Letters From High Latitudes | Page 4

Governor-General of the
Dominion of Canada and afterwards Viceroy of India.

LETTER I.
PROTESILAUS STUMBLES ON THE THRESHOLD
Glasgow, Monday, June 2, 1856.
Our start has not been prosperous. Yesterday evening, on passing
Carlisle, a telegraphic message was put into my hand, announcing the
fact of the "Foam" having been obliged to put into Holyhead, in
consequence of the sudden illness of my Master. As the success of our
expedition entirely depends on our getting off before the season is
further advanced, you can understand how disagreeable it is to have
received this check at its very outset. As yet, of course, I know nothing
of the nature of the illness with which he has been seized. However, I
have ordered the schooner to proceed at once to Oban, and I have sent

back the Doctor to Holyhead to overhaul the sick man. It is rather early
in the day for him to enter upon the exercise of his functions.
LETTER II.
THE ICELANDER--A MODERN SIR PATRICK SPENS
Greenock, Tuesday, June 3, 1856
I found the Icelander awaiting my arrival here,--pacing up and down
the coffee-room like a Polar bear.
At first he was a little shy, and, not having yet had much opportunity of
practising his English, it was some time before I could set him perfectly
at his ease. He has something so frank and honest in his face and
bearing, that I am certain he will turn out a pleasant companion. There
being no hatred so intense as that which you feel towards a
disagreeable shipmate, this assurance has relieved me of a great anxiety,
and I already feel I shall hereafter reckon Sigurdr (pronounced
Segurthur), the son of Jonas, among the number of my best friends.
As most educated English people firmly believe the Icelanders to be a
"Squawmuck," blubber-eating, seal-skin-clad race, I think it right to tell
you that Sigurdr is apparelled in good broadcloth, and all the
inconveniences of civilization, his costume culminating in the orthodox
chimney-pot of the nineteenth century. He is about twenty-seven, very
intelligent-looking, and--all women would think--lovely to behold. A
high forehead, straight, delicate features, dark blue eyes, auburn hair
and beard, and the complexion of--Lady S--d! His early life was passed
in Iceland; but he is now residing at Copenhagen as a law student.
Through the introduction of a mutual friend, he has been induced to
come with me, and do us the honours of his native land.
"O whar will I get a skeely skipper, To sail this gude ship o' mine?'
Such, alas! has been the burden of my song for these last
four-and-twenty hours, as I have sat in the Tontine Tower, drinking the
bad port wine, for, after spending a fortune in telegraphic messages to

Holyhead, it has been decided that B-- cannot come on, and I have been
forced to rig up a Glasgow merchant skipper into a jury sailing-master.
Any such arrangement is, at the best, unsatisfactory, but to abandon the
cruise is the only alternative. However, considering I had but a few
hours to look about me, I have been more fortunate than might have
been expected. I have had the luck to stumble on a young fellow, very
highly recommended by the Captain of the Port. He returned just a
fortnight ago from a trip to Australia, and having since married a wife,
is naturally anxious not to lose this opportunity of going to sea again
for a few months.
I start to-morrow for Oban, via Inverary, which I wish to show to my
Icelander. At Oban I join the schooner, and proceed to Stornaway, in
the Hebrides, whither the undomestic Mr. Ebenezer Wyse (a
descendant, probably, of some Westland Covenanter) is to follow me
by the steamer.
LETTER III.
LOCH GOIL--THE SAGA OF CLAN CAMPBELL
Oban, June 5, 1856
I have seldom enjoyed anything so much as our journey yesterday.
Getting clear at last of the smells, smoke, noise, and squalor of
Greenock, to plunge into the very heart of the Highland hills, robed as
they were in the sunshine of a beautiful summer day, was enough to
make one beside oneself with delight, and the Icelander enjoyed it as
much as I did. Having crossed the Clyde, alive with innumerable
vessels, its waves dancing and sparkling in the sunlight, we suddenly
shot into the still and solemn Loch Goil, whose waters, dark with
mountain shadows, seemed almost to belong to a different element
from that of the yellow, rushing, ship-laden river we had left. In fact, in
the space of ten minutes we had got into another world, centuries
remote from the steaming, weaving, delving Britain, south of Clyde.
After a sail of about three hours, we reached the head of the loch, and

then took coach along the worst mountain