THE NORTH ATLANTIC--SPANISH WAVES--OUR CABIN IN A GALE--SEA-SICKNESS FROM A SCIENTIFIC POINT OF VIEW--WILSON--APASSENGER COMMITS SUICIDE--FIRST SIGHT OF ICELAND--FLOKIOF THE RAVENS--THE NORSE MAYFLOWER--FAXA FIORD--WE LANDIN THULE
Reykjavik,Iceland,June 21,1856.
We have landed in Thule!When,in parting,you moaned so at the thought of not being able to hear of our safe arrival,I knew there would be an opportunity of writing to you almost immediately after reaching Iceland;but Isaid nothing about it at the time,lest something should delay this letter,and you be left to imagine all kinds of doleful reasons for its non-appearance.We anchored in Reykjavik harbour this afternoon (Saturday).H.M.S.
"Coquette"sails for England on Monday;so that within a week you will get this.
For the last ten days we have been leading the life of the "Flying Dutchman."Never do I remember to have had such a dusting:foul winds,gales,and calms--or rather breathing spaces,which the gale took occasionally to muster up fresh energies for a blow--with a heavy head sea,that prevented our sailing even when we got aslant.
On the afternoon of the day we quitted Stornaway,I got a notion how it was going to be;the sun went angrily down behind a bank of solid grey cloud,and by the time we were up with the Butt of Lewis,the whole sky was in tatters,and the mercury nowhere,with a heavy swell from the north-west.
As,two years before,I had spent a week in trying to beat through the Roost of Sumburgh under double-reefed trysails,I was at home in the weather;and guessing we were in for it,sent down the topmasts,stowed the boats on board,handed the foresail,rove the ridge-ropes,and reefed all down.By midnight it blew a gale,which continued without intermission until the day we sighted Iceland;sometimes increasing to a hurricane,but broken now and then by sudden lulls,which used to leave us for a couple of hours at a time tumbling about on the top of the great Atlantic rollers--or Spanish waves,as they are called--until I thought the ship would roll the masts out of her.Why they should be called Spanish waves,no one seems to know;but I had always heard the seas were heavier here than in any other part of the world,and certainly they did not belie their character.The little ship behaved beautifully,and many a vessel twice her size would have been less comfortable.Indeed,few people can have any notion of the cosiness of a yacht's cabin under such circumstances.After having remained for several hours on deck,in the presence of the tempest,--peering through the darkness at those black liquid walls of water,mounting above you in ceaseless agitation,or tumbling over in cataracts of gleaming foam,--the wind roaring through the rigging,--timbers creaking as if the ship would break its heart,--the spray and rain beating in your face,--everything around in tumult,--suddenly to descend into the quiet of a snug,well-lighted little cabin,with the firelight dancing on the white rosebud chintz,the well-furnished book-shelves,and all the innumerable nick-nacks that decorate its walls,--little Edith's portrait looking so serene,--everything about you as bright and fresh as a lady's boudoir in May Fair,--the certainty of being a good three hundred miles from any troublesome shore,--all combine to inspire a feeling of comfort and security difficult to describe.
These pleasures,indeed,for the first days of our voyage,the Icelander had pretty much to himself.I was laid up with a severe bout of illness I had long felt coming on,and Fitz was sea-sick.I must say,however,I never saw any one behave with more pluck and resolution;and when we return,the first thing you do must be to thank him for his kindness to me on that occasion.Though himself almost prostrate,he looked after me as indefatigably as if he had already found his sea legs;and,sitting down on the cabin floor,with a basin on one side of him,and a pestle and mortar on the other,used to manufacture my pills,between the paroxysms of his malady,with a decorous pertinacity that could not be too much admired.
Strangely enough,too,his state of unhappiness lasted a few days longer than the eight-and-forty hours which are generally sufficient to set people on their feet again.I tried to console him by representing what an occasion it was for observing the phenomena of sea-sickness from a scientific point of view;and I must say he set to work most conscientiously to discover some remedy.
Brandy,prussic acid,opium,champagne,ginger,mutton-chops,and tumblers of salt-water,were successively exhibited;but,I regret to say,after a few minutes,each in turn re-exhibited itself with monotonous punctuality.Indeed,at one time we thought he would never get over it;and the following conversation,which I overheard one morning between him and my servant,did not brighten his hopes of recovery.
This person's name is Wilson,and of all men I ever met he is the most desponding.Whatever is to be done,he is sure to see a lion in the path.Life in his eyes is a perpetual filling of leaky buckets,and a rolling of stones up hill.He is amazed when the bucket holds water,or the stone perches on the summit.He professes but a limited belief in his star,--and success with him is almost a disappointment.His countenance corresponds with the prevailing character of his thoughts,always hopelessly chapfallen;his voice is as of the tomb.He brushes my clothes,lays the cloth,opens the champagne,with the air of one advancing to his execution.I have never seen him smile but once,when he came to report to me that a sea had nearly swept his colleague,the steward,overboard.The son of a gardener at Chiswick,he first took to horticulture;then emigrated as a settler to the Cape,where he acquired his present complexion,which is of a grass-green;and finally served as a steward on board an Australian steam-packet.
