VII. THE ICELANDERS
Skalholt.--Reykjavik.--The Fair.--The Peasant and the Merchant.-- A Clergyman in his Cups.--Hay-making.--The Icelander’s Hut.-- Churches.--Poverty of the Clergy.--Jon Thorlaksen.--The Seminary of Reykjavik.--Beneficial Influence of the Clergy.-- Home Education.--The Icelander’s Winter’s Evening.--Taste for Literature.--The Language.--The Public Library at Reykjavik.-- The Icelandic Literary Society.--Icelandic Newspapers.-- Longevity.--Leprosy.--Travelling in Iceland.--Fording the Rivers.--Crossing of the Skeidara by Mr. Holland.--A Night’s Bivouac.
Next to Thingvalla, there is no place in Iceland so replete with historical interest as Skalholt, its ancient capital. Here in the eleventh century was founded the first school in the island; here was the seat of its first bishops; here flourished a succession of great orators, historians, and poets; Isleif, the oldest chronicler of the North; Gissur, who in the beginning of the twelfth century had visited all the countries of Europe and spoke all their languages; the philologian Thorlak, and Finnur Johnson, the learned author of the “Ecclesiastical History of Iceland.” The Cathedral of Skalholt was renowned far and wide for its size, and in the year 1100, Latin, poetry, music, and rhetoric, the four liberal arts, were taught in its school, more than they were at that time in many of the large European cities. As a proof how early the study of the ancients flourished in Skalholt, we find it recorded that in the twelfth century a bishop once caught a scholar reading Ovid’s “Art of Love;” and as the story relates that the venerable pastor flew into a violent passion at the sight of the unholy book, we may without injustice conclude that he must have read it himself in some of his leisure hours, to know its character so well.
Of all its past glories, Skalholt has retained nothing but its name. The school and the bishopric have been removed, the old church has disappeared, and been replaced by a small wooden building, in which divine service is held once a month; three cottages contain all the inhabitants of the once celebrated city, and the extensive churchyard is the only memorial of its former importance. Close by are the ruins of the old school-house, and on the spot where the bishop resided a peasant has erected his miserable hovel.
But the ever-changing tide of human affairs has not bereft the now lonely place of its natural charms, for the meadow-lands of Skalholt are beautifully imbedded in an undulating range of hills, overlooking the junction of the Bruara and Huita, and backed by a magnificent theatre of mountains, among which Hecla and the Eyjafialla are the most prominent.
Reykjavik, the present capital of the island, has risen into importance at the expense both of Skalholt and Thingvalla. At the beginning of the present century the courts of justice were transferred from the ancient seat of legislature to the new metropolis, and in 1797 the bishoprics of Hoolum and Skalholt, united into one, had their seats likewise transferred to Reykjavik. The ancient school of Skalholt, after having first migrated to Bessestadt, has also been obliged to follow the centralizing tendency, so powerful in our times, and now contributes to the rising fortunes of the small sea-port town.
But in spite of all these accessions, the first aspect of Reykjavik by no means corresponds to our ideas of a capital. “The town,” says Lord Dufferin, “consists of a collection of wooden sheds, one story high--rising here and there into a gable end of greater pretensions--built along the lava-track, and flanked at either end by a suburb of turf huts. On every side of it extends a desolate plain of lava that once must have boiled up red-hot from some distant gateway of hell, and fallen hissing into the sea. No tree or bush relieves the dreariness of the landscape, and the mountains are too distant to serve as a background to the buildings; but before the door of each merchant’s house facing the sea there flies a gay little pennon; and as you walk along the silent streets, whose dust no carriage-wheel has ever desecrated, the rows of flower-pots that peep out of the windows, between curtains of white muslin, at once convince you that, notwithstanding their unpretending appearance, within each dwelling reign the elegance and comfort of a woman-tended home.”
Twenty years since, Reykjavik was no better than a wretched fishing-village, now it already numbers 1400 inhabitants, and free-trade promises it a still greater increase for the future. It owes its prosperity chiefly to its excellent port, and to the abundance of fish-banks in its neighborhood, which have induced the Danish merchants to make it their principal settlement. Most of them, however, merely visit it in summer like birds of passage, arriving in May with small cargoes of foreign goods, and leaving it again in August, after having disposed of their wares. Thus Reykjavik must be lonely and dreary enough in winter, when no trade animates its port, and no traveller stays at its solitary inn; but the joy of the inhabitants is all the greater when the return of spring re-opens their intercourse with the rest of the world, and the delight may be imagined with which they hail the first ship that brings them the long-expected news from Europe, and perhaps some wealthy tourist, eager to admire the wonders of the Geysirs.
The most busy time of the town is, however, the beginning of July, when the annual fair attracts a great number of fishermen and peasants within its walls. From a distance of forty and fifty leagues around, they come with long trains of pack-horses; their stock-fish slung freely across the animals’ backs, their more damageable articles close pressed and packed in boxes or skin bags.
The greater part of the trade in this and other small sea-ports--such as Akreyri, Hafnafjord, Eyrarbacki, Berufjord, Vapnafjord, Isafjord, Grafaros, Budenstadt, which, taken all together, do not equal Reykjavik in traffic and population--is carried on by barter.[2]
Sometimes the Icelander desires to be paid in specie for part of his produce, but then he is obliged to bargain for a long time with the merchant, who of course derives a double profit by an exchange of goods, and is loth to part with his hard cash. The dollars thus acquired are either melted down, and worked into silver massive girdles, which in point of execution as well as design are said, on good authority,[3] to be equal to any thing of the kind fashioned by English jewellers, or else deposited in a strong-box, as taxes and wages are all paid in produce, and no Icelander ever thinks of investing his money in stocks, shares, or debentures.
He is, however, by no means so ignorant of mercantile affairs as to strike at once a bargain with the Danish traders. Pitching his tent before the town, he first pays a visit to all the merchants of the place. After carefully noting their several offers (for as each of them invariably treats him to a dram, he with some justice mistrusts his memory), he returns to his caravan and makes his calculations as well as his somewhat confused brain allows him. If he is accompanied by his wife, her opinion of course is decisive, and the following morning he repairs with all his goods to the merchant who has succeeded in gaining his confidence.
After the business has been concluded, the peasant empties one glass to the merchant’s health, another to a happy meeting next year, a third to the king, a fourth because three have been drunk already. At length, after many embraces and protestations of eternal friendship, he takes his leave of the merchant. Fortunately there is no thief to be found in all Iceland; but in consequence of these repeated libations, one parcel has not been well packed, another negligently attached to the horse, and thus it happens that the poor peasant’s track is not unfrequently marked with sugar, coffee-beans, salt, or flour, and that when he reaches home, he finds some valuable article or other missing.
It would, however, be doing the Icelanders an injustice to regard them as generally intemperate; for though within the last twelve years the population has increased only ten per cent., and the importation of brandy thirty, yet the whole quantity of spirits consumed in the island amounts to less than three bottles per annum for each individual, and, of this allowance, the people of Reykjavik and of the other small sea-ports have more than their share, while many of the clergy and peasantry in the remoter districts hardly ever taste spirituous liquors. Dr. Hooker mentions the extraordinary effect which a small portion of rum produced on the good old incumbent of Middalr, whose stomach had been accustomed only to a milk-diet and a little coffee. “He begged me,” says the doctor,[4] “to give him some rum to bathe his wife’s breast; but having applied a portion of it to that purpose, he drank the rest without being at all aware of its strength, which, however, had no other effect than in causing this clerical blacksmith,[5] with his lame hip, to dance in the most ridiculous manner in front of the house. The scene afforded a great source of merriment to all his family except his old wife, who was very desirous of getting him to bed, while he was no less anxious that she should join him in the dance.”
Dr. Hooker justly remarks that this very circumstance is a convincing proof how unaccustomed this priest was to spirituous liquors, as the quantity taken could not have exceeded a wine-glass full.
After his visit to the fair, the peasant sets about hay-making, which is to him the great business of the year, for he is most anxious to secure winter fodder for his cattle, on which his whole prosperity depends. The few potatoes and turnips about the size of marbles, or the cabbage and parsley, which he may chance to cultivate, are not worth mentioning; grass is the chief, nay, the only produce of his farm, and that Heaven may grant clear sunshiny days for hay-making is now his daily prayer.
Every person capable of wielding a scythe or rake is pressed into the work. The best hay is cut from the “tún,” a sort of paddock comprising the lands adjoining the farm-house, and the only part of his grounds on which the peasant bestows any attention, for, in spite of the paramount importance of his pasture-land, he does but little for its improvement, and a meadow is rarely seen, where the useless or less nutritious herbs are not at least as abundant as those of a better quality. The “tún” is encircled by a turf or stone wall, and is seldom more than ten acres in extent, and generally not more than two or three. Its surface is usually a series of closely-packed mounds, like graves, most unpleasant to walk over, the gutter, in some places, being two feet in depth between the mounds. After having finished with the “tún,” the farmer subjects to a process of cutting all the broken hillsides and boggy undrained swamps that lie near his dwelling. The blades of the scythes are very short. It would be impossible to use a long-bladed scythe, owing to the unevenness of the ground.
The cutting and making of hay is carried on, when the weather will permit, through all the twenty-four hours of the day. When the hay is made it is tied in bundles by cords and thongs, and carried away by ponies to the earthen houses prepared for it, which are similar to and adjoin those in which the cattle are stalled. “It is a very curious sight,” says Mr. Shepherd, “to see a string of hay-laden ponies returning home. Each pony’s halter is made fast to the tail of the preceding one, and the little animals are so enveloped in their burdens that nothing but their hoofs and the connecting ropes are visible, and they look as though a dozen huge haycocks, feeling themselves sufficiently made, were crawling off to their resting-places.”
When the harvest is finished the farmer treats his family and laborers to a substantial supper, consisting of mutton, and a soup of milk and flour; and although the serious and taciturn Icelander has perhaps of all men the least taste for music and dancing, yet these simple feasts are distinguished by a placid serenity, no less pleasing than the more boisterous mirth displayed at a southern vintage.
Almost all labor out-of-doors now ceases for the rest of the year. A thick mantle of snow soon covers mountain and vale, meadow and moor; with every returning day, the sun pays the cold earth a decreasing visit, until, finally, he hardly appears above the horizon at noon; the wintry storm howls over the waste, and for months the life of the Icelander is confined to his hut, which frequently is but a few degrees better than that of the filthy Lap.
Its lower part is built of rude stones to about the height of four feet, and between each row layers of turf are placed with great regularity, to serve instead of mortar, and keep out the wind. A roof of such wood as can be procured rests upon these walls, and is covered with turf and sods. On one side (generally facing the south) are several gable ends and doors, each surmounted with a weather-cock. These are the entrances to the dwelling-house proper, to the smithy, store-room, cow-shed, etc. A long narrow passage, dark as pitch, and redolent of unsavory odors, leads to the several apartments, which are separated from each other by thick walls of turf, each having also its own roof, so that the peasant’s dwelling is in fact a conglomeration of low huts, which sometimes receive their light through small windows in the front, but more frequently through holes in the roof, covered with a piece of glass or skin. The floors are of stamped earth; the hearth is made of a few stones clumsily piled together; a cask or barrel, with the two ends knocked out, answers the purpose of a chimney, or else the smoke is allowed to escape through a mere hole in the roof.
The thick turf walls, the dirty floor, the personal uncleanliness of the inhabitants, all contribute to the pollution of the atmosphere. No piece of furniture seems ever to have been cleaned since it was first put into use; all is disorder and confusion. Ventilation is utterly impossible, and the whole family, frequently consisting of twenty persons or more, sleep in the same dormitory, as well as any strangers who may happen to drop in. On either side of this apartment are bunks three or four feet in width, on which the sleepers range themselves.
Such are in general the dwellings of the farmers and clergy, for but very few of the more wealthy inhabitants live in any way according to our notions of comfort, while the cots of the poor fisherman are so wretched that one can hardly believe them to be tenanted by human beings.
The farm-houses are frequently isolated, and, on account of their grass-covered roofs and their low construction, are not easily distinguished from the neighboring pasture-grounds; where four or five of them are congregated in a grassy plain, they are dignified with the name of a village, and become the residence of a Hrepstior, or parish constable.
Then also a church is seldom wanting, which however is distinguished from the low huts around merely by the cross planted on its roof. An Icelandic house of prayer is generally from eight to ten feet wide, and from eighteen to twenty-four long; but of this about eight feet are devoted to the altar, which is divided off by a partition stretching across the church, and against which stands the pulpit. A small wooden chest or cupboard, placed at the end of the building, between two very small square windows not larger than a common-sized pane of glass, constitutes the communion-table, over which is generally a miserable representation of the Lord’s Supper painted on wood. The height of the walls, which are wainscoted, is about six feet, and from them large wooden beams stretch across from side to side. On these beams are placed in great disorder a quantity of old Bibles, psalters, and fragments of dirty manuscripts. The interior of the roof, the rafters of which rest on the walls, is also lined with wood. On the right of the door, under which one is obliged to stoop considerably on entering, is suspended a bell, large enough to make an intolerable noise in so small a space. A few benches on each side the aisle, so crowded together as almost to touch one another, and affording accommodation to thirty or forty persons when squeezed very tight, leave room for a narrow passage.
These churches, besides their proper use, are also made to answer the purpose of the caravanseras of the East, by affording a night’s lodging to foreign tourists. They are indeed neither free from dirt, nor from bad smells; but the stranger is still far better off than in the intolerable atmosphere of a peasant’s hut.
Mr. Ross Browne thus describes the church and parsonage at Thingvalla; “The church is of modern construction, and, like all I saw in the interior, is made of wood, painted a dark color, and roofed with boards covered with sheets of tarred canvas. It is a very primitive little affair, only one story high, and not more than fifteen by twenty feet in dimensions. From the date on the weather-cock it appears to have been built in 1858. The congregation is supplied by the few sheep-ranches in the neighborhood, consisting at most of half a dozen families. These unpretending little churches are to be seen in the vicinity of every settlement throughout the whole island. Simple and homely as they are, they speak well for the pious character of the people.
“The pastor of Thingvalla and his family reside in a group of sod-covered huts close by the church. These cheerless little hovels are really a curiosity, none of them being over ten or fifteen feet high, and all huddled together without the slightest regard to latitude or longitude, like a parcel of sheep in a storm. Some have windows in the roof, and some have chimneys; grass and weeds grow all over them, and crooked by-ways and dark alleys run among them and through them. At the base they are walled up with big lumps of lava, and two of them have board fronts, painted black, while the remainder are patched up with turf and rubbish of all sorts, very much in the style of a stork’s nest. A low stone wall encircles the premises, but seems to be of little use as a barrier against the encroachments of live-stock, being broken up in gaps every few yards. In front of the group some attempt has been made at a pavement, which, however, must have been abandoned soon after the work was commenced. It is now littered all over with old tubs, pots, dish-cloths, and other articles of domestic use.
“The interior of this strange abode is even more complicated than one would be led to expect from the exterior. Passing through a dilapidated doorway in one of the smaller cabins, which you would hardly suppose to be the main entrance, you find yourself in a long dark passage-way, built of rough stone, and roofed with wooden rafters and brushwood covered with sod. The sides are ornamented with pegs stuck in the crevices between the stones, upon which hang saddles, bridles, horse-shoes, bunches of herbs, dried fish, and various articles of cast-off clothing, including old shoes and sheepskins. Wide or narrow, straight or crooked, to suit the sinuosities of the different cabins into which it forms the entrance, it seems to have been originally located upon the track of a blind boa-constrictor. The best room, or rather house--for every room is a house--is set apart for the accommodation of travellers. Another cabin is occupied by some members of the pastor’s family, who bundle about like a lot of rabbits. The kitchen is also the dog-kennel, and occasionally the sheep-house. A pile of stones in one corner of it, upon which a few twigs or scraps of sheep-manure serve to make the fire, constitute the cooking apartment. The floor consists of the original lava-bed, and artificial puddles composed of slops and offal of diverse unctuous kinds. Smoke fills all the cavities in the air not already occupied by foul odors, and the beams, and posts, and rickety old bits of furniture are dyed to the core with the dense and variegated atmosphere around them. This is a fair specimen of the whole establishment, with the exception of the travellers’ room. The beds in these cabins are the chief articles of luxury.”
The poverty of the clergy corresponds with the meanness of their churches. The best living in the island is that of Breide’-Bolstadr, where the nominal stipend amounts to 180 specie dollars, or about £40 a year; and Mr. Holland states that the average livings do not amount to more than £10 for each parish in the island. The clergymen must therefore depend almost entirely for subsistence on their glebe land, and a small pittance to which they are entitled for the few baptisms, marriages, and funerals that occur among their parishioners. The bishop himself has only 2000 rix-dollars, or £200, a year, a miserable pittance to make a decent appearance, and to exercise hospitality to the clergy who visit Reykjavik from distant parts.
It can not be wondered at that pastors thus miserably paid are generally obliged to perform the hardest work of day laborers to preserve their families from starving, and that their external appearance corresponds less with the dignity of their office than with their penury. Besides hay-making and tending the cattle, they may be frequently seen leading a train of pack-horses from a fishing-station to their distant hut. They are all blacksmiths also from necessity, and the best shoers of horses on the island. The feet of an Iceland horse would be cut to pieces over the sharp rock and lava, if not well shod. The great resort of the peasantry is the church; and should any of the numerous horses have lost a shoe, or be likely to do so, the priest puts on his apron, lights his little charcoal fire in his smithy (one of which is always attached to every parsonage), and sets the animal on his legs again. The task of getting the necessary charcoal is not the least of his labors, for whatever the distance may be to the nearest thicket of dwarf-birch, he must go thither to burn the wood, and to bring it home when charred across his horse’s back. His hut is scarcely better than that of the meanest fisherman; a bed, a rickety table, a few chairs, and a chest or two, are all his furniture. This is, as long as he lives, the condition of the Icelandic clergyman, and learning, virtue, and even genius are but too frequently buried under this squalid poverty.
But few of my readers have probably ever heard of the poet Jon Thorlakson, but who can withhold the tribute of his admiration from the poor priest of Backa, who with a fixed income of less than £6 a year, and condemned to all the drudgery which I have described, finished at seventy years of age a translation of Milton’s “Paradise Lost,” having previously translated Pope’s “Essay on Man.”
Three of the first books only of the “Paradise Lost” were printed by the Icelandic Literary Society, when it was dissolved in 1796, and to print the rest at his own expense was of course impossible. In a few Icelandic verses, Thorlakson touchingly alludes to his penury:--“Ever since I came into this world I have been wedded to Poverty, who has now hugged me to her bosom these seventy winters, all but two; and whether we shall ever be separated here below is only known to Him who joined us together.”
As if Providence had intended to teach the old man that we must hope to the last, he soon after received the unexpected visit of Mr. Henderson, an agent of the British and Foreign Bible Society, who thus relates his interview:
“Like most of his brethren at this season of the year, we found him in the meadow assisting his people in hay-making. On hearing of our arrival, he made all the haste home which his age and infirmity would allow, and bidding us welcome to his lowly abode, ushered us into the humble apartment where he translated my countrymen into Icelandic. The door is not quite four feet in height, and the room may be about eight feet in length by six in breadth. At the inner end is the poet’s bed, and close to the door, over against a small window, not exceeding two feet square, is a table where he commits to paper the effusions of his Muse. On my telling him that my countrymen would not have forgiven me, nor could I have forgiven myself, had I passed through this part of the island without paying him a visit, he replied that the translation of Milton had yielded him many a pleasant hour, and often given him occasion to think of England.”
This visit was followed by agreeable consequences for the venerable bard. The Literary Fund soon afterwards sent him a present of £30, a modest sum according to our ideas, but a mine of wealth in the eyes of the poor Icelandic priest. His life, however, was now near its close, as it is stated in a short view “Of the Origin, Progress, and Operations of the Society,” dated March 3d, 1821, that “the poet of Iceland is now in his grave; but it is satisfactory to know that the attention, in this instance, of a foreign and remote society to his gains and his fortunes was highly gratifying to his feelings, and contributed not immaterially to the comfort of his concluding days.”
He wrote a letter in very elegant Latin, expressing his heartfelt gratitude for the kindness and generosity of the Society, so accordant with the character of the British nation, and accompanied it with a MS. copy of his translation. The latter was first printed in Iceland in 1828, but his own original poems did not appear before 1842.
The school where most of the Icelandic clergymen, so poor and yet generally so respectable in their poverty, are educated, is that of Reykjavik, as few only enjoy stipends which enable them to study at Copenhagen. There they live several years under a milder sky, they become acquainted with the splendor of a large capital, and thus it might be supposed that the idea of returning to the dreary wastes of their own land must be intolerable. Yet this is their ardent desire, and, like banished exiles, they long for their beloved Iceland, where privation and penury await them.
In no Christian country, perhaps with the sole exception of Lapland, are the clergy so poor as in Iceland, but in none do they exert a more beneficial influence.
Though the island has but the one public school at Reykjavik, yet perhaps in no country is elementary education more generally diffused. Every mother teaches her children to read and write, and a peasant, after providing for the wants of his family by the labor of his hands, loses no opportunity, in his leisure hours, of inculcating a sound morality. In these praiseworthy efforts the parents are supported by the pastor.
He who, judging from the sordid condition of an Icelandic hut, might imagine its inhabitants to be no better than savages, would soon change his opinion were he introduced on a winter evening into the low, ill-ventilated room where the family of a peasant or a small landholder is assembled. Vainly would he seek a single idler in the whole company. The women and girls spin or knit; the men and boys are all busy mending their agricultural implements and household utensils, or else chiselling or cutting with admirable skill ornaments or snuff-boxes in silver, ivory, or wood. By the dubious light of a tallow lamp, just making obscurity visible, sits one of the family, who reads with a loud voice an old “saga” or chronicle, or maybe the newest number of the “Northurfari,” an Iceland literary almanac, published during the last few years by Mr. Gisle Brinjulfsson. Sometimes poems or whole sagas are repeated from memory, and there are even itinerant story-tellers, who, like the troubadours and trouvères of the Middle Ages, wander from one farm to another, and thus gain a scanty livelihood. In this manner the deeds of the ancient Icelanders remain fixed in the memory of their descendants, and Snorre Sturleson, Sämund, Frodi, and Eric Rauda are unforgotten. Nine centuries have elapsed; but every Icelander still knows the names of the proud yarls who first peopled the fiords of the island; and the exploits of the brave vikings who spread terror and desolation along all the coasts of Europe still fill the hearts of the peaceful islanders of our days with a glow of patriotic pride.
Where education is so general, one may naturally expect to find a high degree of intellectual cultivation among the clergy, the public functionaries, and the wealthier part of the population. Their classical knowledge is one of the first things that strike the stranger with astonishment. He sees men whose appearance too frequently denotes an abject poverty conversant with the great authors of antiquity, and keenly alive to their beauties. Travelling to the Geysirs, he is not seldom accosted in Latin by his guide, and stopping at a farm, his host greets him in the same language.
I have specially named Jon Thorlakson, but Iceland has produced and still produces many other men who, without the hope of any other reward but that which proceeds from the pure love of literature, devote their days and nights to laborious studies, and live with Virgil and Homer under the sunny skies of Italy and Greece. In the study of the modern languages, the Icelanders are as far advanced as can be expected from their limited intercourse with the rest of the world.
The English language, in which they find so many words of their own and so many borrowed from the Latin, is cultivated by many of the clergy. The German they find still more easy; and as all the Scandinavian languages proceed from the same root, they have no difficulty in understanding the Danish and the Norwegian tongues. Of all the modern languages or dialects which have sprung from the ancient Norse, spoken a thousand years ago all over Denmark, Sweden, and Norway, none has undergone fewer changes than the Icelandic. In the sea-ports it is mixed up with many Danish words and phrases, but in the interior of the island it is still spoken as it was in the times of Ingolfr and Eric the Red, and in the whole island there is no fisherman or day laborer who does not perfectly understand the oldest writings.
It may easily be imagined that among a people so fond of literature, books must be in great request. Too poor to be constantly increasing their small collections of modern publications, or of old “sagas” or chronicles, by new acquisitions, one assists the other. When the peasant goes on Sundays to church, he takes a few volumes with him, ready to lend his treasures to his neighbors, and, on his part, selects from among those which they have brought for the same purpose. When he is particularly pleased with a work, he has it copied at home, and it may be here remarked that the Icelanders are frequently most excellent calligraphists.
The foundation of a public library at Reykjavik in 1821, at the instigation of the learned Professor Rafn of Copenhagen, was a great boon to the people. It is said to contain about 12,000 volumes, which are kept under the roof of the cathedral. Books are freely lent for months, or even for a whole year, to the inhabitants of remote districts. This liberality is, of course, attended with some inconvenience, but it has the inestimable advantage of rendering a number of good works accessible to numerous families too poor to purchase them.
Another excellent institution is the New Icelandic Literary Society, founded in 1816. It has two seats, one in Copenhagen, the other in Reykjavik, and its chief object is the publication of useful works in the language of the country. Besides an annual grant of 100 specie dollars (£24) awarded to it by the Danish Government, its income is confined to the yearly contributions of its members,[6] and with this scanty means it has already published many excellent works.
Though remote from the busy scenes of the world, Iceland has three newspapers, the Thyodtholfr and the Islendingur, which appear at Reykjavik, and the Northri, which is published at Akreyri, on the borders of the Polar Ocean. The Islendingur is said to contain many excellent articles, but it would sorely task the patience of those who are accustomed to the regular enjoyment of the “Times” at breakfast; as it sometimes appears but once in three weeks, and then again, as if to make up for lost time, twice in eight days.
In spite of their ill-ventilated dwellings and the hardships entailed upon them by the severity of the climate, the Icelanders frequently attain a good old age. Of the 2019 persons who died in 1858, 25 had passed the age of ninety, and of these 20 belonged to the fair sex. The mortality among the children is, however, very considerable; 993, or nearly one-half of the entire number having died before the age of five in the year above-mentioned. Cutaneous affections are very common among Icelanders, as may easily be supposed from their sordid woollen apparel and the uncleanliness of their huts; and the northern leprosy, or “likthra,” is constantly seeking out its victims among them. This dreadful disease, which is also found among the fishermen in Norway, in Greenland, in the Faeroes, in Lapland, and, in short, wherever the same mode of life exists, begins with a swelling of the hands and feet. The hair falls off; the senses become obtuse. Tumors appear on the arms and legs, and on the face, which soon loses the semblance of humanity. Severe pains shoot through the joints, an eruption covers the whole body, and finally changes into open sores, ending with death. He whom the leprosy has once attacked is doomed, for it mocks all the efforts of medical art. Fortunately the victims of this shocking complaint are rather objects of pity than of disgust, and as it is not supposed to be contagious, they are not so cruelly forsaken by their relations as their fellow-sufferers in the East. In the hut of the priest of Thingvalla, Marmier saw a leper busy grinding corn. Some of the poorest and most helpless of these unfortunate creatures find a refuge in four small hospitals, where they are provided for at the public expense.
Since a regular steam-boat communication has been opened between Iceland, Denmark, and Scotland, the number of tourists desirous of viewing the matchless natural wonders of the island has considerably increased. But travelling in the island itself is still attended with considerable difficulties and no trifling expense, to say nothing of the want of all comforts; so that most of its visitors are content with a trip to Thingvalla and the Geysir, which are but a couple of days’ journey from Reykjavik, and very few, like Mr. Holland, make the entire circuit of the island, or, like Mr. Shepherd, plunge into the terra incognita of its north-western peninsula. The only mode of travelling is on horseback, as there are no roads, and therefore no carriages in Iceland. The distances between the places are too great, the rivers are too furious, and the bogs too extensive to allow of a walking tour being made. Even the tourist with the most modest pretensions requires at least two riding horses for himself, two for his guide, and two packhorses; and when a larger company travels, it always forms a cavalcade of from twenty to thirty horses, tied head to tail, the chief guide mounted on the first and leading the string, the other accelerating its motions by gesticulation, sundry oaths, and the timely application of the whip. The way, or the path, lies either over beds of lava, so rugged that the horses are allowed to pick their way, or over boggy ground, where it is equally necessary to avoid those places into which the animals might sink up to their belly, but which, when left to themselves, they are remarkably skillful in detecting. With the solitary exception of a few planks thrown across the Bruera, and a kind of swing bridge, or kláfr, contrived for passing the rapid Jökulsa, there are no bridges over the rivers, so that the only way to get across is to ride through them--a feat which, considering the usual velocity of their current, is not seldom attended with considerable danger, as will be seen by the following account of the crossing of the Skeidara by Mr. Holland.
“Our guide,” says this intrepid traveller, “urged on his horse through the stream, and led the way towards the mid-channel. We followed in his wake, and soon were all stemming the impetuous and swollen torrent. In the course of our journey we had before this crossed a good many rivers more or less deep, but all of them had been mere child’s play compared to that which we were now fording. The angry water rose high against our horses’ sides, at times almost coming over the tops of their shoulders. The spray from their broken crests was dashed up into our faces. The stream was so swift that it was impossible to follow the individual waves as they rushed past us, and it almost made us dizzy to look down at it. Now, if ever, is the time for firm hand or rein, sure seat, and steady eye; not only is the stream so strong, but the bottom is full of large stones, that the horse can not see through the murky waters; if he should fall, the torrent will sweep you down to the sea--its white breakers are plainly visible as they run along the shore at scarcely a mile’s distance, and they lap the beach as if they waited for their prey. Happily, they will be disappointed. Swimming would be of no use, but an Icelandic water-horse seldom makes a blunder or a false step. Not the least of the risks we ran in crossing the Skeidara was from the masses of ice carried down by the stream from the Jökul, many of them being large enough to knock a horse over.
“Fortunately we found much less ice in the centre and swiftest part of the river, where we where able to see and avoid it, than in the side channels. How the horses were able to stand against such a stream was marvellous; they could not do so unless they were constantly in the habit of crossing swift rivers. The Icelanders who live in this part of the island keep horses known for their qualities in fording difficult rivers, and they never venture to cross a dangerous stream unless mounted on a tried water-horse. The action of the Icelandic horses when crossing a swift river is very peculiar. They lean all their weight against the stream, so as to resist it as much as possible, and move onward with a peculiar side-step. This motion is not agreeable. It feels as if your horse were marking time without gaining ground, and the progress made being really very slow, the shore from which you started seems to recede from you, whilst that for which you are making appears as far as ever.
“When we reached the middle of the stream, the roar of the waters was so great that we could scarcely make our voices audible to one another; they were overpowered by the crunching sound of the ice, and the bumping of large stones against the bottom. Up to this point a diagonal line, rather down stream, had been cautiously followed; but when we came to the middle, we turned our horses’ heads a little against the stream. As we thus altered our course, the long line of baggage-horses appeared to be swung round altogether, as if swept off their legs. None of them, however, broke away, and they continued their advance without accident, and at length we all reached the shore in safety.”
After a day’s journey in Iceland, rest, as may well be supposed, is highly acceptable. Instead of passing the night in the peasant’s hut, the traveller, when no church is at hand, generally prefers pitching his tent near a running stream on a grassy plain; but sometimes, in consequence of the great distance from one habitable place to another, he is obliged to encamp in the midst of a bog where the poor horses find either bad herbs, scarcely fit to satisfy their hunger, or no food at all. After they have been unloaded, their fore legs are bound together above their hoofs, so as to prevent them straying too far, while their masters arrange themselves in the tent as comfortably as they can.
VIII. THE WESTMAN ISLANDS
The Westmans.--Their extreme Difficulty of Access.--How they became peopled.--Heimaey.--Kaufstathir and Ofanleyte.-- Sheep-hoisting.--Egg-gathering.--Dreadful Mortality among the Children.--The Ginklofi.--Gentleman John.--The Algerine Pirates.--Dreadful Sufferings of the Islanders.
Rising abruptly from the sea to a height of 916 feet, the small Westman Islands are no less picturesque than difficult of access. Many a traveller while sailing along the south coast of Iceland has admired their towering rock-walls, but no modern tourist has ever landed there. For so stormy a sea rolls between them and the mainland, and so violent are the currents, which the slightest wind brings forth in the narrow channels of the archipelago, that a landing can be effected only when the weather is perfectly calm. The Drifanda foss, a cascade on the opposite mainland, rushing from the brow of the Eyafyalla range in a column of some 800 or 900 feet in height, is a sort of barometer, which decides whether a boat can put off with a prospect of gaining the Westmans. In stormy weather the wind eddying among the cliffs converts the fall, though considerable, into a cloud of spray, which is dissipated in the atmosphere, so that no cascade is visible from the beach. In calm weather the column is intact, and if it remains so two days in succession, then the sea is usually calm enough to allow boats to land, and they venture out. As the Icelanders, through stormy weather, are frequently cut off from Europe, so the inhabitants of the Westmans are still more frequently cut off from Iceland, and it is seldom more than once a year that the mails are landed direct. The few letters from Denmark (for the correspondence is in all probability not very active) are landed in Iceland at Reykjavik, and thence forwarded to the islands by boat, as chance may offer, for, during the whole winter and the greater part of the summer, communication is impossible. It will now be understood why tourists are so little inclined to visit the Westmans, despite the magnificence of their coast scenery, for who has the patience to tarry in a miserable hut on the opposite mainland till the cascade informs him that they are accessible, or is inclined to run the risk of being detained by a sudden change of the weather for weeks or even months on these solitary rocks?
Mr. Ross Browne thus describes the general aspect of the coast of Iceland: “Nothing could surpass the desolate grandeur of the coast as we approached the point of Reykjaness. It was of an almost infernal blackness. The whole country seemed uptorn, rifted, shattered, and scattered about in a vast chaos of ruin. Huge cliffs of lava split down to their bases toppled over the surf. Rocks of every conceivable shape, scorched and blasted with fire, wrested from the main and hurled into the sea, battled with the waves, their black scraggy points piercing the mist like giant hands upthrown to smite or sink in a fierce death-struggle. The wild havoc wrought in the conflict of elements was appalling. Birds screamed over the fearful wreck of matter. The surf from the inrolling waves broke against the charred and shattered desert of ruin with a terrific roar. Columns of spray shot up over the blackened fragments of lava, while in every opening the lashed waters, discolored by the collision, seethed and surged as in a huge caldron.”
Of the Westman Islands, he says: “Towards noon we made the Westman Isles, a small rocky group some ten miles distant from the main island. A fishing and trading establishment, owned by a company of Danes, is located on one of these islands. The Arcturus touches twice a year to deliver and receive a mail. On the occasion of our visit, a boat came out with a hardy-looking crew of Danes to receive the mail-bag. It was doubtless a matter of great rejoicing to them to obtain news from home. I had barely time to make a rough outline of the islands as we lay off the settlement. The chief interest attached to the Westman group is, that it is supposed to have been visited by Columbus in 1477, fifteen years prior to his voyage of discovery to the shores of America.”
The puffin, or the screeching sea-mew, seem the only inhabitants for which nature has fitted the Westmans, and yet they have a history which leads us back to the times when Iceland itself first became known to man.
About 875, a few years after Ingolfr followed his household gods to Reykjavik, a Norwegian pirate, perchance one of the associates of that historical personage, landed on the coast of Ireland, attacked with fire and sword the defenseless population, captured forty or fifty persons, men, women, and children, and carried them off as slaves. The passage must have been any thing but pleasant, for it gave the Hibernians such a foretaste of the wretchedness that awaited them in Iceland, their future abode, that, taking courage from despair, they rose on their captors, threw them overboard, and went ashore on the first land they met with.
A day of rare serenity must have witnessed their arrival on the Westmans, a spot which of all others seemed most unlikely to become their home. Why they remained there, is a secret of the past; most likely they had no other alternative, and freedom on a rock was, at all events, better than slavery under a cruel viking.
Thus these weather-beaten islets were first peopled by men from the west, whence they derive their name, and it is supposed that the present inhabitants are the descendants of those children of Erin. No one will be inclined to envy them the heritage bequeathed to them by their fathers.
The Westmans are fourteen in number; but of these only one, called Heimaey, or Home Island, is inhabited. It is fifteen miles from the coast of Iceland, and forty-five from Hecla. Though larger than all the others put together, its entire surface is not more than ten square miles. It is almost surrounded with high basaltic cliffs, and an otherwise iron-bound shore; its interior is covered with black ashy-looking cones, bearing undoubted evidence of volcanic action; in fact, the harbor, which lies on its north-east side, and is only accessible to small craft, is formed out of an old crater, into which the sea has worn an entrance. The inhabitants are located in two villages; Kaufstathir, on a little grassy knoll near the landing-place, and Ofanleyte, on the grassy platform of the island. Only three of the other islets produce any vegetation or pasturage, and it is said that on one of these the sheep are hoisted with a rope out of the boats by an islander, who, at the risk of his neck, has climbed to the top of the precipitous rock. The others are mere naked cliffs or basaltic pillars, the abode of innumerable sea-birds, which, when accessible, are a precious resource to the islanders. For, as may well be supposed, the scanty grass lands afford nourishment but to a few cows and sheep; and as the unruly waters too often prevent their fishing-boats from putting to sea, they depend in a great measure for their subsistence upon the sea-birds, in whose capture they exhibit wonderful courage and skill. In the egg-season they go to the top of the cliff, and, putting a rope round a man’s waist, let him down the side of the perpendicular rock, one, two, or three hundred feet; on arriving at the long, narrow, horizontal shelves, he proceeds to fill a large bag with the brittle treasures deposited by the birds. When his bag is full, he and his eggs are drawn to the top by his companions. If the rope breaks, or is cut off by the sharp corners of the rock, which, however, happens but seldom, nothing can save the luckless fowler, who is either precipitated into the sea, or dashed to pieces on the rocks below.
At a later period in the season they go and get the young birds, and then they have often desperate battles with the old ones, who will not give up fighting for their offspring till their necks are broken, or their brains knocked out with a club. Where the cliffs are not accessible from the top, they go round the bottom in boats, and show a wonderful agility and daring in scaling the most terrible precipices.
In summer they get the eggs and the fresh meat of the young birds, which they also salt for the winter. The feathers form their chief article of export, besides dried and salted codfish, and with these they procure their few necessaries and luxuries, consisting principally of clothing, tobacco and snuff, spirits, fish-hooks and lines, and salt. As there is no peat on these islands, nor dried fish-bones in sufficient quantity, they also make use of the tough old sea-birds as fuel. For this purpose they split them open, and dry them on the rocks.
The Westmans form a separate Syssel, or county, and they have a church, and usually two clergymen. Their church was rebuilt of stone, at the expense of the Danish Government, in 1774, and is said to be one of the best in Iceland. Unfortunately the two clergymen to whom the spiritual care of the islanders is confided seem to have but a very indifferent flock, for their neighbors on the mainland give rather a bad character to the inhabitants of Heimaey, describing them as great sluggards and drunkards.
The population, which was formerly more considerable, amounts to about 200 souls, but even this is more than might be expected from the dreadful mortality which reigns among the children. The eggs and the oily flesh of sea-birds furnish a miserable food for infants, particularly when weaned, as is here customary, at a very early age; but the poor islanders have nothing else to give them, except some fish, and a very insufficient quantity of cow’s or sheep’s milk. This unhealthy diet, along with the boisterous air, gives rise to an incurable infantile disease, called Ginklofi (tetanus). Its first symptoms are squinting and rolling of the eyes, the muscles of the back are seized with incipient cramps and become stiff. After a day or two lock-jaw takes place, the back is bent like a bow, either backward or forward. The lock-jaw prevents swallowing, and the cramps become more frequent and prolonged until death closes the scene. The same disease is said to decimate the children on St. Kilda in consequence of a similar mode of life.
The only means of preserving the infants of Heimaey from the Ginklofi, is to send them as soon as possible to the mainland to be reared, and thus a long continuance of bad weather is a death-warrant to many.
Who would suppose that the Westman Islanders, doubly guarded by their poverty and almost inaccessible cliffs, could ever have become the prey of freebooters? and yet they have been twice attacked and pillaged, and well-nigh exterminated by sea-rovers.
I have already mentioned, in a previous chapter, that before the discovery of the banks of Newfoundland, the English cod-fishers used to resort in great numbers to the coasts of Iceland, where some of them--now and then--appeared also in the more questionable character of corsairs. One of these worthies, who, like Paul Clifford, or Captain Macheath, so effectually united the suaviter in modo with the fortiter in re, as to have merited the name of “Gentleman John,” came to the Westmans in 1614 and set the church on fire, after having previously removed the little that was worth taking. After this exploit he returned to Great Britain, but King James I. had him hung, and ordered the church ornaments which he had robbed to be restored to the poor islanders. It was, however, written in the book of fate that they were not to enjoy them long, for in 1627, a vessel of Algerine pirates, after plundering several places on the eastern and southern coasts of Iceland, fell like a thunderbolt on Heimaey. These miscreants, compared with whom John was a “gentleman” indeed, cut down every man who ventured to oppose them, plundered and burnt the new-built church, and every hovel of the place, and carried away about 400 prisoners--men, women, and children. One of the two clergymen of the island, Jon Torsteinson, was murdered at the time. This learned and pious man had translated the Psalms of David and the Book of Genesis into Icelandic verse, and is spoken of as the “martyr” in the history of the land. The other clergyman, Olaf Egilson, with his wife and children, and the rest of the prisoners, was sold into slavery in Algiers. The account of his sufferings and privations, which he wrote in the Icelandic language, was afterwards translated and published in Danish.
It was not until 1636, nine years after their capture, that the unfortunate Heimaeyers were released, and then only by being ransomed by the King of Denmark. Such was the misery they had endured from their barbarous taskmasters, that only thirty-seven of the whole number survived, and of these but thirteen lived to return to their native island.
IX. FROM DRONTHEIM TO THE NORTH CAPE
Mild Climate of the Norwegian Coast.--Its Causes.--The Norwegian Peasant.--Norwegian Constitution.--Romantic coast Scenery.-- Drontheim.--Greiffenfeld Holme and Väre.--The Sea-eagle.--The Herring-fisheries.--The Lofoten Islands.--The Cod-fisheries.-- Wretched Condition of the Fishermen.--Tromsö--Altenfiord.--The Copper Mines.--Hammerfest the most northern Town in the World.-- The North Cape.
Of all the lands situated either within or near the Arctic Circle none enjoys a more temperate climate than the Norwegian coast. Here, and nowhere else throughout the northern world, the birch and the fir-tree climb the mountain-slopes to a height of 700 or 800 feet above the level of the sea, as far as the 70th degree of latitude; here we still find a flourishing agriculture in the interior of the Malanger Fjord in 69°. On the opposite side of the Polar Ocean extends the inaccessible ice belt of East Greenland; Spitzbergen and Nova Zembla are not 400 miles distant from Talvig and Hammerfest, and yet these ports are never blocked with ice, and even in the depth of winter remain constantly open to navigation. What are the causes which in this favored region banish the usual rigors of the Arctic zone? How comes it that the winter even at the North Cape (mean temperature +22°) is much less severe than at Quebec (mean temperature +14°), which is situated 25° of latitude nearer to the equator?
The high mountain chains which separate Norway from Sweden and Finland, and keep off the eastern gales issuing from the Siberian wastes, while its coasts lie open to the mild south-westerly winds of the Atlantic, no doubt account in some measure for the comparative mildness of its climate; but the main cause of this phenomenon must no doubt be sought for in the sea. Flowing into the Atlantic Ocean between Florida and Cuba, the warm Gulf Stream traverses the sea from west to east, and although about the middle of its course it partly turns to the south, yet a considerable portion of its waters flows onward to the north-east, and streaming through the wide portal between Iceland and Great Britain, eventually reaches the coasts of Norway. Of course its warmth diminishes as it advances to the north, but this is imparted to the winds that sweep over it, and thus it not merely brings the seeds of tropical plants from Equatorial America to the coasts of Norway, but also the far more important advantages of a milder temperature.
The soil of Norway is generally rocky and sterile, but the sea amply makes up for the deficiencies of the land, and with the produce of their fisheries, of their forests, and their mines, the inhabitants are able to purchase the few foreign articles which they require. Though poor, and not seldom obliged to reap the gifts of nature amidst a thousand hardships and dangers, they envy no other nation upon earth.
The Norwegian peasant is a free man on the scanty bit of ground which he has inherited from his fathers, and he has all the virtues of a freeman--an open character, a mind clear of every falsehood, a hospitable heart for the stranger. His religious feelings are deep and sincere, and the Bible is to be found in every hut. He is said to be indolent and phlegmatic, but when necessity urges he sets vigorously to work, and never ceases till his task is done. His courage and his patriotism are abundantly proved by a history of a thousand years.
Norway owes her present prosperity chiefly to her liberal constitution. The press is completely free, and the power of the king extremely limited. All privileges and hereditary titles are abolished. The Parliament, or the “Storthing,” which assembles every three years, consists of the “Odelthing,” or Upper House, and of the “Logthing,” or Legislative Assembly. Every new law requires the royal sanction; but if the Storthing has voted it in three successive sittings, it is definitively adopted in spite of the royal veto. Public education is admirably cared for. There is an elementary school in every village, and where the population is too thinly scattered, the schoolmaster may truly be said to be abroad, as he wanders from farm to farm, so that the most distant families have the benefit of his instruction. Every town has its public library, and in many districts the peasants annually contribute a dollar towards a collection of books, which, under the care of the priest, is lent out to all subscribers. No Norwegian is confirmed who does not know how to read, and no Norwegian is allowed to marry who has not been confirmed. He who attains his twentieth year without having been confirmed has to fear the House of Correction. Thus ignorance is punished as a crime in Norway, an excellent example for far richer and more powerful nations.
The population of Norway amounts to about 1,350,000, but these are very unequally distributed; for while the southern province of Aggerhuus has 513,000 inhabitants on a surface of 35,200 square miles, Nordland has only 59,000 on 16,325, and Finmark, the most northern province of the land, but 38,000 on 29,925, or hardly more than one inhabitant to every square mile. But even this scanty population is immense when compared with that of Eastern Siberia or of the Hudson’s Bay territories, and entirely owes its existence to the mildness of the climate and the open sea, which at all seasons affords its produce to the fisherman.
It is difficult to imagine a more secluded, solitary life than that of the “bonders,” or peasant proprietors, along the northern coasts of Norway. The farms, confined to the small patches of more fruitful ground scattered along the fjords, at the foot or on the sides of the naked mountains, are frequently many miles distant from their neighbors, and the stormy winter cuts off all communication between them. Thus every family, reduced to its own resources, forms as it were a small commonwealth, which has but little to do with the external world, and is obliged to rely for its happiness on internal harmony, and a moderate competency. Strangers seldom invade their solitude, for they are far from the ordinary tracks of the tourist, and yet a journey from Drontheim to Hammerfest and the North Cape affords many objects of interest well worthy of a visit. The only mode of communication is by sea, for the land is everywhere intersected by deep fjords, bounded by one continuous chain of precipitous cliffs and rocks, varying from one thousand to four thousand feet in height. Formerly, even the sea-voyage was attended with considerable difficulties, for the miserable “yoegt,” or Scandinavian sloop, the only means of conveyance at the disposal of the traveller, required at the best of times at least a month to perform the voyage from Drontheim to Hammerfest, and in case of stormy weather, or contrary wind, had often to wait for weeks in some intermediate port. Now, however, a steamer leaves the port of Drontheim every week, and conveys the traveller in five or six days to the remote northern terminus of his journey.
Innumerable isles of every size, from a few yards in diameter to as many miles, stud the line of coast, and between these and the mainland the steamer ploughs its way. Sometimes the channel is as narrow as the bed of a river, at others it expands into a mighty lake, and the ever-varying forms of the isles, of the fjords, and of the mountains, constantly open new and magnificent prospects to the view. One grand colossal picture follows upon another, but unfortunately few or none show the presence of man. From time to time only some fishing-boat makes its appearance on the sea, or some wooden farm-house rises on the solitary beach. On advancing farther to the north, the aspect of nature becomes more and more stern, vegetation diminishes, man is more rarely seen, and the traveller feels as if he were on the point of entering the gloomy regions of perpetual death.
With the sole exception of Archangel, Drontheim is the most populous and important town situated in so high a latitude as 63° 24´. Although the cradle of ancient Scandinavian history, and the residence of a long line of kings, it looks as if it had been built but yesterday, as its wooden houses have frequently been destroyed by fire. The choir of its magnificent cathedral, built in the eleventh century, and once the resort of innumerable pilgrims who came flocking to the shrine of St. Olave from all Scandinavia, is the only remaining memorial of the old Tronyem of the Norse annalists and scalds. The modern town has a most pleasing and agreeable appearance, and the lively colors with which the houses are painted harmonize with the prosperity of its inhabitants, which is due in a great measure to its thriving fisheries, and to the rich iron and copper mines in its neighborhood. The tall chimneys of many smelting-huts, iron foundries, and other manufactories, bear evidence that modern industry has found its way to the ancient capital of Norway. In point of picturesque beauty, the bay, on a peninsula of which the town is situated, does not yield to that of Naples. Up and down, in every direction, appear the villas of the merchant, and ships of all burden riding at anchor in the bay, and boats passing and repassing. In a small island of the bay, fronting the town, is the celebrated castle of Munkholm, where in former times many a prisoner of state has bewailed the loss of his liberty. Here, among others, Greiffenfeld, who had risen from obscurity to the rank of an all-powerful minister, was incarcerated for eighteen years (1680–98).
At Hildringen, where the potato is still cultivated with success, and barley ripens every four or five years, begins the province of Nordland, which extends from 65° to 69° 30´ N. lat. The mostly uninhabited isles along the coast are called “Holme,” when rising like steep rocks out of the water, and “Väre” when flat and but little elevated above the level of the sea. The latter are the breeding-places of numberless sea-fowls, whose eggs yield a welcome harvest to the inhabitants of the neighboring mainland or of the larger islands. A well-stocked egg-vär is a valuable addition to a farm, and descends from father to son, along with the pasture-grounds and the herds of the paternal land. When the proprietor comes to plunder the nests, the birds remain quiet, for they know by experience that only the superfluous eggs are to be removed. But not unfrequently strangers land, and leave not a single egg behind. Then all the birds, several thousands at once, rise from their nests and fill the air with their doleful cries. If such disasters occur repeatedly they lose courage, and, abandoning the scene of their misfortunes, retire to another vär. Most of these birds are sea-gulls (Maasfugl, or Maage), their eggs are large, and of a not disagreeable taste. The island of Lovunnen is the favorite breeding-place of the puffin, which is highly esteemed on account of its feathers. This silly bird is very easily caught. The fowler lets down an iron hook, or sends a dog trained on purpose into the narrow clefts or holes of the rock, where the puffins sit crowded together. The first bird being pulled out, the next one bites and lays hold of his tail, and thus in succession, till the whole family, clinging together like a chain, is dragged to light.
This rocky coast is also much frequented by the sea-eagle, who is very much feared over the whole province, as he not only carries away lambs and other small animals, but even assails and not seldom overpowers the Norwegian oxen. His mode of attack is so singular that if Von Buch had not heard it so positively and so circumstantially related in various places, situated at great distances from each other, he would willingly have doubted its truth. The eagle darts down into the waves, and then rolls about with his wet plumage on the beach until his wings are quite covered with sand. Then he once more rises into the air and hovers over his intended victim. Swooping down close to him, he claps his wings, flings the sand into the eyes of the unfortunate brute, and thoroughly scares it by repeated blows of his pinions. The blinded ox rushes away to avoid the eagle’s attacks, until he is completely exhausted or tumbles down some precipitous cliff.
The sea-coast from Alsten to Rodoë, which is crossed by the Arctic Circle, is particularly rich in herrings, as it furnishes more than one-half of the fish exported to Bergen.
In respect of the capital invested, the cod-fishery must be regarded as the most important of the Norwegian deep-sea fisheries, but in the number of hands employed, the herring-fishery takes precedence. The number of men actually engaged in the latter is not less than 60,000, and considerably more than double that number are directly or indirectly interested in the result of their operations. The herrings taken in 1866 filled 750,000 barrels, each weighing 224 lbs., the largest catch ever taken on the Norwegian coast, at least in recent years. As the movements of the fish are extremely erratic, large shoals being found one year in a part of the coast where none will be seen the year following, the fishermen are forced to move from place to place, and formerly the herrings frequently escaped altogether for want of hands to capture them. Now this difficulty is in a great measure removed. Telegraph stations are erected at different places on the coast, from which the movements of the shoals are carefully watched; and field telegraphs are kept in readiness to be joined on to the main line, so as to summon the fishermen from every part of the country on the first appearance of the fish at any new point. The best time for the herring-fishery is from January to March, and in 1866, 200,000 barrels, or more than one-fourth of the total catch, were caught between February 11th and 14th.
At the northern extremity of the province of Nordland, between 68° and 69° N. lat., are situated the Lofoten Islands, or Vesteraalen Oerne, which are separated from the mainland by the Vestfjord. This broad arm of the sea is remarkable both for its violent currents and whirlpools, among which the Maelstrom has attained a world-wide celebrity, and also from its being the most northerly limit where the oyster has been found. But it is chiefly as the resort of the cod that the Vestfjord is of the highest importance, not only to Nordland, but to the whole of Norway. No less than 6000 boats from all parts of the coast, manned probably by more than half of the whole adult male population of Nordland, annually assemble at Vaage, on the island of Ost Vaagoe, and besides these, more than 300 yoegts, or larger fishing-sloops, from Bergen, Christiansand, and Molde, appear upon the scene. The banks of Newfoundland hardly occupy more hands than the fishing-grounds of the Vestfjord, which, after the lapse of a thousand years, continue as prolific as ever;[7] nor is there an instance known of its having ever disappointed the fisherman’s hopes. In Harold Haarfagr’s times, Vaage was already renowned for its fisheries, and several yarls had settled in this northern district, to reap the rich harvest of the seas. At a later period, under the reign of Saint Olave (1020), the annual Parliament of Nordland was held at Vaage, and, in 1120, the benevolent King Eystein, brother of Sigurd the Crusader, caused a church to be erected here in honor of his saintly predecessor, along with a number of huts, to serve as a shelter to the poor fishermen, a deed which he himself prized more highly than all his chivalrous brother’s warlike exploits in the East, for “these men,” said he, “will still remember in distant times that a King Eystein once lived in Norway.”
The reason why the fish never cease visiting this part of the coast is that the Lofoten Isles inclose, as it were, an inland or mediterranean sea, which only communicates with the ocean by several narrow channels between the islands, and where the fish find the necessary protection against stormy weather. They assemble on three or four banks well known to the fishermen, seldom arriving before the middle of January, and rarely later than towards the end of February. They remain in the sheltered fjord no longer than is necessary for spawning, and in April have all retired to the deeper waters, so that the whole of the fishing season does not last longer than a couple of months. The fish are either caught by hooks and lines, or more frequently in large nets about twenty fathoms long and seven or eight feet broad, buoyed with pieces of light wood, and lested with stones, so as to maintain a vertical position when let down in the water. The fish, swimming with impetuous speed, darts into the meshes, which effectually bar his retreat. The nets are always spread in the evening, and hauled up in the morning; for as long as it is daylight, the fish sees and avoids them, even at a depth of sixty or eighty fathoms. A single haul of the net frequently fills half the boat, and the heavy fish would undoubtedly tear the meshes if they were not immediately struck with iron hooks, and flung into the boat as soon as they are dragged to the surface.
Claus Niels Sliningen, a merchant of Borgund, first introduced the use of these nets in the year 1685, an innovation which more than doubled the total produce of the fisheries. But (as with all useful inventions) loud complaints were raised against him in Norway, and as late as 1762 no nets were allowed at Drontheim, “to prevent the ruin of the poor people who had not the capital to provide themselves with them.”
The life of a fisherman is everywhere full of privations and dangers, but nowhere more so than at the Lofoten Islands. Here, after toiling on the stormy sea for many hours, he has nothing but the miserable shelter of a damp, filthy, over-crowded hut, which affords him neither the rest nor the warmth needed after his fatiguing day’s work. Even the iron-framed sons of the North are frequently unable to resist such continuous hardships, and bring home with them the seeds of contagion and death. Malignant fevers have frequently decimated the population of Norway, and their origin may generally be traced to the fishing-grounds. “The Arab and the Persian,” says Leopold von Buch, “build caravanseras for the wayfarers through the desert; the inhabitants of the Alps have founded ‘hospices’ on the summits of the mountain passes; and the Norwegian has erected houses of refuge on Dovrefjeld, but none for the fishermen of Lofoten. Near Rodoë there is a large hospital for the sick of Nordland; would it not be as well to build houses in Lofoten, so as not to crowd the hospitals and churchyards?” This was written at the beginning of the present century, but the poor fishermen are still as neglected as ever, for a more recent traveller, Marmier, beheld with pity the wretched huts in which they spend three winter months far from their families.
In the channel between Hvalö and the mainland lies, in 69° 45´ N. lat., the small island of Tromsö, where about fifty years since only a few fishermen resided, whose huts have gradually expanded into a thriving little town of about 3000 inhabitants, along the shore opposite the mainland. Its staple exports are dried and salted cod, and train-oil. The livers of the cod are put in open barrels and placed in the sun, and the melted portion which rises to the surface is skimmed off, being the purest oil. The coarse refuse is boiled in great iron pots by the side of the sea, and yields the common “train-oil.” The muscular matter which remains is collected into barrels and exported as a powerful manure; some of it is sent to England.
The town consists mainly of one long straggling street, following the windings of the shore, and has a picturesque appearance from the harbor. The houses are all of wood painted with lively colors, and the roofs, mostly covered with grass, diversified with bright clusters of yellow and white flowers, look pretty in summer. Tromsö has a Latin school, and even boasts of a newspaper, the Tromsö Tidende et Blan for Nordland og Finmarken (“The Tromsö Gazette, a paper for Nordland and Finmark”). This paper is published twice a week; and as only one mail arrives at Tromsö every three weeks, the foreign news is given by instalments, spreading over six successive numbers, until a fresh dispatch arrives.
The island of Tromsö is beautifully situated, being on all sides environed by mountains, so that it seems to lie in the midst of a huge salt lake. Its surface rises in gentle slopes to a tolerable elevation, and no other Arctic isle contains richer pasturage, or dwarf plantations of greater luxuriance. Many meadows are yellow with buttercups and picturesque underwood, and the heathy hills are covered with shrubs, bearing bright berries of many hues. The pride of the Tromsöites in their island and town, and their profound attachment to it, are remarkable. No Swiss can be more enthusiastically bound to his mountains and vales, than they are to their circumscribed domain.
To the north of Tromsö lies the broad and deep Altenfjord, whose borders are studded with numerous dwellings, and where the botanist meets with a vegetation that may well raise his astonishment in so high a latitude. Here the common birch-tree grows 1450 feet, and the Vaccinium myrtillus 2030 feet above the level of the sea; the dwarf birch (Betula nana) still vegetates at a height of 2740 feet, and the Arctic willow is even found as high as 3500 feet, up to the limits of perennial snow.
Alten is moreover celebrated through its copper-mines. A piece of ore having been found by a Lap-woman in the year 1825, accidentally fell into the hands of Mr. Crowe, an English merchant in Hammerfest. This gentleman immediately took measures for obtaining a privilege from Government for the working of the mines, and all preliminaries being arranged, set off for London, where he founded a company, with a capital of £75,000. When Marmier visited the Altenfjord in 1842, more than 1100 workmen were employed in these most northerly mining-works of the world, and not seldom more than ten English vessels at a time were busy unloading coals at Kaafjord for the smelting of the ores. New copper-works had recently been opened on the opposite side of the bay at Raipass, and since then the establishment has considerably increased.
Hammerfest, the capital of Finmark, situated on the west side of the island of Hvalö, in 70° 39´ 15´´, is the most northern town in the world. Half a century since, it had but 44 inhabitants; at present its population amounts to 1200. As at Tromsö, very many of the houses, forming one long street winding round the shore, have grass sown on their roofs, which gives the latter the appearance of little plots of meadows. With us the expression, “he sleeps with grass above his head,” is equivalent to saying “he is in his grave;” but here it may only mean that he sleeps beneath the verdant roof of his daily home. Many large warehouses are built on piles projecting into the water, with landing-quays before them; and numerous ranges of open sheds are filled with reindeer skins, wolf and bear skins, walrus tusks, reindeer horns, train-oil, and dried fish, ready for exportation. The chief home traffic of Hammerfest consists in barter with the Laps, who exchange their reindeer skins for brandy, tobacco, hardware, and cloth. Some enterprising merchants annually fit out vessels for walrus and seal hunting at Spitzbergen and Bear Island, but the principal trade is with Archangel, and is carried on entirely in “lodjes,” or White Sea ships, with three single upright masts, each hoisting a huge try-sail. These vessels supply Hammerfest with Russian rye, meal, candles, etc., and receive stock-fish and train-oil in exchange. Sometimes, also, an English ship arrives with a supply of coals.
The fishing-grounds off the coast of Finmark, whose produce forms the staple article of the merchants of Hammerfest, are scarcely inferior in importance to those of Lofoten, the number of cod taken here in 1866 amounting to 15,000,000. A great part of the fish is purchased by the Russians as it comes out of the water. Of the prepared cod, Spain takes the largest quantity, as in 1865 upwards of 44,000,000 lbs. of clip-fish (nearly the whole yield for the year) was consigned to that country. Of the dried variety, 10,000,000 lbs. were exported to the Mediterranean, and upwards of 4,000,000 lbs. more to Italy. Sweden and Holland come next in order, the supply in each case being over 5,000,000 lbs. Great Britain takes scarcely any stock-fish, but 1,500,000 lbs. of clip-fish, and the large export to the West Indies is almost entirely composed of the latter article.
The winter, though long and dark, has no terrors for the jolly Hammerfesters, for all the traders and shopkeepers form a united aristocracy, and rarely a night passes without a feast, a dance, and a drinking-bout. The day when the sun re-appears is one of general rejoicing; the first who sees the great luminary proclaims it with a loud voice, and every body rushes into the street to exchange congratulations with his neighbors. The island of Hvalö has a most dreary, sterile aspect, and considerable masses of snow fill the ravines even in summer. The birch, however, is still found growing 620 feet above the sea, but the fir has disappeared.
It may well be supposed that no stranger has ever sojourned in this interesting place, the farthest outpost of civilization towards the Pole, without visiting, or at least attempting to visit, the far-famed North Cape, situated about sixty miles from Hammerfest, on the island of Magerö, where a few Norwegians live in earthen huts, and still manage to rear a few heads of cattle. The voyage to this magnificent headland, which fronts the sea with a steep rock-wall nearly a thousand feet high, is frequently difficult and precarious, nor can it be scaled without considerable fatigue; but the view from the summit amply rewards the trouble, and it is no small satisfaction to stand on the brink of the most northern promontory of Europe.
“It is impossible,” says Mr. W. Hurton, “adequately to describe the emotion experienced by me as I stepped up to the dizzy verge. I only know that I devoutly returned thanks to the Almighty for thus permitting me to realize one darling dream of my boyhood. Despite the wind, which here blew violently and bitterly cold, I sat down, and wrapping my cloak around me, long contemplated the spectacle of Nature in one of her sublimest aspects. I was truly alone. Not a living object was in sight; beneath my feet was the boundless expanse of ocean, with a sail or two on its bosom at an immense distance; above me was the canopy of heaven, flecked with fleecy cloudlets; the sun was luridly gleaming over a broad belt of blood-red mist; the only sounds were the whistling of the wandering winds and the occasional plaintive scream of the hovering sea-fowl. The only living creature which came near me was a bee, which hummed merrily by. What did the busy insect seek there? Not a blade of grass grew, and the only vegetable matter on this point was a cluster of withered moss at the very edge of the awful precipice, and this I gathered, at considerable risk, as a memorial of the visit.”
X. SPITZBERGEN--BEAR ISLAND--JAN MEYEN
The west Coast of Spitzbergen.--Ascension of a Mountain by Dr. Scoresby.--His Excursion along the Coast.--A stranded Whale.-- Magdalena Bay.--Multitudes of Sea-birds.--Animal Life.--Midnight Silence.--Glaciers.--A dangerous Neighborhood.--Interior Plateau.--Flora of Spitzbergen.--Its Similarity with that of the Alps above the Snow-line.--Reindeer.--The hyperborean Ptarmigan.--Fishes.--Coal.--Drift-wood.--Discovery of Spitzbergen by Barentz, Heemskerk, and Ryp.--Brilliant Period of the Whale-fishery.--Coffins.--Eight English Sailors winter in Spitzbergen, 1630.--Melancholy Death of some Dutch Volunteers.-- Russian Hunters.--Their Mode of wintering in Spitzbergen.-- Scharostin.--Walrus-ships from Hammerfest and Tromsö.--Bear or Cherie Island.--Bennet.--Enormous Slaughter of Walruses.-- Mildness of its Climate.--Mount Misery.--Adventurous Boat-voyage of some Norwegian Sailors.--Jan Meyen.--Beerenberg.
The archipelago of Spitzbergen consists of five large islands: West Spitzbergen, North-east Land, Stans Foreland, Barentz Land, Prince Charles Foreland; and of a vast number of smaller ones, scattered around their coasts. Its surface is about equal to that of two-thirds of Scotland; its most southern point (76° 30´ N. lat.) lies nearer to the Pole than Melville Island; and Ross Islet, at its northern extremity (80° 49´ N. lat.), looks out upon the unknown ocean, which perhaps extends without interruption as far as the Straits of Bering.
Of all the Arctic countries that have hitherto been discovered, Grinnell Land and Washington alone lie nearer to the Pole; but while these ice-blocked regions can only be reached with the utmost difficulty, the western and north-western coasts of Spitzbergen, exposed to the mild south-westerly winds, and to the influence of the Gulf Stream, are frequently visited, not only by walrus-hunters and Arctic explorers, but by amateur travellers and sportsmen.
The eastern coasts are far less accessible, and in parts have never yet been accurately explored. As far as they are known, they are not so bold and indented as the western and north-western coasts, which, projecting in mighty capes or opening a passage to deep fjords, have been gnawed into every variety of fantastic form by the corroding power of an eternal winter, and justify, by their endless succession of jagged spikes and break-neck acclivities, the name of Spitzbergen, which its first Dutch discoverers gave to this land of “serrated peaks.”
The mountains on the west coast are very steep, many of them inaccessible, and most of them dangerous to climb, either from the smooth hard snow with which they are encrusted even in summer, or from the looseness of the disintegrated stones which cover the parts denuded by the sun, and give way under the slightest pressure of the foot.
More than one daring seaman has paid dearly for his temerity in venturing to scale these treacherous heights. The supercargo, or owner, of the very first Dutch whaler that visited Spitzbergen (1612) broke his neck in attempting to climb a steep mountain in Prince Charles Foreland, and Barentz very nearly lost several of his men under similar circumstances. Dr. Scoresby, who in the course of his whaling expeditions touched at Spitzbergen no less than seventeen times, was more successful in scaling a mountain 3000 feet high, near Mitre Cape, though the approach to the summit was by a ridge so narrow that he could only advance by sitting astride upon its edge. But the panorama which he beheld, after having attained his object, amply repaid him for the danger and fatigue of clambering for several hours over loose stones, which at every step rolled with fearful rapidity into the abyss beneath.
“The prospect,” says the distinguished naturalist, “was most extensive and grand. A fine sheltered bay was seen to the east of us; an arm of the same on the north-east; and the sea, whose glassy surface was unruffled by a breeze, formed an immense expanse on the west; the icebergs, rearing their proud crests almost to the tops of the mountains between which they were lodged, and defying the power of the solar beams, were scattered in various directions about the sea-coast and in the adjoining bays. Beds of snow and ice, filling extensive hollows and giving an enamelled coat to adjoining valleys, one of which, commencing at the foot of the mountain where we stood, extended in a continued line towards the north as far as the eye could reach; mountain rising above mountain, until by distance they dwindled into insignificance; the whole contrasted by a cloudless canopy of deepest azure, and enlightened by the rays of a blazing sun, and the effect aided by a feeling of danger--seated, as we were, on the pinnacle of a rock, almost surrounded by tremendous precipices; all united to constitute a picture singularly sublime.
“Our descent we found really a very hazardous, and in some instances a painful undertaking. Every movement was a work of deliberation. Having, by much care and with some anxiety, made good our descent to the top of the secondary hills, we took our way down one of the steepest banks, and slid forward with great facility in a sitting posture. Towards the foot of the hill an expanse of snow stretched across the line of descent. This being loose and soft, we entered upon it without fear, but on reaching the middle of it, we came to a surface of solid ice, perhaps a hundred yards across, over which we launched with astonishing velocity, but happily escaped without injury. The men, whom we left below, viewed this latter movement with astonishment and fear.”
After this perilous descent, Scoresby continued his excursion on the flat land next the sea, where he found scattered here and there many skulls and other bones of sea-horses, whales, narwhals, foxes, and seals. Two Russian lodges, formed of logs of pine, with a third in ruins, were also seen; the former, from a quantity of fresh chips about them and other appearances, gave evidence of having been recently inhabited. These huts were built upon a ridge of shingle adjoining the sea. Among the boulders heaped upon the shore, numerous sea-birds had built their nests or laid their eggs, which they defended with loud cries and determined courage against the attacks of gulls. The only insect he perceived was a small green fly, but the water along the coast was filled with medusæ and shrimps. The strong north-west winds had covered the strand with large heaps of Fucus vesiculosus and Laminaria saccharina, the same which the storms also cast out upon our shores.
The view of this high northern life was extremely interesting, but Dr. Scoresby was still further rewarded by the discovery of a dead whale, found stranded on the beach, which, though much swollen and not a little putrid, proved a prize worth at least £400. By a harpoon found in its body, it appeared to have been struck by some of the fishers on the Elbe, and having escaped from them, it had probably stranded itself on the spot where it was found. When the first incision was made, the oil gushed forth like a fountain. It was a slow and laborious work to transport the blubber to the ship, which on account of the dangerous nature of the coast was obliged to remain two miles off at sea. After five boat-loads had safely been brought on board, the wind suddenly changed, so that the ship was driven far out to sea, and the boat reached her with great difficulty.
Of the numerous fjords of Spitzbergen, once the busy resort of whole fleets of whalers, and now but rarely visited by man, none has been more accurately described by modern Arctic voyagers than the magnificent harbor of Magdalena Bay. Here the Dorothea and the Trent anchored in 1818, on their way to the North Pole; here also the French naturalists, who had been sent out in the corvette La Recherche (1835–36) to explore the high northern latitudes, sojourned for several weeks.
The number of the sea-birds is truly astonishing. On the ledges of a high rock at the head of the bay Beechey saw the little auks (Arctica alle) extend in an uninterrupted line full three miles in length, and so closely congregated that about thirty fell at a single shot. He estimated their numbers at about 4,000,000. When they took flight they darkened the air; and at the distance of four miles their chorus could distinctly be heard.
On a fine summer’s day, the bellowing of the walruses and the hoarse bark of the seals are mingled with the shrill notes of the auks, divers, and gulls. Although all these tones produce a by no means harmonious concert, yet they have a pleasing effect, as denoting the happy feelings of so many creatures. When the sun verges to the pole, every animal becomes mute, and a silence broken only by the bursting of a glacier reigns over the whole bay--a remarkable contrast to the tropical regions, where Nature enjoys her repose during the noonday heat, and it is only after sunset that life awakens in the forest and the field.
Four glaciers reach down this noble inlet: one, called the Wagon Way, is 7000 feet across at its terminal cliff, which is 300 feet high, presenting a magnificent wall of ice. But the whole scene is constructed on so colossal a scale that it is only on a near approach that the glaciers of Magdalena Bay appear in all their imposing grandeur. In clear weather the joint effect of the ice under the water, and the reflection of the glacier-wall above, causes a remarkable optical delusion. The water assumes a milk-white color, the seals appear to gambol in a thick cream-like liquid, and the error only becomes apparent when, on leaning over the side of the boat, the spectator looks down into the transparent depth below.
It is extremely dangerous to approach these cliffs of ice, as every now and then large blocks detach themselves from the mass, and frequently even a concussion of the air is enough to make them fall.
During the busy period of Spitzbergen history, when its bay used to be frequented by whalers who anchored under the glacier-walls, these ice-avalanches often had disastrous consequences. Thus, in the year 1619, an English ship was driven by a storm into Bell Sound. While it was passing under a precipice of ice, a prodigious mass came thundering down upon it, broke the masts, and threw the ship so violently upon one side that the captain and part of the crew were swept into the sea. The captain escaped unhurt, but two sailors were killed and several others wounded.
One day a gun was fired from a boat of the Trent when about half a mile from one of the glaciers of Magdalena Bay. Immediately after the report of the musket, a noise resembling thunder was heard in the direction of the ice-stream, and in a few seconds more an enormous mass detached itself from its front, and fell into the sea. The men in the boat, supposing themselves to be beyond the reach of its influence, were tranquilly contemplating the magnificent sight, when suddenly a large wave came sweeping over the bay, and cast their little shallop to a distance of ninety-six feet upon the beach.
Another time, when Franklin and Beechey had approached one of these ice-walls, a huge fragment suddenly slid from its side, and fell with a crash into the sea. At first the detached mass entirely disappeared under the waters, casting up clouds of spray, but soon after it shot up again at least 100 feet above the surface, and then kept rocking several minutes to and fro. When at length the tumult subsided, the block was found to measure no less than 1500 feet in circumference; it projected 60 feet above the water, and its weight was calculated at more than 400,000 tons.
Besides the glaciers of Magdalena Bay, Spitzbergen has many others that protrude their crystal walls down to the water’s edge; and yet but few icebergs, and the largest not to be compared with the productions of Baffin’s Bay, are drifted from the shores of Spitzbergen into the open sea. The reason is that the glaciers usually terminate where the sea is shallow, so that no very large mass if dislodged can float away, and they are at the same time so frequently dismembered by heavy swells that they can not attain any great size.
The interior of Spitzbergen has never been explored. According to the Swedish naturalists,[8] who climbed many of the highest mountains in various parts of the coast, all the central regions of the archipelago form a level ice-plateau, interrupted only here and there by denuded rocks, projecting like islands from the crystal sea in which they are imbedded. The height of this plateau above the level of the ocean is in general from 1500 to 2000 feet, and from its frozen solitudes descend the various glaciers above described. During the summer months, the radiation of the sun at Spitzbergen is always very intense, the thermometer in some sheltered situations not seldom rising at noon to 62°, 67°, or even 73°. Even at midnight, at the very peak of the high mountain ascended by Scoresby, the power of the sun produced a temperature several degrees above the freezing-point, and occasioned the discharge of streams of water from the snow-capped summit. Hence, though even in the three warmest months the temperature of Spitzbergen does not average more that 34½°, yet in the more southern aspects, and particularly where the warmth of the sun is absorbed and radiated by black rock-walls, the mountains are not seldom bared at an elevation nearly equal to that of the snow-line of Norway, and various Alpine plants and grasses frequently flourish, not only in sheltered situations at the foot of the hills, but even to a considerable height, wherever the disintegrated rocks lodge and form a tolerably good soil.
The Flora of Spitzbergen consists of about ninety-three species of flowering or phenogamous plants, which generally grow in isolated tufts or patches; but the mosses which carpet the moist lowlands, and the still more hardy lichens, which invest the rocks with their thin crusts or scurfs as far as the last limits of vegetation, are much more numerous. Some of the plants of Spitzbergen are also found on the Alps beyond the snow-line, at elevations of from 9000 to 10,000 feet above the level of the sea. According to Mr. Martins, nothing can give a better idea of Spitzbergen than the vast circus of névé, in the centre of which rises the triangular rock known to the visitors of Chamonny as the Jardin or the Courtil. Let the tourist, placed on this spot at a time when the sun rises but little above the horizon, or better still, when wreaths of mist hang over the neighboring mountains, fancy the sea bathing the foot of the amphitheatre of which he occupies the centre, and he has a complete Spitzbergen prospect before him. Supposing him to be a botanist, the sight of the Ranunculus glacialis, Cerastium alpinum, Arenaria biflora, and Erigeron uniflorus will still further increase the illusion.
The only esculent plant of Spitzbergen is the Cochlearia fenestrata, which here loses its acrid principles, and can be eaten as a salad. The grasses which Keilhau found growing near some Russian huts in Stans Foreland are during the summer a precious resource for the reindeer, which, though extremely shy, make their appearance from time to time in every part of the land from the Seven Islands to South Cape, and are more abundant than could have been expected. The Polar bears are probably their only native enemies on these islands, and their fleetness furnishes them with ample means of escape from a pursuer so clumsy on land. Lord Mulgrave’s crew killed fifty deer on Vogelsang, a noted hunting-place, and on Sir Edward Parry’s polar expedition about seventy deer were shot in Treurenberg Bay by inexperienced deer-stalkers, and without the aid of dogs. During the winter these large herbivora live on the Icelandic moss which they scent under the snow, but it may well be asked where they find shelter in a naked wilderness without a single tree. In May and June they are so thin as scarcely to be eatable, but in July they begin to get fat, and then their flesh would everywhere be reckoned a delicacy.
Besides the reindeer, the only land-quadrupeds of Spitzbergen are the Polar bear, the Arctic fox, and a small field-mouse, which in summer has a mottled, and in winter a white fur.
Of the birds, the hyperborean ptarmigan (Lagopus hyperborea), which easily procures its food under the snow, undoubtedly winters in Spitzbergen, and probably also the lesser red-pole, which perhaps finds grass seeds enough for its subsistence during the long polar nights, while the snow-bunting (Plectrophanes nivalis), and the twenty species of water-fowl and waders that frequent the shores of the high northern archipelago during the summer, all migrate southward when the long summer’s day verges to its end.
Until very lately the Spitzbergen waters were supposed to be poor in fishes, though the numerous finbacks, which towards the end of summer frequent the southern and south-western coasts, and, unlike the large smooth-back whales, chiefly live on herrings, as well as the troops of salmon-loving white dolphin seen about the estuaries of the rivers, sufficiently proved the contrary, not to mention the herds of seals, and the hosts of ichthyophagous sea-birds that breed on every rocky ledge of the archipelago. Phipps and Scoresby mention only three or four species of fishes occurring in the seas of Spitzbergen, while the Swedish naturalist Malmgren, the first who seems to have paid real attention to this interesting branch of zoology, collected no less than twenty-three species in 1861 and 1864. The northern shark (Scymnus microcephalus) is so abundant that of late its fishery has proved highly remunerative. The first ship which was fitted out for this purpose in 1863 by Hilbert Pettersen, of Tromsö, returned from Bell and Ice Sounds with a full cargo of sharks’ livers, and in 1865 the same enterprising merchant sent out no less than five shark-ships to Spitzbergen. The cod, the common herring, the shell-fish, the halibut have likewise been caught in the waters of the archipelago, and there is every reason to believe that their fishery, which has hitherto been entirely neglected, might be pursued with great success.
The mineral riches of Spitzbergen are, of course, but little known. Coal of an excellent quality, which might easily be worked, as it nearly crops out on the surface at a short distance from the sea, has, however, been discovered lately by Mr. Blomstrand in King’s Bay, and similar strata exist in various parts of Bell Sound and Ice Sound. Large quantities of drift-wood, probably from the large Siberian rivers, are deposited by the currents, particularly on the north coasts of North-east Land, and on the southern coasts of Stans Foreland. In English Bay Lord Dufferin saw innumerable logs of unhewn timber, mingled with which lay pieces of broken spars, an oar, a boat’s flagstaff, and a few shattered fragments of some long-lost vessel’s planking.
Most probably the Norwegians had their attention directed at a very early period to the existence of a land lying to the north of Finmarken by the troops of migratory birds which they saw flying northward in spring, and by the casual visits of sea-bears, which the drift-ice carried to the south. There can be no doubt that they were the first discoverers of Spitzbergen, but their history contains no positive records of the fact, and it was not before the sixteenth century that Europe first became acquainted with that desolate archipelago. Sir Hugh Willoughby may possibly have seen it in 1559, but it is certain that on June 19, 1596, Barentz, Heemskerke, and Ryp, who had sailed in two ships from Amsterdam to discover the north-eastern passage to India, landed on its western coast, and gave it the name it bears to the present day. In the year 1607 it was visited by the unfortunate Henry Hudson, and four years later the first English whalers were fitted out by the Russia Company in London to fish in the bays of Spitzbergen, or East Greenland, as it was at that time called, being supposed to be the eastern prolongation of that vast island. Here our countrymen met with Dutchmen, Norwegians, and Biscayans from Bayonne and the ports of Northern Spain, and commercial rivalry soon led to the usual quarrels. In the year 1613 James I. granted the Russia Company a patent, giving them the exclusive right to fish in the Spitzbergen waters, and seven ships of war were sent out to enforce their pretensions. The Dutch, the Norwegians, and the Biscayans were driven away; a cross with the name of the King of England was erected on the shore, and Spitzbergen received the name of “King James his Newland.” This triumph, however, was but of short duration, and after a struggle, in which none of the combatants gained any decisive advantage, all parties came at last to an amicable agreement. The English received for their share the best stations on the south-western coast, along with English Bay and Magdalena Bay. The Dutch were obliged to retreat to the north, and chose Amsterdam Island, with Smeerenberg Bay, as the seat of their operations. The Danes or Norwegians established their head-quarters on Dane’s Island; the Hamburgers, who also came in for their share, in Hamburg Bay; and the French or Biscayans on the north coast, in Red Bay. At present a right or smooth-backed whale rarely shows itself in the Spitzbergen waters, but at that time it was so abundant that frequently no less than forty whalers used to anchor in a single bay, and send out their boats to kill these cetaceans, who came there for the purpose of casting their young in the sheltered friths and channels. The fat of the captured whales was immediately boiled in large kettles on the shore, and the bays of Spitzbergen presented a most animated spectacle during the summer season.
Numerous coffins--an underground burial being impossible in this frost-hardened earth--still bear witness to those busy times, and also to the great mortality among the fishermen, caused doubtless by their intemperate habits. They are particularly abundant at Smeerenberg, where Admiral Beechey saw upwards of one thousand of them; boards with English inscriptions were erected over a few, but the greater number were Dutch, and had been deposited in the eighteenth century. Some coffins having been opened, the corpses were found in a state of perfect preservation, and even the woollen caps and stockings of the mariners, who might perhaps have rested for more than a century on this cold earth, were still apparently as new as if they had been but recently put on.
In the seventeenth century the English and the Dutch made several attempts to establish permanent settlements in Spitzbergen. The Russia Company tried to engage volunteers by the promise of a liberal pay, and as none came forward, a free pardon was offered to criminals who would undertake to winter in Bell Sound. A few wretches, tired of confinement, accepted the proposal, but when the fleet was about to depart, and they saw the gloomy hills, and felt the howling north-eastern gales, their hearts failed them, and they entreated the captain who had charge of them to take them back to London and let them be hanged. Their request to be taken back was complied with, but the company generously interceded for them, and obtained their pardon.
Some time after, in the year 1630, an English whaler landed eight men in Bell Sound to hunt reindeer. They remained on shore during the night, but meanwhile a storm had arisen, and on the following morning their ship had vanished out of sight. It was towards the end of August, and they had no hope of rescue at this advanced period of the year.
Their despair may be imagined, but they soon recovered their courage, and wisely determined to make preparations for the impending winter, instead of losing time in useless lamentations. Their first care was to lay in a stock of food, and in a short time they had killed nineteen reindeer and four bears. Fortunately they found in Bell Sound the necessary materials for the erection of a hut. A large shed fifty feet long and thirty-eight broad had been built as a workshop for the men of the Russia Company, and they very judiciously constructed their small hut of stones and thick planks within this inclosed space. They thus gained a better protection against the icy wind and room for exercise during stormy weather, one of the best preservatives against the scurvy. They made their beds and winter dresses of the skins of the animals they had killed, sewing them together with needles made of bone splinters, and using disentangled rope-ends as thread.
Their hut was ready by September 12, and to preserve their supply of meat as long as possible, they lived four days of the week on the offal of whales’ fat which lay scattered about in great plenty. From October 26 to February 15 they saw no sun, and from the 13th to the 31st of December no twilight. The new year began with excessive cold: every piece of metal they touched stuck to their fingers like glue, and their skin became blistered when exposed to the air. The re-appearance of the sun was as a resurrection from death. To increase their joy, they saw two bears on the ice, one of which they killed, but they found, what has since been frequently experienced by others, that the liver of the animal has poisonous qualities, or is at least very unwholesome, for, after eating it, they were all attacked with a kind of eruptive fever, and their skin peeled off. Towards the middle of March their provisions were well-nigh exhausted, but the Polar bears appearing more frequently, replenished their stock. Soon also the migratory birds arrived from the south, the foxes crept out of their burrows, and many were caught in traps. On June 5 the ice began to break up, and on the following morning one-half of the bay was open. A gale forced them to seek the shelter of their hut. There, seated round the fire, they spoke of their approaching delivery, when suddenly a loud halloo was heard. They immediately rushed out into the open air, and hardly believed their eyesight, for they were greeted by their comrades of the previous summer, and saw their own well-known ship at anchor in the bay. Thus were these brave-hearted men rescued after a ten months’ exile in the latitude of 77°.
The possibility of wintering in Spitzbergen having thus been proved, some volunteers belonging to the Dutch fleet were induced by certain emoluments to attempt the same enterprise on Amsterdam Island; but, less fortunate than their predecessors, they all fell victims to the scurvy. A diary which they left behind recorded the touching history of their sufferings. “Four of us,” these were its last words, “are still alive, stretched out flat upon the floor, and might still be able to eat if one of us had but the strength to rise and fetch some food and fuel, but we are all so weak, and every movement is so painful, that we are incapable of stirring. We constantly pray to God soon to release us from our sufferings, and truly we can not live much longer without food and warmth. None of us is able to help the others, and each must bear his burden as well as he can.”
Since that time both the English and the Dutch have given up the idea of forming permanent settlements in Spitzbergen, but scarcely a year passes that some Russians and Norwegians do not winter in that high northern land. As far back as the seventeenth century, the former used to send out their clumsy but strongly-built “lodjes” of from 60 to 160 tons from the ports of Archangel, Mesen, Onega, Kola, and other places bordering the White Sea, to chase the various animals of Spitzbergen, the reindeer, the seal, the beluga, but chiefly the walrus, the most valuable of all. These vessels leave home in July, or as soon as the navigation of the White Sea opens, and as the shortness of the season hardly allows them to return in the same year, they pass the winter in some sheltered bay. Their first care on landing is to erect a large cross on the shore, a ceremony they repeat on leaving, and such is their religious faith that under the protection of that holy symbol they mock all the terrors of the Arctic winter. Near the place where their vessels are laid up, they build a large hut from twenty to twenty-five feet square, which is used as a station and magazine; but the huts used by the men who go in quest of skins, and which are erected at distances of from ten to fifty versts along the shore, are only seven or eight feet square. The smaller huts are usually occupied by two or three men, who take care to provide themselves from the store-house with the necessary provisions for the winter. Scoresby visited several of these huts, some constructed of logs, others of deal two inches in thickness. They are of the same kind as those used by the peasants in Russia, and, being taken out in pieces, are erected with but little trouble in the most convenient situation. The stoves are built with bricks, or with clay found in the country. During the stay of the hunters, they employ themselves in killing seals or walruses in the water, and bears, foxes, deer, or whatever else they meet with on land. Each ship is furnished with provisions for eighteen months, consisting of rye flour for bread, oatmeal, barley-meal, peas, salt beef, salt cod, and salt halibut, together with curdled milk, honey, and linseed oil; besides which, they enjoy the flesh of the animals which they kill. Their drink consists chiefly of quas, a national beverage made from rye flour and water; malt or spirituous liquors being entirely forbidden, to prevent drunkenness, as, when they were allowed it, they drank so immoderately that their work was often altogether neglected. Their fuel for the most part is brought with them from Russia, and drift-wood is used for the same purpose.
The hunters, seldom travelling far in winter, make their short excursions on foot on snow-skates, and draw their food after them on hand-sledges. Not seldom they are overtaken by terrific snowstorms, which force them to throw themselves flat upon the ground, and sometimes even cost them their lives. Their best preservation against the scurvy is bodily exercise; they also use the Cochlearia fenestrata, which grows wild in the country, either eating it without any preparation, or drinking the liquor prepared from it by infusion in water. Yet, in spite of all their precautions, they often fall a prey to this terrible scourge. In the year 1771, Mr. Steward, of Whitby, landed in King’s Bay to gather drift-wood, and found a Russian hut. After having vainly called for admittance, they opened it, and found a corpse stretched out on the ground, its face covered with green mould. Most likely the unfortunate man, having buried all his comrades, had, as the last survivor, found no one to perform the same kind office for himself. Generally the Russian hunters, after spending the winter in Spitzbergen, return home in the following August or September; but their stop is often prolonged during several years; and Scharostin, a venerable Russian, who died in 1826 in Ice Sound, is deservedly remarkable for having spent no less than thirty-two winters of his long life in that high northern land, where he once remained during fifteen consecutive years. Surely this man ought to have been crowned king of Spitzbergen--
On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, With a diadem of snow!
Every year, at the beginning of summer, about a dozen vessels leave the ports of Hammerfest and Tromsö for Spitzbergen. Formerly it was a very common thing for them to procure three cargoes of walrus and seals in a season, and less than two full cargoes was considered very bad luck indeed; now, however, it is a rare thing to get more than one cargo in a season, and many vessels return home after four months’ absence only half full. Yet, in spite of this diminution, the numbers of walruses still existing in that country are very considerable, particularly on the northern banks and skerries, which are only accessible in open seasons, or perhaps once in every three or four summers, when the persecuted animals get a little time to breed and replenish their numbers.
About midway between Hammerfest and Spitzbergen lies Bear Island, originally discovered by Barentz on June 9, 1596. Seven years later, Stephen Bennet, a shipmaster in the service of the Muscovy Company, while on a voyage of discovery in a north-easterly direction, likewise saw Bear Island on August 16. Ignorant of its previous discovery by Barentz, he called it Cherie Island, after Sir Francis Cherie, a member of the company, and to this day both names are used.
Bennet found some walruses on its desert shores, and returned in the following year with a vessel fitted out by a merchant of the name of Welden, to wage war with these sea-monsters. His first operations were not very successful. Of a herd of at least a thousand walruses, he killed no more than fifteen, and a later attack upon an equally enormous troop raised the entire number of his victims to no more than fifty. Their tusks alone were brought away, and along with some loose ones collected on the beach formed the chief produce of the expedition. At first the unwieldy creatures were fired at, but as the bullets made no great impression on their thick hides, grapeshot was now discharged into their eyes, and the blinded animals were finally killed with axes.
In the following year Welden himself proceeded to Bear Island, and the art of walrus-killing gradually improving by practice, this second expedition proved far more profitable than the first. Care had also been taken to provide large kettles and the necessary fuel to boil their fat on the spot, so that besides the tusks a quantity of oil was gained. In 1606 Bennet again appeared on the field of action, and the dexterity of the walrus-hunters had now become so great that in less than six hours they killed more than 700, which yielded twenty-two tons of oil. During the following voyage, Welden, who seems to have acted in partnership with Bennet, each taking his turn, killed no less than 1000 walruses in seven hours. Thus Bear Island proved a mine of wealth to these enterprising men, and though the walruses are not now so abundant as in the good old times, yet they are still sufficiently numerous to attract the attention of speculators. Every year several expeditions proceed to its shores from the Russian and Norwegian ports, and generally some men pass the winter in huts erected on its northern and south-eastern coasts.
Considering its high northern latitude of 75°, the climate of Bear Island is uncommonly mild. According to the reports of some Norwegian walrus-hunters, who remained there from 1824 to 1826, the cold was so moderate during the first winter that, until the middle of November, the snow which fell in the night melted during the daytime. It rained at Christmas, and seventy walruses were killed during Christmas week by the light of the moon and that of the Aurora. Even in February the weather was so mild that the men were able to work in the open air under the same latitude as Melville Island, where mercury is a solid body during five months of the year. The cold did not become intense before March, and attained its maximum in April, when the sea froze fast round the island, and the white bears appeared which had been absent during the whole winter. The second winter was more severe than the first, but even then the sea remained open until the middle of November--evidently in consequence of the prevailing south-westerly winds. The greater part of Bear Island is a desolate plateau raised about 100 or 200 feet above the sea. Along its western shores rises a group of three mountains, supposed to be about 200 feet high, and towards the south it terminates in a solitary hill to which the first discoverers gave the appropriate name of Mount Misery. At the northern foot of this terrace-shaped elevation the plateau is considerably depressed, and forms a kind of oasis, where grass (Poa pratensis), enlivened with violet cardamines and white polygonums and saxifragas, grows to half a yard in height. The general character of the small island is, however, a monotony of stone and morass, with here and there a patch of snow, while the coasts have been worn by the action of the waves into a variety of fantastic shapes, bordered in some parts by a flat narrow strand, the favorite resort of the walrus, and in others affording convenient breeding-places to hosts of sea-birds. In Coal Bay, four parallel seams of coal, about equidistant from each other, are visible on the vertical rock-walls, but they are too thin to be of any practical use.
Bear Island has no harbors, and is consequently a rather dangerous place to visit. During the first expedition sent out from Hammerfest, it happened that some of the men who had been landed were abandoned by their ship, which was to have cruised along the coast while they were hunting on shore. But the current, the wind, and a dense fog so confused the ignorant captain that, leaving them to their fate, he at once returned to Hammerfest. When the men became aware of their dreadful situation, they determined to leave the island in their boat, and taking with them a quantity of young walrus flesh, they luckily reached Northkyn after a voyage of eight days. It seems almost incredible that these same people immediately after revisited Bear Island in the same ship, and were again obliged to return to Norway in the same boat. The ship had anchored in the open bay of North Haven, and having taken in its cargo, consisting of 180 walruses, which had all been killed in a few days, was about to leave, when a storm arose, which cast her ashore and broke her to pieces. The Russians had built some huts in the neighborhood, and the provisions might probably have been saved, but rather than winter in the island the crew resolved to venture home again in the boat. This was so small that one-half of them were obliged to lie down on the bottom while the others rowed; the autumn was already far advanced, and they encountered so savage a storm that an English ship they fell in with at the North Cape vainly endeavored to take them on board. After a ten days’ voyage, however, they safely arrived at Magerö, thus proving the truth of the old saying that “Fortune favors the bold.” The distance from Bear Island to North Cape is about sixty nautical miles.
* * * * *
In a straight line between Spitzbergen and Iceland lies Jan Meyen, which, exposed to the cold Greenland current, almost perpetually veiled with mists, and surrounded by drift ice, would scarcely ever be disturbed in its dreary solitude but for the numerous walrus and seal herds that frequent its shores. The ice-bears and the wild sea-birds are its only inhabitants; once some Dutchmen attempted to winter there, but the scurvy swept them all away. Its most remarkable features are the volcano Esk and the huge mountain Beerenberg, towering to the height of 6870 feet, with seven enormous glaciers sweeping down its sides into the sea.
XI. NOVA ZEMBLA
The Sea of Kara.--Loschkin.--Rosmysslow.--Lütke.--Krotow.-- Pachtussow.--Sails along the eastern Coast of the Southern Island to Matoschkin Schar.--His second Voyage and Death.-- Meteorological Observations of Ziwolka.--The cold Summer of Nova Zembla.--Von Baer’s scientific Voyage to Nova Zembla.--His Adventures in Matoschkin Schar.--Storm in Kostin Schar.--Sea Bath and votive Cross.--Botanical Observations.--A natural Garden.-- Solitude and Silence.--A Bird Bazar.--Hunting Expeditions of the Russians to Nova Zembla.
The sea of Kara, bounded on the west by Nova Zembla, and on the east by the vast peninsula of Tajmurland, is one of the most inhospitable parts of the inhospitable Polar Ocean. For all the ice which the east-westerly marine currents drift during the summer along the Siberian coasts accumulates in that immense land-locked bay, and almost constantly blocks the gate of Kara, as the straits have been named that separate Nova Zembla from the island of Waigatz.
The rivers Jenissei and Obi, which remain frozen over until late in June, likewise discharge their vast masses of ice into the gulf of Kara, so that we can not wonder that the eastern coast of Nova Zembla, fronting a sea which opposes almost insuperable obstacles to the Arctic navigator, has remained almost totally unknown until 1833, while the western coast, exposed to the Gulf Stream, and bathed, in summer at least, by a vast open ocean, has long been traced in all its chief outlines on the map.
The walrus-hunter Loschkin is indeed said to have sailed along the whole eastern coast of Nova Zembla in the last century, but we have no authentic records of his voyage, and at a later period Rosmysslow, who, penetrating through Mathew’s Straits, or Matoschkin Schar, found Nova Zembla to consist of two large islands, investigated but a small part of those unknown shores. From 1819 to 1824 the Russian Government sent out no less than five expeditions to the sea of Kara; the famous circumnavigator Admiral Lütke endeavored no less than four times to advance along the eastern coast of Nova Zembla, but all these efforts proved fruitless against the superior power of a stormy and ice-blocked sea. Yet in spite of these repeated failures, two enterprising men--Klokow, a chief inspector of forests, and Brandt, a rich merchant of Archangel--fitted out three ships in 1832 for the purpose of solving the mysteries of the sea of Kara.
One of these vessels, commanded by Lieutenant Krotow, was to penetrate through Mathew’s Straits, and, having reached their eastern outlet, to sail thence across the sea to the mouth of the Obi and the Jenissei; but nothing more was heard of the ill-fated ship after her first separation from her companions at Kanin Nos.
The second ship, which was to sail along the western coast of Nova Zembla, and, if possible, to round its northern extremity, was more fortunate, for though it never reached that point, it returned home with a rich cargo of walrus-teeth.
The third ship, finally, under Pachtussow’s command, was to penetrate through the gate of Kara, and from thence to proceed along the eastern coast. When Pachtussow, according to his instructions, had reached the straits, all his efforts to effect a passage proved ineffectual. It was in vain he more than once steered to the east; the stormy weather and large masses of drift ice constantly threw him back, the short summer approached its end, and thus he was obliged to put off all further attempts to the next year, and to settle for the winter in Rocky Bay within the gate of Kara. A small hut was built out of the drift-wood found on the spot, and joined by means of a gallery of sail-cloth to a bathing-room, that indispensable comfort of a Russian. The laying of traps, in which many Arctic foxes were caught, and the carrying of the wood, which had sometimes to be fetched from a distance of ten versts, occupied the crew during fair weather. In April a party under Pachtussow’s command set out for the purpose of exploring the western coast. On this expedition they were overtaken on the twenty-fourth day of the month by a terrible snowstorm, which obliged them to throw themselves flat upon the ground to avoid being swept away by the wind. They remained three days without food under the snow, as it was impossible for them to reach the dépôt of provisions buried a few versts off.
On June 24 the gate of Kara was at length open, and Pachtussow would gladly have sailed through the passage, but his ship was fast in the ice. He therefore resolved, in order to make the best use of his time, to examine the eastern coast in a boat, and reached in this manner the small Sawina River, where he found a wooden cross with the date of 1742. Most likely it had been placed there by Loschkin, his predecessor on the path of discovery. He now returned with his boat to the ship, which, after an imprisonment of 297 days, was at length, July 11, able to leave the bay.
On Stadolski Island, near Cape Menschikoff, they found a wretched hut, which proved that they were not the first to penetrate into these deserts. But the hut was tenantless, and a number of human bones were strewn over the ground. One of Pachtussow’s companions now related that in 1822 a Samojede, named Mawei, had gone with his wife and children to Nova Zembla, and had never returned. On gathering the bones, they were found to compose the skeletons of two children and of a woman, but no remains could be discovered of the man. Most likely the unfortunate savage had been surprised by a snowstorm, or had fallen a prey to a hungry ice-bear, on one of his excursions, and his family, deprived of their support, had died of hunger in the hut.
On July 19 they reached the river Stawinen, and on the 21st Lütke’s Bay, where a number of white dolphins and seals of an unknown species were found. Here contrary winds arrested the progress of the navigators during eighteen days. On August 13 Pachtussow entered Matoschkin Schar, and reached its western mouth on the 19th. Thus he succeeded at least in circumnavigating the southern island, which no one had achieved before him, and as his exhausted provisions did not allow him to spend a second winter in Nova Zembla, he resolved to return at once to Archangel. But contrary winds drove him to the island of Kolgujew, and thence to the mouth of the Petschora, where, on September 3, a dreadful storm at length shattered his crazy vessel. The crew found refuge in a hut, but this also was filled by the water; so that they had to wade several versts before they could reach the dry land.
Pachtussow now travelled by way of Archangel and Onega to St. Petersburg, where he communicated the results of his journey to the Minister of Marine, who gave him a most flattering reception, well merited by his ability and courage. The success he had already obtained encouraged the hope that a second expedition would be able to complete the undertaking, and consequently, by an imperial order, the schooner Krotow and a transport were fitted out, with which Pachtussow once more sailed from the port of Archangel on August 5. His instructions were to winter in Mathew’s Straits, and thence to attempt in the following summer the exploration of the eastern coast of the northern island. The winter hut he built at the western entrance of the straits was ready for his reception by October 20. It was of stately dimensions, for a Nova Zembla residence--25 feet long, 21 broad, 8 feet high in the centre, 5 at the sides, and consisted of two compartments, one for the officers and the other for the crew. They found the cold very endurable, but were rather incommoded by the smoke, which did not always find a ready passage through the opening in the roof. Sometimes the snow accumulated in such masses, or the storm raged so furiously round the hut, that they could not leave it for eight days running, and frequently the hole in the roof had to serve them for a door.
Eleven white bears were killed about the hut during the winter; one on the roof, another in the passage. Pachtussow, well aware that occupation is the best remedy against melancholy, kept his crew in constant activity. They were obliged to fetch wood from distances of ten or eleven versts, not seldom during a cold of -36°, which, thanks to their thick fur dresses, they bore remarkably well, particularly as a temperature lower than -25° never occurred, unless during perfectly calm weather. He also made them lay fox-traps at considerable distances from the hut, and amused them with shooting at a mark and gymnastic exercises. By this means he succeeded in preserving their health, and warding off the attacks of the scurvy.
As early as April the indefatigable Pachtussow fitted out two sledge-parties, for the exploration of the eastern coast. The one, consisting of seven men, he commanded in person; the other was led by the steersman Ziwolka. Both parties travelled in company as far as the eastern entrance of the straits, where one of the huts in which Rosmysslow had wintered seventy years before was still found in a good condition.
Pachtussow now returned for the purpose of accurately surveying the straits, while Ziwolka proceeded along the east coast, with a small tent and provisions for a month. All his men had Samojede dresses, but they were already so hardened that they did not wear the upper coat with the hood even during the night, although snow-storms not seldom occurred. Once their boots were frozen so hard that they could not pull them off before they had been previously thawed, and as drift-wood was nowhere to be found, they were obliged to burn the poles of their tent, and to keep their feet over the fire until the leather became soft. On May 18, the thirty-fourth day of his journey, Ziwolka returned to his commander, after having explored the east coast northward to a distance of 150 versts.
Meanwhile Pachtussow had been busy building a boat eighteen feet long, with which he intended to proceed along the western coast to the northern extremity of the island, and, the elements permitting, to return to the straits along its eastern shores. About the beginning of June the migratory birds made their appearance, and introduced a very agreeable change in the monotonous fare of the navigators, who, a few weeks later, enjoyed the sight of blooming flowers, and gathered antiscorbutic herbs in large quantities.
Thus the high northern land had assumed its most friendly aspect, and looked as cheerfully as it possibly could, when, on July 11, Pachtussow and Ziwolka set out for the north with the boat and the transport, the schooner being left behind in the straits with the surgeon and a few invalids. At first the wind and weather favored their course, but on July 21 the boat was smashed between two pieces of ice, so that they had hardly time to escape upon the land with the nautical instruments, a sack of flour, and some butter.
In this unpleasant situation they were obliged to remain for thirteen days, until at last a walrus-hunter appeared, who took the shipwrecked explorers on board, and brought them safely back to their winter-quarters on August 22.
Thus this first attempt ended in complete disappointment, and the season was already too far advanced to permit of its renewal. Yet Pachtussow, resolving with praiseworthy zeal to make the most of the last days of the short summer, set out again on August 26 for the eastern entrance of the straits, and proceeded along the coast, until he was stopped by the ice at some distance beyond the small islands which bear his name.
Convinced of the fruitlessness of all further efforts, Pachtussow bade adieu with a sorrowful heart to the coast, which still stretched out before him in undiscovered mystery, and sailed back again to Archangel on September 20. Soon after his return he fell ill, and four weeks later his mourning friends carried him to his grave.
The Arctic Ocean is so capricious that in the following year the walrus-hunter Issakow, of Kem, who had no discoveries in view, was able to round without difficulty the north-eastern extremity of Nova Zembla, but, fearful of encountering the dangers of that dreadful coast, he almost immediately returned.
During the two winters he spent in Nova Zembla, the steersman Ziwolka had daily consulted the thermometer, and the result of his observations gave to the western entrance of Mathew’s Straits a mean annual temperature of +17°.
Thus Nova Zembla is colder than the west coast of Spitzbergen, which, although still farther to the north, is more favorably situated with regard to the winds and currents, and from five to ten degrees warmer than the high northern parts of Siberia and continental America, which sustain a comparatively numerous population, while Nova Zembla is uninhabited. Hence this want, and the circumstance that the vegetation of these islands scarcely rises a span above the ground, while the forest region still penetrates far within the confines of the colder continental regions above mentioned, are to be ascribed not to the low mean annual temperature of Nova Zembla, but to the unfavorable distribution of warmth over the various seasons of the year. For although high Northern Siberia and America have a far colder winter, they enjoy a considerably warmer summer, and this it is which in the higher latitudes determines the existence or the development of life on the dry land. During the winter the organic world is partly sheltered under the snow, or else it migrates, or it produces within itself sufficient warmth to defy the cold--and thus a few degrees more or less at that time of the year are of no material consequence, while the warmth of summer is absolutely indispensable to awaken life and determine its development.
The comparatively mild winter of Nova Zembla (no less than thirty-three degrees warmer than that of Jakutsk) is therefore of but little benefit to vegetable life, which on the other hand suffers considerably from a summer inferior even to that of Melville Island and Boothia Felix. A coast where the sun, in spite of a day of several months’ continuance, generates so small a quantity of heat, and where yet some vegetation is able to flourish, must necessarily be well worthy the attention of botanists, or rather of all those who take an interest in the geographical distribution of plants. For if in the primitive forests of Brazil the naturalist admires the effects of a tropical sun and an excessive humidity in producing the utmost exuberance of vegetation, it is no less interesting for him to observe how Flora under the most adverse circumstances still wages a successful war against death and destruction.
Thus a few years after Pachtussow’s expedition, the desire to explore a land so remarkable in a botanical point of view, and to gather new fruits for science in the wilderness, induced Herr von Baer, though already advanced in years, to undertake the journey to Nova Zembla.
Accompanied by two younger naturalists, Mr. Lehmann and Mr. Röder, the celebrated Petersburg academician arrived on July 29, 1837, at the western entrance of Mathew’s Straits, sailed through them the next day in a boat, and reached the sea of Kara, where he admired a prodigious number of jelly-fishes (Pleurobrachia pileus) swimming about in the ice-cold waters, and displaying a marvellous beauty of coloring in their ciliated ribs. This excursion might, however, have had very disagreeable consequences, for a dreadful storm, blowing from the west, prevented their boat from returning, and forced them to pass the night with some walrus-hunters, whom they had the good-fortune to meet with. On the following day the storm abated, so that the return could be attempted; they were, however, obliged to land on a small island in the Beluga Bay, where, wet to the skin, and their limbs shaking with cold, they fortunately found a refuge in the ruins of a hut in which Rosmysslow had wintered in 1767. Meanwhile the wind had veered to the east, accompanied by a very disagreeable cold rain, which on the mountains took the form of snow; they were now, however, able to make use of their sail, and arrived late at night at the spot where their ship lay at anchor, completely wet, but in good health and spirits.
“We could esteem ourselves happy,” says Von Baer, “in having paid so slight a penalty for neglecting the precaution, so necessary to all travellers in Nova Zembla, of providing for a week when you set out for a day’s excursion.”
On August 4, after a thorough botanical examination of the straits, the party proceeded along the west coast. The wind, blowing from the north, brought them to the Kostin Schar, a maze of passages between numerous islets, where the walrus-hunters in Nova Zembla chiefly assemble.
On August 9 an excursion was made up the river Nechwatowa, where they rested in a hut which had been erected by some fisherman employed in catching “golzi,” or Arctic salmon. On returning to the ship, a dreadful storm arose from the north-east, which lasted nine days, and, very fortunately for the botanists, caught them in the Kostin Schar, and not on the high sea. Although they were anchored in a sheltered bay, the waves frequently swept over the deck of their vessel, and compelled them to remain all the time in their small, low cabin. Only once they made an attempt to land, but the wind was so strong that they could hardly stand. Their situation was rendered still more terrible and anxious, as part of the crew which had been sent out hunting before the storm began had not yet returned.
When at last the storm ceased, winter seemed about to begin in good earnest. Every night ice formed in the river, and the land was covered with snow, which had surprised the scanty vegetation in its full bloom. At length the hunters returned, after having endured terrible hardships, and now preparations were made for a definitive departure. A general bath was taken, without which no anchorage in Nova Zembla is ever left, and, according to ancient custom, a votive cross was likewise erected on the strand, as a memorial of the expedition.
On August 28 the anchors were weighed, but they were soon dropped again in the Schar, to examine on a small island the vegetable and animal products of the land and of the shore. The former offered but few objects of interest, but they were astonished at the exuberance of marine life. After having been detained by a thick fog in this place for several days, they at length sailed towards the White Sea, where they were obliged by contrary winds to run into Tri Ostrowa. Dreary and desolate as the tundras at this extreme point of Lapland had appeared to them on their journey outward, they were now charmed with their green slopes, a sight of which they had been deprived in Nova Zembla.
On September 11 they at length reached the port of Archangel, with the agreeable prospect of passing the winter in a comfortable study at St. Petersburg instead of spending it, like Barentz and his associates, as might easily have happened, in a wretched hut beyond the 70th degree of northern latitude.
Having thus briefly sketched Von Baer’s adventures, I will now notice some of the most interesting scientific results of his journey.
The rocky west coast of Nova Zembla has about the same appearance as the analogous part of Spitzbergen, for here also the mountains, particularly in the northern island, rise abruptly to a height of three or four thousand feet from the sea, while the eastern coast is generally flat. In both countries, angular blocks of stone, precipitated from the summits, cover the sides of the hills, and frequently make it impossible to ascend them. In fact, no rock, however hard or finely grained, is able to withstand the effects of a climate where the summer is so wet and the winter so severe. Nowhere in Nova Zembla is a grass-covered spot to be found deserving the name of a meadow. Even the foliaceous lichens, which grow so luxuriantly in Lapland, have here a stunted appearance; but, as Von Baer remarks, this is owing less to the climate than to the nature of the soil, as plants of this description thrive best on chalky ground. The crustaceous lichens, however, cover the blocks of augite and porphyry with a motley vesture, and the dingy carpet with which Dryas octopetala invests here and there the dry slopes, formed of rocky detritus, reminds one of the tundras of Lapland.
The scanty vegetable covering which this only true social plant of Nova Zembla affords is, however, but an inch thick, and can easily be detached like a cap from the rock beneath.
On a clayey ground in moist and low situations, the mosses afford a protection to the polar willow (Salix polaris), which raises but two leaves and a catkin over the surface of its covering.
Even the most sparing sheet of humus has great difficulty to form in Nova Zembla, as in a great number of the plants which grow there the discolored leaf dries on the stalk, and is then swept away by the winds, so that the land would appear still more naked if many plants, such as the snow ranunculus (Ranunculus nivalis), were not so extremely abstemious as to require no humus at all, but merely a rocky crevice or some loose gravel capable of retaining moisture in its interstices.
But even in Nova Zembla there are some more favored spots. Thus when Von Baer landed at the foot of a high slate mountain fronting the south-west, and reflecting the rays of the sun, he was astonished and delighted to see a gay mixture of purple silenes, golden ranunculuses, peach-colored parryas, white cerastias, and blue palemones, and was particularly pleased at finding the well-known forget-me-not among the ornaments of this Arctic pasture. Between these various flowers the soil was everywhere visible, for the dicotyledonous plants of the high latitudes produce no more foliage than is necessary to set off the colors of the blossoms, and have generally more flowers than leaves.
The entire vegetation of the island is confined to the superficial layer of the soil and to the lower stratum of the air. Even those plants which in warm climates have a descending or vertical root have here a horizontal one, and none, whether grasses or shrubs, grow higher than a span above the ground.
In the polar willow, a single pair of leaves sits on a stem about as thick as a straw, although the whole plant forms an extensive shrub with numerous ramifications. Another species of willow (Salix lanata) attains the considerable height of a span, and is a perfect giant among the Nova Zembla plants, for the thick subterranean trunk sometimes measures two inches in diameter, and can be laid bare for a length of ten or twelve feet without finding the end. Thus in this country the forests are more in than above the earth.
This horizontal development of vegetation is caused by the sun principally heating the superficial sheet of earth, which imparts its warmth to the stratum of air immediately above it, and thus confines the plants within the narrow limits which best suit their growth. Hence also the influence of position on vegetation is so great that, while a plain open to the winds is a complete desert, a gentle mountain slope not seldom resembles a garden.
The absence of all trees or shrubs, or even of all vigorous herbage, imparts a character of the deepest solitude to the Nova Zembla landscape, and inspires even the rough sailor with a kind of religious awe. “It is,” says Von Baer, “as if the dawn of creation had but just begun, and life were still to be called into existence.” The universal silence is but rarely broken by the noise of an animal. But neither the cry of the sea-mew, wheeling in the air, nor the rustling of the lemming in the stunted herbage are able to animate the scene. No voice is heard in calm weather. The rare land-birds are silent as well as the insects, which are comparatively still fewer in number. This tranquillity of nature, particularly during serene days, reminds the spectator of the quiet of the grave; and the lemmings seem like phantoms as they glide noiselessly from burrow to burrow. In our fields even a slight motion of the air becomes visible in the foliage of the trees or in the waving of the corn; here the low plants are so stiff and immovable that one might suppose them to be painted. The rare sand-bee (Andrena), which on sunny days and in warm places flies about with languid wings, has scarcely the spirit to hum, and the flies and gnats, though more frequent, are equally feeble and inoffensive.
As a proof of the rarity of insects in Nova Zembla, Von Baer mentions that not a single larva was to be found in a dead walrus which had been lying at least fourteen days on the shore. The hackneyed phrase of our funeral sermons can not therefore be applied to these high latitudes, where even above the earth the decay of bodies is extremely slow.
However poor the vegetation of Nova Zembla may be, it still suffices to nourish a number of lemmings, which live on leaves, stems, and buds, but not on roots. The slopes of the mountains are often undermined in all directions by their burrows. Next to these lemmings, the Arctic foxes are the most numerous quadrupeds, as they find plenty of food in the above-mentioned little rodents, as well as in the young birds, and in the bodies of the marine animals which are cast ashore by the tides. White bears are scarcely ever seen during the summer, and the reindeer seems to have decreased in numbers, at least on the west coast, where they are frequently shot by the Russian morse-hunters.
The hosts of sea-birds in some parts of the coast prove that the waters are far more prolific than the land. The foolish guillemots (Uria troile), closely congregated in rows, one above the other, on the narrow ledges of vertical rock-walls, make the black stone appear striped with white. Such a breeding-place is called by the Russians a bazar. On the summit of isolated cliffs, and suffering no other bird in his vicinity, nestles the large gray sea-mew (Larus glaucus), to whom the Dutch whale-catchers have given the name of “burghermaster.” While the ice-bear is monarch of the land animals, this gull appears as the sovereign lord of all the sea-birds around, and no guillemot would venture to dispute the possession of a dainty morsel claimed by the imperious burghermaster.
This abundance of the sea has also attracted man to the desert shores of Nova Zembla. Long before Barentz made Western Europe acquainted with the existence of Nova Zembla (1594–96), the land was known to the Russians as a valuable hunting or fishing ground; for the Dutch discoverer met with a large number of their vessels on its coast. Burrough, who visited the port of Kola in 1556, in search of the unfortunate Willoughby, and thence sailed as far as the mouth of the Petschora, likewise saw in the gulf of Kola no less than thirty lodjes, all destined for walrus-hunting in Nova Zembla.
Whether, before the Russians, the adventurous Norsemen ever visited these desolate islands, is unknown, but so much is certain, that ever since the times of Barentz the expeditions of the Muscovites to its western coast have been uninterruptedly continued. As is the case with all fishing speculations, their success very much depends upon chance. The year 1834 was very lucrative, so that in the following season about eighty ships, with at least 1000 men on board, sailed for Nova Zembla from the ports of the White Sea, but this time the results were so unsatisfactory that in 1836 scarce half the number were fitted out. In 1837 no more than twenty vessels were employed, and Von Baer relates that but one of them which penetrated into the sea of Kara made a considerable profit, while all the rest, with but few exceptions, did not pay one-half of their expenses.
The most valuable animals are the walrus and the white dolphin, or beluga. Among the seals, the Phoca albigena of Pallas distinguishes itself by its size, the thickness of its skin, and its quantity of fat; Phoca grœnlandica and Phoca hispida rank next in estimation. The Greenland whale never extends his excursions to the waters of Nova Zembla, but the fin-back and the grampus are frequently seen.
The Alpine salmon (Salmo alpinus), which towards autumn ascends into the mountain-lakes, is caught in incredible numbers; and, finally, the bean-goose (Anser segetum) breeds so frequently, at least upon the southern island, that the gathering of its quill-feathers is an object of some importance.
XII. THE LAPPS
Their ancient History and Conversion to Christianity.--Self-denial and Poverty of the Lapland Clergy.--Their singular Mode of Preaching.--Gross Superstition of the Lapps.--The Evil Spirit of the Woods.--The Lapland Witches.--Physical Constitution of the Lapps.--Their Dress.--The Fjälllappars.--Their Dwellings.-- Store-houses.--Reindeer Pens.--Milking the Reindeer.-- Migration.--The Lapland Dog.--Skiders, or Skates.--The Sledge, or Pulka.--Natural Beauties of Lapland.--Attachment of the Lapps to their Country.--Bear-hunting.--Wolf-hunting.--Mode of Living of the wealthy Lapps.--How they kill the Reindeer.--Visiting the Fair.--Mammon Worship.--Treasure-hiding.--“Tabak, or Braende.”-- Affectionate Disposition of the Lapps.--The Skogslapp.--The Fisherlapp.
The nation of the Lapps spreads over the northern parts of Scandinavia and Finland from about the 63d degree of latitude to the confines of the Polar Ocean; but their number, hardly amounting to more than twenty thousand, bears no proportion to the extent of the vast regions in which they are found. Although now subject to the crowns of Russia, Sweden, and Norway, they anciently possessed the whole Scandinavian peninsula, until the sons of Odin drove them farther and farther to the north, and, taking possession of the coasts and valleys, left them nothing but the bleak mountain and the desolate tundra. In the thirteenth century, under the reign of Magnus Ladislas, King of Sweden, their subjugation was completed by the Birkarls, a race dwelling on the borders of the Bothnian Gulf. These Birkarls had to pay the crown a slight tribute, which they wrung more than a hundred-fold from the Lapps, until at length Gustavus I. granted the persecuted savages the protection of more equitable laws, and sent missionaries among them to relieve them at the same time from the yoke of their ancient superstitions. In 1600 Charles IX. ordered churches to be built in their country, and, some years after, his son and successor, the celebrated Gustavus Adolphus, founded a school for the Lapps at Pitea, and ordered several elementary works to be translated into their language. In the year 1602, Christian IV., King of Denmark and Norway, while on a visit to the province of Finmark, was so incensed at the gross idolatry of the Lapps that he ordered their priests or sorcerers to be persecuted with bloody severity. A worthy clergyman, Eric Bredal, of Drontheim, used means more consonant with the spirit of the Gospel, and, having instructed several young Lapps, sent them back again as missionaries to their families. These interpreters of a purer faith were, however, received as apostates and traitors by their suspicious countrymen, and cruelly murdered, most likely at the instigation of the sorcerers. In 1707 Frederic IV. founded the Finmark mission, and in 1716 Thomas Westen, a man of rare zeal and perseverance, preached the Gospel in the wildest districts of the province. Other missionaries and teachers followed his example, and at length succeeded in converting the Lapps, and in some measure conquering their ancient barbarism. Nothing can be more admirable than the self-denial and heroic fortitude of these ministers of Christ, for to renounce all that is precious in the eyes of the world to follow nomads little better than savages through the wilds of an Arctic country surely requires a courage not inferior to that of the soldier
Who seeks preferment at the cannon’s mouth.
The Lapland schoolmaster enjoys an annual salary of twenty-five dollars, and receives besides half a dollar for every child instructed. But the priest is not much better off, as his stipend amounts to no more than thirty dollars in money, and to about 150 dollars in produce. Among this miserably paid clergy there are, as in Iceland, men worthy of a better lot. The famous Löstadius was priest at Karesuando, seventy-five leagues from Tromsö, the nearest town, and a hundred leagues from Tornea. His family lived upon rye bread and fishes, and but rarely tasted reindeer flesh. Chamisso mentions another Lapland priest who had spent seven years in his parish, which lay beyond the limits of the forest region. In the summer he was completely isolated, as then the Lapps wandered with their herds to the cool shores of the icy sea; and in the winter, when the moon afforded light, he travelled about in his sledge, frequently bivouacking at the temperature of freezing mercury, to visit his Lapps. During all that time his solitude had been but twice broken by civilized man; a brother had come to see him, and a botanist had strayed to his dwelling. He well knew how to appreciate the pleasure of such meetings, but neither this pleasure nor any other, he said, was equal to that of seeing the sun rise again above the horizon after the long winter’s night.
It is a singular custom that the pastors preaching to the Lapps deliver their harangues in a tone of voice as elevated as if their audience, instead of being assembled in a small chapel, were stationed upon the top of a distant mountain, and labor as if they were going to burst a bloodvessel. Dr. Clarke, who listened to one of these sermons, which lasted one hour and twenty minutes, ventured to ask the reason of the very loud tone of voice used in preaching. The minister said he was aware that it must appear extraordinary to a stranger, but that, if he were to address the Laplanders in a lower key, they would consider him as a feeble and impotent missionary, wholly unfit for his office, and would never come to church; that the merit and abilities of the preacher, like that of many a popular politician, are always estimated by the strength and power of his lungs.
Though the Lapps (thanks to the efforts of their spiritual guides) hardly even remember by name the gods of their fathers--Aija, Akka, Tuona--they still pay a secret homage to the Saidas, or idols of wood or stone, to whom they were accustomed to sacrifice the bones and horns of the reindeer. They are in fact an extremely superstitious race, faithfully believing in ghosts, witchcraft, and above all in Stallo, or Troller, the evil spirit of the woods.
Many of them, when about to go hunting, throw a stick into the air, and then take their way in the direction to which it points. The appearance of the Aurora borealis fills them with terror, as they believe it to be a sign of divine wrath, and generally shout and howl during the whole duration of the grand phenomenon, which their ignorance connects with their own petty existence.
The pretended gift of being able to predict future events is common among the Laplanders. The sorcerers fall into a magic sleep, during which their soul wanders. In this state, like the somnambules of more polished nations, they reveal things to come or see what passes at a distance. Men and women affect the power of fortune-telling by the common trick of palmistry, or by the inspection of a cup of liquor; and this, to insure the greatest possible certainty, must be a cup of brandy, which at once explains the whole business of the prophecy. The Lapland witches pretended, or perhaps still pretend, to the power of stilling the wind or causing the rain to cease, and such was their reputation that English seamen trading to Archangel made it a point to land and buy a wind from these poor creatures.
The Lapps are a dwarfish race. On an average, the men do not exceed five feet in height, many not even reaching four, and the women are considerably less. Most of them are, however, very robust, the circumference of their chest nearly equalling their height. Their complexion is more or less tawny and copper-colored, their hair dark, straight, and lank, its dangling masses adding much to the wildness of their aspect. They have very little beard, and as its want is considered a beauty, the young men carefully eradicate the scanty supply given them by nature.
Their dark piercing eyes are generally deep sunk in their heads, widely separated from each other, and, like those of the Tartars or Chinese, obliquely slit towards the temples. The cheek-bones are high, the mouth pinched close, but wide, the nose flat. The eyes are generally sore, either in consequence of the biting smoke of their huts or of the refraction from the snow, so that a Lapp seldom attains a high age without becoming blind. Their countenances generally present a repulsive combination of stolidity, low cunning, and obstinacy. Hogguer, who dwelt several months among them, and saw during this time at least 800 Lapps, found not twenty who were not decidedly ugly; and Dr. Clarke says that many of them, when more advanced in years, might, if exhibited in a menagerie of wild beasts, be considered as the long-lost link between man and ape.
Their legs are extremely thick and clumsy, but their hands are as small and finely shaped as those of any aristocrat. The reason for this is that from generation to generation they never perform any manual labor, and the very trifling work which they do is necessarily of the lightest kind. Their limbs are singularly flexible, easily falling into any posture, like all the Oriental nations, and their hands are constantly occupied in the beginning of conversation with filling a short tobacco-pipe, the head being turned over one shoulder to the person addressed. Such are the traits by which the whole tribe is distinguished from the other inhabitants of Europe, and in which they differ from the other natives of the land in which they live.
The summer garb of the men consists of the “poesk,” a sort of tunic, generally made of a very coarse light-colored woollen cloth, reaching to the knees, and fastened round the waist with a belt or girdle. Their woollen caps are shaped precisely like a night-cap, or a Turkish fez, with a red tassel and red worsted band round the rim, for they are fond of lively hues strongly contrasted. Their boots or shoes are made of the raw skin of the reindeer, with the hair outward, and have a peaked shape. Though these shoes are very thin, and the Lapp wears no stockings, yet he is never annoyed by the cold or by striking against stones, as he stuffs them with the broad leaves of the Carex vesicaria, or cyperus grass, which he cuts in summer and dries. This he first combs and rubs in his hands, and then places it in such a manner that it covers not only his feet but his legs also, and, being thus guarded, he is quite secure against the intense cold. With this grass, which is an admirable non-conductor of heat, he likewise stuffs his gloves in order to preserve his hands. But as it wards off the cold in winter, so in summer it keeps the feet cool, and is consequently used at all seasons. The women’s apparel differs very little from that of the other sex, but their girdles are more ornamented with rings and chains. In winter both sexes are so packed up in skins as to look more like bears than human beings, and, when squatting according to the fashion of their country, exhibit a mound of furs, with the head resting upon the top of it.
According to their different mode of life, the Lapps may be aptly subdivided into Fjälllappars, or Mountain Lapps; Skogslappars, or Wood Lapps; and Fisherlapps.
The Fjälllappars, who form the greater and most characteristic part of the nation, lead an exclusively pastoral life, and are constantly wandering with their herds of reindeer from place to place, for the lichen which forms the chief food of these animals during the greater part of the year is soon cropped from the niggard soil, and requires years for its reproduction. For this reason, also, this people do not herd together, and never more than three or four families pitch their huts, or tuguria, upon the same spot. Of course the dwelling of the nomad Lapp harmonizes with his vagrant habits; a rude tent, which can easily be taken to pieces, and as easily erected, is all he requires to shelter his family and chattels. It consists of flexible stems of trees, placed together in a conical form, like a stack of poles for hops, and covered in the summer with a coarse cloth, in winter with additional skins, to be better fenced against the inclemencies of the climate. To form the entrance, a part of the hanging, about eighteen inches wide at the bottom, and terminating upward in a point, is made to turn back as upon hinges. The hearth, consisting of several large stones, is in the centre, and in the roof immediately above it is a square opening for the escape of smoke and the admission of rain, snow, and air. All the light which the den receives when the door is closed comes from this hole. The diameter of one of these conical huts generally measures at its base no more than six feet; its whole circumference, of course, does not exceed eighteen feet, and its extreme height may be about ten feet. The floor is very nearly covered with reindeer skins, on which the inmates squat during the day and sleep at nights, contracting their limbs together and huddling round their hearth, so that each individual of this pigmy race occupies scarcely more space than a dog. On the side of the tent are suspended a number of pots, wooden bowls, and other household utensils; and a small chest contains the holiday apparel of the family. Such are the dwellings of those among the Laplanders who are called wealthy, and who sometimes possess very considerable property.
Near the tent is the dairy or store-house of the establishment. It consists of nothing more than a shelf or platform, raised between two trees, so as to be out of the reach of the dogs or wolves. The means of ascent to this treasury of curds, cheese, and dried reindeer flesh, is simply a tree stripped of its branches, but presenting at every foot or so knobs, which serve the same purpose as staves on a ladder, the tree being obliquely reared against the platform.
Another characteristic feature of a Lapp encampment is found in the inclosures in which the reindeer are penned during the night or for the purpose of milking. These are circus-like open places, each of a diameter of about one hundred and fifty feet, and are formed by stumps of trees and poles set upright on the ground, and linked together by horizontal poles. Against the latter are reared birch poles and branches of trees, varying from six to ten feet in height, without the slightest attempt at neatness, the whole being as rude as well can be--a sufficient security against the wolves being all that its builders desire. The milking of a herd of reindeer presents a most animated scene. When they have been driven within the inclosure, and all outlets are secured, a Lapp, selecting a long thong or cord, takes a turn of both ends round his left hand, and then gathers what sailors call the bight in loose folds, held in his right. He now singles out a reindeer, and throws the bight with unerring aim over the antlers of the victim. Sometimes the latter makes no resistance, but in general the moment it feels the touch of the thong it breaks away from the spot, and is only secured by the most strenuous exertions. Every minute may be seen an unusually powerful deer furiously dragging a Lapp round and round the inclosure, and sometimes it fairly overcomes the restraint of the thong, and leaves its antagonist prostrate on the sod. This part of the scene is highly exciting, and it is impossible not to admire the trained skill evinced by all the Lapps, women as well as men. The resistance of the deer being overcome, the Lapp takes a dexterous hitch of the thong round his muzzle and head, and then fastens him to the trunk of a prostrate tree, many of which have been brought within the level inclosure for that especial purpose. Men and women are indiscriminately engaged both in singling out milch reins and in milking them. Every one is fully occupied, for even the little children are practising the throwing of the lasso, in which they evince great dexterity, although their strength is insufficient to hold the smallest doe.
When the pasture in the neighborhood is fully exhausted, which generally takes place in about a fortnight, the encampment is broken up, to be erected again on some other spot. In less than half an hour the tent is taken to pieces, and packed with all the household furniture upon the backs of reindeer, who by long training acquire the capacity of serving as beasts of burden. On the journey they are bound together, five and five, with thongs of leather, and led by the women over the mountains, while the father of the family precedes the march to select a proper place for the new encampment, and his sons or servants follow with the remainder of the herd.
Towards the end of spring the Lapps descend from the mountains to the sea. When they approach its borders, the reindeer, sniffing the sea air from a distance, rush tumultuously to the fjord, where they take long draughts of the salted water. This, as the Lapps believe, is essential to their health. As the summer advances, and the snow melts, they ascend higher and higher into the mountains. At the approach of winter they retreat into the woods, where, with the assistance of their dogs and servants, they have enough to do to keep off the attacks of the wolves. The reindeer dog is about the size of a Scotch terrier, but his head bears a wonderful resemblance to that of the lynx. His color varies considerably, but the hair is always long and shaggy. Invaluable as are his services, he is nevertheless treated with great cruelty.
For their winter journeys the Lapps use sledges or skates. One of their skates, or “skiders,” is usually as long as the person who wears it; the other is about a foot shorter. The feet stand in the middle, and to them the skates are fastened by thongs or withes. The skiders are made of fir-wood, and covered with the skins of young reindeer, which obstruct a retrograde movement by acting like bristles against the snow--the roots pointing towards the fore part of the skate, and thus preventing their slipping back. With these skiders, the Lapp flies like a bird over the snow, now scaling the mountains by a tortuous ascent, and now darting down into the valley:
Ocior cervis et agente nimbos Ocior Euro.
Such is the rapidity of his course that he will overtake the swiftest wild beasts; and so violent the exercise that, during the most rigorous season of the year, when earnestly engaged in the chase, he will divest himself of his furs. A long pole with a round ball of wood near the end, to prevent its piercing too deep in the snow, serves to stop the skater’s course when he wishes to rest. The Laplander is no less expert in the use of the sledge, or “pulka,” which is made in the form of a small boat with a convex bottom, that it may slide all the more easily over the snow; the prow is sharp and pointed, but the sledge is flat behind. The traveller is swathed in this carriage like an infant in a cradle, with a stick in his hand to steer the vessel, and disengage it from the stones or stumps of trees which it may chance to encounter in the route. He must also balance the sledge with his body, to avoid the danger of being overturned. The traces by which this carriage is fastened to the reindeer are fixed to a collar about the animal’s neck, and run down over the breast between the fore and hind legs, to be connected with the prow of the sledge; the reins managed by the traveller are tied to the horns, and the trappings are furnished with little bells, the sound of which the animal likes. With this draught at his tail, the reindeer will travel sixty or seventy English miles in a day; often persevering fifty miles without intermission, and without taking any refreshment, except occasionally moistening his mouth with the snow. His Lapland driver knows how to find his way through the wilderness with a surprising certainty; here a rock, there a fir-tree, is impressed as a landmark on his faithful memory, and thus, like the best pilot, he steers his sledge to the distant end of his journey. Frequently the Aurora lights him on his way, illumining the snow-covered landscape with a magic brilliancy, and investing every object with a dream-like, supernatural beauty.
But even without the aid of this mysterious coruscation, Lapland is rich in grand and picturesque features, and has all the romance of the mountain and the forest. In summer countless rivulets meander through valleys of alpine verdure, and broad pellucid rivers rush down the slopes in thundering cataracts, embracing islands clothed with pine-trees of incomparable dignity and grace. Whoever has grown up in scenes like these, and been accustomed from infancy to the uncontrolled freedom of the nomad state, receives impressions never to be erased; and thus we can not wonder that the wild Laplander believes his country to be a terrestrial paradise, and feels nowhere happy but at home.
In the year 1819 a Scotch gentleman attempted to acclimatize the reindeer in Scotland, and induced two young Laplanders to accompany the herd which he had bought for that purpose. The reindeer soon perished, and the Laplanders would have died of nostalgia if they had not been sent home by the first opportunity. Prince Jablonowsky, a Polish nobleman, who travelled about thirty years since through a part of Russian Lapland, took a Lapp girl with him to St. Petersburg. He gave her a superior education, and she was well treated in every respect. She made rapid progress, and seemed to be perfectly reconciled to her new home. About two years after her arrival, it happened that a Russian gentleman, who possessed extensive estates near the capital, bought a small herd of reindeer, which arrived under the guidance of a Lapp family. As it was winter-time, and these people had brought with them their tents, their sledges, and their snow-shoes, they soon became objects of curiosity, and crowds of fashionable visitors flocked to their encampment; among others, the good-natured prince, who imprudently conducted his pupil, the young Lapland girl, to see her countrymen, an interview which he supposed would give her great pleasure. But from that moment she became an altered being; she lost her spirits and her appetite, and, in spite of every care and attention, her health declined from day to day. One morning she disappeared, and it was found on inquiry that she had returned to her family, where she remained ever after.
Another very remarkable instance of the Laplanders’ love of their country is related by Hogström. During the war of Gustavus III. with Russia, a young Laplander enlisted in a regiment which was passing through Tornea. He served in several campaigns as a common soldier, was made a sergeant in consequence of his good conduct and courage; and having given himself the greatest trouble to improve his education and acquire military knowledge, at length, after twenty years of service, attained the rank of captain in the Swedish army. After this long time spent in the civilized world, and having become accustomed to all its enjoyments and comforts, he felt a strong desire to revisit his family and his country. Scarcely had he seen his native mountains, and spent a few days among his countrymen and the reindeer, than he at once quitted the service, and resumed the nomad life of his youth.
The Laplander’s chief desire is for peace and tranquillity. Exposed to all the privations of a vagrant life, and to every inclemency of weather, he endures the greatest hardships with equanimity, desiring only not to be disturbed in the enjoyment of the little that is his--not to be interfered with in his old customs and habits.
Yet this same peaceful Laplander, who has so easily submitted to a foreign yoke, is one of the boldest hunters, and not only pursues the elk or the wild reindeer, but engages in single combat with the bear. Like all the other Arctic nations of Russia and Siberia, he has strange notions about this animal, which in his opinion is the most cunning and gifted of all created beings. Thus he supposes that the bear knows and hears all that is said about him, and for this reason he takes good care never to speak of him disrespectfully. It may seem strange that he should venture to slay an animal which ranks so high in his esteem; but the temptation is too strong, as its flesh has an excellent flavor, and its fur, though not near so valuable as that of the American black bear, is still worth from fifteen to twenty dollars.
At the beginning of winter, the bear, as is well known, retires either into a rocky cave, or under a cover of branches, leaves, and moss, and remains there without food, and plunged in sleep until the next spring recalls him to a more active existence. After the first fall of snow, the Lapp hunters go into the forest and look out for traces of the bear. Having found them, they carefully mark the spot, and returning after a few weeks disturb the slumbering brute, and excite him to an attack. It is not considered honorable to shoot him while sleeping; and in many parts of Lapland the hunter who would kill a bear with any other weapon but a lance would be universally despised. Hogguer accompanied two Lapps, well-armed with axes and stout lances with barbed points, on one of these bear-hunts. When about a hundred paces from the lair the company halted, while one of the Lapps advanced shouting, telling his comrades to make as much noise as they could. When about twenty paces from the cavern, he stood still and flung several stones into it. For some time all was quiet, so that Hogguer began to fear that the lair was deserted, when suddenly an angry growl was heard. The hunters now redoubled their clamor, until slowly, like an honest citizen disturbed in his noonday slumbers, the bear came out of his cavern. But this tranquillity did not last long, for the brute, as soon as he perceived his nearest enemy, uttered a short roar and rushed upon him. The Lapp coolly awaited the onset with his lance in rest, until the bear, coming quite near, raised himself on his haunches and began to strike at him with his fore paws. The hunter bent down to avoid the strokes, and then suddenly rising, with a sure eye and with all his might, plunged his lance into the heart of the bear. During this short conflict the Lapp had received a slight wound on the hand, but the marks of the bear’s teeth were found deeply impressed upon the iron of the lance. According to an ancient custom, the wives of the hunters assemble in the hut of one of them; and as soon as they hear the returning sportsmen, begin chanting or howling a song in praise of the bear. When the men, laden with the skin and flesh of the animal, approach, they are received by the women with opprobrious epithets, and forbidden ingress through the door; so that they are obliged to make a hole in the wall, through which they enter with their spoils. This comedy, which is meant to pacify the manes of the victim, is still acted, though not so frequently as formerly; but the custom of begging the bear’s pardon with many tears is completely out of date. The animal’s interment, however, still takes place with all the ancient honors and ceremonies. After having been skinned, and its flesh cut off, the body is buried in anatomical order--the head first, then the neck, the fore paw, etc. This is done from a belief in the resurrection of the bear, who having been decently buried, will, it is hoped, allow himself to be killed a second time by the same Lapp; while a neglect of the honors due to him would exasperate the whole race of bears, and cause them to wreak a bloody vengeance on the disrespectful hunter.
The wolf is treated with much less ceremony. Many a wealthy Lapp, the owner of a thousand reindeer, has been reduced to poverty by the ravages of this savage beast, which is constantly prowling about the herds. Hence one of the first questions they put to each other when they meet is, “Lekor rauhe?” “Is it peace?”--which means nothing more than, “Have the wolves molested you?” Such is their detestation of these animals that they believe them to be creatures of the devil, contaminating all that touches them while alive. Thus they will never shoot a wolf, as the gun that killed him would ever after be accursed.
At the first alarm that wolves have appeared, the neighbors assemble, and the chase begins. For miles they pursue him over hills and valleys on their “skiders,” and kill him with clubs, which they afterwards burn. They will not even defile themselves with skinning him, but leave his hide to the Finnish or Russian colonists, who, being less scrupulous or superstitious, make a warm cloak of it, or sell it for a few dollars at the fair.
Among the Fjall Lapps there are many rich owners of 1000 or 1500 reindeer, 300 of which fully suffice for the maintenance of a family. In this case the owner is able to kill as many as are necessary for providing his household with food and raiment, while the sale of the superfluous skins and horns enables him to purchase cloth, flour, hardware, and other necessary articles--not to forget the tobacco or the brandy in which he delights. The price of the entire carcass of a reindeer, skin and all, varies from one to three dollars Norsk (four shillings and sixpence to thirteen shillings and sixpence). A fine skin will always sell for one dollar in any part of the North. It will thus be seen that a Lapp possessing a herd of 500 or 1000 deer is virtually a capitalist in every sense of the word, far richer than the vast majority of his Norwegian, Swedish, or Russian fellow-subjects, although they all affect to look upon him with supreme contempt.
The daily food of the mountain Laplanders consists of the fattest reindeer venison, which they boil, and eat with the broth in which it has been cooked. Their summer diet consists of cheese and reindeer-milk. The rich also eat bread baked upon hot iron plates.
Their mode of killing the reindeer is the method used by the butchers in the South of Italy--the most ancient and best method of slaying cattle, because it is attended with the least pain to the animal, and the greatest profit to its possessor. They thrust a sharp-pointed knife into the back part of the head between the horns, so as to divide the spinal marrow from the brain. The beast instantly drops, and dies without a groan or struggle. As soon as it falls, and appears to be dead, the Laplander plunges the knife dexterously behind the off-shoulder into the heart; then opening the animal, its blood is found in the stomach, and ladled out into a pot. Boiled with fat and flour, it is a favorite dish.
An important epoch in the life of the Fjall Lapp is his annual visit to one of the winter fairs held in the chief towns or villages which the more industrious Swedes, Norwegians, or Fins have founded on the coasts here and there, or in the well-watered valleys of his fatherland, and which he attends frequently from an immense distance. After a slight duty to Government has been paid, business begins; but as every bargain is ratified with a full glass of brandy, his thoughts get confused before the day is half over--a circumstance which the cunning merchant does not fail to turn to account. On awaking the next morning, the vexation of the nomad at his bad bargains is so much the greater, as no people are more avowed mammon-worshippers than the Lapps, or more inclined to sing, with our Burns:--
O wae on the siller, it is sae prevailin’!
Their sole object seems to be the amassing of treasure for the sole purpose of hoarding it. The avarice of a Lapp is gratified in collecting a number of silver vessels or pieces of silver coin; and being unable to carry this treasure with him on his journeys, he buries the whole, not even making his wife acquainted with the secret of its deposit, so that when he dies the members of his family are often unable to discover where he has hidden it. Some of the Lapps possess a hundred-weight of silver, and those who own 1500 or 1000 reindeer have much more; in short, an astonishing quantity of specie is dispersed among them. Silver plate, when offered to them for sale, must be in a polished state, or they will not buy it; for such is their ignorance, that when the metal, by being kept buried, becomes tarnished, they conceive that its value is impaired, and exchange it for other silver, which being repolished, they believe to be new. The merchants derive great benefit from this traffic.
Brandy and tobacco are the chief luxuries of the Lapps. The tobacco-pipe is never laid aside except during meals; it is even used by the women, who also swallow spirits as greedily as the men; in fact, both sexes will almost part with life itself for the gratification of dram-drinking. If you walk up to a Lapp, uncouthly squatted before his tent, his very first salutation is made by stretching forth a tawny hand and demanding, in a whining tone, “Tabak” or “Braendi.” Dr. Clarke relates an amusing instance of their propensity for spirituous liquors. On his very first visit to one of their tents, he gave the father of the family about a pint of brandy, thinking he would husband it with great care, as he had seen him place it behind him upon his bed near the skirting of the tent. The daughter now entered, and begged for a taste of the brandy, as she had lost her share by being absent. The old man made no answer, but when the request was repeated, he slyly crept round the outside of the tent until he came to the spot where the brandy was, when, thrusting his arm beneath the skirting, he drew it out, and swallowed the whole contents of the bottle at a draught.
The practice of dram-drinking is so general that mothers pour the horrid dose down the throats of their infants. Their christenings and funerals become mere pretexts for indulging in brandy. But their mild and pacific disposition shows itself in their drunkenness, which is manifested only in howling, jumping, and laughing, and in a craving for more drams with hysteric screams until they fall senseless on the ground--while at the same time they will suffer kicks, cuffs, blows, and provocations of any kind without the smallest irascibility. When sober they are as gentle as lambs, and the softness of their language, added to their effeminate shrill tone of voice, remarkably corresponds with their placable disposition. An amiable trait in the character of the Lapp is the warmth of his affection towards his wife, his children, and his dependents. Nothing can exceed the cordiality of their mutual greetings after separations, and it is to be feared that but few married men in England could match the Lapp husband who assured Castrén that during thirty years of wedlock no worse word had passed between himself and his wife than “Loddad-sham,” or “My little bird.”
In spite of his fatiguing life, and the insufficient shelter afforded him by his hut, the Fjall Lapp is generally vigorous and healthy, and not seldom lives to a hundred years age. Continual exercise in the open air braces his constitution, his warm clothing protects him against the cold of winter, and his generous meat diet maintains his strength. To prevent the scurvy, he eats the berries of the Empetrum nigrum or Rubus chamæmorus, and mixes the stems of the Angelica among his food. But his chief remedy against this and every other bodily evil is warm reindeer-blood, which he drinks with delight as a universal panacea.
The Skogs Lapp, or Forest Lapp, occupies an intermediate grade between the Fjall Lapp and the Fisher Lapp, as fishing is his summer occupation, and hunting and the tending of his reindeer that of the winter months. His herds not being so numerous as those of the Fjall Lapp, he is not driven to constant migration to procure them food; but they require more care than his divided pursuits allow him to bestow upon them, and hence he inevitably descends to the condition of the Fisher Lapp. Lästadius describes his life as one of the happiest on earth--as a constant change between the agreeable pastime of fishing and the noble amusement of the chase. He is not, like the Mountain Lapp, exposed to all the severity of the Arctic winter, nor so poor as the Fisher Lapp. He is often heard to sing under the green canopy of the firs.
The villages of the Fisher Lapps--as they are found, for instance, on the banks of Lake Enara--afford a by no means pleasing spectacle.
About the miserable huts, which are shapeless masses of mingled earth, stones, and branches of trees, and scarcely equal to the dwellings of the wretched Fuegians, heaps of stinking fish and other offal taint the air with their pestilential odors. When a stranger approaches, the inmates come pouring out of their narrow doorway so covered with dirt and vermin as to make him recoil with disgust. Not in the least ashamed, however, of their appearance, they approach the stranger and shake his hand according to the code of Lapp politeness. After this preliminary, he may expect the following questions: “Is peace in the land? How is the emperor, the bishop, and the captain of the district?” The more inquisitive of the filthy troop then ask after the home of the stranger, and being told that it is beyond the mountains, they further inquire if he comes from the land where tobacco grows. For as our imagination loves to wander to the sunny regions,
Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, And the voice of the nightingale never is mute;
so the fancy of the Lapp conceives no greater paradise than that which produces the weed that, along with the brandy-bottle, affords him his highest luxury.
XIII. MATTHIAS ALEXANDER CASTRÉN
His Birthplace and first Studies.--Journey in Lapland, 1838.-- The Iwalojoki.--The Lake of Enara.--The Pastor of Utzjoki.-- From Rowaniémi to Kemi.--Second Voyage, 1841–44.--Storm on the White Sea.--Return to Archangel.--The Tundras of the European Samojedes.--Mesen.--Universal Drunkenness.--Sledge Journey to Pustosersk.--A Samojede Teacher.--Tundra Storms.--Abandoned and alone in the Wilderness.--Pustosersk.--Our Traveller’s Persecutions at Ustsylmsk and Ishemsk.--The Uusa.--Crossing the Ural.--Obdorsk.--Second Siberian Journey, 1845–48.-- Overflowing of the Obi.--Surgut.--Krasnojarsk.--Agreeable Surprise.--Turuchansk.--Voyage down the Jenissei.--Castrén’s Study at Plachina.--From Dudinka to Tolstoi Noss.--Frozen Feet.-- Return Voyage to the South.--Frozen fast on the Jenissei.-- Wonderful Preservation.--Journey across the Chinese Frontiers, and to Transbaikalia.--Return to Finland.--Professorship at Helsingfors.--Death of Castrén, 1855.
Matthias Alexander Castrén, whose interesting journeys form the subject of the present chapter, was born in the year 1813, at Rowanièmi, a Finland village situated about forty miles from the head of the Gulf of Bothnia, immediately under the Arctic Circle; so that, of all men who have attained celebrity, probably none can boast of a more northern birthplace. While still a scholar at the Alexander’s College of Helsingfors, he resolved to devote his life to the study of the nations of Finnish origin (Fins, Laplanders, Samojedes, Ostjaks, etc.); and as books gave but an insufficient account of them, each passing year strengthened his desire to visit these tribes in their own haunts, and to learn from themselves their languages, their habits, and their history.
We may imagine, therefore, the joy of the enthusiastic student, whom poverty alone had hitherto prevented from carrying out the schemes of his youth, when Dr. Ehrström, a friend and medical fellow-student, proposed to take him as a companion, free of expense, on a tour in Lapland. No artist that ever crossed the Alps on his way to sunny Italy could feel happier than Castrén at the prospect of plunging into the wildernesses of the Arctic zone.
On June 25, 1838, the friends set out, and arrived on the 30th at the small town of Muonioniska, where they remained six weeks--a delay which Castrén put to good account in learning the Lapp language from a native catechist. At length the decreasing sun warned the travellers that it was high time to continue their journey, if they wished to see more of Lapland before the winter set in; and after having, with great difficulty, crossed the mountain ridge which forms the water-shed between the Gulf of Bothnia and the Polar Sea, they embarked on the romantic Iwalojoki, where for three days and nights the rushing waters roared around them. In spite of these dangerous rapids, they were obliged to trust themselves to the stream, which every now and then threatened to dash their frail boat to pieces against the rocks. Armed with long oars, they were continually at work during the daytime to guard against this peril; the nights were spent near a large fire kindled in the open air, without any shelter against the rain and wind.
The Iwalo River is, during the greater part of its course, encased between high rocks; but a few miles before it discharges itself into the large Lake of Enara, its valley improves into a fine grassy plain. Small islands covered with trees divide the waters, which now flow more tranquilly; soon also traces of culture appear, and the astonished traveller finds in the village of Kyrö, not wretched Lapland huts, but well-built houses of Finnish settlers, with green meadows and cornfields.
The beautiful Lake of Enara, sixty miles long and forty miles broad, is so thickly studded with islands that they have never yet been counted. After the travellers had spent a few days among the Fisher Lapps who sojourn on its borders, they proceeded northward to Utzjoki, the limit of their expedition, and one of the centres of Lapland civilization, as it boasts of a church, which is served by a man of high character and of no little ability. On accepting his charge, this self-denying priest had performed the journey from Tornea in the depth of winter, accompanied by a young wife and a female relation of the latter, fifteen years of age. He had found the parsonage, vacated by his predecessor, a wretched building, distant some fifteen miles from the nearest Lapp habitation. After establishing himself and his family in this dreary tenement, he had returned from a pastoral excursion to find his home destroyed by a fire, from which its inmates had escaped with the loss of all that they possessed. A miserable hut, built for the temporary shelter of the Lapps who resorted thither for divine service, afforded the family a refuge for the winter. He had since contrived to build himself another dwelling, in which our party found him, after five years’ residence, the father of a family, and the chief of a happy household. Gladly would the travellers have remained some time longer under his hospitable roof, but the birds of passage were moving to the south, warning them to follow their example.
Thus they set out, on August 15, for their homeward voyage, which proved no less difficult and laborious than the former. At length, after wandering through deserts and swamps--frequently wet to the skin, and often without food for many hours--they arrived at Rowanièmi, where they embarked on the Kemi River.
“With conflicting feelings,” says Castrén, “I descended its stream; for every cataract was not only well-known to me from the days of my earliest childhood, but the cataracts were even the only acquaintances which death had left me in the place of my birth. Along with the mournful impressions which the loss of beloved relations made upon my mind, it was delightful to renew my intercourse with the rapid stream and its waterfalls--those boisterous playfellows, which had often brought me into peril when a boy. Now, as before, it was a pleasant sport to me to be hurried along by their tumultuous waters, and to be wetted by their spray. The boatmen often tried to persuade me to land before passing the most dangerous waterfalls, and declared that they could not be answerable for my safety. But, in spite of all their remonstrances, I remained in the boat, nor had I reason to repent of my boldness, for He who is the steersman of all boats granted us a safe arrival at Kemi, where our Lapland journey terminated.”[9]
In 1841 Castrén published a metrical translation, into the Swedish language, of the “Kalewala,” a cycle of the oldest poems of the Fins; and at the end of the same year proceeded on his first great journey to the land of the European Samoïedes, and from thence across the northern Ural Mountains to Siberia. In the famous convent of Solovetskoi, situated on a small island in the White Sea, he hoped to find a friendly teacher of the Samoïede language in the Archimandrite Wenjamin, who had labored as a missionary among that savage people, but the churlish dignitary jealously refused him all assistance; and as the tundras of the Samoïedes are only accessible during the winter, he resolved to turn the interval to account by a journey among the Terski Lapps, who inhabit the western shores of the White Sea. With this view, in an evil hour of the 27th June, 1842, though suffering at this time from illness severe enough to have detained any less persevering traveller, he embarked at Archangel in a large corn-laden vessel, with a reasonable prospect of being landed at Tri Ostrowa in some twenty-four hours; but a dead calm detained him eight days, during which he had no choice but to endure the horrible stench of Russian sea-stores in the cabin or the scorching sun on deck. At length a favorable wind arose, and after a few hours’ sailing nothing was to be seen but water and sky. Soon the Terski coast came in view, with its white ice-capped shore, and Castrén hoped soon to be released from his floating prison, when suddenly the wind changed, and, increasing to a storm, threatened to dash them on the cliffs of the Solovetskoi Islands.
“Both the captain and the ship’s company began to despair of their lives; and prayers having been resorted to in vain, to conjure the danger, general drunkenness was the next resource. The captain, finding his own brandy too weak to procure the stupefaction he desired, left me no peace till I had given him a bottle of rum. After having by degrees emptied its contents, he at length obtained his end, and fell asleep in the cabin. The crew, following his example, dropped down one by one into their cribs, and the ship was left without guidance to the mercy of the winds and waves. I alone remained on deck, and gloomily awaited the decisive moment. But I soon discovered that the wind was veering to the east, and, awaking the captain from his drunken lethargy, sent him on deck, and took possession of his bed. Exhausted by the dreadful scenes of the day, I soon fell into a deep slumber; and when I awoke the following morning, I found myself again on the eastern coast of the White Sea, at the foot of a high sheltering rock-wall.”
Continued bad weather and increasing illness now forced Castrén to give up his projected visit to the Lapps, and when he returned to Archangel, both his health and his purse were in a sad condition. He had but fifteen roubles in his pocket, but fortunately found some Samoïede beggars still poorer than himself, one of whom, for the reward of an occasional glass of brandy, consented to become at once his host, his servant, and his private tutor in the Samoïede language. In the hut and society of this savage he passed the remainder of the summer, his health improved, and soon also his finances changed wonderfully for the better--the Government of Finland having granted him a thousand silver roubles for the prosecution of his travels. With a light heart he continued his linguistic studies until the end of November, when he started with renewed enthusiasm for the land of the European Samoïedes. These immense tundras extend from the White Sea to the Ural Mountains, and are bounded on the north by the Polar Sea, and on the south by the region of forests, which here reaches as high as the latitudes of 66° and 67°.
The large river Petschora divides these dreary wastes into two unequal halves, whose scanty population, as may easily be imagined, is sunk in the deepest barbarism. It consists of nomadic Samoïedes, and of a few Russians, who inhabit some miserable settlements along the great stream and its tributary rivers.
To bury himself for a whole year in these melancholy deserts, Castrén left Archangel in November, 1842. As far as Mesen, 345 versts north of Archangel, the scanty population is Russ and Christian. At Mesen civilization ceases, and farther north the Samoïede retains for the most part, with his primitive habits and language, his heathen faith--having, in fact, borrowed nothing from occasional intercourse with civilized man but the means and practice of drunkenness. Castrén’s first care, on his arrival at Mesen, was to look for a Samoïede interpreter and teacher; but he was as unsuccessful here as at Somsha, a village some forty versts farther on, where drunkenness was the order of the day. He took the most temperate person he could find in all Somsha into his service, but even this moderate man would, according to our ideas, have been accounted a perfect drunkard. He now resolved to try the fair sex, and engaged a female teacher, but she also could not remain sober. At length a man was introduced to him as the most learned person of the tundra, and at first it seemed as if he had at length found what he wanted; but after a few hours the Samoïede began to get tired of his numerous questions, and declared himself ill. He threw himself upon the floor, wailed and lamented, and begged Castrén to have pity on him, until at length the incensed philologist turned him out-of-doors. Soon after he found him lying dead drunk in the snow before the “Elephant and Castle” of the place.
Thus obliged to look for instruction elsewhere, Castrén resolved to travel, in the middle of winter, to the Russian village of Pustosersk, at the mouth of the Petschora, where the fair annually attracts a number of Samoïedes. During this sledge-journey of 700 versts, he had to rest sometimes in the open air on the storm-beaten tundra, and sometimes in the rickety tent of the Samoïede, or in the scarcely less wretched hut of the Russian colonist--where the snow penetrated through the crevices of the wall, where the flame of the light flickered in the wind, and a thick cloak of wolf-skin afforded the only protection against the piercing cold of the Arctic winter.
For this arduous tour, two sledges, with four reindeer attached to each, were employed--the traveller’s sledge, which was covered, being attached to an uncovered one occupied by the guide. The Kanin Tundra stretched out before them, as they flew along, almost as naked as the sea, of which they saw the margin in the east; and had not the wind here and there driven away the snow which Heaven in its mercy strews over this gloomy land, they might have been in doubt on which element they were travelling. Daily, from time to time, some dwarf firs made their appearance, or clumps of low willows, which generally denote the presence of some little brook slowly winding through the flat tundra.
The village of Ness, on the north coast, was the first halting-place, and here Castrén flattered himself he had at length found what his heart desired, in the person of a Samoïede teacher who knew Russian, and was gifted with a clearer head than is usually possessed by his race.
“The man was conscious of his superiority, and while acting as a professor looked down with contempt upon his weaker brethren. Once, some other Samoïedes venturing to correct one of his translations, he commanded them to be silent, telling them they were not learned. I tried by all possible means to secure the services of this Samoïede phenomenon. I spoke kindly with him, I paid him well, gave him every day his allowance of brandy, and never once forbade him to get drunk when he felt inclined to do so. Yet, in spite of all my endeavors to please, he felt unhappy, and sighed for the liberty of the tundra. ‘Thou art kind, and I love thee,’ said he one day to me, ‘but I can not endure confinement. Be therefore merciful, and give me my freedom.’
“I now increased his daily pay and his rations of brandy, sent for his wife and child, treated his wife also with brandy, and did all I could to dispel the melancholy of the Samoïede. By these means I induced him to remain a few days longer with me.
“While I was constantly occupying him, the wife was busy sewing Samoïede dresses, and sometimes assisted her husband in his translations. I often heard her sighing deeply, and having asked for the reason, she burst into tears, and answered that she grieved for her husband, who was thus imprisoned in a room. ‘Thy husband,’ was my reply, ‘is not worse off than thyself. Tell me, what do you think of your own position?’ ‘I do not think of myself--I am sorrowful for my husband,’ was her ingenuous reply. At length both the husband and the wife begged me so earnestly to set them at liberty that I allowed them to depart.”
On the way from Pjoscha to Pustosersk, after Castrén had once more vainly endeavored to discover that rara avis, a Samoïede teacher, he became thoroughly acquainted with the January snow-storms of the tundra: “The wind arose about noon, and blew so violently that we could not see the reindeer before our sledges. The roof of my vehicle, which at first had afforded me some protection, was soon carried away by the gale. Anxious about my fate, I questioned my guides, whenever they stopped to brush off the snow which had accumulated upon me, and received the invariable answer, ‘We do not know where we are, and see nothing.’ We proceeded step by step, now following one direction, now another, until at length we reached a river well known to the guides. The leader of the first sledge hurried his reindeer down the precipitous bank, and drove away upon the ice to seek a more convenient descent; but as he did not return, the other guide likewise left me to look after his companion, and thus I was kept waiting for several hours on the tundra, without knowing where my guides had gone to.
“At first I did not even know that they had left me, and when I became aware of the fact, I thought that they had abandoned me to my fate. I will not attempt to describe my sensations; but my bodily condition was such, that when the cold increased with the approach of night, I was seized with a violent fever. I thought my last hour was come, and prepared for my journey to another world.”
The re-appearance of the guides relieved Castrén of his anxiety, and when the little party reached some Samoïede huts, the eldest of the guides knelt down at the side of our traveller’s sledge and expressed his joy in a prayer to God, begging Castrén to join him in his thanksgivings, “for He, and not I, has this night saved thee.”
The next morning, as the weather seemed to improve, and the road (along the Indiga River) to the next Russian settlement was easy to find, Castrén resolved to pursue his journey. “But the storm once more arose, and became so dreadfully violent that I could neither breathe nor keep my eyes open against the wind. The roaring of the gale stupefied my senses. The moist snow wetted me during the day, and the night converted it into ice. Half frozen, I arrived after midnight at the settlement. The fatigues of the journey had been such that I could scarcely stand; I had almost lost my consciousness, and my sight had suffered so much from the wind that I repeatedly ran with my forehead against the wall. The roaring of the storm continually resounded in my ears for many hours after.”
A few days later Castrén arrived at Pustosersk, undoubtedly one of the dreariest places in the world. With scarcely a trace of arboreal vegetation, the eye, during the greater part of the year, rests on an interminable waste of snow, where the cold winds are almost perpetually raging. The storms are so violent as not seldom to carry away the roofs of the huts, and to prevent the wretched inhabitants from fetching water and fuel. In this Northern Eden our indefatigable ethnologist tarried several months, as it afforded him an excellent opportunity for continuing his studies of the language, manners, and religion of the Samoïedes, who come to the fair of Pustosersk during the winter, to barter their reindeer skins for flour and other commodities, and at the same time to indulge in their favorite beverage--brandy. At length the Samoïedes retired, the busy season of the place was evidently at an end, and Castrén, having no further inducement to remain at Pustosersk, left it for the village of Ustsylmsk, situated 150 versts higher up the Petschora, where he hoped still to find some straggling Samoïedes. The road to Ustsylmsk leads through so desolate a region, that, according to the priests of the neighborhood, it can not have been originally created by God with the rest of the world, but must have been formed after the Deluge. Near Ustsylmsk (65° 30´ N. lat.) the country improves, as most of the northern trees grow about the place; but, unfortunately, a similar praise can not be awarded to its inhabitants, whom Castrén found to be the most brutal and obstinate Raskolniks (or sectarians) he had ever seen. Without in the least caring for the Ten Commandments, and indulging in every vice, these absurd fanatics fancied themselves better than the rest of mankind, because they made the sign of the cross with the thumb and the two last fingers, and stood for hours together before an image in stupid contemplation. Our homeless traveller soon became the object of their persecutions; they called him “wizard,” “a poisoner of rivers and wells,” and insulted him during his walks. At length they even attempted to take his life, so that he thought best to retreat to Ishemsk, on the Ishma, a hundred versts farther to the south. But, unfortunately, his bad reputation had preceded him, and although the Isprawnik (or parish official) and his wife warmly took his part, the people continued to regard him with suspicion.
Towards the end of June Castrén ascended the Petschora and its chief tributary, the Uusa, as far as the village of Kolwa, where he spent the remainder of the summer, deeply buried as usual in Samoïede studies. Beyond Kolwa, which he left on September 16 for Obdorsk, there is not a single settlement along the Uusa and its tributaries.
As he ascended the river, the meadows on its low banks appeared colored with the gray tints of autumn. Sometimes a wild animal started from its lair, but no vestige of man was to be seen. Countless flocks of wild ducks and geese passed over the traveller’s head, on their way southward.
After many a tedious delay, caused by storms and contrary winds, Castrén reached (on September 27) a wretched hut, about forty versts from the Ural, where he was obliged to wait a whole month, with fourteen other persons, until the snow-track over the mountains became practicable for sledges.
The total want of every comfort, the bad company, the perpetual rain, and the dreary aspect of the country, made his prolonged stay in this miserable tenement almost unbearable. At length, on October 25, he was able to depart, and on November 3 he saw the Ural Mountains raising their snow-capped summits to the skies. “The weather is mild,” said his Samoïede driver, “and thou art fortunate, but the Ural can be very different.” He then described the dreadful storms that rage over the boundary-chain which separates Europe from Asia, and how they precipitate stones and rocks from the mountain-tops.
This time the dreaded pass was crossed in safety, and on November 9, 1843, Castrén arrived at Obdorsk, on the Obi, exhausted in strength and shattered in health, but yet delighted to find himself in Asia, the land of his early dreams. Obdorsk--the most northerly colony in Western Siberia, and, as may easily be imagined, utterly deficient in all that can be interesting to an ordinary traveller--was as much as a university to the zealous student, for several thousands of Samoïedes and Ostiaks congregate to its fair from hundreds of versts around.
No better place could possibly be found for the prosecution of his researches; but the deplorable condition of his health did not allow him to remain as long as he would have desired at this fountain-head of knowledge. He was thus obliged to leave for Tobolsk, and to return in March, 1844, by the shortest road to Finland.
In the following summer (1845) we again find him on the banks of the Irtysch and the Obi, plunged in Ostiak studies with renewed energy and enthusiasm. After having sojourned for several weeks at Toropkowa, a small island at the confluence of these two mighty streams, he ascended the Obi in July as far as Surgut, where he arrived in the beginning of August.
In consequence of the overflowing of its waters, the river had spread into a boundless lake, whose monotony was only relieved, from time to time, by some small wooded island or some inundated village. The rising of the stream had spread misery far and wide, for many Ostiak families had been obliged to abandon their huts, and to seek a refuge in the forests. Those who had horses and cows had the greatest difficulty to keep them alive; and as all the meadows were under water, and the autumn, with its night-frosts, was already approaching, there was scarcely any hope of making hay for the winter.
As Castrén proceeded on his journey, the low banks of the river rose above the waters, and appeared in all their wild and gloomy desolation. The number of inhabitants along the Obi is utterly insignificant when compared with the wide extent of the country; and as hunting and fishing are their chief occupations, nothing is done to subdue the wilderness. The weary eye sees but a dull succession of moors, willow bushes, dry heaths, and firs on the higher grounds. Near every flourishing tree stands another bearing the marks of decay. The young grass is hemmed in its growth by that of the previous year, which even in July gives the meadow a dull ash-gray color. Cranes, wild ducks, and geese are almost the only living creatures to be seen. From Siljarski to Surgut, a distance of 200 versts, there are but three Russian villages; and the Ostiaks, who form the main part of the population, generally live along the tributary rivers, or erect their summer huts on the smaller arms of the Obi, where they can make a better use of their very imperfect fishing implements than on the principal stream.
Surgut, once a fortress, and the chief town of the Cossack conquerors of Siberia, is now reduced to a few miserable huts, scattered among the ruins of repeated conflagrations.
Here Castrén remained till September 24, occupied with the study of the various dialects of the neighboring Ostiak tribes, and then ascended the Obi as far as Narym, a distance of 800 versts. Most of the fishermen had already retired from the banks of the river, and a death-like stillness, rarely interrupted by an Ostiak boat rapidly shooting through the stream, reigned over its waters.
Fortunately the weather was fine, at least during the first days of the journey; and the green river-banks, the birds singing in the trees, and the sunbeams glancing over the wide mirror of the Obi, somewhat enlivened the monotony of the scene.
After having enjoyed at Narym a remarkably mild Siberian winter, as no crows had been frozen to death, and having increased his knowledge of the Ostiak dialects, Castrén proceeded in the following spring, by way of Tomsk, to Krasnojarsk, on the Jenissei, where he arrived in April, 1846, and was welcomed in a most agreeable and unexpected manner. It will be remembered that during his stay at Ishemsk, in the tundra of the Samoïedes, he found warm-hearted friends and protectors against the insane bigotry of the Raskolniks in the Isprawnik and his young and amiable wife. Of the latter it might truly be said that she was like a flower born to blush unseen in the desert. Remarkably eloquent, she was no less talented in expressing her thoughts by writing; and yet she was only the daughter of a serf who had been exiled to Krasnojarsk, and had spent a great part of a small property, acquired by industry and economy, in the education of his gifted daughter. The Isprawnik, a young Pole of insinuating manners, having gained her affections, she had accompanied him to Ishemsk as his wife.
From what Castrén had told her three years since about his future plans, she knew that he would probably arrive about this time at Krasnojarsk, and had written a letter, which reached its destination only a few hours before him. It was to her father, earnestly begging him to pay every attention to the homeless stranger. The feelings of Castrén may easily be imagined when the old man knocked at his door, and brought him these friendly greetings from a distance of 6000 versts.[10]
But his stay at Krasnojarsk was not of long duration, for he was impatient to proceed northward, for the purpose of becoming acquainted with the tribes dwelling along the Jenissei, after having studied their brethren of the Obi. From June till the end of July, his literary pursuits detained him at Turuchansk, where, in the vicinity of the Arctic Circle, he had much to suffer from the heat and the mosquitoes. In the beginning of August the signs of approaching winter made their appearance, the cold north wind swept away the leaves from the trees, the fishermen retired to the woods, and the ducks and geese prepared to migrate to the south. And now Castrén also took leave of Turuchansk--not however, like the birds, for a more sunny region, but to bury himself still deeper in the northern wilds of the Jenissei. Below Turuchansk the river begins to flow so languidly, that when the wind is contrary, the boat must be dragged along by dogs, and advances no more than from five to ten versts during a whole day. Thus the traveller has full time to notice the willows on the left bank, and the firs on the right; the ice-blocks, surviving memorials of the last winter, which the spring inundations have left here and there on the banks of the vast stream; and the countless troops of wild birds that fly with loud clamor over his head.
About 365 versts below Turuchansk is situated Plachina, the fishing-station of a small tribe of Samoïedes, among whom Castrén tarried three weeks. He had taken possession of the best of the three huts of which the place consisted, but even this would have been perfectly intolerable to any one but our zealous ethnologist. Into his study the daylight penetrated so sparingly through a small hole in the wall, that he was often obliged to write by the light of a resinous torch in the middle of the day.
The flame flickering in the wind, which blew through a thousand crevices, affected his eyes no less severely than the smoke, which at the same time rendered respiration difficult. Although the roof had been repaired, yet during every strong rain--and it rained almost perpetually--he was obliged to pack up his papers, and to protect himself from the wet as if he had been in the open air. From this delightful residence, Castrén, still pursuing his study of the Samoïede dialects, proceeded down the river to Dudinka, and finally, in November, to Tolstoi Noss, whose pleasant climate may be judged of by the fact that it is situated in the latitude of 71°. This last voyage was performed in a “balok,” or close sledge, covered with reindeer skins. The tediousness of being conveyed like a corpse in a dark and narrow box, induced him to exchange the “balok” for an open sledge; but the freezing of his feet, of his fingers, and of part of his face, soon caused him to repent of his temerity. As soon as this accident was discovered at the next station, Castrén crept back again into his prison, and was heartily glad when, after a nine days’ confinement, he at length arrived at Tolstoi Noss, which he found to consist of four wretched huts. Here again he spent several weeks studying by torchlight, for the sun had made his last appearance in November, and the day was reduced to a faint glimmering at noon. In January we find him on his return-voyage to Turuchansk, a place which, though not very charming in itself, appeared delightful to Castrén after a six months’ residence in the tundras beyond the Arctic Circle.
Turuchansk can boast at least of seeing some daylight at all seasons of the year, and this may be enjoyed even within-doors, for Turuchansk possesses no less than four houses with glass windows. Longing to reach this comparatively sunny place, Castrén, against his usual custom, resolved to travel day and night without stopping, but his impatience well-nigh proved fatal to him. His Samoïede guide had not perceived in the dark that the waters of the Jenissei, over which they were travelling, had oozed through fissures in the ice, and inundated the surface of the river far and wide. Thus he drove into the water, which of course was rapidly congealing; the reindeer were unable to drag the sledge back again upon the land, and Castrén stuck fast on the river, with the agreeable prospect of being frozen to death. From this imminent danger he was rescued by a wonderful circumstance. Letters having arrived from the Imperial Academy of St. Petersburg, a courier had been dispatched from Turuchansk to convey them to Castrén. This courier fortunately reached him while he was in this perilous situation, helped him on land, and conducted him to a Samoïede hut, where he was able to warm his stiffened limbs.
After such a journey, we can not wonder that, on arriving at Turuchansk, he was so tormented with rheumatism and toothache as to be obliged to rest there several days. With sore joints and an aching body, he slowly proceeded to Jeniseisk, where he arrived on April 3, 1847, in a wretched state of health, which however had not interrupted his Ostiak studies on the way. I rapidly glance over his subsequent travels, as they are but a repetition of the same privations and the same hardships, all cheerfully sustained for the love of knowledge. Having somewhat recruited his strength at Jeniseisk, he crossed the Sajan Mountains to visit some Samoïedes beyond the Russian frontier--a journey which, besides the usual fatigues, involved the additional risk of being arrested as a spy by the Chinese authorities; and the year after he visited Transbaikalia, to make inquiries among the Buriat priests about the ancient history of Siberia.
Having thus accomplished his task, and thoroughly investigated the wild nations of the Finnish race from the confines of the Arctic Sea to the Altai--a task which cost him his health, and the best part of his energies--he longed to breathe the air of his native country. But neither the pleasures of home, nor a professorship at the University of Helsingfors, richly earned by almost super-human exertions, were able to arrest the germs of disease, which journeys such as these could scarcely fail to plant even in his originally robust constitution. After lingering some years, he died in 1855, universally lamented by his countrymen, who justly mourned his early death as a national loss.