goods of all kinds. In a corner were standing lots of quart-bottles
gaudily labelled “essence of punch,” whatever that may be. Mr. Henderson
showed me some specimens of double refracting calc, or Iceland spar,
which is obtained in the neighbourhood. It only occurs in one place of
the island, filling a fissure of greenstone from two to three feet wide
and twenty to twenty-five feet long, on the north bank of the
Reydarfiord, about a thousand feet above the sea level. There, a cascade
rushes over the rock, bringing down fragments of the spar from time to
time. The mass itself gets loosened, bit by bit, through the action of
frost on the moisture which enters edgeways between the laminae, wedging
them apart in the direction of the cleavage of the crystals. Transparent
specimens more than a few inches in size are rare and valuable. Mr.
Henderson presented me with a beautiful large semi-transparent
chalcedony weighing 1 lb 7 oz., and some pebbles.
His partner, Mr. Jacobson, an Icelander, also gave me a young raven to
make a pet of. It was this year’s bird and quite tame. I called it Odin;
and, having got hold of an old box, improvised a door from a few spars,
that it might have a sheltered place to roost in at night till it got to
the end of its voyage.
I now wandered up the valley, for an hour or two, alone, and sat down on
a slope, on the right side of it, to look around me and rest. The river,
near where I sit, flashes down over a steep rock and forms a fine
waterfall, the roaring of which is echoed from the chimney-capped
amphitheatre of hills opposite. Beneath the fall, it flows peacefully
along, runnelling and rippling on, to the blue fiord, through the quiet
green valley. White streamlets of water trickle down the trap
hill-sides, every forty or fifty yards; the whole producing a continuous
quiet murmur or undertone, not unlike that from the wings of an
innumerable swarm of gnats playing in the sunshine on a warm summer’s
day, but ever broken in upon by the clear liquid tinkle of the
streamlets nearest us, heard drip, dripping, with a clear metallic sound
which might be compared to the chirp of the grasshopper. This solitary
glen, now lying bathed in light, is fanned by the gentle breeze,
fragrant with the smell of tedded hay, and richly variegated with wild
flowers—harebells, butter-cups, wild thyme, cotton-grass, and
forget-me-nots—a gathered bunch of which is now lying beside me on a
moss-cushioned rock. Quietly musing here on all, of strange or new, I
have seen since leaving home, and dwelling more particularly on the
great kindness I have received at all hands, I feel grateful to God, who
has hitherto opened up a way for me and given me friends amongst
strangers wherever I chanced to wander.
We saw specimens of surturbrand, which crops out on the top of a steep
mountain, at the mouth of the fiord, on the north side, and obtained a
few more geological specimens and plants.
After dinner, I strolled for a quarter of a mile up the valley with Mr.
Henderson and Dr. Mackinlay, to visit the farm behind the store. It
consists of a group of hovels, the walls are stone and turf, the gables
wood, and the roofs covered with green sod. The entrance is a dark muddy
passage leading into a ground-floor apartment as dark and muddy, where,
in winter, cattle are kept. The kitchen is a dirty, smoky, sooty hole,
with fish hanging in it to smoke and dry; a pot of seal-blubber stands
steaming in a corner. The fire is raised on a few stones above the
floor, like a smithy-forge; while there is a hole in the roof for the
smoke. Picking our way through another long passage, dark and dirty, we
found a trap-ladder and ascended to a little garret, where I could only
walk erect in the very centre. The apartment was floored and fitted up
with bunks all round the sides and ends. In these box-beds, at least
seven people—men, women and children—sleep at night, and sometimes a few
more have to be accommodated. The little windows in the roof are not
made to open, and no regard whatever is paid to ventilation. Dr.
Mackinlay prescribed for an old man we found lying ill in this
abominable fetid atmosphere, where his chances of recovery were very
slight. He was an old farm servant about whom nobody seemed to care
anything.
[Illustration: FARM HOUSE, SEYDISFIORD.]
In a little apartment shut off from this one, and in the gable portion
of the building which in this case constitutes the front of the house,
an old woman at the window sits spinning with the ancient distaff,[39]
precisely as in the days of Homer.
To amuse the farmer’s daughters I showed them my sketches, with which
they seemed much interested.
[Illustration: SEYDISFIORD, LOOKING EAST TOWARDS THE SEA.]
I understood part of their remarks, and could in some degree make myself
understood by them, with the few Danish and Icelandic words I kept
picking up. On receiving a little money and a few knick-knacks, they,
all round, held out their hands and shook mine very heartily. This, the
Icelanders always do, on receiving a present of anything however
trifling.
After sketching the farm-house, I took two views of Mr. Henderson’s
store; one of them from a height behind, looking down towards the fiord,
and the other from the brink of it, looking up the valley. In the
latter, a part of the same farm-house appears, and thus indicates its
exact position.[40] With the assistance of these three sketches taken
together, the reader will be enabled to form some idea, of the
appearance presented by this arm of the North Sea.
SEYDISFIORD, BY FARÖE TO LEITH
We sailed from Seydisfiord at half-past six P.M. on Saturday night,
direct for the Faröe islands.
There is a singular cone-shaped mountain called Brimnæs Fjall at the
mouth of the fiord, showing masses of clay-rock alternating with and
pushing up trap, which is deposited in thin layers of perpendicular
structure. Several pillars or shafts are left standing singly on the
very summit, and present a very curious appearance, distinctly relieved
against the amber light of the sky. At Dr. Mackinlay’s request I made a
sketch of it.
[Illustration: BRIMNÆS FJALL.]
A vessel of Mr. Henderson’s, which had been given up as lost, now
unexpectedly came in sight, which necessitated Mr. Jacobson and a young
Iceland lad, who were _en route_ to Copenhagen, to get on board her and
return to Seydisfiord to look after her cargo, evidently much to their
disappointment.
The wild scenery of the coast, especially at Reydarfiord, was strikingly
picturesque.[41]
Mr. Murray, Professor Chadbourne, Mr. Henderson and I walked the deck
till a late or rather an early hour, and watched the fast receding
mountain-ranges of Iceland—pale lilac, mauve, or deep purple—and the
distant horns, shading through similar tints from rose to indigo, all
distinctly seen athwart the golden light of the horizon which for hours
has been ebbing slowly and softly away, but is now on the turn, and
about to flow again.
_Sabbath, August 7._ The weather is fine; no land or sail in sight all
day; whales playing about the ship. Had many pleasant deck-walks and
talks, and several quiet hours, sitting perched on the stem, reading, or
watching the prow, below, cutting and cleaving through the clear green
water like a knife.
_Monday morning, August 8._ We are sailing between two of the Faröe
islands, bright sunshine lighting up all the regularly terraced
trap-rocks, caves, and crevices of this singular group.
I have now got a pet to look after, and, without Shakspere’s authority
for it, we know that
“Young ravens must have food.”
The last thing I did last night was to shut _Odin_ in his box, and the
first thing this morning to let him out again and give him the freedom
of the ship. The bird knows me, is pleased when I scratch his head, and
confidingly runs hopping to me for protection when the boys about the
ship teaze him more than he likes. His fellow traveller, a young
Icelandic fox brought on board at Reykjavik to be sent to the Marquis of
Stafford, also runs about the ship during the day. At first we had some
misgivings on the subject; for
“Treason is but trusted like the fox—
Who ne’er so tame, so cherished, and locked up,
Will have a wild trick of his ancestors.”
However, these fears were soon dissipated; for _Odin_ can hold his own,
and when the fox, approaching furtively, uses any liberty with his tail
feathers, he suddenly gets a peck from the bird’s great formidable beak,
which he does not seem much to relish. The salutary fear continues for a
short time, is forgotten, and again the dab comes as a reminder. We were
often greatly amused, watching their individual habits and droll ways,
when the one intruded upon the other. It was half play, half earnest, a
sort of armed neutrality with a basis of mutual respect.
On the west coast of Stromoe is the roofless ruin of the church of
Kirkuboe. It was begun in the twelfth century, but never finished. It is
built of stone, has five large windows and several small ones below; a
little farm house or hut, with red tiles on the roof, stands near it.
What a strange lonely place for a church! Thorshavn lies on the
other—the east—side of the island. It is only five miles distant as the
crow flies, but as we have to sail round the south point, and Stromoe is
twenty-seven miles long, we do not reach it till near noon.
On landing, Mr. Haycock accompanied me to call for Miss Löbner, who has
been poorly ever since her sea voyage. Her mother presented wine, cake,
coffee &c., and was most hospitable. None of us being able to speak
Faröese, at first we felt a little awkward; but a brother of the old
lady’s who speaks English soon came to the rescue and acted as
interpreter. With justifiable pride, they again showed us their flower
and kitchen garden. I got the whale-knives, caps, shoes, gloves &c.,
which had been made or procured for me during my absence in Iceland. Ere
leaving, Miss Löbner appeared to say adieu! and insisted on my accepting
several other specimens of Faröese workmanship as remembrances of
Thorshavn. No people could have been kinder.
Again, wandering about, we explored the town, looked at the church,
stepped into the stores, passed the governor’s garden, and wandered a
mile or two in that direction in order to obtain a view, and get quit of
the fishy smells which superabound in Thorshavn.
On our return we called for Mr. Müller, who presented me with a copy of
the gospel of St. Matthew in Danish and Faröese, arranged in parallel
columns. I understood him to say that this was the only book ever
printed in the Faröese dialect, and that it is now out of print and very
rare. It bears the date of 1823.
Here we saw an old man 76 years of age, an Icelander who has been in
Faröe for the last 40 years. He had spent several years in England, and
told me that, in 1815, he saw our regiments land at Liverpool after the
battle of Waterloo. He speaks English fluently.
A Thames fishing smack, and a sloop from Lerwick, are lying in the bay.
Piping and dancing goes merrily on, on board the latter, relieved by
intervals of music alone. In one of these, we heard “The Yellow Hair’d
Laddie,” rendered with considerable taste, although, doubtless, several
“improvements and additions” were made on the original score.
We took some Faröese boatmen into the saloon of the steamer, and I shall
not soon forget the look of wonder and utter astonishment pourtrayed on
their countenances, as they gazed on the mirrors and everything around,
or were shown things with which they were not familiar and heard their
uses explained. They were greatly pleased with my life-belt. Dr.
Mackinlay showed them a multiplying-glass, and, as it was handed from
one to another—each man first making the discovery of what had so
inexplicably excited the wonder of the last looker—the queer
exclamations of amazement accompanied by inimitable pantomimic gestures
reached their culminating point, and were irresistibly droll.
[Illustration: NAALSÖE—FARÖE.]
The weather is all we could desire. The sailors are singing some curious
Danish songs, with the time well marked, as they heave the anchor; and
at 20 minutes past 6 o’clock P.M. we are steaming out of the bay. The
evening is lovely, and the Thermometer, on the deck, stands at 68°.
Thorshavn soon disappears, and we leave the Faröe islands astern,
relieved against an amber sky, Dimon being the most striking and
conspicuous of the group. A few stars shone overhead, and I walked the
deck till midnight.
[Illustration: ENTRANCE TO THE SOUND LEADING TO THORSHAVN.]
_Tuesday, August 9._ At breakfast, tasted a whale-steak which Miss
Löbner had yesterday sent on board for me, with particular instructions
to the stewardess to have it properly cooked. The flesh looked and
tasted like dry tough beef, with a slight flavour of venison. The
blubber, however was too strong for any of us to do more than merely
satisfy—not gratify—our curiosity.
The day was lovely. Professor Chadbourne invited me to visit and spend a
month with him during his holiday. Indeed, cordial, pressing
invitations, all round, were the order of the day. As fellow-travellers
we had been happy together, and felt sorry at the near prospect of our
little party being broken up and scattered; for several valued
friendships had been formed.
Between three and four o’clock in the afternoon, the thermometer
indicated 98° in the sun and 75° in the shade. Dr. Mackinlay showed me
an old Danish dollar he had got, in change, at Reykjavik; it bore the
date of A.D. 1619, the year of the landing of the Pilgrim Fathers from
the _May Flower_. Part of the day was spent in writing out these pages
from my diary. In the evening we saw, far to our left, faint and dim on
the horizon line, the north-west islands of Shetland; and by a quarter
to 8 o’clock P.M. were sailing twenty miles to the west of Fair Isle,
which lies between Orkney and Shetland. Both groups are in sight. We
have not seen a sail since we left Faröe, and now, what we at first
fancied to be one, off the north end of the Orkneys, turns out to be a
light-house, rising apparently from the sea, but in reality from low
lying land which is yet below the horizon.
The sunset to-night is gorgeous; cavernous recesses opening through a
dense purple cloud-bank into glowing regions of fire; while broad
flashing gleams ray out on every side athwart the sky, as if from
furnace-mouths. Then we have moonlight on a sea smooth as glass, and not
even a ripple to be seen. The Orkney light-house, now gleaming like a
setting star, is left far astern. The phosphoresence along the vessel’s
side and in her wake is most brilliant; while, seething, electric-like,
from the screw, it rivals the “churned fire-froth” of the demon steed.
The moon, half-hid, is at times deep crimson and again bright yellow.
Many falling stars are shooting “madly from their spheres;” not that our
music lured them, although, “on such a night” of nights, when all is
harmonious, we cannot but sing. Mr. Murray gives us “Home, sweet home”
and “The last rose of summer,” and ere retiring at midnight, all of us
join together in singing the “Spanish Chant.”
_Wednesday morning, August 10._ We are off Inverness; wind a-head and
rising. Professor Chadbourne to-day gave me an oak-leaf which he plucked
from the tree, at Upsala, planted by Linnæus with his own hands. Wrote
as long as the heaving of the ship would admit of it, then arranged
botanical specimens and read Wordsworth. The wind is blowing so fresh,
off Peterhead, that, with full steam, we are not making above one and a
half knots; and at times can scarcely keep any way on. Passed the
Bell-Rock; the sea still rising. Went to bed at 11 o’clock P.M.; vessel
pitching a good deal.
_Thursday morning, August 11._ Rose at four o’clock and was on deck ere
the _Arcturus_ dropt anchor in Leith Roads. But as we cannot get our
traps on shore till the custom-house officer comes at nine o’clock to
overhaul them, we remain and breakfast on board. The examination made,
at half-past ten o’clock A.M., we landed by a tug steamer, and made for
our respective railway stations, each, on parting, bidding the other “a
bright adieu!” in the hope that it might only be for “a brief absence!”
“Odin” was in good feather: his owner sun-bronzed and strong.
At length, comfortably ensconsed in the fast express, I lay back in the
corner of a compartment, closed my eyes and resigned myself to see
pleasant pictures and dream waking dreams—of snow jökuls, volcanoes,
glaciers, and ice-fields; of geysers, mud-cauldrons, and sulphur-pits;
of lava plains, black, wierd and blasted, or dreary wastes of ice; of
deep rapid rivers, flashing waterfalls, leaping torrents; of frightful
chasms, rugged cliffs, and precipitous mountains mirrored in deep blue
fiords; of pathless stony deserts, enlivened at times with oasis-like
spots of tender green herbage and bright coloured flowers; of wild
break-neck rides, over bare rocks, among slabs and lava-blocks of all
shapes and sizes and lying in every conceivable direction; through
volcanic sands and scoriæ; by red and black vetrified craters, or across
dangerous fords; of multifarious scamperings too, and mud-plashings over
hill and dale; or wild rides down rocky steeps, not on a phantom steed,
but on a sure-footed Iceland pony; of pleasant companionship by the way;
of cordial welcome and great kindness received, in quiet homesteads, and
at all hands from the people, wherever we went; then again of Frost
contending with Fire, and of all the varied and marvellous phenomena of
Iceland, that singularly interesting island in the lone North Sea.
[Illustration: STROMOE—FARÖE.]
-----
Footnote 38:
At night it sunk to 50°.
Footnote 39:
See illustration D at p. 53.
Footnote 40:
Compare illustrations pp. 202, 206, and 207.
Footnote 41:
See illustration p. 197.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
APPENDIX.
I.
ICELANDIC STORIES AND FAIRY TALES
TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH BY THE REV. OLAF PÁLSSON, DEAN AND
RECTOR OF REYKJAVIK CATHEDRAL. REVISED AND EDITED BY DAVID
MACKINLAY AND ANDREW JAMES SYMINGTON.
--------------
STORIES OF SÆMUNDUR FRODI, CALLED THE LEARNED.[42]
I. THE DARK SCHOOL.
Long, long ago, when Trolls and Giants lived among men, there was a
famous school where curious youths were taught the mysteries of
witchcraft. France and Germany both claim the honour of it, but no one
knows where it really was.
It was kept in a dismal cavern, deep underground, into which no ray of
sunlight ever entered. Here, the scholars had to stay no less than seven
winters; for it took them all that time to complete their studies. They
never saw their teacher from one year’s end to another. Every morning a
grey grizzly hand, all covered with hair, pushed itself through the
cavern wall and gave to each one his lesson book. These books were
written all over with letters of fire, and could be read with ease, even
in the dark. The lessons over, the same grizzly hand again appeared to
take away the books and bring in the scholars’ dinner.
At the close of winter, the scholars who had then got through their
seven years apprenticeship were dismissed. The great iron door was
opened, and the master stood watching those who went out; for he had
stipulated that the scholar who walked hindmost, in passing through, was
to be seized by him and kept as a thrall. But who was this strange
school-master? Why, Old Nick himself. No wonder, then, that each of the
scholars struggled hard to be first in passing the fatal threshold.
Once on a time, there were three Icelanders at the dark school; Sæmund
Frodi, afterwards parish priest at Oddi, Kalfur Arnason, and Halfdan
Eldjarnsson, afterwards parish priest at Fell, in Slettuhlid. They were
all dismissed at the same time. Sæmund, to the great delight of his
companions, offered to walk hindmost in going out of school, so he
dressed himself in a long loose cloak, which he took care to leave
unbuttoned, and bidding good bye to school-fellows left behind, prepared
to follow his countrymen. Just as he was putting his feet on the first
step of the stair which led up from the school door, Old Nick, who was
watching hard by, made a clutch at the cloak and called out,
“Sæmund Frodi, pass not the door,
Thou art my thrall for evermore.”
And now the great iron door began to turn on its hinges; but, before Old
Nick had time to slam it too, Sæmund slipt his arms out of the sleeves
of his cloak, and sprung forward out of the grasp of his enemy.
In doing so, the door struck him a heavy blow on the heel, which gave
him a good deal of pain, when he said,
“The door hath swung too near the heel,
But better sore foot than serve the Deil.”
And so Sæmund outwitted Old Nick, and got away from the dark school
along with his two friends. Since then, it has become a common saying in
Iceland, when a person has had a narrow escape from danger, that “the
door swung too near his heels.”[43]
II. SÆMUND GETS THE LIVING OF ODDI.
At the time Sæmund, Kalfur, and Halfdan came out of the dark school,
there was no priest at Oddi, for the old priest had just died. All three
of them would fain have the living, and so each went to the king to ask
it for himself. The king knew his men; and so he sent them all away with
the same answer, that whoever reached Oddi first, should be made priest
of that place.
Thereupon Sæmund summoned Old Nick and said to him, “Now, I’ll make a
bargain with you, if you swim with me on your back across to Iceland,
and land me there without wetting my coat-tail, I’ll be your servant as
long as I live.” Old Nick was highly pleased with the offer and agreed
at once. So, in less than no time, he changed himself into a seal, and
left Norway with Sæmund on his back.
Sæmund took care to have his prayer book with him, and read bits out of
it every now and then while on the way. As soon as they got close to the
shores of Iceland, which they did in less time than you would think, he
closed the book and suddenly struck the seal such a heavy blow on the
neck with it that the animal went down all at once into deep water.
Sæmund, now left to himself, struck out for the shore and got easily to
land. In this way Old Nick lost his bargain, and Sæmund got the living
of Oddi.
III. THE GOBLIN AND THE COWHERD.
When Sæmund was priest of Oddi, he once had a cowherd—a good servant
withal, but greatly addicted to swearing. Sæmund often reproved him for
this, but all his reproofs were of no avail. At last he told him, he
really ought to leave off his bad habits, for Old Nick and his servants
lived upon people’s curses and wicked words. “Say you so?” said the
cowherd, “if I knew for certain that Old Nick would lose his meals by
it, I would never say a bad word more.” So he made up his mind to mend
his ways.
“I’ll soon see whether you are in earnest or not,” said Sæmund, and so,
he forthwith lodged a goblin in the cowhouse. The cowherd did not like
his guest, and no wonder: for he was up to every kind of mischief, and
almost worried the life out of him with his wicked pranks. The poor
cowherd bore up bravely for a time, and never let slip an oath or angry
word. The goblin got leaner day by day, to the intense delight of the
cowherd, who hoped, bye and bye, to see an end of him.
One morning, on opening the byre door, the poor cowherd found every
thing turned topsy-turvy. The milk pails and stools were broken in
pieces and scattered about the floor; and the whole of the cows—and
there were many of them—tied tail to tail, were straggling about without
halters, and goring each other. It needed but half an eye to see who had
done the mischief. So the cowherd in a rage turned round to the goblin
who, shrunk and haggard, lay crouched up in a corner of a stall, the
very picture of wretchedness, and poured forth such a volley of furious
curses as would have overwhelmed any human being in the same plight. The
goblin all at once began to revive; his skin no longer shrivelled looked
smooth and plump; his eye brightened up, and the stream of life again
flowed joyously through his veins.
“O, oh!” said the cowherd, as he suddenly checked himself, when he saw
the wonderful effect his swearing had on the goblin, “Now I know for
certain that Sæmund was right.” And from that day forward he was never
known to utter an oath. As for the goblin, he soon pined away again and
has long since been beyond troubling anybody. May you and I, and all who
hear this story, strive to follow the good example of Sæmund’s cowherd!
IV. OLD NICK MADE HIMSELF AS LITTLE AS HE WAS ABLE.