body was placed; but they were very shortly
exhausted by the weight of their burden.
Fresh beasts were then attached; but, upon
reaching the top of a steep hill, they were
seized with a sudden and uncontrollable
terror, and, dashing frantically away, rolled
headlong into the valley, and were killed. At
every mile, moreover, the body became of a
still greater weight; and it was now found
impossible to carry it any farther, though the
contemplated place of burial was still distant.
The attendants therefore consigned it to the
earth on the ridge of the hill—an immense
mound was piled over it—and the spirit of the
old man remained for a time at rest. But
"after the death of Arnkill," says Sir Walter
Scott, "Bægifot became again troublesome,
and walked forth from his tomb, to the great
terror and damage of the neighbourhood,
slaying both herds and domestics, and driving
the inhabitants from the canton. It was
therefore resolved to consume his carcase
with fire; for, like the Hungarian Vampyre,
he, or some evil demon in his stead, made
use of his mortal reliques as a vehicle
during the commission of these enormities.
The body was found swollen to a huge size,
equalling the corpulence of an ox. It was
transported to the sea-shore with difficulty,
and there burned to ashes." In this narrative,
we miss the blood-sucking propensities
of the genuine Vampyre; but in all other
respects the resemblance is complete.

The other story from the same source has
relation to a certain woman named
Thorgunna.This excellent old lady having, a
short time previous to her death, appointed
one Thorodd her executor, and the wife of
the said Thorodd having covetously induced
her husband to preserve some bed-furniture
which the deceased particularly desired to
have burnt, a series of ghost-visits ensued.
Thorgunna requested that her body might be
conveyed to a distant place called Skalholt;
and on the way thither her ghost appeared
at a house where the funeral party put up.
But the worst visitations occurred on the
return of Thorodd to his own house. On
the very night when he reached his domicile,
a meteor resembling a half-moon glided
round the walls of the apartment in a direction
opposed to the apparent course of the sun (an
ominous sign), and remained visible until the
inmates went to bed. The spectral appearance
continued throughout the week; and then one
of the herdsmen went mad, evidently under
the persecutions of evil spirits. At length he
was found dead in his bed; and, shortly after,
Thorer, one of the inmates of the house,
going out in the evening, was seized by the
ghost of the dead shepherd, and so injured
by blows, that he died. His spirit then went
into partnership with that of the herdsman,
and together they played some very
awkward and alarming pranks. A pestilence
appeared, of which many of the neighbours
died; and one evening something in the
shape of a seal-fish lifted itself up through the
flooring of Thorodd's house, and gazed
around.

The terrified domestics having in vain
struck at the apparition, which continued to
rise through the floor, Kiartan, the son of
Thorodd, smote it on the head with a hammer,
and drove it gradually and reluctantly
into the earth, like a stake. Subsequently,
Thorodd and several of his servants were
drowned; and now their ghosts were added
to the spectral group. Every evening, when
the fire was lighted in the great hall, Thorodd
and his companions would enter, drenched
and dripping, and seat themselves close to
the blaze, from which they very selfishly excluded
all the living inmates; while, from the
other side of the apartment, the ghosts of
those who had died of pestilence, and who
appeared gray with dust, would bend their
way towards the same comfortable nook,
under the leadership of Thorer. This being
a very awkward state of affairs in a climate
like Iceland, Kiartan, who was now the master
of the house, caused a separate fire to be
kindled for the mortals in an out-house,
leaving the great hall to the spectres; with
which arrangement their ghostships seemed
to be satisfied. The deaths from the pestilence
continued to increase; and every death
caused an addition to the phantom army.
Matters had now reached so serious a pitch,
that it was found absolutely necessary to take
some steps against the disturbers of the
neighbourhood. It was accordingly resolved
to proceed against them by law; but, previously
to commencing the legal forms, Kiartan
caused the unfortunate bed-furniture, which
had been at the bottom of all the mischief, to
to be burnt in sight of the spectres. A jury
was then formed in the great hall; the ghosts
were accused of being public nuisances within
the meaning of the act in that case made and
provided; evidence was heard, and finally
a sentence of ejectment was pronounced.
Upon this, the phantoms rose; and, protesting
that they had only sat there while it was
lawful for them to do so, sullenly and
mutteringly withdrew, with many symptoms of
unwillingness. A priest then damped the room
with holy-water—a solemn mass was performed,
and the supernatural visitors were
thenceforth non est inventus.

The incident of the seal in this narrative
will remind the reader who has properly
studied his Corsican Brothers—and (as it is
customary to ask on these occasions) who has
not?—of the appearance of the ghost of the
duellist as he comes gliding through the floor
to the tremulous music of the fiddles. The
whole tale, in fact, falls in a great measure
into the general class of ghost stories; but the
circumstance of each person, as he died, adding
to the array of the evil spirits, and thus
spreading out the mischief in ever-widening
circles, has an affinity to the distinguishing
feature of the Brucolac superstition. Still,