Chapter IV: After Fifteen Years

It wanted but a few days to Christmas 1760—a seasonable Christmas, and in keeping with that festive season of the year. Snow and sharp north-east winds had been plentiful for nearly a week past. The flat country all around the time-honoured cathedral city of Fridswold had been covered with a vast sheet of drifted snow, which had found its way into every nook and crevice, filling up all the ditches and dikes until they were level with the surrounding country. The minster tower was embellished with an innumerable number of white patches, and the minster roofs were hidden under a thick covering of frozen snow. It was evident that King Christmas had things to his liking this time, and was bent upon enjoying his own particular time in his own particular way. Meanwhile the wind roared on, roared and whistled, and whisked the sharp frozen snowflakes round and round, dashing them, as if in impotent rage, against the sturdy walls of the minster. The air was so thick that, although the hour was not late, darkness had set in with a density that obscured every object from view, while the tolling of the great vespers-bell was drowned by the distracting uproar of the elements.

It was during one of the uncertain lulls which occurred from time to time, that a figure emerged from the protecting shelter of one of the cathedral buttresses, and wrapping himself in the folds of a horseman’s cloak, strode hastily forward, evidently intending to take advantage of the brief calm and reach some haven of shelter. Scarcely a single person was to be seen in the deserted streets, through which the blast tore with such mad fury that the buffeted wayfarer staggered again. Visions of glowing fires, dry clothes, and comfortable shelter rose before his imagination as he passed a brightly lighted window. But there was no stopping for him; he must on and fight this tough battle with the pitiless wind as best he may. His destination is at length reached. The weather-beaten traveller descends a couple of steps, passes through an open doorway, and emerges from the outer darkness into a warm, cosy-looking bar—his clothes half-frozen, and crusted with patches of snow. He is apparently known here, for he is instantly relieved of his cloak and hat by a neat-looking damsel, who up to the present moment has been engaged in a light and refreshing flirtation with a large, hot-visaged man lounging before the fire.

‘Sharp weather this, sir,’ remarked that worthy, slightly moving from his place.

‘Sharp indeed!’ returned the other in a deep voice, as he shook some loose particles of snow from his person.

‘Ah, this’ll be a bad time for many people,’ was the next remark the large man ventured upon.

A muttered exclamation dropped from the lips of the last comer, but was too indistinct to be heard.

‘There’ll be many a person remember this night,’ continued he of the fiery countenance, with an insane notion that he was getting along capitally.

The individual addressed turned sharply round, fixing a pair of dark eyes upon the other’s face, but he did not speak.

Somewhat discouraged, the large man paused for a minute ere he spoke again. The person he seemed so wishful to converse with was a tall, handsome, young fellow, dressed in a sort of half-military costume, and with a bold dashing look, sufficient in itself to attract notice. By his side was a silver-hilted rapier, the ordinary weapon of a gentleman of the day; and the martial look of the wearer was sufficient proof that he would be prompt to use it in any emergency. Seemingly not satisfied with the long inspection he had thought fit to take, our red-faced friend once more endeavoured to enter into conversation; but the gentleman, after giving the maid some orders, quitted the room.

‘Is that gentleman staying in the house, Peggy, my dear?’ asked the red-faced one of the waiting-maid.

‘Yes; he came here last night,’ replied the girl, who was perfectly ready to resume the aforesaid flirtation, which had been interrupted by the entrance of the visitor.

But the man with the fiery face now seemed to be persistently interested in the stranger. ‘What may his name be, Peg?’ he asked in a tone of affected carelessness.

‘That’s no business of yours, Mr Goff,’ retorted the damsel a trifle tartly, for the swain’s indifference somewhat nettled her.

‘Now, Peggy, my chuck, don’t get crusty,’ said the big man in wheedling accents. ‘What’s that you’ve got in your pretty hand?’

‘It’s the gentleman’s hat,’ replied the fair maid, somewhat relaxing. ‘I’m going to dry it by the fire with his cloak. They’re sopping wet, now the snow’s melted on them.’

‘He’s not likely to lose his headpiece, whoever he may be,’ remarked Mr Goff. ‘I can see “R. Ainslie” on the lining quite plain, as you’re holding it now.’

‘You seem to take a deal of interest in the gentleman,’ laughed Peggy as she turned the hat away.

‘It’s mighty little interest I take in any one except you, my beauty,’ returned Mr Goff. ‘I only thought the young fellow looked wonderful weary and tired like.’

‘He looked that yesterday,’ said Peggy, warming to the subject. ‘I felt quite sorry for him when he rode up. It wasn’t fit weather to turn a dog out in.’

‘And he’s been out again to-day?’ hazarded the big man.

‘Yes,’ replied Peggy, depositing the hat and cloak in front of the roaring blaze. ‘He went out early on foot, leaving his horse in the stable, and we saw nothing more of him till two o’clock. He came back then, and ordered something to eat; but, as I’m a living creature, I think he scarcely touched it. After that, he went out again, and did not return till just now.’

‘It seems wonderful curious,’ said Mr Goff slowly, as he buttoned up his coat and prepared to go—‘seems wonderful curious that a young gent should go on in that fashion. When I see ’em a-doing so, I always have a sort of notion that they’ve got something on their minds, and are going to act rash.’

‘That’s your experience, is it?’ said the girl with a laugh. ‘I don’t think much of it.’

‘Possibly not,’ returned the other. ‘Good-night.’

A SOLITARY ISLAND.

The government of Iceland have commissioned Mr Thoroddsen to undertake systematic explorations of that island, with a view to investigating its physical features and describing its natural history. While on a visit to Grimsey, a small island twenty-two miles due north of Iceland, he found it inhabited by eighty-eight human beings, debarred from all communication with the mainland, excepting once or twice every year, when, at great risk, the natives contrived to visit the mainland in their small open boats.

After describing the flora and meteorology of this secluded islet, Mr Thoroddsen informs us that the ‘pastor of the island, M. Pjetur Gudmundsson, has for many years been engaged in exceedingly careful meteorological observations on behalf of the Meteorological Institute of Copenhagen. This most worthy gentleman, living here in conspicuous poverty, like a hermit divorced from the world, though he has the comfort of a good wife to be thankful for, is not only regarded as a father by his primitive congregation, but enjoys, moreover, the reputation of being in the front rank among sacred poets in modern Iceland.

‘The inhabitants derive their livelihood for the most part from bird-catching, nest-robbing, and deep-sea fisheries. The precipices that form the eastern face of the island are crowded with myriads of various kinds of sea-fowl. On every ledge the birds are seen thickly packed together; the rocks are white with guano, or green-tufted with scurvy-grass; here everything is in ceaseless movement, stir, and flutter, accompanied by a myriad-voiced concert from screamers on the wing, from chatterers on domestic affairs in the rock-ledges, and from brawlers at the parliament of love out at sea, the surface of which beneath the rocks is literally thatched at this time of the year with the wooing multitudes of this happy commonwealth. If the peace is broken by a stone rolled over the precipice or by the report of a gunshot, the air is suddenly darkened by the rising clouds of the disturbed birds, which, viewed from the rocks, resemble what might be taken for gigantic swarms of bees or midges.

‘The method adopted for collecting eggs is the following: Provided with a strong rope, some nine or ten stalwart men go to the precipice, where it is some three hundred feet high, and one of the number volunteers or is singled out by the rest for the perilous _sig_, that is, “sink” or “drop,” over the edge of the rocks. Round his thighs and waist, thickly padded generally with bags stuffed with feathers or hay, the _sigamadr_, “sinkman” or “dropman,” adjusts the rope in such a manner that he may hang, when dropped, in a sitting posture. He is also dressed in a wide smock or sack of coarse calico, open at the breast, and tied round the waist with a belt, into the ample folds of which he slips the eggs he gathers, the capacity of the smock affording accommodation to from one hundred to one hundred and fifty eggs at a time. In one hand the sinkman holds a pole, sixteen feet long, with a ladle tied to one end, and by this means scoops the eggs out of nests which are beyond the reach of his own hands. When the purpose of this “breath-fetching” sink is accomplished, on a given sign the dropman is hauled up again by his comrades. This, as may readily be imagined, is a most dangerous undertaking, and many a life has been lost over it in Grimsey from accidents occurring to the rope.

‘For the pursuit of the fishery, the island possesses fourteen small open boats, in which the men will venture out as far as four to six miles cod-fishing; but this is a most hazardous industry, owing both to the sudden manner in which the sea will rise, sometimes even a long time in advance of travelling storms, and to the difficulty of effecting a landing on the harbourless island.

‘Now and then the monotony of the life of the inhabitants is broken by visits from foreigners, mostly Icelandic shark-fishers, or English or French fishermen.

‘Of domestic animals the islanders now possess only a few sheep. Formerly there were five cows in the island; but the hard winter of 1860 necessitated their extermination, and since that time, for twenty-four years, the people have had to do without a cow! Of horses there are only two at present (1884) in the island! Strange to say, the health of the people seems on the whole to bear a fair comparison with more favoured localities. Scurvy, which formerly was very prevalent, has now almost disappeared, as has also a disease peculiar to children, which, in the form of spasm or convulsive fit, used to be very fatal to infant life in former years.

‘Inexpressibly solitary must be the life of these people in winter, shut out from all communication with the outer world, and having in view, as far as the eye can reach, nothing but arctic ice. The existence of generation after generation here seems to be spent in one continuous and unavailing arctic expedition. The only diversion afforded by nature consists in the shifting colours of the flickering aurora borealis, in the twinkling of the stars in the heavens, and the fantastic forms of wandering icebergs. No wonder that such surroundings should serve to produce a quiet, serious, devout, and down-hearted race, in which respect the Grimsey men may perhaps be said to constitute a typical group among their compatriots. However, to dispel the heavy tedium of the long winter days, they seek their amusements in the reading of the Sagas, in chess-playing, and in such mild dissipations at mutual entertainments at Christmas-time as their splendid poverty will allow.’

FORESTRY AND FARMING.

At one of the evening lectures in connection with the late Edinburgh Forestry Exhibition, Mr J. Meldrum spoke of the ‘Johore Forests’ which are situated in the Malayan Peninsula between the British settlements of Singapore and Malacca. The greater part of the interior, he said, consisted of a virgin forest, and abounded in timber trees of a large size, no fewer than three hundred and fifty specimens of which were to be seen in the Forestry Exhibition. About three hundred kinds awaited the advent of the papermaker, who would be able to convert them into useful wood-pulp at a very low cost. Railways were required to make this wealth of timber available for commercial purposes.

Another lecture by Mr Cracknell at the model of the Manitoba Farm embodied some interesting information regarding the Canadian north-west. The Bell Farm in Qu’appelle he described as the largest farm in the world. There were eight thousand acres under crop, five thousand under wheat, and a portion of the remainder under flax. From this farm, ten thousand bushels of wheat had been exported at a good price last year; and this year’s crop was estimated to be forty per cent. better. The estimated wheat acreage this year in Manitoba is three hundred and fifty thousand; and in the north-west territories sixty-five thousand, with an estimated yield of twenty-three bushels an acre. There was thus a total of four hundred and fifteen thousand acres, and nine million five hundred and forty-five thousand bushels; but deducting two million seven hundred and sixty thousand bushels for home consumption and seed, there remained a surplus of six million seven hundred and eighty-five thousand bushels. There is little consolation here for the British farmer, who finds wheat-growing at the present low prices positively unremunerative.

A LOVE-THOUGHT.

If thou wert only, love, a tiny flower,
And I a butterfly with gaudy wings,
Flitting to changing scenes each changing hour,
Careless of aught save that which pleasure brings—
Not even I could leave the lowliest glade
That held thy loveliness within its shade.

If thou wert but a streamlet in the vale,
And I a sailor on a stormy sea,
Flying through whirling foam beneath the gale,
Chartless in all that wild immensity—
Thy murmuring voice would echo in my soul
Through howling storm or crashing thunder-roll.

If, darling, thou wert but a far-off star,
And I a weary wanderer o’er the plain,
Unwitting of celestial worlds afar,
And knowing naught of all the shining train—
My glance would single out thy ray serene,
Though blazing suns and planets rolled between.

Yet, dear one, thou art these to me, and more:
My flower, whose radiance passeth all decay;
My streamlet of sweet thoughts in endless store;
My star, to guide my steps to perfect day;
My hope in earth’s dark dungeon of despair;
My refuge ’mid life’s weary noonday glare.

H. ERNEST NICHOL.

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