CHAPTER II.

‘Tis not alone the scene–the man, Anselmo,
The man finds sympathies in these wild wastes,
And roughly tumbling seas, which fairer views
And smoother waves deny him.

_Ancient Arama._

The few inhabitants of the township of Jarlshof had at first heard with
alarm, that a person of rank superior to their own was come to reside in
the ruinous tenement, which they still called the Castle. In those days
(for the present times are greatly altered for the better) the presence
of a superior, in such a situation, was almost certain to be attended
with additional burdens and exactions, for which, under one pretext or
another, feudal customs furnished a thousand apologies. By each of
these, a part of the tenants’ hard-won and precarious profits was
diverted for the use of their powerful neighbour and superior, the
tacksman, as he was called. But the sub-tenants speedily found that no
oppression of this kind was to be apprehended at the hands of Basil
Mertoun. His own means, whether large or small, were at least fully
adequate to his expenses, which, so far as regarded his habits of life,
were of the most frugal description. The luxuries of a few books, and
some philosophical instruments, with which he was supplied from London
as occasion offered, seemed to indicate a degree of wealth unusual in
those islands; but, on the other hand, the table and the accommodations
at Jarlshof, did not exceed what was maintained by a Zetland proprietor
of the most inferior description.

The tenants of the hamlet troubled themselves very little about the
quality of their superior, as soon as they found that their situation
was rather to be mended than rendered worse by his presence; and, once
relieved from the apprehension of his tyrannizing over them, they laid
their heads together to make the most of him by various petty tricks of
overcharge and extortion, which for a while the stranger submitted to
with the most philosophic indifference. An incident, however, occurred,
which put his character in a new light, and effectually checked all
future efforts at extravagant imposition.

A dispute arose in the kitchen of the Castle betwixt an old governante,
who acted as housekeeper to Mr. Mertoun, and Sweyn Erickson, as good a
Zetlander as ever rowed a boat to the _haaf_ fishing;[11] which dispute,
as is usual in such cases, was maintained with such increasing heat and
vociferation as to reach the ears of the master, (as he was called,)
who, secluded in a solitary turret, was deeply employed in examining the
contents of a new package of books from London, which, after long
expectation, had found its way to Hull, from thence by a whaling vessel
to Lerwick, and so to Jarlshof. With more than the usual thrill of
indignation which indolent people always feel when roused into action on
some unpleasant occasion, Mertoun descended to the scene of contest, and
so suddenly, peremptorily, and strictly, enquired into the cause of
dispute, that the parties, notwithstanding every evasion which they
attempted, became unable to disguise from him, that their difference
respected the several interests to which the honest governante, and no
less honest fisherman, were respectively entitled, in an overcharge of
about one hundred per cent on a bargain of rock-cod, purchased by the
former from the latter, for the use of the family at Jarlshof.

When this was fairly ascertained and confessed, Mr. Mertoun stood
looking upon the culprits with eyes in which the utmost scorn seemed to
contend with awakening passion. “Hark you, ye old hag,” said he at
length to the housekeeper, “avoid my house this instant! and know that I
dismiss you, not for being a liar, a thief, and an ungrateful
quean,–for these are qualities as proper to you as your name of
woman,–but for daring, in my house, to scold above your breath.–And
for you, you rascal, who suppose you may cheat a stranger as you would
_flinch_[12] a whale, know that I am well acquainted with the rights
which, by delegation from your master, Magnus Troil, I can exercise over
you, if I will. Provoke me to a certain pitch, and you shall learn, to
your cost, I can break your rest as easily as you can interrupt my
leisure. I know the meaning of _scat_, and _wattle_, and _hawkhen_, and
_hagalef_,(_b_) and every other exaction, by which your lords, in
ancient and modern days, have wrung your withers; nor is there one of
you that shall not rue the day that you could not be content with
robbing me of my money, but must also break in on my leisure with your
atrocious northern clamour, that rivals in discord the screaming of a
flight of Arctic gulls.”

Nothing better occurred to Sweyn, in answer to this objurgation, than
the preferring a humble request that his honour would be pleased to
keep the cod-fish without payment, and say no more about the matter; but
by this time Mr. Mertoun had worked up his passions into an ungovernable
rage, and with one hand he threw the money at the fisherman’s head,
while with the other he pelted him out of the apartment with his own
fish, which he finally flung out of doors after him.

There was so much of appalling and tyrannic fury in the stranger’s
manner on this occasion, that Sweyn neither stopped to collect the money
nor take back his commodity, but fled at a precipitate rate to the small
hamlet, to tell his comrades that if they provoked Master Mertoun any
farther, he would turn an absolute Pate Stewart[13] on their hand, and
head and hang without either judgment or mercy.

Hither also came the discarded housekeeper, to consult with her
neighbours and kindred (for she too was a native of the village) what
she should do to regain the desirable situation from which she had been
so suddenly expelled. The old Ranzellaar of the village, who had the
voice most potential in the deliberations of the township, after hearing
what had happened, pronounced that Sweyn Erickson had gone too far in
raising the market upon Mr. Mertoun; and that whatever pretext the
tacksman might assume for thus giving way to his anger, the real
grievance must have been the charging the rock cod-fish at a penny
instead of a half-penny a-pound; he therefore exhorted all the community
never to raise their exactions in future beyond the proportion of
threepence upon the shilling, at which rate their master at the Castle
could not reasonably be expected to grumble, since, as he was disposed
to do them no harm, it was reasonable to think that, in a moderate way,
he had no objection to do them good. “And three upon twelve,” said the
experienced Ranzellaar, “is a decent and moderate profit, and will bring
with it God’s blessing and Saint Ronald’s.”

Proceeding upon the tariff thus judiciously recommended to them, the
inhabitants of Jarlshof cheated Mertoun in future only to the moderate
extent of twenty-five per cent; a rate to which all nabobs,
army-contractors, speculators in the funds, and others, whom recent and
rapid success has enabled to settle in the country upon a great scale,
ought to submit, as very reasonable treatment at the hand of their
rustic neighbours. Mertoun at least seemed of that opinion, for he gave
himself no farther trouble upon the subject of his household expenses.

The conscript fathers of Jarlshof, having settled their own matters,
took next under their consideration the case of Swertha, the banished
matron who had been expelled from the Castle, whom, as an experienced
and useful ally, they were highly desirous to restore to her office of
housekeeper, should that be found possible. But as their wisdom here
failed them, Swertha, in despair, had recourse to the good offices of
Mordaunt Mertoun, with whom she had acquired some favour by her
knowledge in old Norwegian ballads, and dismal tales concerning the
Trows or Drows, (the dwarfs of the Scalds,) with whom superstitious eld
had peopled many a lonely cavern and brown dale in Dunrossness, as in
every other district of Zetland. “Swertha,” said the youth, “I can do
but little for you, but you may do something for yourself. My father’s
passion resembles the fury of those ancient champions, those Berserkars,
you sing songs about.”

“Ay, ay, fish of my heart,” replied the old woman, with a pathetic
whine; “the Berserkars(_c_) were champions who lived before the blessed
days of Saint Olave, and who used to run like madmen on swords, and
spears, and harpoons, and muskets, and snap them all into pieces, as a
finner[14] would go through a herring-net, and then, when the fury went
off, they were as weak and unstable as water.”[15]

“That’s the very thing, Swertha,” said Mordaunt. “Now, my father never
likes to think of his passion after it is over, and is so much of a
Berserkar, that, let him be desperate as he will to-day, he will not
care about it to-morrow. Therefore, he has not filled up your place in
the household at the Castle, and not a mouthful of warm food has been
dressed there since you went away, and not a morsel of bread baked, but
we have lived just upon whatever cold thing came to hand. Now, Swertha,
I will be your warrant, that if you go boldly up to the Castle, and
enter upon the discharge of your duties as usual, you will never hear a
single word from him.”

Swertha hesitated at first to obey this bold counsel. She said, “to her
thinking, Mr. Mertoun, when he was angry, looked more like a fiend than
any Berserkar of them all; that the fire flashed from his eyes, and the
foam flew from his lips; and that it would be a plain tempting of
Providence to put herself again in such a venture.”

But, on the encouragement which she received from the son, she
determined at length once more to face the parent; and, dressing herself
in her ordinary household attire, for so Mordaunt particularly
recommended, she slipped into the Castle, and presently resuming the
various and numerous occupations which devolved on her, seemed as deeply
engaged in household cares as if she had never been out of office.

The first day of her return to her duty, Swertha made no appearance in
presence of her master, but trusted that after his three days’ diet on
cold meat, a hot dish, dressed with the best of her simple skill, might
introduce her favourably to his recollection. When Mordaunt had reported
that his father had taken no notice of this change of diet, and when she
herself observed that in passing and repassing him occasionally, her
appearance produced no effect upon her singular master, she began to
imagine that the whole affair had escaped Mr. Mertoun’s memory, and was
active in her duty as usual. Neither was she convinced of the contrary
until one day, when, happening somewhat to elevate her tone in a dispute
with the other maid-servant, her master, who at that time passed the
place of contest, eyed her with a strong glance, and pronounced the
single word, _Remember!_ in a tone which taught Swertha the government
of her tongue for many weeks after.

If Mertoun was whimsical in his mode of governing his household, he
seemed no less so in his plan of educating his son. He showed the youth
but few symptoms of parental affection; yet, in his ordinary state of
mind, the improvement of Mordaunt’s education seemed to be the utmost
object of his life. He had both books and information sufficient to
discharge the task of tutor in the ordinary branches of knowledge; and
in this capacity was regular, calm, and strict, not to say severe, in
exacting from his pupil the attention necessary for his profiting. But
in the perusal of history, to which their attention was frequently
turned, as well as in the study of classic authors, there often occurred
facts or sentiments which produced an instant effect upon Mertoun’s
mind, and brought on him suddenly what Swertha, Sweyn, and even
Mordaunt, came to distinguish by the name of his dark hour. He was
aware, in the usual case, of its approach, and retreated to an inner
apartment, into which he never permitted even Mordaunt to enter. Here he
would abide in seclusion for days, and even weeks, only coming out at
uncertain times, to take such food as they had taken care to leave
within his reach, which he used in wonderfully small quantities. At
other times, and especially during the winter solstice, when almost
every person spends the gloomy time within doors in feasting and
merriment, this unhappy man would wrap himself in a dark-coloured
sea-cloak, and wander out along the stormy beach, or upon the desolate
heath, indulging his own gloomy and wayward reveries under the inclement
sky, the rather that he was then most sure to wander unencountered and
unobserved.

As Mordaunt grew older, he learned to note the particular signs which
preceded these fits of gloomy despondency, and to direct such
precautions as might ensure his unfortunate parent from ill-timed
interruption, (which had always the effect of driving him to fury,)
while, at the same time, full provision was made for his subsistence.
Mordaunt perceived that at such periods the melancholy fit of his father
was greatly prolonged, if he chanced to present himself to his eyes
while the dark hour was upon him. Out of respect, therefore, to his
parent, as well as to indulge the love of active exercise and of
amusement natural to his period of life, Mordaunt used often to absent
himself altogether from the mansion of Jarlshof, and even from the
district, secure that his father, if the dark hour passed away in his
absence, would be little inclined to enquire how his son had disposed of
his leisure, so that he was sure he had not watched his own weak
moments; that being the subject on which he entertained the utmost
jealousy.

At such times, therefore, all the sources of amusement which the country
afforded, were open to the younger Mertoun, who, in these intervals of
his education, had an opportunity to give full scope to the energies of
a bold, active, and daring character. He was often engaged with the
youth of the hamlet in those desperate sports, to which the “dreadful
trade of the samphire-gatherer” is like a walk upon level ground–often
joined those midnight excursions upon the face of the giddy cliffs, to
secure the eggs or the young of the sea-fowl; and in these daring
adventures displayed an address, presence of mind, and activity, which,
in one so young, and not a native of the country, astonished the oldest
fowlers.[16]

At other times, Mordaunt accompanied Sweyn and other fishermen in their
long and perilous expeditions to the distant and deep sea, learning
under their direction the management of the boat, in which they equal,
or exceed, perhaps, any natives of the British empire. This exercise had
charms for Mordaunt, independently of the fishing alone.

At this time, the old Norwegian sagas were much remembered, and often
rehearsed, by the fishermen, who still preserved among themselves the
ancient Norse tongue, which was the speech of their forefathers. In the
dark romance of those Scandinavian tales, lay much that was captivating
to a youthful ear; and the classic fables of antiquity were rivalled at
least, if not excelled, in Mordaunt’s opinion, by the strange legends of
Berserkars, of Sea-kings, of dwarfs, giants, and sorcerers, which he
heard from the native Zetlanders. Often the scenes around him were
assigned as the localities of the wild poems, which, half recited, half
chanted by voices as hoarse, if not so loud, as the waves over which
they floated, pointed out the very bay on which they sailed as the scene
of a bloody sea-fight; the scarce-seen heap of stones that bristled over
the projecting cape, as the dun, or castle, of some potent earl or noted
pirate; the distant and solitary grey stone on the lonely moor, as
marking the grave of a hero; the wild cavern, up which the sea rolled in
heavy, broad, and unbroken billows, as the dwelling of some noted
sorceress.[17]

The ocean also had its mysteries, the effect of which was aided by the
dim twilight, through which it was imperfectly seen for more than half
the year. Its bottomless depths and secret caves contained, according to
the account of Sweyn and others, skilled in legendary lore, such wonders
as modern navigators reject with disdain. In the quiet moonlight bay,
where the waves came rippling to the shore, upon a bed of smooth sand
intermingled with shells, the mermaid was still seen to glide along the
waters, and, mingling her voice with the sighing breeze, was often heard
to sing of subterranean wonders, or to chant prophecies of future
events. The kraken, that hugest of living things, was still supposed to
cumber the recesses of the Northern Ocean; and often, when some fog-bank
covered the sea at a distance, the eye of the experienced boatman saw
the horns of the monstrous leviathan welking and waving amidst the
wreaths of mist, and bore away with all press of oar and sail, lest the
sudden suction, occasioned by the sinking of the monstrous mass to the
bottom, should drag within the grasp of its multifarious feelers his own
frail skiff. The sea-snake was also known, which, arising out of the
depths of ocean, stretches to the skies his enormous neck, covered with
a mane like that of a war-horse, and with its broad glittering eyes,
raised mast-head high, looks out, as it seems, for plunder or for
victims.

Many prodigious stories of these marine monsters, and of many others
less known, were then universally received among the Zetlanders, whose
descendants have not as yet by any means abandoned faith in them.[18]

Such legends are, indeed, everywhere current amongst the vulgar; but
the imagination is far more powerfully affected by them on the deep and
dangerous seas of the north, amidst precipices and headlands, many
hundred feet in height,–amid perilous straits, and currents, and
eddies,–long sunken reefs of rock, over which the vivid ocean foams and
boils,–dark caverns, to whose extremities neither man nor skiff has
ever ventured,–lonely, and often uninhabited isles,–and occasionally
the ruins of ancient northern fastnesses, dimly seen by the feeble light
of the Arctic winter. To Mordaunt, who had much of romance in his
disposition, these superstitions formed a pleasing and interesting
exercise of the imagination, while, half doubting, half inclined to
believe, he listened to the tales chanted concerning these wonders of
nature, and creatures of credulous belief, told in the rude but
energetic language of the ancient Scalds.

But there wanted not softer and lighter amusement, that might seem
better suited to Mordaunt’s age, than the wild tales and rude exercises
which we have already mentioned. The season of winter, when, from the
shortness of the daylight, labour becomes impossible, is in Zetland the
time of revel, feasting, and merriment. Whatever the fisherman has been
able to acquire during summer, was expended, and often wasted, in
maintaining the mirth and hospitality of his hearth during this period;
while the landholders and gentlemen of the island gave double loose to
their convivial and hospitable dispositions, thronged their houses with
guests, and drove away the rigour of the season with jest, glee, and
song, the dance, and the wine-cup.

Amid the revels of this merry, though rigorous season, no youth added
more spirit to the dance, or glee to the revel, than the young stranger,
Mordaunt Mertoun. When his father’s state of mind permitted, or indeed
required, his absence, he wandered from house to house a welcome guest
whereever he came, and lent his willing voice to the song, and his foot
to the dance. A boat, or, if the weather, as was often the case,
permitted not that convenience, one of the numerous ponies, which,
straying in hordes about the extensive moors, may be said to be at any
man’s command who can catch them, conveyed him from the mansion of one
hospitable Zetlander to that of another. None excelled him in performing
the warlike sword-dance, a species of amusement which had been derived
from the habits of the ancient Norsemen. He could play upon the _gue_,
and upon the common violin, the melancholy and pathetic tunes peculiar
to the country; and with great spirit and execution could relieve their
monotony with the livelier airs of the North of Scotland. When a party
set forth as maskers, or, as they are called in Scotland, _guizards_, to
visit some neighbouring Laird, or rich Udaller, it augured well of the
expedition if Mordaunt Mertoun could be prevailed upon to undertake the
office of _skudler_, or leader of the band. Upon these occasions, full
of fun and frolic, he led his retinue from house to house, bringing
mirth where he went, and leaving regret when he departed. Mordaunt
became thus generally known and beloved as generally, through most of
the houses composing the patriarchal community of the Main Isle; but his
visits were most frequently and most willingly paid at the mansion of
his father’s landlord and protector, Magnus Troil.

It was not entirely the hearty and sincere welcome of the worthy old
Magnate, nor the sense that he was in effect his father’s patron, which
occasioned these frequent visits. The hand of welcome was indeed
received as eagerly as it was sincerely given, while the ancient
Udaller, raising himself in his huge chair, whereof the inside was lined
with well-dressed sealskins, and the outside composed of massive oak,
carved by the rude graving-tool of some Hamburgh carpenter, shouted
forth his welcome in a tone, which might, in ancient times, have hailed
the return of _Ioul_, the highest festival of the Goths. There was metal
yet more attractive, and younger hearts, whose welcome, if less loud,
was as sincere as that of the jolly Udaller. But this is matter which
ought not to be discussed at the conclusion of a chapter.

FOOTNOTES:

[11] _i. e._ The deep-sea fishing, in distinction to that which is
practised along shore.

[12] The operation of slicing the blubber from the bones of the whale,
is called, technically, _flinching_.

[13] Meaning, probably, Patrick Stewart, Earl of Orkney, executed for
tyranny and oppression practised on the inhabitants of those remote
islands, in the beginning of the seventeenth century.

[14] _Finner_, small whale.

[15] The sagas of the Scalds are full of descriptions of these
champions, and do not permit us to doubt that the Berserkars, so called
from fighting without armour, used some physical means of working
themselves into a frenzy, during which they possessed the strength and
energy of madness. The Indian warriors are well known to do the same by
dint of opium and bang.

[16] Fatal accidents, however, sometimes occur. When I visited the Fair
Isle in 1814, a poor lad of fourteen had been killed by a fall from the
rocks about a fortnight before our arrival. The accident happened almost
within sight of his mother, who was casting peats at no great distance.
The body fell into the sea, and was seen no more. But the islanders
account this an honourable mode of death; and as the children begin the
practice of climbing very early, fewer accidents occur than might be
expected.

[17] Note I.–Norse Fragments.

[18] Note II.–Monsters of the Northern Seas.