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Title: From England to Iceland
a summer trip to the Arctic circle
Author: George Charles Sim
Release date: July 9, 2026 [eBook #79060]
Language: English
Original publication: Bradford: Henry Gaskarth, 1886
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79060
Credits: Aaron Adrignola, Gísli Valgeirsson and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file made from scans of public domain material at Landsbókasafn Íslands (National and University Library of Iceland).)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FROM ENGLAND TO ICELAND ***
THE
LEITH & ICELAND STEAM SHIPPING COMPANY’S
First Class Screw Steamship
“CAMOENS,”
1264 Tons Register. 170 H.P.,
OR other First-Class Steamer, Sails regularly
between GRANTON and ICELAND =during the Season=,
(unless prevented by unforeseen circumstances)
carrying Mails and Passengers. The “CAMOENS” is a
full-powered, fast Steamer, with superior Passenger
accommodation; has spacious Saloon, Ladies’ Cabin,
well ventilated State-rooms, and Smoke-room.
--------------
Carries full staff of Stewards, & Stewardess.
--------------
FARES:—First Cabin, £5; Return, £8. Second
Cabin, £3; Return, £5.
Separate State-rooms may be had by special agreement.
--------------
For Time Bills, Cabin Plan, &c., apply to
R. & D. SLIMON, LEITH.
--------------
Crown 8vo. 180 pages, cloth, limp.
GUIDE TO ICELAND.
A useful handbook for Travellers and Sportsmen,
with a large Map showing every recorded site of
volcanic activity, Places of Interest, Salmon
Rivers, Reindeer Tracts, Farms where night quarters
are obtainable, Routes, &c., by W. G. LOCK, F.R.G.S.
Sent post free, on receipt of P.O. for 5s.
R. & D. SLIMON, LEITH.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE MIDNIGHT SUN
AS SEEN FROM THE NORTH OF ICELAND.
--------------
Extract from the Notes of an Iceland Tourist.
On board S. S. “Camoens.”
The entire day had been lovely. Hardly any wind was blowing, and the few
clouds, that in the morning had given some relief to the landscape
before us, had melted away with the declining sun. We were all on deck
that night, to watch when the sun would set. That there would be no
visible difference in the daylight, we knew from the experience of the
last two days; but as we were now at the highest latitude that we could
reach (66 deg. 40 sec.), some eight miles inside the Arctic circle,
there was a good deal of hope that the sun might perhaps not set at all.
Deeper and deeper it sank, assuming a fiery red colour, and painting the
snow-covered mountains with the most delicate touches of pink and
purple. However, when it came within 2 degrees of the horizon, it seemed
to stop on its downward course, and before we knew of anything we heard
eight bells. Here was twelve o’clock at night, and the sun right in the
north a considerable distance above the water, not a cloud on the sky,
not a wrinkle on the water, not a sound to disturb the exquisite
picture. Was it a wonder that we could not leave the deck? As the sun
slowly rose again, a quantity of light feather-clouds gathered on the
northern half of the sky, which were all fringed with crimson and gold,
while the sky itself ran through all the shades, from the palest yellow
in the north, to the deepest purple over the island to the south of us.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Iceland shone with glorious lore renowned,
A northern light when all was gloom around.”
Montgomery.
-------
From
England
to
Iceland;
A Summer Trip to the Arctic Circle.
by
GEORGE CHARLES SIM.
-------
WITH FORTY-FIVE ILLUSTRATIONS,
CHIEFLY FROM ORIGINAL PHOTOGRAPHS.
-------
BRADFORD: HENRY GASKARTH.
LONDON: HAMILTON ADAMS AND CO.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TO
MY FRIEND
JOHN SPEAK, ESQ.,
OF
WARM LEE HOUSE, AMBLER THORNE,
HALIFAX,
THE COMPANION OF MANY WANDERINGS
BY
THE WORLD’S WAYSIDES,
I AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBE
THIS RECORD OF
OUR EXPERIENCES IN
ICELAND.
--------------------------------------------------
PREFACE.
“Without, or with, offence to friends or foes,
I sketch the world exactly as it goes.”—Byron.
IN September, 1883, the author, and the friend to whom this little
volume is inscribed, visited Ohinemutu and Rhotomahana, in the famous
Hot Lake District of New Zealand. Subsequently, early in June, 1884, as
members of the Pioneer Party of the year—a party of eight, including
guides—they succeeded in forcing their way into that extraordinary
region of marvels the Yellowstone National Park, a vast tract of country
which covers a total area of more than three thousand five hundred
square miles in the Territories of Wyoming, Montana, and Idaho; and has
been “dedicated and set apart by ‘Act of Congress’ as a public park or
pleasure ground for the enjoyment and benefit of the people of the
United States for ever.”
Actuated by a natural desire to complete the chain of their experiences,
they resolved last summer to take a Trip to Iceland, the oldest—in point
of date of discovery—though now neither the most interesting, nor the
most attractive, of the Three Great Volcanic Wonderlands of the World.
In the following pages—re-printed from the columns of the _Bradford
Illustrated Weekly Telegraph_—the writer has attempted to describe the
scenery and phenomena of Iceland; the social condition of its people;
and the incidents of a voyage to the Arctic Circle, exactly as these
came under his own observation, and in those aspects in which they would
probably have presented themselves to the minds of most of his readers.
It is recorded that the Mayor of an English city once apologised to
Queen Elizabeth for having omitted to receive her with the customary
royal salute, and gave the three following reasons for his apparent act
of official discourtesy: first, the city had no powder; second, it had
no cannon; and, third, if it had had both, there was no one among its
population who knew anything about either. Her Majesty, under the
circumstances, was graciously pleased to hold him excused.
Similarly, the indulgence of the reader is claimed for the omission in
this book of all abstruse scientific, or philological explanations or
theories. These may be found in other and more important works written
by competent authorities. Being neither scientist nor philologist the
author has refrained from touching, even lightly, upon the curious
problems which everywhere provoke scientific speculation and enquiry in
Iceland; neither has he interlarded his pages with those philological
puzzles, in the shape of Icelandic characters and words, with which some
otherwise very interesting narratives are, if anything, a little
over-weighted.
His object has rather been to tell the story of his own experiences for
the guidance of the intending tourist; to furnish the general reader
with some useful information regarding a lonely island in the North
Atlantic, about which “_tout le monde et sa femme_” have hitherto
concerned themselves but little; and to help to awaken in the hearts of
his fellow-countrymen a sympathetic interest in a poor, isolated, kindly
people who claim to be included among “our kin across the sea;” and who,
after centuries of thraldom and hardship, are at last beginning, under
improved social and political conditions, to look forward to a brighter
and more prosperous future.
G. C. S.
Bradford, Nov. 24th, 1885.
--------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS.
--------------
CHAPTER I.
Ultima Thule—a land of mystery—introductory retrospect—Bradford to
Leith—afloat—a catastrophe averted—landmarks of Auld Reekie—shores of
the Forth—the Bass Rock—John o’ Groat’s House—a gale in the North
Atlantic—Orœfajökull—no night—Portland Point—volcanic reefs—the
Westmann’s Islands—Heimaey—Heimaeyklett and Ystaklett—purity of the
atmosphere—Myrdalsjökull—Elirey and Bjarnarey—arrival of the Camoens, a
great event.
CHAPTER II.
Ashore—a colonial contrast—Iceland and New Zealand—appearance of the
people—the “hufa”—early colonization by Irish—fish curing—dried cods’
heads—view from Helgafell—the church—congregation—form of religion—how
Christianity was established—God’s acre—Thingis Hus—turf-and-rubble
cottages—dried-bird-fuel—an Icelandic Esculapius—the caves—sail for
Reykjavik—poverty of the Icelander—his difficulties—former tyrannous
legislation—the “tick and truck” system—break in cloud of misrule—dawn
of happier times.
CHAPTER III.
The capital from the sea—our guide—view from the Observatory—founding of
the city by Ingolfr—why named Reykjavik—National Anthem—a
sailor-mason—cost of labour, living, and rent—marriage—influence of
præsturs—awful sufferings and disasters—climate—summer salutation—the
Althing—Upper and Lower houses, how constituted—candidate’s
qualification—the franchise—revenue of Iceland—our little company.
CHAPTER IV.
A “Sing Song”—a Yankee masher—an “Amurican stoodent sawng”—start for
Thingvellir—our arrangements with Gudmundsen—a naval Centaur—barren
landscape—absence of cultivation—the tun—halt for dinner—a lava
desert—rain channels and frost mounds—a horseman’s difficulties—our
ponies—Lake Thingvellavatn—the Almannagja—the Oxara—the parsonage—a
serious question for somebody—church endowments—the Præstur—his
emoluments—and qualification—more churches than parsons—the Bishop—the
Latin School—education.
CHAPTER V.
At Thingvellir—the Lögberg—scenes once witnessed there—Execution
Pool—our ponies run away—we start without guide—Ravnegja—lava floods—a
plain of desolation—wilderness, mountain, and sky—Laugerdal—Hekla—we
miss our way—snuffing—handshaking and kissing—honesty of
Icelanders—Efstaydalr—precious grass—the Bruera—a midnight halt—we reach
the Geysirs—and sleep in a church—some of our comforts—our menu—and
ecclesiastical domicile—waiting for the Strokr to spout—the Great Geysir
and the Strokr—their temperature, dimensions, &c.—a contrast—the
Grumbler—“there shall be no night there.”
CHAPTER VI.
A night ride—the ferryman—the Zog—the Kalda—the ponies swim—an extra
rider required—Villingavatn—an Icelandic farm house—Eider down—our
breakfast—great Icelandic writers—no theatre in Iceland—farm
rents—haymaking—sheep-shearing—size of farms—what constitutes a rich
man—fine view—a dreary spot—Hengill—sulphur springs—scenery wilder and
more weird than ever—through the “Doorway”—an elderly equestrienne—side
saddles—women’s heads muffled—we arrive at Reykjavik—our itinerary—we
sail for Akureyri—the Liberator of Iceland—the leader of the Young
Iceland Party—good grass land a safe investment—no agricultural
implements—Snaefellsjökull—rugged coast—French fishing smacks—the
Soudan—the Australian contingent—a refractory navvy—“There she
blows”—whale fishing—discovery of Greenland and America by
Icelanders—Snaeland—origin of name Iceland—national flag.
CHAPTER VII.
Akureyri—Dr. Jon. A. Hjaltalin—temperature of sea and air—Icelandic
gloves—curious custom—state of agriculture—imported seed a
failure—schools of agriculture—reason for neglect of farming—a fact
worth noting—stock raising—quality of grass—wool trade—desirability of
direct trade with England—obstacles—necessity for improvement in
fibre—peculiarity of Iceland sheep—their number—weight of wool—we go
ashore—shark oil factory—a few facts about the shark fishery—the only
trees in Iceland—the Falls of the Glera—shipping ponies—“Jack’s” love
for animals—value of ponies—homeward bound—a strange scenic
effect—within the Arctic Circle—a courteous judge—close time for birds
and animals in Iceland—indigenous birds—the Great Auk—Langenes—in a
fog—deep sea soundings—we land at Thurso—conclusion.
--------------------------------------------------
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
--------------
The following illustrations, drawn by Mr Alexander Shepherd, A.M., of
Bradford, have been prepared—with a few exceptions—from original
photographs taken by the author:—
PLATE I.
1 John o’ Groats House.
2 Duncansby Head.
3 The S. S. Camoens in dock, Leith.
4 Saloon of S. S. Camoens.
5 Amateur Photographers on board of S. S. Camoens.
PLATE II.
1 Heimaey and Heimaeyklett, from the Cemetery.
2 Lava Cairn on Helgafell.
3 An Icelandic whaleboat.
4 The Church at Heimaey.
5 Altar and Candelabrum of ditto.
PLATE III.
1 Turf-and-rubble-cottage, Heimaey.
2 The Althingis Hus, Heimaey.
3 Woman riding man-fashion.
4 Drying birds for fuel.
PLATE IV.
1 View of Reykjavik.
2 Icelandic woman wearing holiday head-dress.
3 „ „ „ “Hufa” or National do.
4 Snaefellsjökull from the sea.
5 Building stone houses in Reykjavik. Quarrying stone
in middle of street. Labourers with hand barrow.
6 The Cathedral and Althing, Reykjavik.
7 Lava plain, near the Observatory, do.
PLATE V.
1 The Almannagja from the South.
2 Lake Thingvellavatn and Hengill.
3 Rocks on summit of Almannagja.
4 A rest by the way.
5 The Almannagja from the North.
PLATE VI.
1 The Upper Fall of the Oxara, Thingvellir.
2 The Lögberg, Thingvellir.
3 View of plain at „
4 The Parsonage, „
5 „ Church, „
6 Execution Pool, „
7 Train of pack-ponies „
PLATE VII.
1 The Bruera and Bridge.
2 Washing clothes in the “laugs,” or hot springs.
3 Tourists’ tents at the Geysirs.
4 The Great Geysir.
5 The Strokr in the sulks.
6 „ in action.
PLATE VIII.
1 Landing place at Akureyri.
2 One of the five trees at „
3 Principal store „
4 Fishing in the Glera „
5 Waterfall of the „ „
6 Shipping ponies „
NOTE.—The route followed is indicated upon the front cover, which has
been specially designed by the writer.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
PLATE I.
1 John o’ Groat’s House.—2 Duncansby Head.
3 The S. S. Camoens in dock, Leith.—4 Saloon of S. S. Camoens.
5 Amateur Photographers on board of S. S. Camoens.
]
--------------------------------------------------
FROM ENGLAND TO ICELAND.
--------------
“This is a traveller, Sir, has ploughed up sea so far
Till both the poles have knocked; has seen the sun
Take coach, and can distinguish the colour
Of his horses and their kinds.”
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.
Far away on the very verge of the Arctic Circle, where the dark waters
of the North Atlantic sweep on to meet the ice-floes of the Polar Sea,
lies the Ultima Thule of the ancients—the Iceland of to-day.
To poets and historians who wrote before and immediately after the
dawning of the Christian era it was a land of mystery, “an island hid by
snow and winter,” as one of them has well expressed it, and even to us,
whose lot has been cast in more enlightened days, it is to some extent a
land of mystery still. Modern science has unlocked many of its secrets,
and explained many of its marvels, but there are, in this great
wonderland of Europe to-day, problems yet unsolved, and regions yet
untraversed, which await the scientific enquirer and the adventurous
explorer.
It is not, however, in either of these capacities that I invite the
reader to accompany me on a trip to Iceland. I make no pretension to be
either the one or the other. It is rather as a companion bent on
enjoying to the full a summer holiday on one of the least-frequented
bye-paths of the Northern Hemisphere; as an admirer of Nature amid her
strangest phenomena, and in her sternest, as well as in her kindliest
moods; as a wanderer familiar with much of the world and with many of
its ways; as an interested observer who has noted the conditions of life
among savage and civilised, in many a foreign clime; as a business man,
keenly alive to the increasing necessity for new markets for our
products and manufactures; and as an advanced political student, to whom
there is much that is both instructive and attractive in the story of
the little community, which for more than a thousand years, in
loneliness and isolation, and amid alternate seasons of deepest
winter-gloom and midnight summer-sunshine, has “lived and moved and had
its being,” heedless of the social revolutions which have broadened the
foundations of human liberty, and comparatively unaffected by the
dynastic changes that have drenched Europe with blood, wasted its
resources, hindered its progress, and turned it, even in this nineteenth
century, into an armed camp of professional cut-throats.
Colonised in 874 by some of the bravest and boldest blood of
Scandinavia, Iceland for four hundred years remained an independent
commonwealth. In 1262 she passed under the yoke of Norway, and
subsequently in 1380 under that of Denmark, whose suzerainty she
acknowledges to-day.
Famed in early times for the power and prowess of her vikings, and for
the genius of her skalds or song writers, she has not only created a
language, of which it has been said that “no one who has not read the
masterpieces written in Icelandic can judge fairly of the capacity,
force, and sweetness of this most classic tongue,” but has made it the
medium of bequeathing to the world, in her historical “sagas”—or prose
epics—a wealth of information regarding the deeds and heroes of the
Teutonic race, which has been of priceless value to the historians of
Europe.
With the loss of her independence, however, she gradually declined in
self-respect, and speedily sank into a state of apathy and lethargic
hopelessness from which, thank Heaven, she is at last beginning to
arouse herself. Rip-van-Winkle-like she has recently risen from a sleep
of centuries, and having, by peaceful agitation, succeeded in obtaining
the right of Parliamentary self-government, there seems to be every
prospect that—in spite of their poverty, and the natural disadvantages
under which they labour—her sons will yet prove themselves worthy of
their high ancestry, and redeem their country from the decadence into
which they have unhappily permitted her to sink.
It is in a spirit of hopefulness for her future, that I take up my pen
to record my impressions of both country and people, as well as with a
sincere desire that I may succeed in creating an interest in, and
furnishing some useful information regarding, a land about which
Englishmen generally know little and perhaps care less.
So much by way of preface. Let me now ask the reader to suppose that we
have started together from a busy manufacturing town in the West Riding
of Yorkshire, and are hurrying on to Edinburgh by Midland Express to
catch the S.S. Camoens, advertised to sail from Leith, at noon on the
8th of July, 1885. We pass Settle, that most charming of Yorkshire
country towns, nestling at the foot of its fine background of encircling
hills, stop for a few minutes for refreshments at Carlisle, where in the
days of the old Border feuds many a Scottish reiver met with a short
shrift and a sudden death, and an hour later cross the Tweed, loved and
immortalised by “The Great Unknown.”
We look with all a Yorkshireman’s interest upon the shed roofs and
smoking chimneys of Hawick and Galashiels, which remind us that we are
travelling through the great textile manufacturing district of Scotland.
We see Melrose, not indeed “by moonlight and alone,” but in the “summer
gloaming” and over the heads of a small crowd of canny Scots who are
thronging the station, and thinking not of “the brave days of old,” not
of princes and prelates, of abbeys and abbots, of monks and monasteries,
but of the state of the wool market, of the prospects of trade, of
“hanks,” “pirns,” and “shots,” and of “warp” and “weft” and “web,” and
of the hundred and one other prosaic matters which demand the attention
of the industrious weaver, who has supplanted the red-handed warrior;
and whose shuttle, as it clicks from morn till night, tells of better
times for mankind than those when the sound most frequently heard in
these same streets was the clash of swords, and the clang of armed men.
We are on our way to a land whose poverty is great and whose progress
has been slow, but as we recall the fact that, according to Macaulay,
Scotland from “having been one of the most turbulent countries in
Europe, has become one of the most highly civilised, one of the most
flourishing, one of the most tranquil;” that according to Froude “she
has scored a deeper mark upon the world’s history than any nation either
ancient or modern, perhaps the Athenians and Jews excepted,” we feel
that the Icelander need never despair, if he will but try to bring about
the regeneration of his country by pursuing, and seeking to perfect
himself in, the peaceful arts of industry.
Night has banished twilight when we reach Edinburgh, and after a trip to
Leith by tram to see the vessel that is to be our home “on the ocean
wave” for the next two or three weeks, we retire to rest, “perchance to
dream” of the discomforts inseparable from “a life on the rolling deep.”
On the following morning we sail from Leith punctually at the appointed
hour, and within five minutes after leaving the quay are face to face
with what seems likely to prove a catastrophe. We are gliding down
between the massive sea walls that line the channel of entrance to the
docks, when a battered old tug, having several mud-barges in tow, steers
right across our course. There is no room in which to turn, and a
collision seems inevitable. Just, however, at the instant when we are
expecting to see the little boat cut in two she manages, somehow or
other, to swing clear of our bows as we forge past. A sound of crashing
timber is heard as her stern is forced against one of the barges behind
her. A solitary seaman, who appears to be both captain and crew, rushes
to the bulwarks, and in a dancing rage shakes his clenched fist at us in
impotent fury, at the same time pouring forth a torrent of vituperation
of which fortunately only a few words reach our ears, though if judged
by the little we hear, his language is certainly strong enough to have
travelled further.
The sun is shining pleasantly from a bright blue sky, and the landmarks
of “Auld Reekie” stand out grandly on the horizon behind the intervening
wilderness of roofs and chimneys that slope upwards from port to
capital. Arthur’s Seat, Salisbury Crags, the Calton Hill, the Castle,
the Scott Monument, and other picturesque features which combine to make
Edinburgh, what it undoubtedly is, the most beautiful city in the world,
are all clearly discernible by the naked eye.
On the shores of the Firth, as we steam towards Granton, before heading
for the ocean, lie the lovely seaside resorts which add so much to the
pleasures of life in the Scottish metropolis. Having transferred the
managing agent to a gaily painted tug, we circle round and steer
north-east, passing on our left the cultivated slopes and quiet little
coast-towns of the kingdom of Fife, while away ahead, over our starboard
bow, rises the shadowy form of the famous Bass Rock, whose name is
associated with some of the grimmest tragedies of Scottish history, and
in whose dungeons, in the dark days of ecclesiastical tyranny and
persecution, so many of those “of whom the world was not worthy,” were
left to perish miserably.
Keeping well in towards the land we make steady progress at the rate of
about nine knots per hour, and have sighted and passed the lights of
Aberdeen before bed-time. Early on the following morning we find
ourselves off Duncansby Head, the extreme north-east point of Scotland,
a bold and dangerous promontory. Not a tree nor a human habitation is to
be seen on the landscape till we round the point, when we all rush to
the bridge, glass in hand, to take a look at John o’ Groat’s House, a
rather pretentious-looking new hotel built in the Scottish baronial
style of architecture, and situated near the beach, within a stone’s
throw of the Pentland Firth, whose powerful tide, so dreaded in stormy
weather, is breaking heavily upon the rocks.
A flag-staff in the centre of a mound on the left of the hotel, is
pointed out as marking the original site of Mr John de Grout’s
residence. In some old maps, however, this is indicated upon the summit
of Duncansby Head. A small cairn of stones erected there seems to
support the theory of those antiquarians who are inclined to accept
these maps as correct, and who contend that in the old piratical days it
was much more usual for a man to build his house, as the eagle builds
its eyrie, upon some bold cliff or headland whence he could watch for
danger, and prepare to meet it; than upon a flat, or in a hollow, where
he would be liable to be surprised. Be this as it may, it is a
satisfaction to all of us to see a spot which geographical circumstances
have rendered so interesting.
Passing through the channel, between Stroma and South Ronaldsha, two of
the Orkney Islands, and leaving the Skerries with their two lighthouses
behind us, we shape our course for the north-west.
“As we pace along
Upon the giddy footing of the hatches”
the outlines of Dunnet Head the most northerly, and Cape Wrath the most
significantly named, point on the wild and rockbound coast of Scotland,
gradually fade from view, and long before nightfall we are out in the
open sea, and experiencing the unpleasant effects of a heavy swell in
the North Atlantic. Towards evening the breeze freshens though the
passengers do not. Seats at table began to be vacant early yesterday,
and these increase in number “as” the ship and “the moments roll.” Even
I, who have hitherto defied Neptune on many a stormy ocean in both
hemispheres succumb at last, and begin to study the waves with a
pathetic interest, and to find myself saying, in the words of the old
song, “Oh, dear, what can the matter be?”
On the morning of the third day out, (Saturday, July 11th), the breeze
increases to a strength of about nine windforce, equivalent to what is
known among seamen as “a fresh gale,” ten being “a strong gale,” eleven
“a storm,” and twelve “a hurricane.” The waves are tolerably high, being
estimated by our captain at from ten to fifteen feet above sea-level or
from twenty to twenty-five feet from hollow to crest, and the Camoens,
which rolls fearfully, is a mere plaything under such conditions. It is
needless to say that the number of invalids does not decrease.
During the afternoon the wind moderates, and shortly before dinner we
sight the coast of Iceland, whose highest mountain, Orœfajökull (6,426
feet), with its snow-clad crest and slopes, and extensive glaciers is
distinctly visible through the clear bright air at a distance of more
than seventy miles. A very considerable portion of the surface of
Iceland is covered with glaciers, which feed the mountain torrents, and
the gradual subsidence of which forms not one of the least of the
terrible dangers that constantly threaten immense tracts of country with
destruction. Orœfa is the apex, or coast extremity, of Vatnajökull, the
largest of these, an icefield, which covers an area of between 3,000 and
4,000 square miles, or about one-twelfth of the total area of the
island. The word “jökull,”—meaning ice hill—is attached as a terminal to
the names of all mountains on which glaciers are known to exist.
As we gradually near the land Orœfa rises grandly beyond the low level
plain that lies like a long black line between its base and the ocean.
This plain, of the extent of which we can form no conception from the
sea, stretches away back to the coast range for a distance of about
thirty miles, and is at least about twice that length from east to west.
The fogs which are continually, and often very unexpectedly, encountered
in these latitudes render it a source of anxiety to navigators, who not
unfrequently find themselves aground before they are conscious of
danger, there being neither lights nor landmarks to guide them. Though
but sparsely peopled, it is covered with nutritious grass, and has
become the great pony-breeding district of Iceland.
Ever since we began to steer north the days have been growing longer,
and night having now quite disappeared, we are able to read small print
by the light of the sun at what the chronometer indicates as midnight,
and can distinguish the coast quite clearly at an hour when in more
southern latitudes it would be shrouded in darkness.
It is not till after 1 a.m., as we are passing Portland Point, and its
wonderful water-worn arch and fantastic group of basaltic needle-rocks,
that we go down to our berths, comforted by the captain’s assurance that
if we do not find ourselves high and dry upon the summit of some
volcanic cone which may suddenly rise under us “from the bottom of the
deep blue sea,” we may expect to be lying safely at anchor off the
Westmann’s Islands long before it is time to get up. In 1783, a month
previous to the outbreak of the Shaptarjökull—the most terrible eruption
that has ever occurred in Iceland—a submarine volcano near what are
called the Fire Rocks, forty miles south-west of Cape Reykjanes, burst
forth and covered the sea with pumice stone to such a depth and extent
that ships were impeded by it. Within a few months the volcano
disappeared, but now forms a dangerous reef.
Having been in Java six months after the catastrophe at Krakatoa, which
in August, 1883, destroyed thirty thousand human beings; having seen the
vast fields of pumice stone then floating in the Indian Ocean and in the
Java Sea; and sailed in a steamer which, while lying in the Straits of
Sunda, two days subsequent to the dreadful disaster above referred to,
had a marvellous escape, only succeeding with the greatest difficulty in
forcing her way through the immense mass of volcanic scum that covered
the ocean for hundreds of miles round about to a depth of several feet;
having seen evidences of the fearful nature of a submarine outburst in
the huge breaches, in the massive sea wall at Batavia, made by the spent
force of the great wave which—more than a hundred miles away—had
absolutely swept two thriving cities—Anjers and Telokbetong—out of
existence; and having slept at the foot of Gedeh, a burning mountain at
Scindanlaija, which only a few years ago caused great destruction of
life and property at Tjandoer, the captain’s grim joke has a
significance for me that it might not otherwise have possessed. It does
not, however, disturb my rest.
On awaking, the absence of motion, and a strange stillness unbroken by
the horrid grinding of the propeller—that greatest of all the bêtes
noires of the ocean traveller—satisfy me that we have safely reached
port at last. Hurrying on deck I find myself gazing upon a scene of wild
grandeur and picturesque beauty, which charms and impresses me, and
whose attractiveness increases as I become familiar with its details.
We are lying at anchor, in smooth water, in a pretty little bay situated
on the north shore of Heimaey—(Home Isle)—the largest of the group known
as the Vestmanneyjar or Westmann’s Islands. About a mile ahead of us, on
the left shore, and partly hidden behind a rampart of black weed-covered
rocks, lies the collection of wooden sheds, and huts, and
turf-and-rubble dwellings, in which a total population of five hundred
and ten souls lives, and carries on its chief occupation of fish-curing.
The town extends from the sea inland towards Helgafell, a volcanic cone
about 750 feet high, whose shelving stone-strewn slopes, and jagged
cairn-crowned crest, standing out clearly against the bright blue
cloudless sky, form a fine background to the view in that direction.
Turning our eyes away from Helgafell and Heimaey, and with a passing
glance at the pretty little Danish sloops moored opposite the wharf, we
face to the right about, where a gigantic rocky mountain promontory,
with two huge humps known respectively as Heimaeyklett and Ystaklett,
stretches itself, like a protecting arm, between us and the western sea.
Its precipitous inaccessible overhanging cliffs tower hundreds of feet
above the deep blue waters that kiss its feet, and every ledge and nook,
and cranny of the bold brown beetling crags that frown down upon us is
crowded with sea-fowl, whose screams as they watch us from their places
of vantage on the rock, or fly in tens of thousands above our heads,
fill the air with a continuous clamour. From the verge of the precipice
grass-grown slopes incline steeply upwards to the summits of both humps,
and on these a few sheep can be seen grazing in places where, to all
appearance, there is scarcely foothold, even for a goat.
The clearness and purity of the atmosphere in this part of the world,
when the weather is fine,—which is not very often,—has been remarked by
many travellers. It would be impossible for us to view the scene around
us under more favourable conditions in this respect. On the coast of the
mainland, distant ten or twelve miles across the intervening Strait,
Myrdalsjökull, another well-known and beautiful volcano, asserts itself
magnificently amid the lower cones by which it is surrounded. Its white
peak, pure as an angel’s robe, its glaciers, and its slopes on which
purple and silver meet at the snow-line, gleam in glorious loveliness
under the morning sunshine.
In mid-channel Elirey and Bjarnarey, two brown-faced weather-worn
basaltic island-rocks, with crowns of brightest emerald, rise almost
perpendicularly out of the shimmering sea, not only heightening the
effect of the scene by affording a resting-place for the eye, but
forming a striking and picturesque addition to one of the most beautiful
panoramas I have seen. We are loth to leave the deck even for breakfast,
but console ourselves with the reflection that we shall be able to see a
good deal during the twelve hours at our disposal before the time fixed
for sailing.
Though it is Sunday morning, the cargo is meanwhile being rapidly
transferred to the large whale boats, which began to fetch it soon after
our arrival, and from the number of men employed, and the evident bustle
and excitement on shore, I conclude that the little white church, which
forms the most conspicuous object on the outskirts of the town, will
have plenty of room for the accommodation of strangers, and that the
poor præstur will not improbably have to preach to a “beggarly array of
empty benches.”
The coming of the Camoens is a great event in the lonely Westmann’s
Islands. It not only breaks the monotony of what must be a dull and
dreary existence, but is a source of general rejoicing amongst all
classes of the community, for her freight is precious in the eyes of a
people who are compelled to depend upon an outside, and to them far-away
world, not only for the very means of life, but for many of the
comforts, and all the luxuries, which their limited means will permit
them to enjoy. I come to the conclusion, therefore, that the recording
angel who with a tear blotted out Uncle Toby’s oath will bend a
pardoning eye upon what to some would appear to be Sabbath desecration,
but what is really and in the truest sense a work of necessity.
--------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER II.
“Yet still even here, content can spread a charm,
Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm.
Though poor the peasant’s hut, his feast though small,
He sees his little lot, the lot of all;
Sees no contiguous palace rear its head
To shame the meanness of his humble shed;
No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal
To make him loathe his vegetable meal;
But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil,
Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil.”
GOLDSMITH.
“Who’s for shore?” cries the captain immediately after breakfast. “I
am,” “and I,” “and I,” respond about a dozen of us, and in a few minutes
we are afloat in the gig, and steering towards Heimaey. We soon find
ourselves in very shallow water, and passing over, and between, a number
of black reefs, which must not only be dangerous to the fishing craft in
stormy weather, but present a grand sight
“When there’s a gale a blowin’, and the waves run in and break
On the shore with a roar like thunder, and the brown cliffs seem to
shake.”
The weather is rarely such that the Camoens can lie at her present
anchorage, for during the north and north-east gales the bay is “a hell
of waters” which it is impossible to enter.
I am reminded very strongly of another lovely summer Sunday morning
nearly two years ago, when my companion and myself landed, under exactly
similar circumstances, on the very spot where Captain Cook first put
foot on the shores of New Zealand. In the pier at Heimaey, crowded with
men and women, and in the wooden huts beyond it on the hill side, and
along the beach, I seem to see Gisborne once more.
But how different the social conditions and prospects of the two
communities,—of the Danish and the British colonist! Iceland with an
area of 40,000 square miles—little less than that of the North Island of
New Zealand, which contains 44,000,—was colonised a thousand years ago;
New Zealand a hundred years ago. Yet the population of the one, which in
the year 1100 was estimated at 50,000 has, after a lapse of nearly eight
centuries, only increased to 72,000, while the other is inhabited to-day
by half a million of people of European descent. Both countries are of
volcanic origin, both are subject to earthquakes, both boast of their
burning mountains and geysers. One, however, to use an expression more
forcible than elegant which fell from the lips of a sailor on the
Camoens, is “naething but a dawmed cinder,” the other is, comparatively
speaking, a Paradise.
As I stand on the pier a few minutes later and watch the busy gangs of
women and girls engaged in carrying sacks of flour on handbarrows to the
neighbouring stores; or stroll among the hardy fishermen who are loafing
about in groups, eagerly discussing the news brought by our good ship;
or exchange smiles with the neatly-dressed, bright-looking,
good-featured little lads and lassies, who are looking on with childish
curiosity; I cannot help wishing that I could spirit them all away to
the “Brighter Britain” in the Southern Seas, where Nature has bestowed
her blessings upon man with bounteous profusion. I suppose, however,
that were I to tell the people round me what is passing through my mind
there is scarcely a man among them who would not turn his eyes all the
more fondly towards the little cot where he was born and bred, and where
he no doubt hopes “to die at home at last.”
“Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms,
And dear that hill that lifts him to the storms;
And as a child, when scaring sounds molest,
Clings close and closer to the mother’s breast;
So the loud torrent and the whirlwind’s roar,
But bind him to his native mountains more.”
Meanwhile, the women, who are working in couples, toil like ponies, and
the crews of the whale boats are of course actively employed; but it
seems to me that some of the strong men who are looking on, with their
hands in their pockets, and their pipes in their mouths, ought to be
between the shafts of the handbarrows instead of “their sisters and
their cousins and their aunts.” It would be unfair to forget that they
take their share of work, as well as of danger and hardship, during the
fishing season; but I am afraid that the condition of woman in Iceland
is no better than in the fishing and agricultural districts of England
and Scotland, though probably scarcely so bad as that of the girls whom
I have seen slaving round the coal pits of Lancashire.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
PLATE II.
1 Heimaey and Heimaeyklett, from the Cemetery.
2 Lava Cairn on Helgafell.—3 An Icelandic Whaleboat.
4 The Church at Heimaey.—5 Altar and Candelabrum of Church.
]
Let me describe the appearance of the people near me. “Place aux dames;”
of course, if only as a compliment to their industry. They are strong
fresh-faced fair-haired maids and matrons, who regard us modestly, but
curiously, out of cold pale-blue long-lashed eyes, as they trot
backwards and forwards with an energy and an alertness which speak
volumes for their physical powers. As a rule they are by no means
pretty, but there are, of course, exceptions, and here and there we see
a face which would attract notice, even in an English ball-room, where,
I have no hesitation in saying, one may look for—and find—the loveliest
women in the world. Their figures are not good, as is to be expected
from their mode of life, and owe nothing to their dress, which is
exceedingly plain and unbecoming, though, no doubt, warm and
comfortable. Their gowns, made of linsey-woolsey, or similar heavy
material, are sombre in colour, unrelieved by a single bit of bright
ribbon, or a yard of trimming, tight-sleeved, and just short enough in
the skirt to afford every opportunity of admiring a shapely foot, a neat
ankle, or a well-turned leg, were there any or either of these to
admire, which unfortunately there is not. A loose cotton jacket, a
coloured apron, thick grey worsted stockings, and peculiar sheepskin
shoes, pointed at the toes, without soles, and sewn into shape by
cross-stitching, complete their costume. The latter, which would make
very comfortable slippers, seem to be ill-adapted for a country whose
roads,—where there are any,—are so rough and stone-strewn, but are
nevertheless generally worn, imported boots and shoes being rarely seen
among the poorer classes. The hair, which is generally fair, is smoothed
down neatly on each side of the brow, and plaited at the back into two
long queues which are looped up, and fastened to the crown of the head,
in such a fashion as to form cross-festoons.
Every woman, however, has on one distinctive article of attire, the
“hufa,” or national head-dress, a small knitted cap, in shape resembling
a night-cap, worn jauntily on either side of the head—generally on the
left—like the forage cap of a British hussar. It is invariably black, no
other colour being used, is made of either silk or wool, and is
ornamented with a heavy black silk tassel which hangs down as far as the
shoulder from a brass, silver-gilt, or solid silver ferrule about two
inches long, and half an inch in diameter, that adds greatly to its
smartness.
The men, bronzed and bearded, are dressed in rough woollen jackets and
trousers, wear caps, billycocks or sou-westers, and bear a strong family
likeness to “oor fisher folk at hame,” the only thing which strikes us
as peculiar being the sheepskin shoes to which I have already referred.
Our worthy captain—one of the kindest-hearted and most genial men I have
ever met, and certainly the most obliging skipper I have ever sailed
with,—informs me that the Westmann’s Islands were originally so called
because they were discovered, and occupied, by emigrants from Ireland,
who are said to have been the first Icelandic colonists. On this point
let me quote Dr Jon A. Hjaltalin, one of the best informed and most
reliable authorities in Iceland, a gentleman who has lectured in many
towns in England, and to whom I had the pleasure of being introduced at
Akureyri. In a little historical pamphlet which he wrote on the occasion
of the “Thousandth Anniversary of the Norwegian Settlement in Iceland,”
and which he has been kind enough to send me since my return, Dr
Hjaltalin says “If we can believe the Irish monk Dicuil the Irish were
the first discoverers of Iceland. Dicuil, who wrote his book ‘De mensura
orbis terrarum’ about the year 825, states that, some thirty years
before, clerics had told him that they had been to an island far to the
north, where there had been daylight throughout the night at the summer
solstice, and where they were able to do whatever they wanted by night
as well as by day. Local names, preserved to this day, as well as the
records of the old Icelanders, prove the fact that Irish monks had
visited the island before the Norwegians.”
Subsequently the Scandinavian settlement took place, and emigrants
arrived from the Orkneys, the North of Scotland, and Ireland. It is not
surprising, therefore, that I should remark to my companion, as we leave
the pier, that if the children of Heimaey were at a port in my own
country, instead of where they are I should pass them without notice; it
is so evident they spring from the same stock as ourselves. It is worthy
of note before I leave this subject, “that the Irish do not seem to have
met with any human being, or aborigines, when they discovered Iceland,
nor have any traces of such been found in later times.”
Passing between the two lines of female porters, who are ascending and
descending like the angels on Jacob’s ladder, we turn to the right into
a narrow macadamised path, or street, containing several little
dwelling-houses, two or three sheds or stores crammed with imported
produce, and a number of rough wooden huts filled with fish either cured
or in process of being cured. Outside each of the latter stands a deal
table on which the fish are prepared, the heads being cut off and dried
for home consumption, and the remainder set aside for export.
These dried cods’ heads tied up in bundles, and ready for conveyance
into the interior on pony-back, may be seen everywhere, and you will
probably not meet a single train of ponies, on any track in the whole
country, whose load does not include some of these necessary articles of
diet. I am told on enquiry that they are worth about a penny each, which
I consider a high price, and that, in times of scarcity, after all the
flesh has been carefully picked off, the very bones are often eaten,
having first been softened in buttermilk. The offal is thrown to the
dogs and ponies, which sometimes also get the powdered fish bones when
these can be spared by the family. In rear of some of the houses in the
outskirts we observe large square platforms built of round undressed
lava stones, and raised about a foot from the ground. On these the fish
are exposed to dry in the sun.
The stench in this neighbourhood exceeds the combined odours of the nine
and forty distinct smells for which Cologne is said to be remarkable,
and is such that, with our noses in the air, and taking care to sniff as
seldom as possible, we hurry on towards Helgafell, which we have made up
our minds to ascend before returning to the Camoens for lunch. We stop
for a moment at the house of the Syslumann or Sheriff to say au revoir
to our friend the captain who has some business to transact with this
official. Then we strike across a few fields so thickly covered with
stones of every shape and size that it seems as if Heaven must have
rained them from the skies; jump one or two low stone fences; stumble
over some of the thousands of green frost-made hummocks that form such a
curious feature of the landscape; tramp along the bottom of several of
the foot-deep winding rain-channels that are commonly used as paths; and
then boldly attack the precipitous mountain slope. Up, up, up we go, now
slipping upon black shifting volcanic sand; now tramping upon
sharp-edged fragments of lava; now clambering up very steep places on
hands and knees; and not unfrequently pausing to take breath, and to
wipe the perspiration from our brows at some friendly boulder, which
affords us secure foothold, or the opportunity of sitting down.
We arrive at the edge of the crater at last, and descend into its grassy
hollow, where a few sheep are quietly grazing. Making a final rush
towards the cairns which some of our companions have already reached, we
see a panorama on every side of us to which no other name than
magnificent can possibly be applied. In front on the distant mainland
both Hekla and Myrdalsjökull rise in all their snowy beauty; and the
islands of Elirey and Bjarnarey, the harbour with its shipping, and
guardian promontory, the little straggling town stretching along the
beach and inland towards the farmhouses on its outskirts that stand
within their small stone-fenced enclosures or crofts under grass or
potatoes,—green spots which look like so many oases in a waste of
treeless barrenness—are all spread out before us. On our right and on
our left, and behind us, washing the shores of the low encircling line
of hills that beats back its surges, is the Atlantic Ocean, studded with
huge island-rocks of various shapes and sizes,—(including one which we
specially note on account of its extraordinary resemblance to a
haystack)—and so calm and peaceful under the flood of sunshine that
pours down upon its glassy surface from the blue heavens above, that one
can scarce believe that it is so often a source of dread and danger and
death to the poor fishermen of Heimaey.
We spend half an hour in gazing admiringly upon the scene before us, and
then reluctantly, but rapidly, make our way down the hillside towards
the little white-washed church, at which we arrive shortly before the
hour of service. The præstur, or pastor, and a few of his flock are
standing outside in serious conversation, and we take advantage of the
opportunity to enter. There is only one door, which is under the
hexagonal belfry, whose clock with three dials is a hopeful sign in a
place where one sees so many evidences of poverty and so few of
progress. There are six windows with diamond panes, and the interior has
a clean and comfortable appearance. A chastely decorated altar, railed
off in front, occupies the end opposite the porchway. A handsome
candelabrum, a well-executed painting of a sacred subject, and two
smaller pictures, one on either side of the latter, greatly add to the
general effect, which is altogether rather pretty.
It is near the hour of prayer, and men, women, and children may be seen
approaching from different directions. The sobriety and seriousness of
their demeanour, the neatness and cleanliness of their dress, and the
general air of well-being and well-doing which characterises them,
impress me favourably, and I cannot help recalling the fact that in many
of our crowded cities at home, there are at the same moment, thousands,
aye tens of thousands of people, who though rich in comparison with the
members of this little Icelandic congregation would be unable, even if
they were willing, to go to church so comfortably and so respectably
clad. It occurs to me that there may be advantages even in a life of
poverty and isolation. I remember that Cæsar, in his commentaries, over
which I used to pore in my school days, records the fact that of the
three great tribes among whom Gaul was divided in his time the Belgæ
were the bravest, “because,” as he puts it, “merchants had least access
to them to import those things which tended to effeminate their minds.”
As I remember the passage it occurs to me that the Icelander ought
perhaps to be grateful to Heaven for the poverty which protects him from
“luxury’s contagion weak and vile,” and leaves him in possession of
virtues which under other circumstances he might have been unable to
retain.
The established form of religion in Iceland is that of the Lutheran
Church, which superseded Roman Catholicism between 1540 and 1551, as the
latter had superseded Paganism in the year 1000, at which time the
worship of Thor and Odin and the other deities of Scandinavia prevailed.
The story of the manner in which Christianity was introduced is an
interesting one. At a meeting of the Althing, or Parliament, it was
proposed to abolish heathenism, but the proposition was strongly
opposed, and there appeared to be danger of a war of religions, which
was, however, happily averted by the judgment of the Speaker, or
President of the Althing, who influenced by the bribes,—perhaps even
more than by the arguments,—of the Christians accepted the task of
proposing such legislation as would satisfy both parties. The curious
manner in which he prepared himself for, and effected this undertaking
is thus referred to by Dr Hjaltalin, who says “He (the President) went
to bed, and covered himself up for twenty-four hours. Then he rose, and
called all the assembled multitude to follow him to the Lögberg or Law
Rock. On arriving there he explained the serious consequences to which
the disruption of the Commonwealth was likely to lead. ‘If we have not
laws and religion in common,’ said he, ‘our peace is gone.’ Such was the
persuasive power of his words that both parties promised to keep the
laws propounded by him. He then proposed that all Icelanders should
become Christians by being baptised, but to pacify the heathen party,
suggested that they should be permitted to worship the old gods and to
eat horseflesh in secret. If the latter, however, was done in the
presence of witnesses, it was to be punished with outlawry. These
propositions were accepted by both parties, and thus Christianity was
established in the land.” Would that all religious differences could be
as happily settled now-a-days by the exercise of a little mutual
forbearance, and in reliance upon the old adage, “magna est veritas et
prævalebit.”
From God’s house we proceed to God’s acre, a small rectangular area in
two divisions enclosed within four walls of turf and rubble, and covered
with a number of green mounds, from two to three feet high, each marking
a grave. One or two of these are railed round, and iron crosses have
been placed on others—(in one instance a quaint and artistically-carved
headstone)—but in nineteen cases out of twenty the Westmann’s Islanders
seem to share, not the ostentatious pride and vainglory of the great
emperor Shah Jehan, who built for himself and a favourite wife the
grandest and most costly sepulchre in the world, the famous Tag Mahal at
Agra; but rather the touching humility of his daughter, whose pious wish
engraved on the simple stone that marks her last resting place amid the
ruined tombs of Delhi, is beautifully expressed in these words, which I
remember listening to with a feeling of reverence as our guide
translated them: “Let no rich canopy cover my head; grass alone is the
only covering for the poor in spirit.”
On our way from the city of the dead to the pier we have once more to
pass through the city of the living, and the first shanty that there
attracts our attention is the “Thing Hus,” or Parliament house, which is
really the Town Hall, although dignified with a higher title. It is a
shabby little wooden shed, to extend or reconstruct which on the same
scale would not cost many pence in the pound on even the rateable value
of Heimaey.
Near it are several curious-looking dwellings, one of which we stop to
examine. I will attempt to describe it. Imagine a low one-storied
building, irregular in shape, and looking as if it had been built by
instalments to provide room for a crib for every separate addition to
the owner’s family. The roof is made of shingle, but the walls, built
principally of rough undressed lava stones, imbedded in layers of turf
which bind them together and fill up the chinks, are thick and
substantial. Entrance is effected through a low wooden porchway leading
into a long narrow dark passage, with turf-and-rubble walls, and a mud
floor. This passage admits to another which crosses it at right angles,
and is if possible dingier still. Into this second passage the doors of
several stuffy, inconvenient, badly-ventilated, smoke-filled dens—(it
would be a libel on the English language to call them rooms)—open. The
cooking is carried on in the “Eld hus” (Fire House) or kitchen, and the
smoke escapes into the chimney through a hole in the roof. The whole of
the exterior, except parts of the shingle roof, is covered with green
sods, which convert it into an inhabited tumulus, on which the grass
flourishes so luxuriantly that it seems a pity the half-starved ponies
cannot walk on the perpendicular like the house fly, for if they could
they might find excellent pasture on the walls and roof of the mansion
before us.
There are a number of more modern houses built of wood, roofed with
shingle, and painted drab. We enter one of these on the courteous
invitation of the doctor, who has just been good enough to explain to us
in very broken English that the ghastly-looking, mutilated, long-billed,
dark-feathered objects which are hanging from a sort of miniature
goalpost in an adjoining croft are the bodies of sea-fowl which have
been killed, and are being dried for—“For what! Sir?” we ask in
surprise? “For fuel,” is the reply. “The breast having been removed for
food the remainder of the bird will probably be used to cook it.” I have
eaten meals in South Africa prepared over a fire made of cakes of dried
cow-dung; I have warmed myself in New Zealand and in the American
backwoods at a log fire; I have been half-stifled in a Highland shieling
by the smoke of a peat fire; I have drunk many a cup of tea in Japan
infused with water boiled on a smouldering fire of charcoal ashes, but
this is the first time among savage or uncivilised that I have come
across fuel for a dried-bird fire. “Necessity,” I remark, “is said to be
the ‘mother of invention.’ If so the life of a Patent Office official in
Iceland ought to be no sinecure, for ‘necessity’ stares one in the face
everywhere.”
The doctor’s residence,—a humble one for the only consulting physician
and surgeon in the Westmann’s Islands,—seems to consist of little more
than what the Scotch call a “but” and a “ben.” It is scantily and
plainly furnished, and contrasts somewhat ludicrously with the gilded
salons of some of his professional brethren in the chief city of the
adjacent island of Great Britain who, with perhaps little more skill and
knowledge but greater opportunities than those of our kindly host,
pocket fees, in the course of a single forenoon, which exceed the total
annual income received by the Icelandic Esculapius for looking after the
health of an entire community. From this reference to the social
surroundings of a leading citizen,—one of an élite which scarcely
includes more than the Syslumann (Sheriff), the præstur (parson), the
doctor, and a vice-consul or two,—it will be inferred that the
Westmann’s Islands cannot boast many people of fashion or “culchaw,” and
that the population generally is a very humble one.
After lunch, having obtained permission to take one of the ship’s boats,
we row ourselves to the caves of Heimaklett and Ystaklett, and spend an
hour in sailing into these, in awakening the echoes, and in ineffectual
attempts, at the risk of broken bones and worn-out unmentionables, to
scale the cliffs, and get among the screaming puffins that literally
darken the air above us as they dart or circle over our heads. Then we
go ashore again and take another saunter through the streets, and then
dinner-hour arrives, and our experiences of the Westmann’s Islands for
the present come to an end.
About 9.0 p.m. we sail for Reykjavik, and as we are slowly steaming out
of the bay, a whale boat, manned by six rowers, rounds Ystaklett and
makes for Heimaey. An Icelander from America, who has just joined us,
says that the occupants of the boat having sighted the Camoens on the
previous evening have come over from the mainland to buy provisions. He
tells me that his countrymen are miserably poor, and that this year they
are even worse off than usual, the fishing having proved a failure for
the third year in succession, and the grass being late and scarce in
consequence of the inclemency of the weather. Fancy a state of being in
which an entire community literally depends for existence upon the fish
it catches in a stormy sea, and the grass yielded by its untilled
pastures! He adds that on the mainland people are even poorer than on
the islands, and mentions the case of a woman who recently made her way
on foot along the coast, and crossed the Straits in an open boat, to beg
bread for her starving children. She was so emaciated and so weak and
worn out from famine and exhaustion that she had to be carried from the
pier to a place of shelter.
The charity of the poor towards the poor is proverbial.
Few, save the poor, feel for the poor,
The rich know not how hard
It is to be of needful rest
And needful food debarr’d.
The poverty-stricken Icelander is no exception to a rule that happily
applies to all mankind. Out of their scanty and insufficient store the
people of Heimaey supplied the poor creature with food for herself and
family, and sent her on her way rejoicing.
In the course of conversation with my informant, who was once a clerk in
a store in the Westmann’s Islands, but has for some years been earning
65 dols. a month as a foreman platelayer on the Denver and Rio Grande
Railway, I learn that a number of his countrymen have emigrated to
America during recent years, not a few of whom have joined the Mormons.
One almost regrets that the whole population cannot be deported en
masse, but with local self-government, increasing knowledge, and the
stimulus of unrestricted trade, it is not improbable that the
Icelander,—who has hitherto been “contentit wi’ little” and “canty wi’
mair,”—may yet succeed in making something out of his inhospitable
country, whose progress has been so hindered and handicapped by the
ravages of fire, frost, flood and famine.
It is not with Nature alone that he has to contend. He has but few
sources of wealth, and even these until comparatively recently have been
prevented from development by iniquitous laws imposed upon him by the
Danish Government whose subject he is. Did I say sources of wealth? I
withdraw the words. Let me rather say means of existence. Until a few
years ago—when the Leith firm to whom our good ship belongs began to
open up a trade with his country on the basis of ready-money, which they
imported from Denmark for the purpose,—he scarcely knew what money was
like, except in the petty transactions of daily life.
Between 1600 and 1788 he was shut out by the most tyrannous restrictive
legislation, from direct commercial intercourse with the world, being
compelled to do all his business with a few Danish Trading Companies,
who had, by heavy payments, secured from Government the privilege of
absolute monopoly. These companies took from the Icelander his dried
fish, his shark oil, his wool, and his skins, and gave him in exchange
the barest necessaries, and such articles as were absolutely
indispensable in his simple mode of life. On all imports the importer,
being master of the situation, naturally put enormous profits.
The consequence of a business thus conducted on the basis of what is
known as “the tick and truck system” was that not only the commercial
prosperity, but the improvement of the social and intellectual
well-being of the population were grievously retarded. And as if to
render the condition of the Icelander more hopeless and intolerable
still the Danish Government by law prohibited him from building or
purchasing a decked vessel; a high-handed and one-sided policy the
object of which was to make the monopoly of the trading companies more
secure, and by the establishment of protection in its worst form to
enrich the mother country at the expense of its great island-colony.
It is unnecessary to dwell too strongly upon the iniquity of the past
policy pursued by Denmark, and it would ill become a Briton to do so in
the face of the fact that a similar line of action adopted by the
British Parliament years ago led to the almost total extinction of the
Irish woollen trade. When we behold the mote that is in our brother’s
eye it is well to consider the beam that is in our own.
In 1788 there was a break in the cloud of misrule which had so long
over-shadowed Iceland. The law relating to decked vessels was repealed,
and the power of the monopolists broken to a certain extent, inasmuch as
not only Danes, but all Danish subjects,—(which of course included the
Icelanders)—were permitted to engage in foreign trade. On the 25th of
April, 1854, the last vestige of monopoly was swept away, and from that
date until the present hour, the ports of the country have been open to
the traders of the whole world. Let us hope that the present policy
which has happily inaugurated a better state of things, both politically
and commercially, may result in an improved condition of the people, and
in the development of the resources of the country; and that the sun of
prosperity may rise and shine upon a land which has enjoyed few natural
advantages, and which has hitherto been prevented, by the unwisdom of
its rulers, from turning even these to the best account.
The Icelander is accused by his detractors of being lethargic, indolent,
and wanting in ambition and enterprise. If he be so, and I am not
disposed to deny it, the reason is, in my opinion, not far to seek. No
man will work under conditions similar to those imposed upon the
galley-slave, and to enrich either trader or landed proprietor who has
him at his mercy, and who, whether by a hateful system of monopoly, or
by unjust and oppressive laws, can prevent him from enjoying the fruits
of his labour. Take away from a man or from a nation the incentive to
exertion, by denying him or them the legitimate rewards of toil, and
there must be moral and material deterioration. It has been so in
Iceland, as it has been in that unhappy country whose sons were its
first discoverers, and for much of whose misery and discontent and crime
we, as a nation, are seriously responsible. Happily in both cases rulers
have become alive to a higher sense of their duties, and now see that it
is only by drastic reforms and just laws that they can bring about
political regeneration.
More happily still the people recognising the force and truth of the
Laureate’s words:—
“Are figs of thistles? or grapes of thorns?
How can a despot set men free?”
have taken their future, to a great extent, into their own hands, and
are looking forward to better times in the immediate future. May the
results in both countries be shown by their marked improvement in social
and moral well-being, and by their progress in all those things which
tend to exalt nations, and which alone can make them great!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
PLATE III.
1 Turf and rubble-cottage, Heimaey.
2 The Althingis Hus, Heimaey.—3 Woman riding man-fashion.
4 Drying birds for fuel.
]
--------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER III.
When I was at home I was in a better place,
But travellers must be content.—SHAKESPEARE.
Last night after leaving the Westmann’s Islands we lingered on deck till
the weird rocks that stud the ocean on the west of Heimaey had become
mere black specks on the silver sea, and the Midnight Sun, which had
just set, was filling the heavens with a halo of crimson and gold as he
rose once more on the distant horizon where sea and sky met.
But nevertheless we were up early this morning to gaze curiously on the
capital of Iceland which we find ourselves rapidly nearing about
breakfast time. On our left a huge whale-backed mountain-island rises
magnificently from the calm blue sea, almost within a stone’s throw of
the extreme point of the barren treeless promontory that stretches away
for a mile or two in the direction of the town. An iron beacon near the
shore, and a few wooden out-buildings and a farm house on the ridge, are
the only objects in the immediate foreground; and there is not a sign of
cultivation of any kind to be seen anywhere. A round tower—the
Observatory—crowns the summit of the promontory and overlooks the
strange collection of dingy painted weather-board houses, huts, and
sheds, which form the city of Reykjavik, and which extend down the slope
to the black, weed-strewn, rock-bound shore, where two or three shelving
wooden piers, several barn-like stores, a number of small boats, a few
fishing smacks, and a group of men engaged in mending their nets, can be
distinguished without the aid of a glass. A church,—whose ugly little
tower, or belfry, thrusts itself pretentiously above the roofs of the
buildings that cluster round it,—and several public institutions, not
one of which possesses the shadow of a claim to architectural beauty,
are prominent simply because of the humility of the houses that surround
them. But neither these nor any of the other objects over which our
restless eyes wander within a radius of half-a-dozen miles at all
prepossess us in favour of Reykjavik and its suburbs, which do not
indeed bear comparison even with a small colonial settlement in the
earliest days of its existence. It is difficult to believe that the city
we are approaching was founded by a band of adventurous Norsemen more
than a thousand years ago, and in the primitive appearance of the
capital of his country we see another evidence of the poverty and
indolence of the Icelander. From a flagstaff in a prominent position the
Danish ensign flutters in the breeze, and a good deal of bunting is also
displayed on several of the Consulates and stores in honour of our
arrival.
As we slowly creep on towards our anchorage, past several dangerous
reefs, bare at low water, an extensive panorama lies spread out before
us. The sterile water-worn snow-streaked slopes of a very common-place
mountain chain on our left, and an extensive wilderness of barren heath
which touches the grey-clouded sky on the horizon on our right, contrast
strangely with the black irregular fantastic peaks of the volcanic range
that rises picturesquely behind—though at a great distance beyond—the
city, and form an interesting picture in which nothing is so striking as
the want of life and warmth and colour.
A three-masted sailing ship, three schooners, one yacht, a few fishing
boats, and a battered old coal hulk, are riding at anchor in the
roadstead, each and all of them
“As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.”
Not a sound indicative of human existence is carried to our ears from
ship or shore to break the silence which settles down upon us as our
engines suddenly stop, and leave us to drift slowly on to our anchorage.
The deep stillness on land and sea and in the streets of the apparently
deserted city remind me of Campbell’s famous lines—
“Ships were drifting with the dead
To shores where all was dumb,”
and I am just beginning to wonder what manner of people they are who can
exist without noise, when the clarion cry of a rooster rings through the
air and re-assures me. It recalls a good story which I heard at the
dinner-table the other day of a cock in Iceland which, deceived by the
absence of night, crowed itself to death during the summer solstice,
under a mistaken sense of duty. Lord Dufferin, whose “Letters from High
Latitudes” are well worth reading, is credited with the authorship of
this amusing exaggeration.
Presently, however, we observe two or three boats put off from one of
the piers, and in a few minutes are boarded by guides and
hotel-proprietors. We arrange with one of the former, by name Thorgrimur
Gudmundsen,—a big, strapping, intelligent-looking fellow, who stands
over six feet high in his stocking soles,—to accompany us to
Thingvellir, the Geysirs, and Hengill, and to have ponies ready for an
early start to-morrow.
On landing at the pier a little later we are met with the inevitable
stench from the fish-stores, and after securing rooms at the Island
Hotel—(Island is the Icelandic word for Iceland not for island)—we
stroll out to see the city. Being desirous of a breath of fresh air we
flee from the horrors of the many stenches and from the dirty dusty
uneven uncausewayed streets, and bend our steps almost instinctively in
the direction of the Observatory, preferring rather to look down upon
the city from a purer atmosphere, and to command a view of it and its
surroundings from a respectful distance, than to stand gaping at its
one-and-two-storied, black-roofed, drab-painted, weather-board huts,
which form an aggregation of impressive ugliness that has a tendency to
induce melancholia. Thick mists are settling down upon the summits and
slopes of the distant hills, and there are signs of a change for the
worse in the weather which make us rather anxious, for to-morrow we are
to commence a ride of at least a hundred and fifty miles through a
country where there is little or no accommodation for the storm-bound
traveller.
But the sun is shining out pleasantly, though not too powerfully, and
the air is clear, bracing, and invigorating, so we dismiss our fears,
and turn our attention to the scene before us. There is not a single
tree, nor even a bush a foot high, nor one square yard of cultivated
land anywhere. The hilly plateau on which we stand is traversed, for a
few miles, by a brown dusty macadamised road—almost the only one in the
island we are informed—on each side of which, for miles around, nothing
is to be seen but vast fields of lava, hundreds of acres of undulating
country covered with stones and boulders, so thickly strewn that, there
is scarcely room for a blade of grass to grow between any two of them,
were a blade of grass so unwise as to attempt such a feat.
We miss the rustling leaves, the green springy turf, the yellow waving
corn, the rippling streams, and the song of lark, or thrush, or
blackbird, or even the chirping of the despised sparrow, as we look upon
the panorama before us with an interest which arises chiefly from its
absolute want of these or any other features which render a landscape
attractive.
As we sit and chat about our experiences in many a foreign land, and
institute comparisons between the view before us and others that we have
travelled much further to see, our minds naturally go back to the time
more than ten centuries ago, when Ingolfr and his companions—fleeing
from Norway to Iceland—because as the sagas quaintly say, “it was the
only place within their reach at the time where they could live
undisturbed by kings and evil-doers,”—first sighted the snow-capped
peaks of Orœfa, and prepared to land on the silent shore.
As they approach nearer to the coast they throw overboard the pillars of
the chief’s high seat which they have brought with them, in the belief
that, directed by the gods, these will be carried by the tide to a spot
divinely selected for the new settlement. But alas! during the night
they lose sight of the floating pillars that were to guide them, and on
landing look for them in vain. Three years pass away, and still the
search is fruitless. At length the long-lost pillars are found on the
present site of the capital, and there, in reliance upon the directing
providence of the gods, Ingolfr and his little company settle.
Their new town must of course receive a name, so it is called Reykjavik,
or Smoking Village, because on approaching the bay the wondering
Norsemen saw steam—which they not unnaturally mistook for smoke—issuing
from the earth in various parts of the coast.
Such is an outline of the founding of the city before us. Its progress
has been slow, and its population to-day, set down at about 2,500, is
probably not much greater than it was seven or eight hundred years ago.
But we live in stirring times, and may, therefore, be allowed to hope
that under present conditions, which are much more favourable than at
any previous period of its history, Reykjavik may yet become the
thriving capital of a country redeemed from desolation by the patriotic
enterprise and energy of a free and enlightened nation.
Then will these words of their national anthem
“Eldgamla Isafold,
Astkœra fósturmold,
Fjallkonan fríth;
Mögum thin muntu kœr.
Methan lönd girthir sœr
Og gumar girnast mœr,
Gljár sól á hlíth.”
acquire a deeper meaning as they fall from the lips of a grateful
people, who see their fatherland gradually becoming great and happy as
it steadily triumphs over the difficulties and obstacles with which
Nature, in an angry mood, seems to have tried her best to retard its
progress and hinder its prosperity.
The words above quoted are interesting as an example of Icelandic. Dr
Hjaltalin having kindly furnished me with the following literal
translation: “Iceland old as fire, beloved native land, fair mountain
bride, thou wilt be dear to thy sons, while the sea surrounds the land,
and men’s desire is to maidens, and the sun shines on the hillside,” I
have endeavoured to turn it into English verse without materially
deviating from the original words and metre.
Fair Iceland, old as fire,
Mountain bride our hearts’ desire
Sweet fosterland.
While woman loved shall be
By man; or sun shines free;
While land is girt by sea
Thou shalt be dear.
The tune to which the anthem is sung—God Save the Queen—is claimed by
the Icelander.
As we are on the point of returning to the ship for lunch we espy a
couple of neatly dressed maidens, one of whom is rather pretty. We
succeed in making the latter understand by signs that we are exceedingly
anxious to take her portrait that we may carry it with us across the
seas, and flattered by the attention, and willing to oblige, she
consents with a modest blush which we are able particularly to observe,
because her face is clean, which is more than can be said for the
Icelanders generally, who, if report be true, dislike cold water when
applied to the skin, or unless mixed with corn brandy.
This objection would seem to be inherited, and as Mark Twain says, “to
run in the blood like wooden legs,” if we are to believe the traditions
of early history, for it is recorded that the greatest objection of the
Pagans to Christianity arose from the necessity of being baptised. This
difficulty was only overcome by an agreement that the ceremony should be
performed by immersion in one of the “Laugs” or hot-springs.
We are fortunate in getting into conversation with a Dane, who is mixing
mortar for the walls of a stone dwelling-house in course of erection in
a side street, and at the same time superintending two labourers who are
busily engaged in carrying stones on a handbarrow.
The first thing we note is that the rough blocks are actually being
quarried out of some large boulders which lie embedded in the middle of
the street in which we are standing, and must therefore have seriously
obstructed traffic had there been any to obstruct. Our friend the
builder, who speaks very good English, having lived in Scotland for some
time, tells us that he came to the country three years ago, and that,
though a sailor by profession, he has the distinguished honour of being
the first man to build a stone house in Iceland. When he proposed to
make the attempt he was greeted with derision, it being considered
impossible to work lava stone. “But,” says he, emphatically, “I knowed
better, and I done it.” He has now erected several substantial buildings
in Reykjavik which he points out with modest pride.
We learn from him that he pays his labourers 2 kroner and 75 öre per day
of eleven hours, being at the rate of 25 öre per hour. Let me remark
here that the kroner is a Danish silver coin value thirteen pence
half-penny sterling, and that it contains 100 öre; the labourer’s daily
wage therefore reckoned in English money amounts to about 3s 1d. Skilled
workmen earn from 3 kroner (3s 4½d) to 3 kroner and 50 öre (3s 11d) per
day. The hours of labour are from 6.0 a.m. till 7.0 p.m., one hour each
being allowed for breakfast and dinner. There is no half holiday, but
Sunday is strictly observed as a day of rest and devotion. Flour at
present costs about 18 kroner (20s 3d) per bag of 200lb, about the same
as in England, and beef—seldom eaten—from 25 to 40 öre (3½d to 5½d) per
lb, or from 45 to 50 öre (6d to 6¾d) when scarce, or very fat and good.
There is no such thing as a butcher’s shop in Reykjavik, but as the
Scotsman said “every one kills himself,” taking care to apportion the
animal before he does so. The people generally, however, live upon
dried-fish, flour-cakes, rye-bread, butter, and curds. Female servants
are paid about 40 kroner (45s) per annum, men receiving from 60 to 70.
They are, of course, boarded and lodged, and one of the items of their
allowance of food is 2lbs of butter per week.
Every woman must be able to milk, and every man must know how to shoe a
horse, as I understand every Icelander does from the Bishop—who is the
greatest and richest man in the country—downwards. Sugar-candy is
commonly used instead of sugar to sweeten tea or coffee, the reason
given by the captain of the Camoens being that it is not so apt to melt
in damp weather. Our informant’s explanation is as follows: “Sugar-candy
don’t run away in their mouths.” The Icelander evidently prefers, if I
may use a common expression, to roll the candy like a sweet morsel under
his tongue.
We enquire the cost of rent, and, pointing to the house of a tailor
close by, he informs us that it is let for 20 kroner (22s 6d) per month,
and contained three rooms and a kitchen.
The cowskin shoes, so universally worn, cost from 2 kroner upwards. It
is a custom of the women in Iceland when they are “donned,” as we say in
Yorkshire, to wear a bright coloured apron, a white front to the bodice,
and a bow at the back, like that of the Japanese girls, made of a length
of stuff one fathom (6 feet) long.
A marriage license costs 36 kroner (40s 6d), and people can be married
either in church or in their own homes if they prefer it, and at any
hour, according to the sensible custom which also prevails in Scotland.
The præsturs or parsons, who exercise great influence in the country,
are especially careful that the women shall be educated, and I was
reliably assured that no woman has much chance of securing a husband who
is not able to teach her children at least the elements of education.
There used to be a law forbidding a man to marry unless he owned “one
hundred of land”—land worth 120 ells of Vathmál or homespun—or “a
six-oared boat in trim.”
We subsequently learnt that our informant unfortunately introduced the
measles into Reykjavik on his arrival three years ago, and that the
dreadful disease spreading like wildfire, carried off no fewer than 37
persons in the thousand of the entire population of the island. Iceland
has always been subject to plague, pestilence and famine, as well as to
the havoc and desolation wrought by volcanic outbursts. In the
seventeenth century many of its unfortunate inhabitants were carried
into slavery by Algerine pirates; in 1707 from 16,000 to 18,000 people
died of small-pox out of a total population of 50,000; in 1759 famine
swept off 10,000 persons, and between the years 1781 and 1785 other
9,000 perished from the same cause. Starvation again made fearful
ravages amongst them in 1824 and 1825; in 1827 an epidemic decimated the
survivors, and there have been frequent minor calamities since. One
finds it difficult to understand how it is that, in the course of a
thousand years, the population has never exceeded the 72,000 which is
its total to-day; but the continued recurrence of such disasters as
those just mentioned, and the ravages of fire, frost, flood, and famine
help to explain the matter. It is impossible to think without a shudder
of the horrors and miseries which must have been endured by a people so
circumstanced.
I have, however, been digressing, and must return to our friend, the
builder, who proves to be quite a mine of information. We question him
about the climate, and learn that it is by no means so severe as
foreigners generally suppose, the registered mean temperature at
Reykjavik of the whole year being 39deg., of summer 53deg., and of
winter 29deg. At Akureyri, which is further north, these figures are
respectively 32deg., 45deg., and 20deg. Rain falls heavily night and day
at frequent intervals during the months of August and September, but
from September till November the weather is fairly good. During winter
the days are necessarily short, there being, at Reykjavik, only 3 hours
and 58 min. of sunlight on the shortest day, and 20 hours, 54 min. on
the longest. A great deal depends, however, upon what people call
daylight. There are some men who would argue that in England we have
daylight in November. At midsummer in the north the sun never sets for a
whole week, and at mid-winter it never rises for a corresponding period.
Summer is so short and variable as to remind one of the Scotsman’s
advice to a friend who was about to visit North Britain: “When you get
there,” said he, “don’t take off your overcoat till midsummer day, and
put it on again the day after.”
When summer comes it is customary for people at its commencement to wish
one another “a good summer,” just as we wish one another “A Happy New
Year.” The words used by our informant in communicating this fact are
rather amusing. They are as follows: “A man will say to you, ‘I wish you
a good summer,’ and perhaps it will be snewin’ like blazes.” The
expression “snewin’ like blazes” is worthy of the great Irish
Parliamentary orator who “smelt a rat and saw it floating in the air,”
but who nevertheless determined “to nip it in the bud.” Bidding our
friend “Good day,” with many thanks for his courtesy, and being still as
inquisitive as a Yankee interviewer, we stroll down to the Althing or
Parliament House in search of another victim who is willing to be
cross-examined. We find one in a pleasant-mannered young Clerk of the
House, who shows us over the building, the largest and finest in
Iceland, substantially built of dressed stone, and situated on one side
of a small public park or garden, which contains a statue of
Thorwaldsen, the great sculptor, whose father was a native of Iceland.
We are conducted by our guide first to the Lower, and next to the Upper
Chamber: both of which are plain square rooms of moderate size,
containing seats and desks for the members and a rostrum for the
president. They are simply furnished, unrelieved by elaborate
decoration, and quite large enough for those who occupy them when
Parliament is sitting.
The Lower House consists of twenty-four members, except immediately
after a general election, when thirty members take their seats as the
representatives of the people. Of these thirty, however, six are at once
transferred to the Upper House by the vote of a majority of their
colleagues, where with six others nominated by the Crown,—making twelve
in all,—they form the Senate or House of Lords. Each of these assemblies
is presided over by a President, who receives an official salary.
Members of both chambers are paid 6 kroner (6s 9d) per day, while
Parliament is sitting, and receive in addition their travelling expenses
to and from Reykjavik.
No man is eligible or qualified for a seat in either house unless he is
a Danish subject, not less than thirty years of age, and has resided in
Danish dominions for at least five years. The franchise is possessed by
“all officials, ecclesiastics, university graduates, students who sign
themselves ‘Candidat,’” holders of farms on lease, those who pay a
minimum of eight kroner per annum in government taxes, and country
people who pay cess, or parish rates, provided they are of unblemished
character, at least twenty-five years of age, and have resided not less
than twelve months in an electoral district. Women are excluded from the
franchise as in all other civilised (?) countries; so are minors,
paupers and criminals.
The total revenue of the country in 1884 was 863,932 kroner, in round
numbers about £48,000, and was derived, according to the official year
book which our informant kindly turns up for us, from the following
sources:—(a) Land tax levied on farmers only, (b) cattle tax, (c) house
tax, (d) income tax, (e) sale of property tax, (f) tax on incomes from
other sources, (g) tax on tithes, (h) tax on exports, (i) tax on
imports, (j) tax on tobacco, (k) post office revenue, (l) light and
harbour dues.
Deferring any further notes with reference to the history of government
till we reach the famous spot at Thingvellir where, a thousand years
ago, the ancient Althing was wont to assemble, we return to the ship to
tiffin, to find that a few seats at table will be vacant when we start
for Akureyri on Saturday, as several of our little company have already
secured quarters ashore with the intention of remaining in the country
till the next voyage of the Camoens. These are an enthusiastic angler
who has visited Iceland several times, and who has taken an excellent
trout-stream on lease; a young city merchant,—also a disciple of Isaak
Walton—a very nice fellow, the up-turned ends of whose attenuated
moustache, however, are so wonderfully waxed that one almost longs to
try to hang a hat and coat upon them; an officer of a crack regiment of
dragoons who was at Majuba, and who knows South Africa well; a
kind-hearted sociable old clergyman who put himself to great trouble to
arrange a whist party at an early stage of the voyage,—not on his own
account, but with a view of making some of us happier,—and who hopes to
return to his parish in Suffolk with recruited energies after having
made the ascent of Hekla, and bumped his poor bones over the lava-fields
of South-Western Iceland; and last—but by no means least in his own
estimation—a pawkie talkative self-opinionated exceedingly well-informed
old Scotsman, who is burning with ardour to make a weary journey across
the Sprengisandr (bursting sands) desert, and to ascend to the very
crater of a famous volcano called Askja; a feat which on a previous
visit he was unfortunately prevented from doing. He is perhaps not so
much animated by a desire to increase the world’s knowledge as to
“smash” another traveller who, having had the coveted honour of reading
a paper before the Royal Geographical Society, inconsiderately omitted
to mention his indebtedness for a good deal of information to notes
supplied to him by our injured friend.
The remainder of our compagnons de voyage—who are “jolly companions
every one”—are going on with us to Akureyri and will stay by the ship
like ourselves till we get back to Scotland. They include two brothers
of Scotch parentage but born in England, who like myself are constantly
engaged in amateur photography; two young sparks from a Midland town
famous for the loveliness of its ladies and the beauty of its lace, and
who are familiarly known in the smoke-room as “Me and Arthur;” a tall,
dark, agreeable philologist from the Cumberland fells who reads but does
not speak Icelandic; and three gentlemen from London, viz:—an embryo
barrister, nephew of one of the greatest living novelists; a budding
shipbroker who, though a genuine Cockney, greatly admires Burns’ poems
which he has read from beginning to end, including the glossary (!); and
a fine-looking, handsome young fellow who would make splendid food for
powder should he choose the army as a profession, as his father and
grandfathers and great-grandfathers have done before him.
Everybody has been good-tempered, our worthy skipper setting the
example, and granting us a degree of freedom in little things which many
a less genial man would have refused. The stewards and stewardess have
been most attentive to our wants, and exceedingly obliging; our table
has been well supplied with necessaries and luxuries, and the voyage has
hitherto been a pleasant one. It is astonishing how men thrown together
on board an ocean-going steamer fraternise with one another, and it is
always a real regret to me when a little community, formed under such
circumstances, begins to break up. Partings, however, are constantly
experienced in this world.
“Friend after friend departs
Who hath not lost a friend?
There is no union here of hearts
That hath not here an end.”
All we can do therefore is to bid our friends “Good-bye,” and to hope
that they may each and all have “a good time,” as a Yankee would say,
not only during their stay in Iceland, but on the voyage of life.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
PLATE IV.
1 View of Reykjavik.—2 Woman wearing holiday head-dress.
3 Woman wearing “Hufa.”—4 Snaefellsjökull.—5 Building stone
houses, Reykjavik.—6 Cathedral and Parliament House, Reykjavik.
7 Lava plain, near the Observatory, Reykjavik.
]
--------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER IV.
“Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase,
And marvel men should quit their easy chair
The toilsome way, and long long league to trace,
Oh! there is a sweetness in the mountain air
And life, that bloated ease can never hope to share.”
BYRON.
There are no pleasanter memories of an ocean voyage than those that
cluster round what is known afloat as “a Sing Song,” when a little group
of fellows, whom fate has thrown together for a week or two, gather
together on deck, under the bright blue starlit sky, and to the
accompaniment of banjo or guitar, make the night-air melodious—or
otherwise—with song and chorus.
Fletcher of Saltoun, a famous Scottish patriot, is credited with the
oft-quoted saying “Let me make the songs of a nation and I care not who
shall make its laws.” I have often felt how natural is the aspiration
thus expressed, and never more than when the monotony of life at sea has
been relieved by the willing efforts of a few sweet singers. But if the
man who writes the words of a stirring song be such a benefactor what
shall we say of the professionally-despised musician whose rattling
choruses, full of melody, and easily learnt, make the strangers who sing
them feel like old friends? My own opinion is that, had he any choice in
the matter, he could desire no greater reward than the appreciation with
which his music is sung by a grateful little company, such as I have
just referred to.
Last night a few of us held “a Sing Song” in the large room of the
Island Hotel, and spent our first evening ashore most enjoyably. The
captain had brought his violin with him, by invitation, and as we drew
our chairs round a little table near the piano, we were presently joined
in a cup of café noir by a pleasant and highly-intelligent Icelander,
who was introduced as editor or proprietor of a newspaper; by our guide,
Thorgrimur Gudmundsen, who came to report progress in his arrangements
for the morrow; and by a fellow-Yorkshireman, who has been enjoying a
few weeks’ sport on some of the trout streams, and who returns to
England with us on Saturday. Giving our melodious instincts full play,
we treated the company in the adjoining bar to a little vocal and
instrumental music, which made up for its occasional want of tune and
precision by its unmistakeable heartiness.
It also unearthed a young Yankee “masher,” whose get-up and general
appearance, as he suddenly appeared in the doorway and approached our
merry circle, caused us to pause in the midst of a chorus to gaze at him
with undisguised astonishment and open-mouthed admiration. It was his
costume rather than his personal beauty—though he was a good-looking
young fellow—that provoked us to the unpardonable rudeness of staring.
Let me try to describe it. He was attired in a short loose velveteen
coatee, elaborately braided, and cut away in front in such a fashion as
to expose a maximum of white shirt front admirably displayed by a
minimum of velvet waistcoat. On his head he wore a little round tweed
billycock in shape like a milk-bowl, and he had managed by a supreme
effort to thrust his shapely legs into knee-breeches, tight as the skin
of a kettledrum, and fastened at the knees with buckles; while his
calves, evidently a source of reverential pride from the care taken to
show them off to advantage, stretched a pair of superfine stockings to
such an extent as to make one tremble for the stitches. His feet were
encased in a natty pair of patent leather shoes ornamented, on each
instep, with a large bunch of black ribbon, and a pair of silver buckles
which if melted down into United States currency would probably have
yielded dollars enough to pay his hotel bill for a week; and his tout
ensemble suggested alternate thoughts of a London flunkey, a tailor’s
block, and Apollo Belvidere.
His accent was just sufficiently nasal to leave no doubt on our minds as
to his nationality, even if he had omitted—as he did not—to inform us
that he hailed from
“The Land of the West, the land of the free,
Where mighty Missouri rolls down to the sea.”
He proved himself a good fellow, and a pleasant companion, however; was
troubled with little or none of the bashfulness which is such a
distinguishing characteristic of his countrymen; and soon contributed to
the harmony of the evening by singing several songs, one of
which,—described by him as an “Amurican Stoodent Sawng,”—exercised such
a fascination over us on account of its “catching” melody, and the ease
with which we picked up the chorus, that we made the rafters ring with
it at least a dozen times before we broke up. I wrote it down from
memory as soon as I got the piano to myself, and here are the words of
the first verse, and also the air which I have transposed into the tonic
sol-fa notation for the convenience of the printer.
AMERICAN STUDENT SONG.
KEY C
s |s :d’ :d’ | d’ :r’ :d’ |t : r’ :— |— : : s|
When I was a stu-dent of Ca—diz, I
|s : t : d’ |r’: l : t |d’ :— :d’ |d’ : : s|
played on my Spanish guitar; Ching! Ching! I
╰───────────╯
Chorus.
|s : d’ : d’ | d’ :r’:d’ |t :r’ :— | — : : s|
used to make love to the ladies. I
|s : t : d’ | r’ :l :t |d’ :— :d’ |d’: :— |
think of them now when a— far. Ching! Ching!
╰───────────╯
Chorus.
CHORUS.
| d’ : s : s | d’ :s : s |s : t :—.t |t : — : l|
Ring, ching, ching, Ring, ching, ching, Ring out ye bells, Oh!
| s :t :- .t |t: — :l |s :d’ :—.d’|d’ :— :— |
Ring out ye bells. Oh! Ring out ye bells.
| d’ : s : s | d’ :s : s |s : t :—.t |t : — : l|
Ring, ching, ching, Ring, ching, ching. Ring out ye bells. I
|s : t : d’ |r’: l : t |d’ :— :d’ | d’ : |
play on my Spanish guitar; Ching! Ching!
╰───────────╯
Chorus.
Stimulated by the applause with which his efforts were received our
friend the captain astonished us with the pathos he managed to put into
“The flowers o’ the forest,” “Auld Robin Gray,” and “Robin Adair,” while
his bowing and “double stopping” suggested thoughts (we were in an
imaginative humour be it remembered) of a combination of Paganini,
Sivori, Vieuxtemps, and Carrodus.
At a late hour the would-be explorer of the mysteries of Askja stirred
to the depths of his contentious soul by the competition of rival
performers, produced an accordion on which he proved himself to be no
mean performer.
“A sound of revelry was heard by night” in Reykjavik to which its
peaceful inhabitants were probably unaccustomed, and the “Nicht drave on
wi’ sangs and clatter.” The Icelandic editor, delighted with our
efforts, invited us to take wine with him, and a bottle of sherry was
accordingly brought in and duly emptied with mutual good wishes and much
clinking of glasses. Then an Englishman present insisted upon returning
the compliment, and the mirth and fun were growing fast and furious when
the gentleman with the accordion—who was a staunch teetotaller—thrilled
us with the inspiriting strains of a Scotch reel. Instantly half a dozen
of us sprang to our feet and
“Reeled and set, and crossed and cleekit,
Till ilka carline swat and reekit.”
For the next quarter of an hour I verily believe that the little knot of
Danish sea-captains, who had by this time established themselves in a
distant corner of the room, and the studious boy who was poring over a
book by the light of the midnight sun that streamed in through the
unblinded windows, looked upon us as a party of lunatics who had escaped
from an English asylum.
“But pleasures are like poppies spread,”
The time came round to go to bed.
So to bed we went, with the generally expressed wish that we might all
meet again under similar circumstances on our return from our trip into
the interior.
At ten o’clock this morning (July 14th) our guide arrived with the
ponies, and on looking out of the hotel window we saw seven sturdy
little animals of various colours standing in the lane outside. There
are no carriages or wheeled conveyances of any kind in Iceland; at any
rate none that I have as yet seen, with the exception of a solitary
handcart of American manufacture, which does not appear to have been
much longer in the country than ourselves. All travelling is done on
pony-back, and every man, woman and child is accustomed to the saddle
from infancy. Two ponies have been provided for each of us, including
the guide, and one for our baggage, making seven in all. A brief
reference to the arrangements made with our guide yesterday may be
interesting and useful to intending tourists. We are to pay two kroner
(2s 3d) per day for each of the seven ponies which form our cavalcade;
and the guide’s fee is five kroner (5s 7½d) per day with food, or six
kroner (6s 9d) without. In addition to these items there will be a
charge of twenty öre (2¾d) per diem for pasturage for each of the
ponies, so that our daily expenses for ponies and guide, reckoning the
fee of the latter at 6s 9d, will amount to 24s in all, or 12s each
person. In addition, however, we have had to provide a supply of bread
and tinned provisions for four days, and shall have to pay for bed and
breakfast at the parsonage or farmhouse where we may stay for the night;
the usual charge for such accommodation being about three kroner. The
daily total, including the cost of the food we have purchased, will
therefore be not much less than a pound a day, which is what the tourist
may expect it to cost him.
We are disappointed to find that our valises must be unpacked, and the
few necessary articles of clothing which we have decided to take with us
transferred to the two strong wooden boxes which already contain our
stock of provisions, and which have been slung across the back of our
pack-pony, where they rest upon a pad of dry turf to prevent chafing.
There is no help for it, however, for our guide assures us that we are
about to ride over a country so rough that no ordinary straps or buckles
can stand the jolting, and that it is also absolutely necessary to
equalise the burden of the patient little creature that is to carry our
baggage. We accordingly submit, and while the transfer is being arranged
my companion disappears and presently returns wearing a pair of huge
wading boots, and a yellow oilskin sou’wester. The former we
subsequently find to be quite indispensable in the case of anyone who
objects to wet feet, for there are fords innumerable to cross between
the capital and the Geysirs.
At length, our preparations being completed, we mount, and driving the
three spare ponies and our baggage-carrier—(which are allowed to run
perfectly free)—before us we ride off up the hill towards the
Observatory. We have scarcely proceeded more than half-a-mile on our
journey when we hear a wild shout behind us, and are presently joined by
the captain of the Camoens, who comes tearing along on a sturdy little
brute, and begins to enliven the proceedings by sending us all off at
full gallop, which he does by a free use of one of the short-handled
flat-thonged whips common in Iceland.
He rides like a “centaur,” not like a “sailor,” but not having served an
apprenticeship to the circus business myself, and being as yet rather
strange to the saddle, I am not altogether sorry when he reins up to
return to town. It would afford me much pleasure to have his company all
the way, but I am afraid I should only enjoy it at the risk of a broken
neck, for the road over which we are trotting is one of the roughest of
which I have ever had experience, and having a lively recollection of
colonial roads that is saying a good deal. At the first important ford
we halt for a few minutes along with seven of our shipmates who have
formed an expedition of their own under the care of one of Zoega’s men.
Zoega, I may observe, is a well-known man in Reykjavik, and has long
been recognised as the chief of the fraternity of guides.
From this point the road gradually ascends, now crossing some wild
mountain stream, cold as the snow and ice that feed it, and clear as the
blue sky that it reflects; now winding, in and out, round the bases of
ranges of barren stone-strewn treeless hills, heart-breaking in their
monotony of unloveliness; and now traversing the dreary uncultivated
unfenced plain, on which, at rare intervals, a little turf-covered farm
house, with its adjoining folds and outbuildings, may occasionally be
seen standing in the midst of the “tun,” or “home-field,” whose
luxuriant grass tinged by the yellow butter-cup, refreshes the wearied
eye, and forms a pleasant contrast, to the desolation that reigns
everywhere around.
The melancholy cry of the curlew as it flies above our heads is the only
sound—except the clatter of our ponies’ hoofs—that breaks the deep
stillness, and the pretty wild flowers that—like the seed spoken of in
the parable of “The Sower”—have “sprung up in stony places,” are the
only other living things that seem to whisper a word of hopefulness to
the despairing landscape. If people were but willing to look for it,
there is always something to beautify the dreariest desert, just as
there is always some tender spot even in the hardest heart, some good
thought in the most selfish mind, and some good deed even in the vilest
life. How many men travel only to indulge in constant carping and
captious criticism; to find fault with everything they see, and to abuse
everybody they meet. How many seem even to turn away their eyes lest
they should observe anything which they might be tempted to admire.
Iceland is no place for such men, for they would find too much
occupation, and make themselves and their companions miserable by their
continual growling. Happily there are none such in our party.
But the sky begins to grow grey and clouded. Not a streak of blue is to
be seen either before or behind us, and the deep shadows that fill the
fissures and ravines of the distant hills are clearly defined against
the brown weather-beaten water-worn slopes. As we plod along we are at
pains to examine the nature and depth of the soil where opportunity
occurs, and soon come to the conclusion that there must be tens of
thousands of acres of land in Iceland which might be brought under the
plough. From the bright appearance of the “tun” to which I have already
referred, as well as from the fact that potatoes and turnips are grown
in small patches, here and there, as food for man and beast, we are
forced to conclude that the absence of cultivation must be due quite as
much to the want of energy and enterprise of the farmer, as to want of
capital, or the recurrence of unfavourable seasons. On this point,
however, I shall be able to speak more authoritatively after we have
seen more of the country and learnt more of its natural conditions.
About 2.0 p.m. we halt for dinner, and to give the ponies a rest and a
feed. By this time a Scotch mist has begun to fall and the air has grown
much colder; but as we recline on a damp grassy bank with a chunk of dry
bread in one hand and a portion of stringy Australian beef in the other,
the weather does not materially interfere with our enjoyment. After a
stoppage of about an hour we on-saddle and resume our journey, but soon
pull up for a minute or two on the edge of a stretch of flat country
literally covered, as far as the eye can see, with stones and boulders
large and small.
There is no path through this lava-desert, but the route is indicated by
the scratches and marks made upon the rocks by the shoes of the trains
of ponies that daily travel to and fro between the capital and the
interior; and at points where the ground is higher than the general
level, large heaps of stones, or cairns, have been erected to guide the
traveller when the country is under snow. As my pony steps cautiously,
but confidently, upon this lava field, I begin to wish that I had
insured my life in the Accidental. I also recognise the wisdom of the
wily old Scotsman who played the accordion last night, who not having a
single tooth in his head has prudently prepared himself for his journey
over the Sprengisandr by bringing with him a small case in which to
place and pocket his false teeth, that he may not inadvertently swallow
them, or gash his poor gums, when stumbling over a tract of country like
that before us.
After a long and fatiguing march across this stone-strewn waste we once
more get on to turf, only, however, to find ourselves riding along a
succession of the deep narrow rain channels, which form almost the only
paths throughout Iceland. These wind in and out among the millions of
grave-like frost-made mounds that give the landscape for many miles
round the appearance of a huge cemetery, and remind me somewhat of the
ant-hills so common in parts of South Africa, save that they are green
instead of brown. Indeed the resemblance between the scenery of Iceland
and that of many parts of Cape Colony is very striking, the chief points
of difference being the numerous streams of clear running water and the
prevalence of snow on the mountain peaks and slopes.
It is no easy matter, even for an accomplished horseman, to ride across
country in Iceland, for when the pony is not picking its way painfully
over a wilderness of stones, it is probably ambling between two rows of
these frost-mounds, which are often so near each other on account of the
narrowness of the track, and so high, that if the rider be not careful
to keep a sharp look-out ahead and to tuck in his toes he is liable to
come into contact, with them, and to find himself pitched out of the
saddle, especially as the girths are never properly tightened.
If, however, he should come to grief, as he may expect to do
occasionally, he has the satisfaction of knowing that, if he do not
break his neck in the fall, he need fear nothing from his pony, for more
docile hardy willing and good-tempered little creatures than the Iceland
ponies do not exist. During the summer the grass of the home-field is
reserved exclusively for the cattle, whose lot in winter even under the
most favourable conditions is often one of semi-starvation. But the poor
pony, after a summer of hard work and no corn, is turned out in winter
to try to find wild-grass enough to keep him alive till the melting
snows give him another chance of putting some flesh on his emaciated
frame.
About 7 p.m. we sight Lake Thingvellavatn, the second largest lake in
Iceland, a fine sheet of fresh water about twenty-five miles in
circumference, in the middle of which rise two or three small islands
black as night, and absolutely destitute of vegetation. These and the
surrounding ranges of barren hills, deeply shaded in tones of dark brown
and black, are reflected upon the glassy surface of the dull blue-gray
waters, and serve but to intensify the gloomy grandeur of a picture
which is only relieved from its oppressive blackness by the white peaks
and snow-streaked slopes of the distant mountains, prominent among
which, away to the south, towers the rugged form of Hengill. The scene
is one that would inspire a Dante or a Doré by its wild and weird
magnificence.
An hour later, we stand upon the summit of the Almannagja—(“‘all men’ or
‘great’ rift,”)—so called because in ancient times “all the people” met
upon its eastern flank during the sitting of the Althing or Parliament.
It is one of the great sights of Iceland, so we pause to observe and
describe it, before descending the steep and rugged path which leads to
the valley below. The Almannagja is the result of a rupture or gigantic
crack caused by the subsidence of the lava-field, which stretches away
for many a mile beyond it, though at a considerably lower level. Two
huge walls, from two to three miles in length, have thus been formed one
on each side of a narrow defile. That on the left, said to be about 180
feet in height, is absolutely perpendicular; is cracked in ten thousand
times ten thousand places; and looks like an immense barrier built by
Titanic hands. That on the right, which is about 80 feet lower, has
evidently fallen away from the precipitous rock opposite; but the two
together as they frown down upon the ravine below, give the scene such
an appearance of gloom and desolation that it seems a fitting entrance
to the Infernal regions.
The summits of both cliffs are covered, all along the sky-line, with
rocks of various shapes and sizes, some of which overhang in a manner
which seems to threaten destruction to the train of men and ponies below
that sink into insignificance in comparison with the majesty of their
surroundings.
A few hundred yards beyond the place where the valley is blocked by
hundreds of moss-clad boulders, piled one on the top of the other in
picturesque confusion, the river Oxara (Axewater), which has just taken
a magnificent leap from the top of the precipice a little further on,
completes its descent to the plain, by tumbling, with loud roaring and
impetuous fury, from rock to rock till it takes its final plunge into
Execution Pool, whence it flows silently on, past church, parsonage, and
graveyard, into Lake Thingvellavatn.
Descending by the rough precipitous path—whose difficulties and dangers
have, we find, been somewhat exaggerated in a description given to us
before we left Reykjavik—we ride along the bottom of the rift, and,
looking round about us, or glancing upwards to the black frowning crags
on the ridges over our heads, are struck with the desolate wildness of
the scene which impresses us even more forcibly than it did from the
heights above. Leaving the Almannagja, near the second fall of the
Oxara, and fording the stream a little to the right we reach Thingvellir
at last, and are not sorry that the day’s journey is at an end.
My companion and Gudmundsen, having fortunately preceded me, have
managed to secure not only the best room in the parsonage, but, what is
much more important, the two best beds. They have thus forestalled the
members of the other expedition, who have resolved themselves into a
committee of ways and means and are deeply engrossed in discussing the
serious question as to which of the seven ought,—in virtue of age,
delicacy of constitution, or other sufficient reason,—to occupy the only
two remaining beds. It is an anxious moment for the five unfortunates
who after a hard ride of nearly forty miles—(which in at least one
instance has resulted in the loss of a few square inches of
epidermis)—will probably have to lie down upon bare boards.
Another serious matter is also weighing heavily upon their minds. They
have already been on the premises for upwards of an hour, and it is now
nearly nine o clock at night, yet there are no signs of supper, and they
are all desperately hungry. “All things come to those who know how to
wait,” however, even in Iceland, and shortly after my arrival a repast,
which includes coffee, brown bread, cheese, butter, and boiled char (the
latter fresh from the lake) is spread before us and enjoyed.
Having satisfied our appetites, we stroll through the churchyard, where
we see the famous stone used in days of old as the national standard of
measure. The church itself, like all the sacred edifices in the country,
is a plain little wooden structure capable of holding comfortably about
fifty or sixty persons. Here we meet our host the præstur, Sira Paulsen,
who speaks English fairly well, and whom we find to be an exceedingly
pleasant well-informed gentleman.
Subsequently in conversation with our guide I learn that churches are
built by subscription, and that land (the best in the country) generally
comprising from three to four farms, is set apart by the State in every
case as an endowment. These farms, which of course vary in value, are
called “Kirk farms” and are let to tenants, with the exception of what
is called the “home farm” which surrounds the præstur’s house, and is
cultivated by himself. The præstur receives marriage fees, rents of Kirk
farms, and tithes on live stock and produce. A house is also provided
for him which he is bound to keep and leave in good repair. On
induction, or ordination, he is presented with from one to four cows,
and from six to twenty-four sheep, according as the living is a poor one
or a rich one, and on leaving is required either to restore these in
good condition, or to provide satisfactory substitutes. The average
income of a well-paid clergyman from all sources does not probably
exceed a thousand kroner, and he is therefore “passing rich” on barely
“sixty pounds a-year.” In many cases the stipend is not half of this
sum. As regards his qualifications for his sacred office, he must have
attended the Latin School for five or six years, and subsequently spent
two years at the Theological College. If approved on examination he is
appointed to a church either by the Bishop, or by the Governor with the
sanction of the Bishop, according to the conditions of the presentation.
There are, however, more churches than parsons at present, and it is not
uncommon for a præstur to have to officiate at four or five different
places at a considerable distance from each other. In such cases the
services are of course occasional. The people strongly disapprove of the
present system of patronage, and are agitating for the right of electing
their ministers, which will, it is thought, probably be granted by the
Althing next year. There is only one bishop for the whole of Iceland,
who resides at Reykjavik, and whose official salary is 3,416 rixdollars
or about £380 per annum. But in each of the different counties—of which
there are altogether twenty-one—there is a dean, or Bishop’s deputy, who
looks after the temporal and spiritual condition of the churches, and
superintends the education of children.
There is one Government School called the Latin School at Reykjavik, and
a School of Science has recently been established in the north near
Akureyri. Education in these is free, and the students who attend them,
having generally been privately prepared by the præstur, or by tutors,
may be considered the pick of the country. Those who are too poor to
support themselves receive an allowance from the State for maintenance.
The remainder of the schools are what are known in England as “private
adventure schools,” and the fees usually paid in these vary from ten to
twenty kroner per session of six months, commencing on the 1st of
October and ending on the 1st of April. During summer education is at a
standstill, the children being engaged in haymaking, and other work, or
permitted to enjoy a long holiday. They thus probably forget a good deal
of what they had learnt during the winter. Our guide, who is a
schoolmaster, informs us that he teaches his pupils reading, writing,
arithmetic, orthography, geography, history, mathematics, Danish, and
English, but no branch of either art or science.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
PLATE V.
1 The Almannagja from the South.
2 Lake Thingvellavatn and Hengill.—3 Rocks on summit of
Almannagja.—4 A rest by the way.
5 The Almannagja from the North.
]
But it is getting well on to midnight, and we have a long ride to-morrow
so I shut up my notebook and make for the house, stopping on the way to
my own room to take a look at the arrangements made for the five poor
fellows who are to sleep on shake-downs. I find them ruefully
contemplating sundry deal planks and wooden boxes, on which, without
bedding, and with a bare sufficiency of rugs or other coverings, they
are about to stretch their weary bones. I feel that it would sound like
a cruel mockery to wish them a “Good night,” and as I turn into the bed
that has been prepared for me on the sofa in our sitting-room, it is
with an uncomfortable feeling that there is something decidedly selfish
in the satisfaction I experience at being better off than my neighbours.
But
“Sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleave of care,
The death of each day’s life, sore labour’s bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course,
Chief nourisher in life’s feast,”
soon seals my heavy eyelids, and ends my first day’s experiences of
travel in the interior of Iceland.
--------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER V.
“From Nature’s constant or eccentric laws,
The thoughtful soul this general inference draws,
That an effect must pre-suppose a cause.”
PRIOR.
The weather is so charming, the sky so clear, the sunshine so bright,
and the air so pure and invigorating that it would be a shame to lie
abed under such circumstances, so in spite of the fatigues of the
previous day we are up early on the morning after our arrival at
Thingvellir and have visited and photographed half-a-dozen interesting
scenes before breakfast. These are the Almannagja, described in the
previous chapter, the Upper and Lower Waterfalls, Execution Pool, the
ford of the Oxara, and the famous Lögberg, or Law Hill.
The latter,—by far the most classical spot in Iceland,—is interesting to
the traveller principally on account of its historical associations.
Before I refer to a few of these let me try to describe its appearance.
The Lögberg is situated on the same side of the river as the church and
parsonage, is reached by clambering over two or three hundred yards of
hilly ground, and is simply a long irregular-shaped tongue of grass land
in the centre of an undulating plateau which forms the summit of a low
lava-hill.
Two immense fissures, one on either side, completely surround it, save
at the point of approach. These fissures, into which you can look down
from their precipitous edges, vary in width in different places from
perhaps ten to twenty feet. It is impossible, however, to judge their
depth with any accuracy, for, at about thirty feet from the surface,
they are filled with beautifully clear water, which flows into and out
of them by subterranean channels, and almost converts the Lögberg into
an island.
Here, however, on the green oasis under our feet, which contrasts so
strikingly with the grey moss and bare rocks that encircle it, the first
Althing, or Parliament of Iceland, assembled in the year 929 to consider
a code of laws which had been drawn up, and submitted for adoption, by
one of the settlers well versed in the laws of the mother-country
Norway.
Here occurred the scene, already described, when Christianity subverted
Paganism; and here parliamentary meetings, and general courts of justice
continued to be held for centuries.
Here also as recently as June 26th, 1873, as if to seek inspiration in
their struggle for civil liberty amid scenes that reminded them of the
brightest days of their history,—the days of the Icelandic
Commonwealth,—a great gathering of delegates from all parts of the
country assembled, and pledged themselves to obtain either absolute
independence or the right of self-government.
And when in 1874 the new constitution was signed by the King, and
Iceland received that which is the inalienable right of all free
nations, Home Rule—subject, and wisely subject, only to Imperial
interests—it was towards the Lögberg that the hearts of the people
turned in all their rejoicings.
And here, too, in “the good old days,” which have happily given place to
better and older days, many a dreadful tragedy was witnessed. Below
yonder, where the Oxara takes its second leap, is a deep quiet pool in
which, under the very eyes of the assembled multitude who looked down
upon the scene from the spot on which we now stand, it was customary to
drown poor miserable women convicted of offences against the moral law.
There, close by, criminals were executed, and witches burnt to death;
and on the plain at the base of the hill many a quarrel between
individuals or parties was settled by an appeal to the ordeal of combat.
Thank Heaven the days of Feudalism, of Kingcraft, and of Priestcraft
have all but come to an end in Iceland as in other free countries, and
there is now “government of the people, by the people, for the people.”
On returning to the parsonage to breakfast we are met with the
unpleasant news that three of our ponies have taken it into their heads
to run away, and that our guide has started in search of them. As we are
bent upon visiting the Geysirs, and also upon crossing Hengill, a task
which some of the knowing ones at Reykjavik have pronounced to be too
difficult to be performed in four days, the delay thus caused is both
unfortunate and annoying. There is nothing for it, however, but “to
possess our souls in patience.”
“Whatever can’t be cured,
Must with patience be endured.”
The traveller,—especially the traveller in Iceland, which is not a land
flowing with milk and honey—can learn no more useful lesson than the one
contained in the foregoing couplet from an old English song. It will
stand him in good stead “many a time and oft,” and will even help him
occasionally to derive amusement from his misfortunes.
About noon after three or four hours’ hard riding Gudmundsen returns to
report his non-success, and shortly afterwards sets out again in another
direction. Growing tired of loafing about the graveyard, or paddling
down the river in the parson’s boat, we make up our minds to go on with
the three ponies which are standing tethered to the church gate; leaving
our guide to follow should he find the wanderers before nightfall. Sira
Præstur Paulsen who kindly volunteers to accompany us a few miles on our
way, gives us careful instructions as to the route, and at our request
also furnishes us with the following question which we take down in
Phonetic Icelandic, “Whar er veyaguerin till Geysis?” which means “Which
is the way to the Geysirs?” He further instructs us to enquire for a
farm called Efstaydalr, about half-way, and to wait there till
Gudmundsen joins us, as he thinks it may not be safe to ford the Bruera
without a guide.
After winding along the plain by a narrow and very rough path for
several miles the kindly parson pulls up, bids us “good bye,” and starts
off to hunt up Gudmundsen, having learnt that the missing ponies are in
custody on a neighbouring farm. We ride rapidly on, and gradually ascend
through a country which seems to grow wilder and drearier as we advance
into it; passing on the way several lava-rifts similar to, but smaller
than, the Almannagja, the largest of which is called Ravnegja, or
Raven’s Rift.
It is recorded in Professor Geikie’s work on Physical Geography that
“the floods of lava which poured from Shaptarjökull during the years
1783–5 were the most tremendous ever known. Torrents of molten rock
destroyed the surface of the country for many hundreds of square miles,
filling up water courses, ravines, and lakes, and reaching to an extreme
distance of forty-five miles in one direction, and of fifty miles in
another. In some level places where the lava spread out, the stream
attained a breadth of fifteen miles, and a thickness of one hundred
feet, but it accumulated in narrow valleys sometimes to a depth of six
hundred feet. It has been computed that the total mass of lava poured
forth during that series of eruptions would form a mountain equal in
bulk to Mont Blanc.”
The awful nature of such occurrences as the foregoing is a subject of
conversation during the next two hours, at the expiration of which we
reach a veritable plain of desolation, covered on each side of us with
boulders of immense size, and broken fragments of lava of the most
fantastic shapes.
The snow-drifts in cleft and crevice that look, as Shakespeare says:
“like snow upon a raven’s back,” contrast vividly with the shelving
slopes—black and smooth as those of a colliery embankment—of the group
of hills on our left, whose steep overhanging summits wear crowns of
grim and jagged rock, that literally appear to have become solidified in
the very act of boiling over while the lava was in its molten state.
On our right the stony wilderness, terrible in its utter desolation, and
unrelieved by a single tree or patch of cultivation, stretches away till
it meets the sky, and Hope and Despair kiss each other on the horizon.
Away ahead of us, and many a hundred feet below, lies the plain whither
we are hastening, bounded by a chain of distant mountains, beyond which
we hope soon to see the snow-clad crest of Hekla.
No trains of ponies, tied head to tail, such as we often met yesterday,
plodding patiently along the stony paths with their burdens of timber,
cod’s heads, brandy-skins, and other necessaries and luxuries are to be
seen either before or behind us, and there are neither folds filled with
bleating ewes waiting to be milked, nor little grass-covered farm
houses, with their adjoining cattle-shelters, to indicate the presence
of human beings. A few birds, with breasts the colour of the moss from
which they rise, are the only living things that meet our eyes for at
least an hour as we ride over a landscape whose description may be
summed up in three words—wilderness, mountain, and sky.
But after a long descent by a steep path which winds round the base of
one of the hills on our left, we arrive at an extensive plain called
Laugerdal, on which sheep and ponies are grazing not far from a party of
men who have pitched tents in the middle of it. We have hitherto
followed the track without much difficulty, but are now a little at
fault. Riding up to one of the tents, however, we put our one question
and are understood, the path is pointed out, and away we go across a
barren undulating plateau till we reach a second plain, where, on the
shores of a large lake, we see steam issuing from the ground in various
places, these being the first signs that we are at length nearing the
region of volcanic hot springs.
Away beyond the lake,—distant about fifty miles, and lying to the left
of two other cones which seem to rival it in height, but lack its
shapely beauty,—rises Hekla, once included among the seven wonders of
the world, and still the best known, though perhaps not the most
important, of the burning mountains of Iceland. Unfortunately its summit
is shrouded in mist, and we are only able to distinguish the lower
portions of its snow-covered slopes, which rise gracefully behind a low
intervening range of hills. The setting sun throws the latter into
complete shadow, and it lies across the horizon like a line of intensest
black, above which the white glistening mountain beyond shines like a
dream of heaven.
Turning to the left we skirt the plain, ford the river, pick our way
over a stretch of bog-land, scramble up a rocky slope, and at last reach
a church and a farm house, where being satisfied that we have missed the
road, we apply to a youth for information, dwelling particularly in our
enquiry on the word Efstaydalr.
We manage to understand one another, and with the help of a bright
little fellow, who joins us, and who knows what “milk” means, succeed in
conveying to the good lady of the house the fact that we should like
something to eat, and are accordingly shewn into the best room and
presently served with hot milk, coffee,—excellent coffee too—and sweet
biscuits apparently home-made. I have never tasted better coffee in any
part of the world, and attribute this to the fact that the beans were
ground in an adjoining room while we were waiting. It is the favourite
beverage of the Icelanders, and they take care to have it good.
While we are refreshing ourselves, the youth first addressed, a
pleasant-faced good-natured intelligent fellow persists in addressing us
in Icelandic, stopping in his discourse every now and then to apply to
his nose a snuff bottle which resembles a small brandy-flask. This is
generally made of wood, and has a stopper attached to it by a few inches
of silver chain. The snuffer having removed the stopper puts the neck of
the bottle into one or other of his nostrils and sniffs up the tobacco
dust. The habit, which is a vicious one, is so universal that one is
constantly reminded of the old distich:—
“Tobacco is an Indian weed,
It was the devil sowed the seed,
It drains the pocket, spoils the clothes,
And makes a dust-bin of the nose.”
Paying our hostess a couple of kroner—twice as much as she asks—we start
about 9.0 p.m. for Efstaydalr, accompanied by the talkative youth, who
throws himself across our spare pony and constitutes himself our guide.
We ascend a very steep hill, from whose summit we can see the distant
ocean and Myrdalsjökull—we might have seen the Westmann’s Islands had
the sky been clearer—ride at a rapid pace along a path cut through
dwarf-birch scrub, and arrive in a short time at a spot whence our guide
points out Efstaydalr. He then takes his leave, but on pocketing the
kroner which he gets for his willing services insists upon shaking hands
with us, and does so very heartily. This we simply regard as an act of
friendliness on his part, for the Icelanders strike us as being a
kindly-disposed good-natured polite people, who almost invariably salute
strangers, and each other, by removing their hats and uttering a word
(sœlir) which sounds like “silur” and means “May you be blest or happy.”
We learn subsequently, however, that it is customary for the recipient
of a gift to shake hands with the donor. The Icelanders also shake hands
all round after a meal, beginning with the host or head of the family.
Men salute one another by kissing, and I am told it is usual,—and no
doubt very much more satisfactory,—for them to salute women in the same
way. Even the most desolate regions have something to commend them.
Everyone with whom we have conversed—especially among those whose
opinions are entitled to most weight—bears emphatic testimony to the
honesty of the Icelander; and to his willingness to oblige. One of our
friends on the Camoens told us that having lost the winch of his
fishing-rod it was brought to him by a man who rode twenty miles to
restore it. Our captain stated that on one occasion he entrusted a large
sum of money—amounting to £2,000—in silver to a man who undertook to
convey it across country to Messrs Slimon & Co.’s resident agent. The
money was packed in boxes and carried as usual on ponies, one of which
unfortunately broke down on the road. The man in charge left the boxes
containing the bullion in a mud-hole by the wayside, and went on with
the remainder, returning to fetch the other two a few days later, when
the money was found untouched. The captain also mentioned the case of a
passenger who had travelled with him—an officer in the British army—who,
having unfortunately started off into the interior without his watch,
borrowed one from a man whom he met on the road. The latter gave it up
without any hesitation on the understanding that it was to be left at a
house in Reykjavik which he was in the habit of visiting when in town.
Being thoroughly honest himself, the poor Icelander had perfect faith in
the honesty of the stranger, and fortunately was not deceived, for on
calling for his watch some time afterwards at the place appointed it was
returned to him with a handsome gratuity.
At Efstaydalr—(Upper Dale)—we dismount and knock at the doors of the
long row of turf-covered buildings that form the homestead. There seems
to be no one at home, however, and we are wondering what we shall do
next when two men turn up who seem somewhat anxious to get rid of us. We
have a shrewd guess that their anxiety arises from the fact that our
poor ponies are taking advantage of the opportunity to nibble a few
blades of the rich grass which is growing upon the “tun.” This grass is
so precious in the farmer’s eyes that he guards it with jealous care, it
being reserved for his cattle, and not intended for ponies or sheep. It
grows naturally upon the few acres of hummock-covered land round the
farm, and it is manured only by the cattle that feed upon it. It is
never ploughed up nor otherwise prepared for seed, neither is it sown. I
may here remark that we have not yet seen a single plough, harrow or
other agricultural implement of any kind during the whole course of our
journey up to the present.
Our next stage is the Bruera—(Bridge Water)—which after about an hour’s
riding we reach in company with two or three trains of pack-ponies,
which like ourselves are travelling late. Remembering the Præstur’s
advice not to cross the river without a guide, but to wait at Efstaydalr
for Gudmundsen, we deem it prudent to keep near the lad who is in charge
of the leading team, but on reaching the ford find that there is neither
difficulty nor danger. Though it is eleven o’clock at night, the sun is
still shining just below the horizon, and the light is as clear as that
of an English summer evening.
Before us a stream, apparently fifty or sixty yards broad, rushes with
loud roaring from a defile on the left, and at the spot where we ford
it, leaps into a rift or chasm in mid-channel, and forms a sort of
miniature horse-shoe fall. From this chasm which we cross by a frail
bridge of wooden planks, the river takes another plunge to a lower level
where it again broadens out by a series of stages, till, after rushing
between two high natural gateways of rock, it once more rolls grandly
between its green banks on to the sea. On reaching the opposite side we
halt to give the ponies a rest, being still a long way from the Geysirs.
Leaving the patient animals to crop the scanty herbage, wherever they
find it best and sweetest, we lie down under the shelter of a bank where
we are protected from the breeze by a belt of dwarf-birch scrub. Taking
out of my pocket a valued and favourite companion, a little birthday
book which has been round the world with me, and which contains extracts
from Longfellow’s poems, I while away the time till midnight by reading
selections to my friend by the soft light that fills the sky above. I
have just read the following appropriate extracts:—
“The day is done; and slowly from the scene,
The stooping sun upgathers his spent shafts,
And puts them back into his golden quiver!”
“THE GOLDEN LEGEND.”
and
“Silently one by one in the infinite meadows of heaven,
Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.”
EVANGELINE.
and we are discussing the beauty of the thoughts therein expressed, when
we hear the clatter of hoofs, and are presently joined by our errant
guide. After a few words of explanation we resume our journey, and for
more than two hours plod on again over the wild desolate country that
lies between us and the Geysirs, which we eventually reach about 2.15
a.m.
Riding over the silicious crust, and rivulets of boiling water, with
which we are so familiar from our experiences in the Wonderlands of New
Zealand and the United States, we pass the great Geysir. Two or three
tents have been pitched close to it, in which we guess that a couple of
our late shipmates—soldier and parson—are lying sound asleep. Being by
this time very tired and very stiff, and rather sleepy, we would
willingly lie down even under a tree, if there were one, but have to
push on for other three-quarters of an hour till we arrive at a
farmhouse about two miles beyond the hot springs, and on the other side
of the river.
With a little difficulty we succeed in rousing an elderly lady who, in
petticoat and chemise, barefooted and bare-headed, and with a big black
smudge on a nose dirtier than the rest of her dirty face, and a sleepy
look in her half-closed eyes, but with perfect good nature, hands us the
key of the little church, that stands in the centre of the adjoining
grave-yard. We subsequently find that we should have been almost as well
off—(so far as comfort is concerned)—had she given us what is slangily
known as “the key of the street.”
She next retires into the house and presently returns with three beds,
two horse rugs, and a couple of pillows—but neither pillow slips nor
sheets—and throwing these on the floor, leaves us to arrange them in the
spaces right and left of the altar, which we lose no time in doing. We
then lie down and stretch out our weary limbs with a sense of relief,
for we have been on the march for eleven hours and in the saddle for
nine and a half, during which time we have ridden nearly forty-five
miles. My companion wisely avails himself of the third bed, brought by
mistake, and placing it, German-fashion, on the top of him, and covering
his feet with several of the old gowns which are hanging on nails on the
church walls, is soon sound asleep.
I am not equally careful, but merely putting a little wooden
footstool—(which I hunt up in one of the pews)—under my head to raise
the apology-for-a-pillow, and spreading the horse-rug over me, I close
my eyes and try hard to sleep, alas! without success. My legs project a
considerable distance beyond the bottom of the bed, which is barely long
enough to accommodate me as far as the knees. The rug, though probably
one of the best our hostess has to give us,—like Nanny’s sark in “Tam o’
Shanter”—“in longitude is sairly scanty,” and the consequence is that,
unlike Nanny, I feel far from “vaunty.” The wind whistles and howls
round the little wooden building, finding its way in through a hundred
unseen cracks and crevices, and attacking me in front and rear. My feet
numbed by the long ride, and by the wetting they have received a score
of times in consequence of fording rivers without riding boots, are cold
as ice. These discomforts and a constant succession of shivering fits
prevent me from enjoying the rest I so much need.
After four hours of troubled dozing, broken every five minutes by a
convulsive start, I rise about seven o’clock, and threading my way among
the green mounds that mark the last resting places of many who after
“Life’s fitful fever are sleeping well,” stroll down to the river and
there perform my ablutions.
Having completed our toilette we procure hot milk and boiling water from
the house, unpack our provisions, and sit down in one of the narrow
straight-backed pews to breakfast under the very shadow of the pulpit.
The good lady has provided neither plates nor knives nor forks, and only
a single spoon, so we are compelled to make considerable use of our
fingers and begin to appreciate the old saying that “fingers were made
before forks.” Gudmundsen’s jack-knife is found useful as a
sardine-opener, and a few scraps of newspaper do duty for plates. Our
menu includes cocoa,—sweetened with dirty sugar candy,—dry biscuits,
hard boiled eggs—brought from England, for eggs are scarce in
Iceland,—and sardines à l’huille. These delicacies are discussed with an
appetite sharpened by two days’ hard riding.
Before we leave I take “a last fond look” at our ecclesiastical
domicile, which presents a curious spectacle. It is a small building
about thirty feet long, fifteen feet broad, and twelve feet high,
constructed of weatherboard, with three windows on each side, and a
little belfry over the door. On entering I almost touch with my head the
floor of a loft which extends half way into the church. This loft,
reached by a rickety stair, on the left of the entrance, contains some
old saddles, a little lot of wool, a spinning wheel, and several heaps
of lumber. At the further end of the church is a railed altar on which
stand two common brass candlesticks each containing a half-burnt tallow
candle. The space under the altar has been converted into a cupboard.
Right and left of this are our beds and bedding, and from the walls are
suspended not only ecclesiastical vestments but sundry other nameless
garments belonging both to men and women. On the left of the altar as we
face the door is the pulpit, once as gaudy as red and blue and yellow
paint could make it, though its glory has evidently long ago departed.
Fifteen pews, with perpendicular rail-backs and narrow knife-board seats
about seven or eight inches broad, occupy the remainder of the edifice,
and fill me with pity for the unfortunate Christians who are obliged to
receive spiritual consolation under such uncomfortable conditions. An
elaborate brass chandelier depends from the centre of the ceiling, and a
large pewter plate, used to receive the collection, hangs significantly
on the wall behind the pulpit. A curious notice-board, apparently
specifying high-days and holidays, is affixed to a beam in front of the
altar, and the ends of two or three of the pews are decorated with our
overcoats, a pair of stockings, and sundry other articles of attire
placed there last night to dry.
Having packed up our traps, saddled our ponies, and paid all charges, we
commence our journey to Hengill by way of the Geysirs, which can be seen
steaming furiously at a short distance on the other side of the river.
On reaching the tents, previously referred to, we are welcomed by our
two compagnons de voyage who hospitably entertain us while we wait a few
hours in the hope of seeing “the Strokr” spout. The old farmer, who is
making a fortune by cutting turf to throw into it, tells us that we may
expect it to go off in about three-quarters of an hour. After waiting
more than twice that time in the vain, but momentary, expectation of
seeing it erupt, our friends order a second load of turf to be thrown
in, which is accordingly done. Then we retire into the tent for lunch,
keeping our eye anxiously fixed meanwhile upon the hole where the sulky
Strokr is bubbling furiously, and sending up great clouds of steam; but
alas! no column of boiling water. Having satisfied our appetites we
again moon round the edge of the crater for a couple of hours, but there
being no appearance of an outburst, my friend and the guide decide to
ride on, leaving me to follow in the course of an hour, as I am anxious
to get a photograph of the Strokr in action. I am compelled, however, to
follow my companions without being more successful than themselves.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
PLATE VI.
1 The Upper Fall of the Oxara, Thingvellir.
2 The Lögberg.—3 View of plain at Thingvellir.—4 The Parsonage.
5 The Church.—6 Execution Pool.—7 Train of pack-ponies.
]
While we are refreshing ourselves in the tent, the parson, who is fond
of a joke, observes that he wishes the Strokr, like a reformed
betting-man, would “throw up the turf.” Pardoning the pun in
consideration of the cup of good tea which he has just brewed for us
with water boiled in one of Nature’s own kettles, we take advantage of
the delay to inspect the great Geysir, which is a large circular pool of
water seventy-two feet in diameter and four feet in depth, with a shaft
in the centre from four to nine inches in diameter, and according to
Professor Bunsen from sixty to seventy-four feet deep. The temperature,
according to the same authority, varies, but the maximum is 270 deg.
Fahrenheit, or 58 deg. above boiling point, and is given by other
scientific observers at from 168 deg. to 188 deg. Fahrenheit on the
surface. The water is green in colour and wonderfully clear.
The basin of the Strokr is about eight feet in diameter at the mouth,
with a shaft in the centre forty-four feet deep and about ten inches in
diameter. The turf sinking into the shaft clogs it up at the narrowest
part, and thus excites the violent action which results in a fountain of
hot water.
Burton mentions that in 1770 the great Geysir spouted eleven times, and
in 1814 only four times, per day of twenty-four hours. It is now
quiescent for much longer periods. The height it attains is variously
stated by different observers at from 60ft. to 360ft.; but the mean
height, according to the best authorities, is 80ft., which is exactly
equal to that of the “Great Fountain” at Versailles.
To any one who has visited the Wonderlands of Rhotomahana in New
Zealand, and the Yellowstone Park in the United States of America, the
Geysirs of Iceland seem by comparison unimportant. One misses, for
instance, the Paints Pots or pools of boiling mud of various colours,
the curious formations, the roaring steam-vents, the Obsidian cliffs,
and more than all these, the wonderful Terraces, up which the traveller
may climb from ridge to ridge, till he reaches the top where the Geysir
is bubbling and steaming furiously in the centre of the crater, and
whence he is able to look down upon a succession of receding alabaster
shell-like basins, each carved by Nature’s hand with the most delicate
fret-work, and filled with water so exquisitely blue in colour that no
description can convey even a faint idea of its loveliness. For these
substitute an extensive wilderness dreary barren and treeless, and
bordered by distant hills. In the centre of this waste on the summit of
a silicious mound, imagine several holes in the ground of greater or
less size, filled with pure or dirty boiling water, which is sending up
clouds of steam, and you have a picture of the Geysirs of Iceland before
you.
Not far from the Great Geysir there is a little mud hole, which our
reverend friend nicknames “The Grumbler.” He says, that it reminds him
of a man who on seeing the ocean for the first time remarked “Do yon be
always a-troublin’ itself like that?” I may mention here that “Geysir”
is the Icelandic for “Gusher.” Would it be very wrong to apply it, in
this sense, to some of the spouters who are now wooing the new
constituencies?
On resuming my journey I put my pony on its mettle and overtake my
companion a mile or two from the Bruara, where we halt to rest the
ponies. Again pushing on we stop for tea about eight p.m. near a farm
house on the plain, a mile or two beyond Efstaydalr, and in the course
of the following hour, as we ride on our way to Laugerdal, have a series
of splendid views of Hekla from the top of the highest of its three
peaks down to the point where its slopes appear to touch the intervening
hill. There is no time when the scenery of Iceland is seen to such
advantage as during the summer nights when the light of the midnight sun
bathing the landscape in softened radiance, and deepening the tint of
the clear blue sky, causes the dark fire-scarred crags and snow-white
cones of the mountain ranges to stand out with marvellous clearness and
photographic minuteness, tingeing them at the same time with
ever-varying hues that change with its own intensity.
As we ride along amid a silence that is unbroken, I am reminded of the
words in which it is said of Heaven that “there shall be no night
there,” and realise, perhaps more than ever I did before, the depth and
fulness of their meaning.
--------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER VI.
“The palaces of nature whose vast walls
Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps,
And throned eternity in icy halls
Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls
The avalanche—the thunderbolt of snow.”
BYRON.
It is considerably after midnight before we reach Laugerdal, and after a
short halt on the plain we remount our ponies and set out for Zog,
taking a southerly direction, a little to the east of Lake
Thingvellavatn. We have been on the march with an interval of rest at
the Geysirs, from about eleven o’clock in the forenoon; but the ponies
step out bravely, and we do the distance from Laugerdal to the Zog in
better style than any previous portion of the journey, though in many
places the road is rough and stony, the country around being simply a
howling wilderness.
About three a.m. we knock up the ferryman, who, after rubbing his sleepy
eyes, accompanies us with perfect good nature, for about a mile, to the
spot where his boat lies. I cannot help thinking that if he were either
an Englishman or a Scotsman he would neither look so pleasant, nor be so
good-tempered under the circumstances. To be roused out of bed at such
an untimely hour, to row a couple of wandering Englishmen and their
guide across the swift rushing stream, would try the patience of many a
man! The Icelander, however, makes no difficulty about it, but, on the
contrary, shews every disposition to oblige, and behaves generally with
the greatest courtesy and civility.
On the right, on the way to the ferry, we have a splendid view of the
river Zog, which here rushes down a long, precipitous incline, in such
volume, and at such a rate of speed, that it is one oft-broken sheet of
foam from its first fall till it finds its level and broadens out
towards the waters of the lake. It is said to be the finest fishing
stream in Iceland, and is therefore a favourite resort of anglers. One
of our friends, who camped on its banks for a week, had excellent sport,
killing, with his own rod, as many as fifty pounds of trout and char
daily.
On the left a smaller torrent, called the “Kalda”—(Cold Stream)—leaps
from rock to rock till, near the ferry, it mingles its waters with those
of the larger stream.
The name “Zog” means “the act of drawing a long breath,” and is applied
to the river to indicate the noise made by it in its steep descent.
While we are unsaddling the ponies, and removing the bridles, to prepare
them for their long swim to the opposite shore, the ferryman rows across
to his nets, hauls them in, and returns with a few fine trout. I then
seat myself in the stern of the boat, the saddles and bridles are laid
at my feet, the boatman bends to his oars, and the little white pony,
which I hold by a halter that has been tied round its upper jaw and
nostrils, takes the water under compulsion, and strikes out bravely. His
six companions, which are perfectly free, plunge in after him without
hesitation, and with dilated eyes, and much snorting, keep well up with
their tethered leader.
On reaching the further shore, which rises almost precipitously from the
stream, they at once make tracks for the hilltop in search of grass, and
I find full occupation for my time, while my companion and our guide are
being ferried across, in climbing after them in order to turn them back,
and keep them from wandering. It is after three o’clock in the morning;
we have been in the saddle at least ten hours, and still have to travel
a few miles to reach the house where we propose to sleep; and it would,
therefore, be a serious misfortune if any of the ponies were to succeed
in making their escape. Fortunately, the natural goodness of their
disposition prevents them from doing so, and in a short time, with the
assistance of the ferryman, we manage to collect and saddle them.
It is the general custom for tourists, when travelling in the interior
of Iceland, to take with them, in addition to the guide, a man whose
sole duty is to keep the spare ponies in the track, and prevent them
from straying in search of grass, which they invariably do whenever they
have the slightest opportunity. Having neglected to provide ourselves
with this necessary rider, we are obliged to perform the duty ourselves,
and thus cover a good many extra miles over country that would astonish
an Irish fox-hunter, and tax the powers of a Montana cow-boy.
By this time I am beginning to feel thoroughly at home in the saddle,
nor have my powers of endurance been unduly strained by the hard work of
the past three days. But I want sleep, and am glad, between four and
five a.m., to see on a little eminence ahead of us, on the other side of
an extensive meadow, the farm of Villingavatn, at which our guide has
arranged to stop.
A few minutes after our arrival the farmer makes his appearance, and
bids us welcome, and presently we are ushered through the long, low,
narrow passage, common to Icelandic farm-houses, and past the doors of
several dingy, peat-smelling rooms, into the best sleeping-chamber,
where we lie down on beds which, we have every reason to believe, have
just been vacated by three or four girls and women—whom we see peeping
round the edge of one of the doorposts—one of whom, a buxom,
good-looking lassie, in a few minutes enters our room with a large basin
full of new milk, which we find very refreshing.
It is considerably after ten o’clock before we awake, and the first
thing that catches my eyes on opening them is a portrait engraving of
Sira Halgrimur Petursson, who is staring down upon me with the severe
melancholy of a sacred poet, such being his claim to distinction. The
little room in which we are lodged contains the two beds which we
occupy. These are placed end to end along the right hand side of the
wall, and fill one-half of the floor space. The rest of the furniture
consists of a table, a chair, a common American clock, and a dilapidated
tarnished looking-glass. Light is admitted through one small window so
constructed as not to open, and there is consequently a decided want of
ventilation.
The beds, as well as the coverlets commonly used in Iceland instead of
blankets, are filled with the down of the Eider duck, highly esteemed in
the country and largely exported. The annual supply in 1870, according
to Bunsen, was 7,909 lbs., worth about as many pounds sterling. An
inferior class of feathers, obtained from the “puffin,” is also
exported, the quantity sent out of the country in 1870 being 32,081lbs.
I am told that it takes about a pound and a half of feathers to make a
good bed. The eider duck is bred and carefully farmed for the sake of
its feathers only. It plucks its own breast of the finer down in order
to make its nest, which is appropriated by the farmer as soon as
finished. The bird then makes a second nest, which is also removed, and
even the third is sometimes taken, though generally left. By this time
the breast of the little creature has become quite bare, and like man it
may almost be called an “unfeathered biped.”
As soon as we are dressed breakfast is placed upon the table in our
sleeping apartment, and includes hot milk, skyr (curd), hardurfiskur
(dried fish), kaka (cake), rugbrand (rye bread), skonrug (rusk), in
addition to tinned meats, white bread and cocoa from our own supplies.
The “skyr” resembles curded milk, in the condition in which it is put
into the press to be made into cheese, and is a very common article of
diet in Iceland. So is the dried fish, which is eaten uncooked, and is
considered exceedingly nutritious. The rye bread, commonly used, is very
black and rather sour, the cakes and rusks being much more palatable to
an English taste.
While at breakfast, haunted by the eyes of Sira Halgrimur Petursson,
which seem to follow us everywhere, we question our guide about the
literature of Iceland, and obtain a smattering of information on the
subject. He furnishes us with the following names of the great
authors;—Snorri Sturlusson, author of her greatest historical tales, and
regarded as the Shakespeare of Iceland; Bejarni Thorarensen, her
greatest poet; Jonas Halgrimmson, John Thoroddsson, and Steingrimur
Thorsteinsson, also poets. He tells us that the greatest
historian—Thorkall—is still living, and that the greatest living poet is
Matthias Jochumsson.
There is no theatre in Iceland; but she has had playwrights whose works
have been performed in Reykjavik upon stages erected for the occasion.
Through our interpreter we cross-question our host about his farm, which
is a tolerably large one, and forms part of the church lands. He says
that he pays an annual rent of one hundred kroner—equal to £5 12s 6d of
our money—and that he grows a few potatoes and turnips, but that the
bulk of his land is under natural grass.
The great summer work of the Iceland farmer is “haymaking,” which
occupies most of his time, and is a task of some difficulty on account
of the unevenness of the land caused by the frost mounds, which, as I
have said before, are never levelled by the plough, and therefore impede
the action of the scythe. Fifteen years ago there was not a pair of
shears in Iceland, and wool was not clipped, but pulled off the sheep’s
back at the time when it was shedding its coat naturally.
Some persons have referred to this practice as a cruel one; but we are
assured that it is not so, as the wool comes away in the hand without
difficulty, and without causing any pain to the animal. Shearing is now
becoming general, indeed if the sheep are in good condition it is
necessary to clip, for we are told that the fact of the wool “sloughing”
is a sign of the poor condition of the animal on which it grows.
Manure though not often used by the farmer, is sometimes during winter
placed upon the snow that as the latter melts the tillage may sink down
upon the land.
Farms are of different sizes—and as my informant stated, must be
reckoned not by acres, but by square miles—a small one supporting two
cows and about sixty sheep, a large one ten cows, and from five hundred
to six hundred sheep. Where held as freeholds the prices vary from three
thousand to ten thousand kroner,—more or less,—according to extent and
quality of the land.
I ask our guide who is the richest man in Iceland? He replies “The
Bishop,” though the income of his lordship—if I am correct in thus
styling him—is less than a tithe of that of the poorest of his Episcopal
brethren in England. A man is considered well off if he possesses 10,000
kroner, that is between £500 and £600, and very rich if he has ten times
the amount.
Shortly after noon we start on our way back to Reykjavik by way of
Hengill, and have not been long in the saddle before I begin to pity the
ponies, for the road which lies over the mountains is both precipitous
and rough.
On reaching the summit of the first high hill we cross—which rises from
the grey lava-plain that extends a short distance inland from the shores
of Lake Thingvellavatn, which we have to skirt to reach it—we have a
magnificent view of the Lake, its mountains and islands, and also of the
snow ridges beyond. We are even able to distinguish Thingvellir in the
distance, including the upper fall of the Oxara, which, like a thread of
silver, divides the Almannagja in the centre, and deepens the shadows in
the clefts of the surrounding rocks which are clearly visible to the
naked eye.
The spot on which we halt for a few minutes to look upon this panorama
is one of the dreariest and most desolate that could be imagined, the
mountain summit being literally covered with tremendous crags and
boulders, which rise like islands out of the sea of stones that
everywhere surrounds them.
From this point we push on towards Hengill, whose snow-streaked sides
tower above us on the left. On a little slope, considerably higher than
the path along which we are travelling, are several hot sulphur-springs,
the steam from which can be seen issuing from the ground. Here the path
descends almost precipitously to a fine grass-covered plain, on which,
however, not a single animal can be seen grazing.
Having given the ponies a short rest, we commence another ascent, and
shortly reach a scene of desolation wilder and more weird than anything
that has as yet come under our notice. Rocks, rent by some Titanic
convulsion, and split up into huge, blackened, sharp-peaked masses, hang
over our head on both sides of the track, and shut us out from the
brighter world beyond—from lake, plain, and glistening snows—by an
encircling wall of mountains so bare, barren, and fire-blasted, as to
remind us instinctively of that place which is “filled with the
blackness of darkness for ever.”
Through a ravine, called “Dyravegur” or “Door Way” we make our way out
of this gloomy scene to a slope, whence, away beyond an extensive plain,
we can once more see the blue waters of the distant ocean. On reaching
the plain we halt for our evening meal, over which, however, we do not
linger as we have still several hours’ journey before us, and cannot
hope to reach Reykjavik much before midnight. Plodding steadily on,
across bog and meadow, along winding rain-channels, and over miles of
frost hummocks, we find ourselves about ten p.m., much to our
satisfaction, once more upon a high road, on which from time to time we
have opportunities of again seeing a few of our fellow creatures, as we
are frequently passed by men and women driving long trains of ponies.
At Heimaey, with her kind permission, I photographed an elderly lady who
was riding astride of her pony in man-fashion, and I took it for
granted—no doubt correctly—that she was not the only woman in the
country who occasionally did so. The general custom, however, is for
women to use a side-saddle, which differs from our own in having a
circular support for the back, like that of the armchairs familiar to
frequenters of bar parlours.
When walking, it seems to be the invariable custom of women to muffle up
their heads in shawls, thus almost entirely concealing their features,
and when on horseback they generally wear in addition a many-coloured
scarf which crosses their chest like the double shoulder-belts worn by
our soldiers in “good King George’s golden days.”
Shortly before midnight we arrive in the outskirts of Reykjavik, and
being almost as tired as our wearied ponies, are glad when the familiar
outline of the Observatory rises upon the horizon like an old friend to
welcome us back. At midnight, “that hour o’ nicht’s black arch the
keystane,” we ride past the windows of the Island Hotel, from which we
receive the smiling salutations of our worthy captain, several of our
shipmates and other friends, whom I presently join in the mazy dance.
We learn that a great ceremony has taken place during the afternoon, the
Camoens having been publicly presented with a portrait of Sugersson, the
Liberator of Iceland, as he is called, and that a ball was extemporised
after the speeches were over.
Having supped and had a chat with our friends I turn into bed, thankful
once more to have an opportunity of enjoying a good night’s rest in a
comfortable bed, but at the same time highly satisfied with the
experiences of the past four days, and by no means indisposed to rough
it again, even under less favourable conditions, should another
opportunity present itself.
The following itinerary is given for the benefit of any who may make the
trip:—From Reykjavik to Thingvellir, the distance is about thirty-five
miles; from Thingvellir to the Geysirs, forty-three miles; from the
Geysirs to the Zog, at least forty-five miles; from the Zog to
Reykjavik, forty miles. I am satisfied that these figures are by no
means over stated, and to them must be added the extra miles covered in
driving the ponies back to the path when they strayed, as they did
scores of times during the journey, in search of a mouthful of grass.
On the first day we were in the saddle from 10.30 a.m. till 8.30 p.m.,
with a rest of about an hour; on the second day from 4 p.m., till 3
a.m., with two rests of about three-quarters of an hour each; on the
third day from 11 a.m. till 5 a.m on the following morning, with a halt
at the Geysirs of about four hours, and a rest at three subsequent
stages of the journey, one of half-an-hour, and the other two of
three-quarters of an hour each, the stages referred to being the Bruara,
Efstaydalr, and Laugerdal; and on the fourth day from 12.30 p.m. until
midnight, with two stoppages of about three-quarters of an hour each. We
have therefore been actually in the saddle altogether in the course of
the four days for upwards of forty hours out of eighty-five, and have
had about fifteen hours’ broken sleep during that period.
At noon on the morning after our return from the interior we sail from
Reykjavik for Akureyri, but before we leave the Island Hotel are
introduced to Mr Jonsson, a leading merchant. He is a nephew of
Sugersson, the Liberator of Iceland, a man who holds a high place in the
hearts of his grateful countrymen as the patriot to whose untiring
efforts and powerful eloquence the granting of Home Rule in 1874 is
universally attributed.
Mr Jonsson is himself a well-known political speaker, and is the leader
of the young Iceland party. He informs me that the Danes do not
associate with the Icelanders, regarding themselves as a superior race,
and consequently holding themselves aloof from intercourse with those of
their fellow-subjects who are natives of the country in which they have
made their homes. He says that so strong is this feeling that even on
board ship Danes and Icelanders, although travelling together, and free
subjects of the same Power, do not fraternise as other people do. On
this point, however, there is a difference of opinion among Icelanders,
some of whom speak much more kindly of their Danish compatriots.
Mr Jonsson tells me that he has a small farm outside Reykjavik—bought
for one thousand kroner (£56 5s),—which supports two cows that would
cost him two hundred kroner (£11 5s.) per annum for grass if he had to
buy fodder. These figures prove that good grass land will pay a splendid
interest as an investment, and confirm me in the belief which I have
formed that by sowing grass, as has been done in New Zealand, and by the
extensive use of the plough, the stock-raising capacity of the country
can be enormously increased in spite of climatic disadvantages.
Mr Jonsson also states that the best ponies, and the best farms are
undoubtedly in the northern portion of the island, and mentions that
some more enlightened men are actually beginning to drain their land.
This fact, and the sight of one solitary iron plough, which was lying
idle on a farm near the Geysirs, are the only indications of
agricultural progress we have as yet seen or heard of.
Shortly after weighing anchor as we are steaming across the Faxa Fiord,
we sight Snaefellsjökull, (4713 ft.) one of the highest mountains in
Iceland. We keep it in view for several hours both on approaching and
after leaving it, and the sky being perfectly clear and blue have a
splendid opportunity of seeing it to perfection. The little cones at its
apex shine out with peculiar brightness in the afternoon sun,
contrasting even in this respect with the white snow-covered slopes
below, which extend well down towards the black surf-beaten rocks at
their base.
The coast line on each side is wild, rugged, and hilly, and utterly
destitute of vegetation of any kind. Along the water’s edge are numerous
fine specimens of basaltic columns, some of which, in the Bay of
Stapi—so a fellow passenger informs me,—have been graphically described
by Jules Verne in one of his interesting romances.
In this neighbourhood we observe several French fishing-smacks and sight
a French war vessel, which we expect to signal us respecting letters.
She does not do so, however, but steams away north.
Our captain says that there are sometimes as many as ten thousand
Frenchmen engaged in fishing in these waters, which they do by means of
long lines, to which baited hooks are attached. The French Government,
with the view of making the fishing industry a nursery for the navy,
grants a bounty of from thirty to forty shillings per month to every man
who pursues this occupation afloat. In addition, the fisherman receives
a proportion of the value of the “take.”
The fish are salted as they are caught, the centre of the boat being
used to work in, while the chambers fore and aft are utilised to store
the fish after they are salted, a mode of preparation which in the case
of herrings accounts for the superiority of the Dutch brands over our
own.
The vessels employed in this important industry are ordinary two-masted
schooners, and carry a crew of from twenty to thirty men. There is a
duty on dried fish imported into France, in foreign bottoms, and the
Icelander exports chiefly to Spain, the Mediterranean, and South
America.
This afternoon in the course of conversation we discussed the war in the
Soudan. Speaking of Suakim, from which he recently returned—the
“Camoens” having been engaged by the Government as “No. 82” in the
Medical Transport Service—our captain said that the heat was so
excessive that the water in which his ship there lay at anchor shewed a
temperate of 90 degrees when tested by the thermometer. How different
the atmospheric conditions that now surround us!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
PLATE VII.
1 The Bruera and Bridge.
2 Washing clothes in the “laugs,” or hot springs.
3 Tourists’ tents at the Geysirs.—4 The Great Geysir.
5 The Strokr in the sulks.—6 The Strokr in action.
]
The general opinion on board which I gather from both officers and crew,
is that the campaign would probably have lasted longer had the climate
been even tolerable; but the discomforts and miseries of camp life on
the shores of the Red Sea were so many and so unendurable, that neither
soldiers, sailors, nor civilians were sorry when the wretched business
collapsed, and released our army of occupation.
All on board speak of the Australian contingent with unstinted praise.
The men who composed it are represented as having been fine specimens of
British bone and muscle; courageous, and soldierly; thoroughly amenable
to discipline; and animated by a spirit of the staunchest loyalty and
patriotism. This is only what any one who has visited our Australian
colonies would have expected to hear, for nowhere in the whole world is
the old flag held dearer than among our fellow-subjects at the
Antipodes.
The navvies—who were employed by Messrs. Lucas and Aird in laying down
the railway—were a wild lot, and caused a good deal of trouble and
annoyance to the authorities. On Lord Wolseley’s arrival they were
mustered and drawn up in line, that he might address them, which he did
in strong terms, animadverting severely upon the disgrace they had
brought upon their country and themselves by their misconduct. In the
middle of his harangue he was completely “flabbergasted” by a
broad-shouldered Yorkshire navvy who broke the ranks, stepped to the
front, and with the remark, “Look ’ere we aint no bloomin’ soldiers,”
turned on his heel and walked off amid the sympathetic applause of his
fellow-labourers. The Commander-in-Chief had not another word to say and
rode off in disgust.
The same evening the stores having been removed from a shed in the
outskirts of Suakim, the navvies were ordered to occupy it, which they
did. One of them—evidently a witty fellow—succeeded in getting
possession of a telegram-form, and wrote out the following message which
he managed to deliver at head-quarters—“Navvies ordered to the front;
Guards retreating.” It is needless to say, that although it created a
good deal of amusement in high circles this despatch travelled no
further.
When passing Snaefell I am reminded by a remark of one of our
fellow-passengers that the name first given to Iceland was “Snaeland,”
or Snowland, a very much more appropriate designation than its present
one, for as yet, save of course on the distant glaciers, we have seen no
ice either on land or sea.
“There she blows” is becoming quite a common cry amongst us, for we are
now in waters in which whales “do congregate,” and have therefore
frequent opportunities of seeing them spout as they rise to the surface
for air. The discovery of mineral oils has no doubt seriously affected
the prosperity of the whale fisheries everywhere, not only in Scotland,
but in the Southern Seas. There is still a small fleet of whalers,
however, belonging to the port of Dundee, which annually braves the
dangers of the Arctic Circle in search of blubber. It seems to me,
therefore, that the Icelander who has the advantage of being so much
nearer the fishing ground, ought to have turned his attention to this,
as one among other industries, which he might follow with profit to
himself and advantage to his country, for as Dr. Hjaltalin says, “the
sea round the coast might be an inexhaustible mine of wealth, if the
fisheries were not carried on in the most primitive fashion.”
We are not more than 250 miles from the ice-bound shores of Greenland,
another colony of Denmark now used as a penal settlement. In the course
of conversation this afternoon, the fact was mentioned that it was
accidentally discovered about the year 1000 by an adventurous Icelander,
called Eirikr the Red, who settled there, and in order to attract
settlers called it “Green” Land in contradistinction to the “Snow” Land
or “Ice” Land, from which he had migrated.
It is asserted, on what is considered undoubted evidence, that not only
did Icelanders in these early days succeed in getting as far north in
the Arctic regions as the most adventurous explorers of modern times,
but that, during “the first decade of the eleventh century they also
discovered the mainland of America and made several unsuccessful
attempts to settle on the east coast, south of Newfoundland.” It is also
believed that it was from Iceland that Columbus originally obtained the
information which induced him to sail to the West in search of the New
World.
The origin of the name Iceland is thus related by Dr Hjaltalin—“Between
the years 860 and 870 the island was visited by two Norwegians, called
Naddoddr and Garthar, who were driven to it by stress of weather, and
thus discovered it accidentally.” It was subsequently also visited by
Floki, a Norwegian, “who sailed with the object of discovering a new
land, the existence of which was rumoured among the Scandinavians.”
Floki prepared for the voyage by entertaining his friends at a great
feast, and by consecrating three ravens to Odin. These ravens were to be
his compass and pilots. “He went first to the Shetland, and then to the
Faroe Islands. When he had sailed a considerable distance he liberated
one of the ravens, which flew back in the direction of the Faroes, from
which he concluded that these were still the nearest land. After some
time he sent forth the second raven, which returned to the ship. The
third raven which was set free, flew towards Iceland, and was followed
by Floki, who sailed round the south coast into a bay in the north-west,
where he found abundant fishing, both in sea and rivers. He had brought
some cattle and sheep with him; but these perished during the winter for
want of food, which he had neglected to provide for them in the summer.
One day, in winter, having ascended a mountain near his temporary
dwelling, he discovered in the north a firth filled with Polar ice. This
firth he called ‘Isa Fjorthr,’ or ‘Ice Firth,’ and the land ‘Is Land,’
or ‘Ice Land.’ On his return to Norway he gave a poor account of the
country; but was contradicted by one of his companions, who said ‘it was
a land flowing with butter.’
It is generally believed that the island in the ninth century had more
attractions for the settler than it has in the nineteenth.” Dr Hjaltalin
says, however, that “there was a stronger reason than choice which made
the colonists go to Iceland. It was necessity.” They were compelled to
leave Norway in search of liberty, that priceless blessing for which all
men who have real manhood in them have ever been willing to dare, and to
sacrifice, so much.
The national flag of Iceland to-day represents a raven on a blue ground,
and has been selected in reference to the historical circumstance
abovementioned.
Fortunately, we have none of the hardships to endure which were
experienced by Floki and his companions. Our good ship is both
well-manned and well-found, and as she steadily ploughs her way through
the dark waters round her, we find ourselves admiring her excellent
sea-going qualities.
Even when she rolls—as all ships do when they encounter storm or
swell—she does so gracefully and easily, and having had an arm broken
last year in mid-ocean in consequence of the vicious lurching of a crack
Atlantic liner, I think I am qualified by painful experience to express
an opinion on the subject.
Fortunately, too, we are able to rely upon more certain guidance than
that of the ravens of the ancient Norwegian voyagers, and should we
escape being hindered by the fogs which so often surround vessels in
these latitudes, and render navigation both difficult and dangerous, we
hope to round the North Cape early to-morrow morning, and to reach
Akureyri late to-morrow night.
--------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER VII.
“In such a world, and so stormy, and where none
Finds happiness unblighted, or if found,
Without some thistly sorrow at its side,
It seems the part of wisdom, and no sin
Against the law of love, to measure lots
With less distinguished than ourselves, that thus
We may with patience bear our mod’rate ills,
And sympathise with others suffering more.”
COWPER.
Since leaving Reykjavik at noon yesterday, we have passed into, and out
of the Western Hemisphere, and have almost touched the Arctic Circle.
We spend our second Sunday in High Latitudes at sea, and shortly after
midnight drop anchor off the port of Akureyri, the principal town on the
north coast of Iceland. It contains a population numbered only by
hundreds, and is pleasantly situated on the right hand side of a
land-locked bay, which forms the southern extremity of—and is entered
through—a narrow channel from the Eya Fiord. The encircling mountains,
even at this advanced season of the year, are streaked with snow, which
not only covers their summits, but in many places creeps down the slopes
till it touches the weed-strewn beach. There is plenty of deep water in
the magnificent harbour before us, in which, to all appearance, the
combined navies of the world might lie at anchor at one time.
At an early hour on Monday morning (July 20) the Camoens is boarded by
Dr Jon. A. Hjaltalin, the Physician General of Iceland, to whose
extensive knowledge of the history and condition of his country our
captain has made frequent reference during the voyage, and to whom he
presently introduces us. In the course of conversation Dr Hjaltalin
kindly enlightens me on a few points about which I have been in doubt.
Nothing could be brighter or more enjoyable than the weather with which
we are favoured; but I am informed by Dr Hjaltalin that this is the
first fine day the people of Akureyri have had for ten days, the sun not
having been seen during that period in consequence of constant rain and
fog, and the thermometer having shown no less than six degrees of frost
at night. One of our shipmates tested the temperature of the water in
the fiord at half-past ten o’clock last night and found it to be
forty-three degrees, that of the atmosphere at the same hour being
indicated as forty-nine degrees.
But from published returns I learn that though the winter is much keener
in the north, the summer is proportionately milder. In winter the fiord
is filled with ice, and a photograph taken by a local photographer
represents it under such circumstances, and gives one an excellent idea
of the severity of the Arctic winter.
The Icelanders generally wear knitted worsted gloves, with two thumbs
but no fingers, the object of which must be economy, for gloves so made,
being reversible, can be worn on either hand, and thus exchanged when
they become shabby.
Dr Hjaltalin confirms the statement I have heard that women are not
expected to marry in Iceland until they are able to educate their own
children, and tells me that the people generally—though by no means
remarkable for scholarship—are able, one and all, to pass a creditable
examination in the elements of education.
I have heard that in Iceland the wife does not sit down to table along
with her husband, family, or guests; but either serves them, or sits in
an adjoining room where she can see and be seen during the progress of
the meal. This I learn to be correct! It does not arise, however, as I
naturally supposed, from any assumption of superiority on the part of
the man, or from any intention on his part to indicate the inferiority
of the woman, for such is not the case, the sexes occupying that
position of equality which invariably distinguishes highly civilised
from comparatively uncivilised communities. The fact is that the food,
being served in portions—a custom which has originated no doubt on
account of its scarcity and the consequent necessity for care in its
distribution—the wife, who is entrusted with the household management,
naturally takes upon herself the duty of supplying the wants of her
family and friends to prevent waste. When she does not herself wait at
table she sits in an adjoining apartment, for the ostensible purpose of
superintending her servants, whom—like many mistresses elsewhere,—with
or without reason, she has a habit of distrusting. An Englishman who had
dined with a man of good social position in Iceland told me that he had
been greatly struck with the absence of his hostess from the table,
especially as he observed her seated, handsomely dressed, in the next
room. It is high time that such a custom were abolished, for it is
certainly out of sympathy with those of other European communities where
woman, in the family and social circles, is treated with becoming
respect.
Referring to the state of agriculture in Iceland, a subject on which I
am beginning to be somewhat interested, Dr. Hjaltalin states that the
Icelander of early days cultivated a good deal more land than his
descendants do; that he himself is one of those who believe that the
climatic and other difficulties which stand in the way of cultivation,
though very great, are not altogether insuperable; and that there are no
doubt large tracts of land, hitherto untouched by the plough, which
might, if the people possessed more energy and more enterprise, be made
to yield crops of some sort.
He tells me that imported seed has been sown in Iceland experimentally,
but that after repeated trials it has proved a failure. He admits,
however, that there is force in my suggestion that there must be some
kinds of fruits and cereals—not indigenous—which with the exercise of
skill and care might be coaxed to become acclimatised.
I learn with pleasure that in various parts of the country schools of
agriculture have been established which are conducted by teachers who
have been educated in Norway. Believing, as I do, in the absolute
necessity for technical education in every trade and calling to which it
can be applied, I note this fact with surprise and satisfaction,
especially when I remember that in England, where the farming interest
is so great, no attempt has hitherto been made to teach the science of
agriculture to those engaged in that occupation which the Chinese—with
the shrewdness and common sense which characterise so many of their ways
and habits—rank as the highest that a man can follow; placing the farmer
first in order of social precedence, and the soldier last; the one being
regarded as a national benefactor, the other as a necessary evil.
In many of our colonies, where both Governments and people are alive to
the folly of neglecting this branch of national education, Schools of
Agriculture have been established, notably in Canada, at Guelph, Ont.,
where there is an admirable and world-famed institution. It must,
therefore, be regarded as a sign of ignorance and apathy on the part of
British tenant-farmers and landed proprietors alike, that though the
material interests of both might be largely advanced thereby, they have
as yet taken no steps either to supply the want of such teaching as is
now being given to the poor peasants of Iceland, or even to agitate for
its provision by the State. I am quite aware that there are several
institutions in Great Britain where agricultural science is taught to a
superior class of students, but I believe nothing has been done in the
direction I have indicated. Dr. Hjaltalin himself presides over a large
institute, or college, at Modruvellir, in which the students receive
thorough training in scientific and other branches of higher education.
On asking for a reason for the general and evident neglect of
agriculture by the people, he tells me that during the continuance of
the oppressive monopoly, to which I have already referred at length, the
Icelander worked for a drudge’s wages in preference to cultivating his
land, because the monopolists wanted fish and oil and not agricultural
produce. The poor peasant being literally “between the Devil and the
deep sea,”—between Monopoly and Starvation—had no alternative but to
apply himself to those industries which would afford him the means of
eking out his miserable existence, and thus allowed land to lie untilled
which ought to have yielded sufficient food to have rendered him more
independent.
There were, however, in early days, as now, isolated families and
communities, who lived in the interior, a long way from the sea, and it
is a striking fact, and one worth mentioning in these days of coming
land reforms, that these peasant proprietors, to use Dr. Hjaltalin’s own
words, “were the best off, no doubt, because necessity, which is a hard
taskmaster, compelled them to depend upon the produce of the land
instead of that of the sea.”
I remark to Dr. Hjaltalin that I am inclined to believe the country is
capable of raising stock to a greater extent than is done at present,
and he agrees with me. He says that the grass in Iceland is better in
quality than that of Scotland, and can be cut, in favourable districts,
three times during a season, though the latter cannot be said to last
more than five months. Land is considered good which produces one ton of
grass per annum per Danish acre of nine hundred square fathoms. The
ponies, which exist in a state of semi-starvation during winter, can be
kept on grass alone, without oats or any other kind of food. Cows in
Iceland give more milk, in proportion to what they eat, than those of
any other country, the average yield of each cow per annum being about
two thousand quarts. Dr. Hjaltalin has one milker which gave more than
three thousand quarts last year. Each cow eats about twenty-five pounds
of grass per diem. A sheep can be kept indoors during winter on three
hundred pounds of hay.
Being aware that Iceland exports a considerable quantity of wool which
is used in the West Riding I put a few questions to Dr Hjaltalin on the
subject, especially with the view of ascertaining how it is that wool
consumed in Yorkshire is shipped to Copenhagen, and not to Leith. He
tells me that it arises from the fact that there is still a little
difficulty in persuading farmers to sell their wool for money, they
having been accustomed for many years to set it aside to be exchanged
with the Danish merchants for the necessaries of life.
They are now fast becoming wider awake, however, and it is probable that
before long the trade in wool, and in everything else, will be
conducted, not upon the “tick and truck system,” but upon the basis of
currency. When that time arrives, Iceland wool will no doubt find its
way direct to the English market, but the result of the present mode of
doing business is that there is what Dr Hjaltalin calls “an inflation”
price both for goods imported and exported. Just now washed wool fetches
about sixty öre (8d) in exchange for goods; and nothing more clearly
indicates the viciousness of the truck system and its restraining
influence on trade, than the fact that the Danish exporter not only pays
freight to Copenhagen, and thence again on reshipment to Leith, but
actually sells the wool to the English consumer, at considerably less
than the price which he professes to pay to the grower.
During the afternoon Mr Kristjan Jonasarsson, of Narfastodum, Reykjadal,
near Akureyri, comes on board and asks for the gentleman from the West
Riding of Yorkshire. I at once acknowledge my identity, and on going
upstairs have a pleasant chat with Mr Jonasarsson, who has been sent to
me by Dr Hjaltalin. I find that it is under the consideration of the
farmers of Akureyri to send him to England to make enquiries as to the
best modes of wool-washing, &c., and to compare notes generally with the
Yorkshire consumers with a view of subsequently bringing about a direct
trade in wool between Iceland and England, and this is his apology for
waiting upon me.
He tells me that thirteen years ago—in 1872—Iceland wool was selling for
137 öre (about 18½d) per Danish pound—(one hundred and one and a half
Danish pounds are equal to one hundred and twelve English pounds)—and
scarcely seems able to realise the enormous decline in values since
then, and the depreciation of bright wools in consequence of change of
fashion.
Under present conditions of purchase there is only one price for wool,
whether good or bad, and the farmer has therefore no inducement to
bestow extra care upon his flocks with a view of improving the quality
of the fleece, in order to increase his profits.
In his recent admirable work on “The Structure of the Wool Fibre,” Dr F.
H. Bowman, than whom there is probably no greater authority in England,
says that he is of opinion “that our perfection in spinning is in excess
of our perfection in preparing the fibres for spinning, and”—(the remark
is worth noting)—“decidedly in advance of the present state of
perfection of the raw material we have to use.” “Nothing,” he adds,
“will more improve our manufacture than improvement in the growth of the
wool itself, which will reduce the irregularities in the component
fibres, and thus render them better fitted for making a comparatively
good yarn.”
In the face of these statements it seems imperatively necessary that the
Icelander, if he wishes to develope the wool trade and to increase his
exports, should bestir himself to bring about an exchange of commodities
on business principles, direct with the English consumer, and without
the intervention of a foreign and far-away middleman. The proposal to
send an agent to England to make enquiries is a proof that the people
are beginning to be alive to the fact that they have lived in a Sleepy
Hollow long enough; and is one which, if carried out, will no doubt
eventually lead to advantageous results.
Dr. Bowman mentions that the Iceland sheep—of which there are two
breeds—have this peculiarity that they have seldom fewer than four, and
sometimes as many as eight, horns. “When the horns are not more than
five they are placed in one row, and all spring from the frontal bone,
as in the case of the native sheep of Cyprus, but when there are more
than five they are placed in rows one behind the other.” This curious
freak of nature is, I am assured, exceptional, most of the Iceland sheep
having not more than two horns.
Mr Jonasarsson tells me that a year-old sheep will yield an average of
from one and a half pounds to two pounds, and those from two years old
and upwards of about three pounds, of washed wool per annum. The total
export of wool is estimated at upwards of one million pounds weight. In
1871, according to official statistics, there were about 370,000 sheep
of all kinds in Iceland; but my informant puts the present total down on
a rough estimate at 500,000. There is no doubt whatever in my own mind,
and I am confirmed in the belief by Mr Jonasarsson, that with an
increasing demand, and better facilities for disposing of the supply on
cash terms, the quantity of wool might be considerably increased, and
its quality greatly improved. The skins, which are exported to Denmark,
also fetch nominally fictitious prices.
At Akureyri the local agent of Messrs. R. & D. Slimon, has arranged for
a shipment of ponies, and there being deep water close in-shore the
Camoens is presently berthed alongside a little pier, and at once
commences to discharge cargo.
A number of us, prior to this, manage to land in a boat which we find
tied to the gangway. The owner, as he rushes frantically to the bulwarks
in an excited state of mind, seems to fear that we are going to run away
with it, for being perilously overladen, we actually refuse to permit
him to enter his own boat, a piece of impudence which we subsequently
explain, and for which we apologise.
On reaching the shore we find ourselves in the midst of a crowd of men
and ponies, congregated in the vicinity of several small wooden stores
or sheds, which form the trading station. A little further on, a large
weather-board many-windowed building, which seems to be the principal
place of business on the coast, is flaunting the Danish flag in honour
of our arrival, and in the adjoining fields, and along the shore, we see
hundreds of ponies, and numerous groups of men, women, and children.
Passing through these we make our way to Akureyri along a road which
skirts the beach, stopping for a few minutes to inspect a shark oil
manufactory where nothing is to be seen, however, but a number of large
iron cauldrons in which a thick dirty-looking brown liquid is bubbling
lazily. This is an important industry in Iceland, the oil being exported
to Denmark, and largely used in the manufacture of soap.
The following extract, which I have condensed from an English newspaper,
is rather interesting: “The shark caught is known as the ‘Squabus
Borealis.’ The liver only is used, the flesh, however, being sometimes
preserved for food. The fish vary in size up to from eighteen to twenty
feet in length, and from four to five feet in diameter at the thickest
part. The yield of oil runs from five to fifty gallons per fish. The
schooners employed in the trade are from thirty to fifty tons burden,
and are manned by from eight to ten men. The usual fishing season is
from January or February until August. In winter the sharks are found in
shallow water, twenty miles from land, at a depth of fifty fathoms or
thereabouts. In summer they make for deeper water and go further out to
sea, being found about one hundred miles from the coast, and at a depth
of about two hundred fathoms. The hooks used are from twelve to eighteen
inches long and are baited with horseflesh or seal blubber, the quantity
required for each hook weighing about eight pounds. To the end of the
line—which measures one and a half inches in diameter—two yards of chain
are attached and the bait is drawn up to a height of about two fathoms
from the bottom. On being brought to the surface the shark is attacked
with harpoons and lances and when dead is cut open to remove the liver.
The crew get about 55s per month and a bonus of 6d per barrel each. The
captain receives two kroner (2s 3d) on each of the first hundred barrels
of the season’s catch, and three kroner (3s 4½d) on the remainder.”
We spend an hour or two at Akureyri, and having previously heard that
there are actually three trees in Iceland, and that these are to be seen
at Akureyri, one of the main objects of our visit is to see them. I am
glad to be able to report that I counted no fewer than five mountain
ash, or rowan trees, which are a source of great pride to the
inhabitants.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
PLATE VIII.
1 Landing place at Akureyri.
2 One of the five trees at Akureyri.—3 Principal store.
4 Fishing in the Glera.—5 Waterfall of the Glera.
6 Shipping ponies.
]
It is said that an Icelander who, for the first time in his life, looks
upon “a spreading chestnut tree,” or “a brave old oak,” regards it with
even more interest and curiosity than he does a locomotive.
We lunch at the new weatherboard hotel on the hill side, and there meet
two English gentlemen—sportsmen and naturalists—who are packing up in
order to join us on the return voyage to Granton.
Hearing that there is a “Foss” or waterfall a mile or two distant which
is worth seeing, a few of us make our way thither, and after an easy
climb obtain a good view of the tumbling stream, the Glera—(clear
stream)—which leaps from a plateau into a rocky chasm or rift, whence,
on emerging, it makes its way, by half a dozen channels, across the
pebbly beach to the fiord.
The sky is gradually becoming clouded, and as rain is threatening we
make our way back to the ship, where we find the crew busily engaged in
shipping ponies, at which they exhibit considerable expertness, the
result of frequent practice. The little animals, having been driven on
to an enclosed pier, or pen, are passed on, one by one, to a sloping
platform that touches the sides of the vessel. A broad girth having been
placed under the belly of the foremost, a signal is given to the man at
the winch, and in a few seconds the poor little frightened animal may be
seen swinging high in the air over the open hatch, into which it is
speedily lowered. On reaching the lower deck it is placed with several
companions in one or other of a series of stalls built for the purpose.
I timed the men and found that it took an average of just one minute to
transfer each pony from pier to hold.
Messrs Slimon and Co. have greatly developed this important trade, and
on one voyage the Camoens conveyed to Scotland no fewer than 975 ponies.
Experience has resulted in considerable improvements in the mode of
transporting them. Formerly, in rough weather, it was not uncommon to
lose a large number, accidents being frequent and deaths numerous. Now,
however, the deck is covered with sand and gravel to a depth of from six
to eight inches, and the patient animals are thus provided with a safe
foothold which enables them to keep their legs even in the stormiest
weather.
Everybody credits “Jack” with the possession of a kind heart, and I have
often noticed on shipboard how fond the crew are of some dumb creature
which has made its “home on the rolling deep.” Personally I am strongly
of opinion that a dog ought to be the first and constant companion of a
child from its cradle.
“Dogs are honest creatures,
Ne’er fawn on any that they love not;
And I’m a friend to dogs,—
They ne’er betray their masters.”
I feel assured that were children accustomed from infancy to regard some
dumb brute with affectionate kindness, there would be much more
likelihood of their turning out humane and tender-hearted men and women,
for there is no greater truth than that expressed in these beautiful and
well-known lines of Coleridge:—
“He prayeth best who loveth most
All things both great and small,
For the good God who loveth them
Hath made and loved us all.”
These thoughts suggest themselves to my mind because I observe that the
sailors, one and all, are exceedingly kind in their treatment of the
little trembling creatures, and that everybody on board who speaks of
them does so in terms which are almost affectionate. Every precaution is
taken to ensure that during the voyage they shall be carefully and
regularly supplied with water and excellent hay, and the hatches are
well ventilated. Indeed I should imagine that if a pony could speak it
would express its regret at being obliged to leave the Camoens,
especially if it knew that its probable destination in England or
Scotland was the bottom of a coal pit.
The market value of the ponies varies of course, according to quality,
prices for ordinary animals when we were at Akureyri being about fifty
shillings per head; but we saw several which were valued at as much as
£20 each.
I have heard it stated that at one time they were actually killed for
bait by the shark fishers, and I almost wonder that in a country where
cereals are imported and food is so scarce hippophagy is not prevalent
under the circumstances.
It is to the fact that in heathen times horseflesh was eaten at the
sacrificial feasts, that its disuse in Christian countries is mainly
attributable, Christians rejecting it because of its former use in the
idolatrous worship of their heathen brethren, I suppose on the same
principle as those, of whom we read in the New Testament, who refused
meat which had been offered to idols.
But every holiday comes to an end.
“The world must turn upon its axis
And all mankind turn with it heads or tails,
And live or die, make love, and pay our taxes,
And as the veering wind shifts, shift our sails.”
Between 9.0 p.m. and 10 p.m., the last of the ponies having been safely
slung aboard, we weigh anchor, “shift our sails,” and steam up the fiord
homeward bound.
As we glide along, the tops and higher slopes of the mountains on each
side of us seem to be playing at hide and seek with the rolling clouds
of mist that enshroud them from base to summit, and the result is a
scenic effect whose weird picturesqueness is altogether different from
anything we have previously observed.
The midnight sun is resting just below the horizon, preparatory to
starting on another round of beneficence, and the sky is streaked with
the hues and colours of early morning, which, along with the clouds and
dark mountain slopes, are reflected upon the shimmering surface of a sea
that resembles a sheet of glass.
The French man-of-war,—which left the harbour an hour or two before
us,—and a few sailing vessels are seen like black specks in the distance
ahead; but there is no sound to break the stillness of the night air
except that throbbing of the engine amidships, and the rippling of the
ocean at our bows.
About 8 a.m., on reaching deck after a sound sleep, we find ourselves
steaming past a dark hilly rockbound coast, under a clouded sky, and
learn that we are several miles within the Arctic Circle, which is the
name given to “that portion of the earth’s surface that lies north of 66
degrees and 24 minutes north latitude, where during summer the days are
continuous.”
Though we are many hundreds of miles from the Pole, or even from the
regions of perpetual ice, we gaze upon the dark expanse of ocean around
us with an interest which arises chiefly from the pathetic tragedies
with which its mysteries are associated.
At the breakfast table conversation turns upon the subject of Arctic
discoveries, and one of the two naturalists who joined us yesterday—a
parson in mufti and a thoroughly good fellow—remarks, after mention has
been made of the hardships endured by Arctic explorers, that he once
heard of a ship-wrecked mariner who had been reduced to the necessity of
eating his boots, which were full of holes, and who on being asked how
he liked them, replied that “on the whole the holes tasted better than
the boots!”
The same gentleman mentions that when in Akureyri he paid a morning call
to arrange the amount of the fine to be inflicted upon him by the
Sheriff for having, in violation of the law, shot birds out of season.
The Sheriff very courteously invited him to his house to settle the
matter, where having compounded the offence, much to his satisfaction,
by payment of a fine of three kroner (3s 4½d), our companion spent a
pleasant hour in friendly conversation with his hospitable judge.
I ought to remark here that the birds were shot purely in the interest
of science, our informant being a well-known collector and a member of
several scientific societies. Until recently the tourist was at liberty
to shoot birds or animals whenever and wherever he found them; but this
has been wisely altered, and although the law is no doubt constantly
evaded, it is well that steps have been taken to prevent indiscriminate
slaughter.
The gentleman above referred to informed me that there are four species
of indigenous birds in Iceland, viz.:—The Iceland Falcon, the Iceland
Golden-eyed Duck, the Rock Ptarmigan, and the Harlequin Duck. There used
to be another species called the Great Auk, which is now extinct. It was
found principally on the islands south of Reykjavik, and is supposed to
have been destroyed during a volcanic eruption. I have been told that a
French naturalist who visited Iceland some time ago offered a reward of
£500 for a living specimen, but has hitherto been unable to obtain one.
During the afternoon we round Langenes, the north-east extremity of
Iceland, and steam south, keeping the coast constantly in view. On the
third day out from Akureyri we pass the Faroe Islands during the night,
but on the following morning are enveloped in a fog from an early hour,
and have to stop the engines several times to take soundings in order to
ascertain from the character of the bottom what is our probable
position.
We find that we are in sixty-three fathoms of water, and over a bank of
shells and gravel, and on going down with the captain to his room he is
able to point out our approximate latitude and longitude by comparing
the evidence thus obtained with the soundings indicated on the Admiralty
Chart. No one who has not had experience of the difficulties of
navigation can form any idea of the inestimable boon which has been
conferred upon mankind by the patient researches of those naval officers
who have, from time to time, surveyed the oceans of the world, and
recorded their observations for the guidance of their brother sailors.
Early on the morning of Friday (July 24th) we arrive off Thurso, where
we land in a fishing boat in order—after a visit to the Orkney and
Shetland Islands—to make our way home by way of Wick, Strathpeffer,
Inverness, and the Caledonian Canal to Oban, Glasgow, and the West
Riding of Yorkshire.
We bid good-bye regretfully to captain and crew, as well as to our
fellow-passengers, most of whom turn out in dishabille to shake hands
and wave farewell. The last sound borne to our ears on the morning
breeze, as the vessel, which we are just beginning to regard as a home,
steams on her way to Leith, is the refrain of the “Stoodent Sawng,”
contributed by our American friend at Reykjavik, but neither the
singers, nor the pleasant days spent in their company, will readily fade
from my recollection, for “I think of them now when afar.”
It is an invaluable educational experience no doubt for a man to see the
world, to gaze with admiration upon its beauties, and with wonder upon
its mysteries and marvels; but there are no memories of travels—at least
such is my own experience—so grateful and so abiding as those which
centre round the kind hearts that one finds everywhere. If the man who
denounces humanity, as I have heard men do, and complains of having
received incivility, neglect, and discourtesy, from strangers in strange
lands, will but be honest with himself he will probably find the true
explanation of the treatment he has met with, in his own churlishness,
or unwillingness to be friendly.
For my own part I have often had to thank strangers for having, at great
personal inconvenience, made my path smooth, and for having greatly
contributed to my comfort and enjoyment, and there is not a country, in
any part of the world that I have visited, in which I have not received
some unexpected attention, or had reason to be grateful for some
disinterested kindness.
From those Icelanders with whom I came into personal contact I received
only courtesy and civility, and I shall ever look back upon my trip to
the Arctic Circle, and my wanderings in the great Wonderland of Europe,
as amongst the most enjoyable of all my experiences as a traveller.
Though apparently almost overwhelmed by natural disadvantages, and
hindered by his own lethargy and want of enterprise the Icelander has
many excellent qualities, and has earned the good opinion of those who
know him best; and I cannot help hoping and believing that a bright
future lies before him which will to some extent compensate for the
miseries and calamities of the past. Let me add in conclusion that no
Briton, fagged with hard work, whether physical or mental, who seeks
restoration to health and energy in the invigorating atmosphere of
Iceland, or who spends a holiday amongst its geysirs and volcanoes, or
in the pursuit of sport on the banks of its trout and salmon streams,
will ever have reason to regret having been brought into social
intercourse with the poor, but kindly and well-disposed people he will
find there in town or country. Though
“They their stormy mansion tread,
And force the churlish soil for bread,”
they have a true love for their native land, and having now achieved
political liberty, and secured the inestimable right of self-government,
I for one do not doubt that actuated by that patriotism which
Chateaubriand calls “L’instinct le plus noble du genre humain,” they
will yet redeem their island-home from its present barrenness and
crushing poverty, and in spite of snow and winter “make the wilderness
to smile and blossom like the rose,” even in Ultima Thule.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TOURISTS & SPORTSMEN
ABOUT TO
VISIT ICELAND
MAY OBTAIN INFORMATION
AS TO THE SAILINGS OF
[Illustration: Picture of the S.S. Camoens at dock in Leith]
THE S.S. “CAMOENS,”
BY APPLYING TO
Messrs. R. & D. SLIMON,
Leith and Iceland Steam Shipping Co.,
LEITH
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Transcriber’s Notes
▪ Note: Various archaic spellings have been retained. Printer’s errors
and apparent misspellings have been changed and are noted below
▪ Note: Hyphenation has been standardized in cases noted below, where
there is a predominant form in the text
▪ Note: The author’s spelling of Icelandic is quite variable. No
attempt has been made to standardize spelling except to maintain
internal consistency in usage within this book.
▪ Pg. Front matter: Missing or worn away period added: ‘F.R.G S.’ to
‘F.R.G.S.’
▪ Pg. viii: Corrected typo: ‘Heimaeyklett and Istaklett’ to
‘Ystaklett’—Ystaklett elsewhere
▪ Pg. ix: œ/æ mixup resolved: ‘prœsturs’ to ‘præsturs’—æ elsewhere
▪ Pg. ix: œ/æ mixup resolved: ‘church endowments—the Prœstur’ to
‘Præstur’—æ elsewhere
▪ Pg. xi: Removed period: ‘... drawn by Mr. Alexander’ to ‘Mr’—Without
period elsewhere
▪ Pg. 7: Removed extra open quote: ‘“As we pace along “Upon’ to ‘“As we
pace along Upon’
▪ Pg. 8: Hyphenation regularised: ‘Orœfa-jökull’ to
‘Orœfajökull’—Elsewhere without hyphen
▪ Pg. 14: Corrected typo: ‘summmer’ to ‘summer’
▪ Pg. 17: Added comma: ‘The latter which would make very comfortable
slippers’ to ‘The latter, which’
▪ Pg. 18: Corrected typo: ‘Dr Ion A. Hjaltalin’ to ‘Jon’—Jon elsewhere
▪ Pg. 37: œ/æ mixup resolved: ‘peaks of Oræfa’ to ‘Orœfa’—œ elsewhere
▪ Pg. 38: Accents regularized: ‘Gljár söl á’ hlith.’ to ‘Gljár sól á
hlíth’
▪ Pg. 51: Corrected typo: ‘ommitted’ to ‘omitted’
▪ Pg. 61: Corrected typo: ‘Titantic’ to ‘Titanic’
▪ Pg. 69: Spelling variants harmonized: ‘Shaptaryökull’ to
‘Shaptarjökull’—j elsewhere
▪ Pg. 70: Corrected typo: ‘occurences’ to ‘occurrences’
▪ Pg. 70: Corrected typo: ‘Shakspeare’ to ‘Shakespeare’—Shakespeare
elsewhere
▪ Pg. 73: Corrected typo: ‘distitch’ to ‘distich’
▪ Pg. 81: Missing period added: ‘... in diameter’ to ‘... in diameter.’
▪ Pg. 88: Comma moved: ‘skonrug, (rusk)’ to ‘skonrug (rusk),’—Changed
in accordance with other items in list
▪ Pg. 90: Corrected typo: ‘divides the Alanannagja’ to ‘Almannagja’
▪ Pg. 94: Corrected typo: ‘Estaydalr, and Laugerdal’ to ‘Efstaydalr’
▪ Pg. 97: Added comma: ‘While we are refreshing ourselves the youth’ to
‘refreshing ourselves, the youth’
▪ Pg. 104: Added diacritic: ‘... sardines a l’huille’ to ‘à l’huille’
▪ Pg. 110: Removed period: ‘Mr. Jonasarsson tells me’ to ‘Mr’—Without
period elsewhere
▪ Pg. 110: Removed period: ‘... in the belief by Mr. Jonasarsson’ to
‘Mr’—Without period elsewhere
▪ Pg. 112: Changed double quote to single: ‘the “Squabus Borealis.’ ’
to ‘the ‘Squabus Borealis.’ ’
▪ Pg. 121: Corrected typo: ‘... the patriot to those untiring efforts’
to ‘to whose’
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