwart descendants of the brave old
Vikings “the heathen of the Northern sea,”—these men whose daily
avocations exposed them to constant perils by sea and land, here, in the
very haven of Thor, walking reverently into a Christian church, with
their caps and Bibles in their hands, and quietly entering their pews to
worship God.
Although the day was very wet, and the regular minister absent, there
was present a congregation of about two hundred; and all seemed truly
devotional during the service.
From the roof, between two old-fashioned brass chandeliers, was
suspended a brig, probably the gift of some sailor preserved from
shipwreck. The service began at eleven o’clock, and ended at half-past
twelve. When it was over, I spoke with Skolare Lützen, who had
officiated. He is a native of Copenhagen, speaks little English, but
good German. He took me over the building, and into the pulpit.
Altogether, the quaint appearance of the church, the organ, the singing
of the people, the devout reading and simplicity of the service, and the
curious old costumes carried one back to the time of the Reformation,
and to me all was singularly interesting. One could fancy that here, if
anywhere, the European world had stood still, and that Luther himself
would not have detected the lapse of centuries, if permitted once more
to gaze on such a scene as was here presented.
Two of us accompanied Mr. Müller to his house before going on board the
steamer. His wife and daughter were hospitable and kind; and, as usual
on a visit here, tarts, cakes, and wine were produced. His home
resembles a museum, containing many stuffed birds, eggs, geological
specimens and other natural curiosities collected in these islands. His
little son’s name is Erasmus.
Captain Andriessen had wished to sail to-day, but could not get men to
work on Sabbath discharging the cargo; at which I was well pleased, both
for the right feeling it indicated on the part of the Faröese, and for
our own sakes. Here we lie peacefully anchored in the bay, enjoying the
Sabbath quiet, while the tempest is now howling wildly outside the
islands, and the lashing pelting rain is pouring down on the deck
overhead like a shower-bath.
“Such groans of roaring wind and rain I never
Remember to have heard.”
The rain having abated, ere retiring for the night, walked the deck for
half an hour. Thorshavn, as seen in the strong light and shade of
evening from the steamer’s deck, has truly a most quaint old-world
look—all the more so now that we know it from exploration—so very
primitive that one can scarcely imagine anything like it. It is unique.
[Illustration: BASALT CAVES—SOUTH POINT OF STROMOE.]
_Monday morning, July 25._—From an early hour, all hands busily occupied
discharging the cargo, heavily-laden boats following each other to the
shore. At half-past one o’clock, the last boat pushes off, the
steam-whistle is blown, and we sail away round the south point of
Stromoe, shaping our course north-west through Hestoe Fiord. The coast
of the islands is abrupt, mostly rising sheer from the sea; many
basaltic columns, and a succession of wave-worn caves, in front of which
countless sea-birds are flying, swimming and diving. The trap hills are
regularly terraced like stairs. Clouds drifting among the hills, and
from every gully cataracts leaping down in white foam to the sea. The
general colour of the rocks is gray and brown, slightly touched here and
there with green. These islands might be characterized as several groups
or chains of hills, lying nearly parallel to each other and separated by
narrow arms of the sea, which run in straight lines north-west and
south-east. The summits of the larger islands reach an elevation of from
one to two thousand feet; while the highest hill—Slattaretind, near Eide
in Oesteroe—is two thousand nine hundred feet high.
The hills around still exhibit a succession of grassy declivities,
alternating with naked walls of black or brown rock. The flat heights of
these islands, we are told, are either bare rock or marshy hollows.
There are also several small lakes, the largest of which, in Vaagoe, is
only two miles in circumference, and lies surrounded by wild rugged
mountain masses.
We count a dozen foaming cataracts, all in sight at once, and falling
down over precipitous rocks around us into the sea. The wind perceptibly
sways them hither and thither, and then dispersing the lower portion of
the water raises it in silvery clouds of vapour on which rainbows play.
They resemble the Staubach in Switzerland; and remind us of the wild
mist-veil apparition of Kühleborn, in the charming story of Undine.
The tidal currents, in the long narrow straits which divide the northern
islands from each other, are strong but regular; running six hours the
one way and six hours the other. Boatmen must calculate and wait for the
stream, as the oar is powerless against it.
The atmospheric effects are beautiful;—a bold headland, ten miles to the
south, appears in the bright sunshine to be of the deepest violet
colour; no magic of the pencil could approach such a tint. It is
heightened too by the white gleaming sail of a fishing smack relieved
against it.
When we got clear of the islands, the ground-swell became much heavier;
for the storm of the preceding day had been terrific. Great heavy waves
of smooth unbroken water, worse than Spanish rollers; boat tumbling and
plunging about, with sail set to steady her; walked the deck for an hour
and found use for my sea-legs.
Several gulls follow the ship; I never tire of watching their graceful
motions, as, with white downy plumage and wings tipt with black, they
fly forward round the mast, remain poised over the deck, or fall astern
keeping in the steamer’s wake. Two of our companions have discovered a
capital sheltered nook and sit smoking, perched up inside the large
inverted boat which we are taking north with us.
An Icelander and a Dane are among the second-class passengers; got them
to read aloud to me Icelandic and Danish, also Greek and Latin. In
pronouncing the latter two, they follow the classic mode and give the
broad vowel sounds, as taught in the German and Scottish universities
but not at Oxford or Cambridge.
The dim Faröes are fast falling astern—
“Far-off mountains turnéd into clouds.”
The vessel by the log makes eight knots—course, N. by W. and sails set.
The day lengthens as we go north, and at midnight I can now see to read
large print, although the sky is very cloudy.
No land—no sail in sight; we heave over the billows of the lonely
Northern Sea, and now all is clear before us for Iceland!
-----
Footnote 2:
Reduced to extreme destitution, by the failure of crops, subscriptions
are at present (1862) being collected to enable the inhabitants of
Fair Isle to emigrate.
Footnote 3:
The original name is Fitfiel—probably the white mountain—_fit_
signifying white, and _fiel_, fell or mountain. In the same way
England was called _Albion_, from its white cliffs.
[Illustration: PORTLAND HUK.]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE WESTMANNA ISLANDS—REYKJAVIK.
_Tuesday morning, July 26._ Open sea and not a sail visible, although we
carefully scan “the round ocean.”
Tremendous rolling all night; everything turning topsy-turvy and being
knocked about—my portmanteau, which was standing on the cabin floor,
capsized. Only by dint of careful adjustment and jambing in the form of
the letter z could we prevent ourselves from being shot out of our
berths.
To-day we have the heaviest rolling I ever experienced. It is impossible
even to sit on the hurricane deck without holding on by a rope, and not
easy even with such assistance. Deck at an angle of 40 to 45°. The boat
fastened aloft aggravates matters. A very little more, or the slightest
shifting of the cargo, would throw us on our beam ends. The boat getting
loose from its fastenings when we are on the larboard roll would break
off the funnel. The Captain has hatchets ready, at once to send it
overboard or break it up if requisite for our safety. The bell tolling
with the roll of the ship, first on the one side, and then on the other;
generally four or five times in succession. A series of large rollers
alternate with lesser waves; the bell indicates the former. Waves
without wind roll in from the N. and N.W., both on the starboard and
port bow.
In the afternoon saw a piece of wreck—mast and cordage—floating past,
most likely a record of woe; involving waiting weary hearts that will
not die.
Not a speck on the whole horizon line; a feeling of intense loneliness
would at times momentarily creep over us. Birds overhead flying south
brought to mind Bryant’s beautiful poem addressed to “The Waterfowl,”
which he describes as floating along darkly painted on the crimson sky:
“There is a Power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,—
The desert and illimitable air
Lone wandering but not lost.
Thou’rt gone, the abyss of heaven
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart,
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,
And shall not soon depart.
He, who from zone to zone
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone
Will lead my steps aright.”
The heavy rolling still continues. Hope the cargo will keep right, or we
shall come to grief. Thought of the virtues of my friends. However,
maugre a dash of danger, a group of us on the hurricane deck really
enjoyed the scene as if we had been veritable Mother Carey’s chickens.
One sang Barry Cornwall’s song “The Sea;” another by way of contrast
gave us “Annie Laurie” and “Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace bled;” and towards
evening we all joined in singing “York;” that grand old psalm tune
harmonizing well with the place and time—
“The setting sun, and music at the close!”
The gulf-stream and the rollers meeting make a wild jumble. Barometer
very low—28^{10}; low enough for a hurricane in the tropics. Stormy
rocking in our sea-cradle all day and all night.
_Wednesday, July 27._—Vessel still rolling as much as ever. Saw a skua—a
black active rapacious bird, a sort of winged pirate—chasing a gull
which tried hard to evade it by flying, wavering backwards and forwards,
zig-zagging, doubling, now rising and now falling, till at last, wearied
out and finding escape impossible, it disgorged and dropt a fish which
the skua pounced upon, picking it up before it could reach the surface
of the sea. The fish alone had been the object of the skua’s pursuit.
The skua is at best but a poor fisher and takes this method of supplying
its wants at second hand. Subsequently we often observed skuas following
this their nefarious calling; unrelentingly chasing and attacking the
gulls until they gave up their newly caught fish, when they were at once
left unmolested and allowed to go in peace; but whether the sense of
wrong or joy at escape predominated, or with what sort of feelings and
in what light the poor gulls viewed the transaction, a man would require
to be a bird in order to form an adequate idea.
We cannot now be far from Iceland, but clouds above and low thick mists
around preclude the possibility of taking observations or seeing far
before us. In clear weather we are told that the high mountains are
visible from a distance of 100 or 150 miles at sea.
At half-past Three o’clock P.M., peering hard through the mist, we
discover, less than a mile ahead, a white fringe of surf breaking on a
low sandy shore for which we are running right stem on. It is the south
of Iceland; dim heights loom through the haze; the vessel’s head is
turned more to the west and we make for sailing, in a westerly direction
with a little north in it, along the shore up the western side of the
island which in shape somewhat resembles a heart.
[Illustration: NEEDLE ROCKS—OFF PORTLAND HUK.]
The mist partially clears off and on our right we sight Portland Huk,
the most southern point of Iceland. Here rocks of a reddish brown colour
run out into the sea rising in singular isolated forms like castellated
buildings; one mass from a particular point of view exactly resembles
the ruins of Iona, even to the square tower; other peaks are like
spires. Strange fantastic needle-like rocks or drongs shoot up into the
air—the Witches’ fingers (Trollkonefinger) of the Northmen. The headland
exhibits a great arched opening through which, we were told, at certain
states of the tide, the steamer could sail if her masts were lowered. It
is called Dyrhólaey—the hill door—and from it the farm or village close
by is named Dyrhólar. Behind these curious rocks appeared a range of
greenish hills mottled with snow-patches, their white summits hid in the
rolling clouds.
There are numerous waterfalls; glaciers—the ice of a pale whity-green
colour—fill the ravines and creep down the valleys from the Jökuls to
the very edge of the water. Their progressive motion here is the same as
in Switzerland, and large blocks of lava are brought down imbedded in
their moraine. I perceived what I thought to be curved lines on the
surface like the markings on mother-of-pearl, indicating that the
downward motion of a glacier is greater in the centre than where impeded
by friction at the sides.
On the shoulders of the range of heights along the coast, snow,
brown-coloured patches and green-spots were all intermingled; while the
upper mountain regions of perpetual snow were meanwhile for the most
part hid in clouds which turban-like swathed their brows in fleecy
“folds voluminous and vast.”
The steamer is running, at nine knots, straight for the Westmanna
Islands, where a mail is to be landed. They lie off the coast nearly
half way between Portland Huk, the south point, and Cape Reykjanes the
south-west point of Iceland.
How gracefully the sea-birds skim the brine, taking the long
wave-valleys, disappearing and reappearing amongst the great heaving
billows. We note many waterfalls leaping from the mountain sides to the
shore, and at times right into the sea itself, from heights apparently
varying from two to four hundred feet.
We now approach the Westmanna Islands, so called from ten Irish
slaves—westmen—who in the year A.D. 875 took refuge here after killing
Thorleif their master. They are a group of strange fantastically shaped
islets of brown lava-rock; only three or four however have any
appearance of grass upon them, and but one island, Heimaey—the home
isle, is inhabited. The precipitous rock-cliffs are honeycombed with
holes and caves which are haunted by millions of birds. These thickly
dot the crevices with masses of living white; hover like clouds in the
air, and swarm the waters around like a fringe—resting, fluttering, or
diving, by turns.
Westmannshavn, the harbour of the islands, is a bay on the north-west of
Heimaey where a green vale slopes down to the sea. It is sheltered by
the islands of Heimaklettur on the North, and Bjarnarey on the East. We
observed a flag flying, and a few huts scattered irregularly and
sparsely on the slope. This place is called Kaupstadr—or head town—but
there is no other town in the group. The roofs of the huts were covered
with green sod and scarcely to be distinguished from the grass of the
slope on which they stood save by the light blue smoke which rose
curling above them from turf fires.
A row-boat came off for the mail, which, we were told, had never before
been landed here from a steamer; the usual mode is to get it from
Reykjavik in a sailing vessel. For those accustomed to at least half a
dozen deliveries of letters every day, it was strange to think that here
there were fewer posts in a whole year. These Islands have, on account
of their excellent fisheries, from very remote periods been much
frequented by foreign vessels. Before the discovery of Newfoundland,
British merchants resorted hither, and also to ports on the west coast
of Iceland, to exchange commodities and procure dried stock-fish.
Icelandic ships also visited English ports. This intercommunication can
be distinctly traced back to the time of Henry III.; but by the
beginning of the fifteenth century it had become regular and had risen
to importance. It was matter of treaty between Norway and England; but,
with or without special licenses, or in spite of prohibitions—sometimes
with the connivance and permission of the local authorities, and at
other times notwithstanding the active opposition of one or both
governments—the trade being mutually profitable to those engaged in it
continued to be prosecuted. English tapestry and linen are mentioned in
old Icelandic writings, and subsequently we learn that English strong
ale was held in high estimation by the Northmen.
Edward III. granted certain privileges and exemptions to the fishermen
of Blacknie and Lyne in Norfolk on account of their Icelandic commerce.
In favourable weather the distance could be run in about a fortnight.
From Icelandic records we learn that in the year A.D. 1412, “30 ships
engaged in fishing were seen off the coast at one time.” “In A.D. 1415
there were no fewer than 6 English merchant ships in the harbour of
Hafna Fiord alone.”
Notwithstanding the proclamations and prohibitions both of Eric and
Henry V. the traffic still continued to increase; and we incidentally
learn that in the year A.D. 1419 “Twenty-five English ships were wrecked
on this coast in a dreadful snow-storm.” Goods supplied to the natives
then, as in later times, were both cheaper and better than could be
obtained from the Danish monopolists. It will be remembered by the
reader that when Columbus visited Iceland he sailed in a bark from the
port of Bristol.
Gazing on this singular group of rocky Islands, on the coast of Iceland,
so lone and quiet, and reverting to the early part of the thirteenth
century, it was strange to realize that into this very bay had then
sailed and cast anchor the ships of our enterprising countrymen—quaint
old-fashioned ships, such as we may still see represented in illuminated
MSS. of the period; and that their latest news to such English merchants
or fishermen as had wintered or perhaps been stationed for some time at
Westmannshavn—supposing modern facilities for the transmission of
news—would not have been the peace of Villafranca but the confirmation
of Magna Charta;—instead of the formation of volunteer corps, nobles
hastening to join the fifth Crusade;—not the treading out of a Sepoy
revolt, but Mongolian hordes overrunning the Steppes of Russia;—and
instead of some important law-decision, celebrated trial, or case in
Chancery, they might hear of an acquaintance who had perished in single
combat, or who had indignantly and satisfactorily proved his or her
innocence by submitting to trial by ordeal. These were the old times of
Friar Bacon—the days of alchemy and witchcraft. Haco had not yet been
crowned King of Norway; Snorre Sturleson was yet a young man meditating
the “Heimskringla.” The chisel of Nicolo Pisano and the pencil of
Cimabue were at work in Italy. Neither Dante nor Beatrice as yet
existed; nor had the factions of Guelph and Ghibeline sprung into being.
Chaucer was not born till the following century. Aladdin reigned;
Alphonzo the Wise, King of Leon and Castile, had not promulgated his
code of laws. Not a single Lombard moneylender had arrived to settle in
London; and the present structure of Westminster Abbey had not then been
reared.
[Illustration: BJARNAREY.]
On leaving Westmannshavn, sailing north between the islands of
Heimaklettur and Bjarnarey, we saw two men rowing a boat deeply laden to
the gunwale with sea-fowls, probably the result of their day’s work. The
cliffs everywhere alive with birds, and the smooth sea beneath them, in
the glorious light of the evening sun, dotted black as if peppered with
puffins and eider-ducks.
Nine P.M. Sketched various aspects of the islands and several of the
strange outlying skerries.
[Illustration: WESTMANNA SKERRIES.]
When the Westmanna Islands are reckoned at fourteen, that number does
not include innumerable little rocky stacks and islets of all fantastic
shapes alone or in groups; some like Druidical stones or old ruins,
others of them far out and exactly like ships in full sail, producing a
strange effect on the horizon.
The island nearest the coast of Iceland on the east of Heimaey is called
Erlendsey; that furthest north-west is Drángr; and the furthest west
Einarsdrángr. On the south-west is an islet called Alsey; we have also
an Ailsa in the frith of Clyde: both names probably signifying
fire-isle. The islet furthest south is called Geirfuglasker. These names
are necessarily altogether omitted on common small maps.
We witness a glorious sunset on the sea,—the horizon streaked with
burning gold:
“Now ’gan the golden Phœbus for to steepe
His fiery face in billows of the west,
And his faint steedes watered in ocean deepe
Whiles from his journall labours he did rest.”
Although the surface of the sea is quite smooth, a heavy ground swell
keeps rolling along. A bank of violet cloud lies to the left of the sun,
while dense masses of leaden and purple-coloured clouds are piled above
it. An opening glows like a furnace seven times heated, darting rays
from its central fire athwart the sky, and opening up a burning
cone-shaped pathway of light on the smooth heaving billows, the apex of
which reaches our prow.