LETTER II. 



THE ICELANDER — A MODERN SIR PATRICK SPENS. 



Greenock, Tuesday, June 3, 1S56. 



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 be- 

 fore 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 disagree- 

 able 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 num- 

 ber of my best friends. 



As most educated English people firmly believe the Ice- 

 landers 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 intelli- 

 gent-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 j 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 



