The Project Gutenberg eBook, Norðurfari; or, Rambles in Iceland, by Pliny
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Title: Norðurfari; or, Rambles in Iceland
Author: Pliny Miles
Release Date: May 2, 2020 [eBook #61992]
Language: English
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ICELAND***
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NORÐURFARI,
OR RAMBLES IN ICELAND.
by
PLINY MILES.
Nefndan Norðurfara
Nu á hann að svara
Fyrir fyrða tvo;
Virðið vel það gaman!
Við því sattir framan
Erum allir saman—
Eða mun ei svo?
Jú—allir Isalandi
Unum við og sandi
Er bláar bárur þvo.
BRINJULFSSON.
New York:
Charles B. Norton, 71 Chambers Street,
1854.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1854, by
Charles B. Norton,
In the Clerk’s office of the District Court for the Southern District of
New York.
Baker, Godwin & Co., Printers,
1 Spruce St., New York.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TO
PHILIP JAMES BAILEY,
AUTHOR OF “FESTUS,”
IN ADMIRATION OF HIS GENIUS,
RESPECT FOR HIS CHARACTER,
REMEMBRANCE OF HIS FRIENDSHIP
AND THE MANY
VALUABLE HOURS SPENT IN HIS SOCIETY,
THIS UNPRETENDING VOLUME
Is Affectionately
INSCRIBED.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS.
PREFACE, XIII
CHAPTER I.
The Voyage—Stop a day at Elsinore—Elsinore Castle, Hamlet,
and Shakspeare—“Independence Day” at Sea—Fourth of July
Oration—Whales and Sharks—Passengers, Live Stock, Books,
and Amusements—The Meal Sack—Sea-Birds—The Gannet, or
Solan Goose—Land at Reykjavik, Page 17-32
CHAPTER II.
Iceland, its Discovery and Settlement—Discovery and Settlement of
Greenland and North America by the Icelanders—Ericsson—Trading
and Skirmishing between the Icelanders and the North American
Indians—Voyage of Columbus to Iceland—Icelandic Congress, or
Althing—Thingvalla, the Capital—Administration of the Laws, 33-47
CHAPTER III.
Geographical Features of Iceland—Productions and Minerals—Character
and Literary Taste of the People—Wild and Domestic Animals—Exports
and Imports—Chief Towns—Habits of the Icelanders of Olden
Time—Beards, 48-60
CHAPTER IV.
Town of Reykjavik—Houses, Gardens, and Productions—A Ride in the
Country—Visit Hafnarfiorth—Preparations for a Journey in the
Interior—A Party of Travelers—Face of the Country—Salmon-Fishing—A
Tumble—Breakfast on the Hill-side—Stop at a Hotel!—Splendid
Scenery—Extraordinary Purity of the Atmosphere—Almannagjá, or
Chasm in the Rock—Arrive at Thingvalla—Trout-Fishing on a large
scale—Encamp for the Night, 61-75
CHAPTER V.
Dining Out—Many Tongues, but no Confusion—A Merry
Dinner-Party—Angling—Thingvalla, and place of Meeting of
the Ancient Althing—Daring Act of a Criminal—“If you Hang a
Rogue, you must Catch him First”—Old Customs—Introduction
of Christianity, and Fall of Idolatry—A Lacteal
Disquisition—Company Separate, 76-84
CHAPTER VI.
Etymology of Icelandic Words—Similarity of the Icelandic and
English—The Iceland Numerals—Counting—Geographical Terms, 85-88
CHAPTER VII.
Journeying to the Eastward—A Forest—Blacksmithing—Game-Birds—The
Ptarmigan—Iceland Ladies Riding Horseback—Thingvalla Lake—Rough
Traveling—First View of Mount Hekla—Broad Valleys and Large
Rivers—A Cave, and Such a Cave!—Singular Cataract—Frail
Bridge—Arrive at the Geysers, 89-99
CHAPTER VIII.
The Great Geyser—Its Size and Appearance—Numerous Hot
Springs in the Vicinity—Springs of Boiling Mud—Beautiful
Colored Clays—A Seething Cauldron—The Little Geyser—Wait
for an Eruption of the Great Geyser—Singular Warnings, or
Signal Guns—An Eruption—The Strokr, another Geyser—Forced
Eruption of the Strokr—Surtshellir, or the Devil’s Cave—A
Warm Bath—How to Cook a Dinner without Fire—Beautiful
Birds—Termination of the “Show,” 100-113
CHAPTER IX.
Journey towards Mount Hekla—Iceland Rivers—Haying—An Iceland
Meadow—How the Horses Live—Beautiful Birds—The Pochard—Playing
Mazeppa—Swimming a River Horseback—A Hospitable Icelander—Herre
Johann Briem—Slanders and Falsehoods of Madame Pfeiffer, 114-123
CHAPTER X.
Productions of Iceland—White Clover—A Singular Ferry—Horses
Swimming—Sleeping Under the Bed—Sleeping in a Church—An
Iceland Salute—Iceland Horses—An Icelander with a Brick in
his Hat—Boyish Sports—Rolling Stones down Hill—Guess I
rolled a Big One down—Guess it knocked the Stone Wall
over—“Guess” a certain Yankee had to pay for it, too, 124-131
CHAPTER XI.
Ascent of Mount Hekla—Preparations and “Victualing” for the
Trip—Mountain Gorges—Hard Climbing for Ponies—Obliged to
Dismount, and leave our Horses—Streams of Lava—Smoke and
Fire—Variegated Appearance and Color of the Lava—Almost an
Accident—Up, up the Mountain—Hard Climbing—A Lonely Flower
on Mount Hekla—Beautiful Weather—Snow—Craters of the Late
Eruption—Fire and Brimstone—Awful Scene, and Dangerous
Traveling—Arrive on the Summit—An Elevated Dinner—Boundless
View from the Top—Descent into the Large Crater—Ancient
Snow-Banks—Descent of the Mountain, 132-146
CHAPTER XII.
Volcanoes in Iceland—A Submarine Eruption—Awful Eruption of
Skaptar Jokull in 1783—Terrible Destruction of Life and
Property—Details of the Eruption—A River of Fire—“Fiske
Vatn”—A Mountain Giant Drinking up a Lake—Eruptions of
Mount Hekla since the year 1000, 147-155
CHAPTER XIII.
Pleasing Customs—“Son of man, set thy face against the
daughters of thy people”—Roses in Iceland—Fields of
Beautiful Heath—Skarth—Crossing the Ferry—A Lofty Cataract—The
Westmann Islands—People on Volcanic Rocks, 3,000 feet
above the Sea—One Half of the World never knows how the
other Half lives—Climbing Crags for Sea-Fowl—Islands
Plundered by Pirates, 156-168
CHAPTER XIV.
Game-Birds of Iceland—Wild Reindeer—Ravens—Skalholt—A Merry
Sysselman—Good Cheer in Prospect, “for he’s a jolly good
fellow!”—Finally concluded not to stay all night with
him—Took “a Horn,” and left, 169-176
CHAPTER XV.
Stay at Hraungerthi—Rev. Mr. Thorarensen and Family—Christianity,
Comfort, and Refinement—Church-yard and Homes of the
Dead—Gardening and Farming in Iceland—Iceland Hospitality, 177-184
CHAPTER XVI.
Leave Hraungerthi—A Pretty Girl, and a Man not so Pretty—Crossing
a Ferry—The Reykir Springs—Singular Group of Boiling Fountains
and Geysers—Nero, 185-192
CHAPTER XVII.
An Icelander in a Warm Bath—A Churl—Not born to be
drowned—Vogsósar—Rev. Mr. Jonson—Hospitality
again—Drift-wood—Plum-pudding Stone—Arrive at Krisuvik, 193-199
CHAPTER XVIII.
Krisuvik—The Sulphur Mountains—Fire and Brimstone—Sulphur
Mines—Jet of Steam from a Hole in a Rock—A Mud Geyser—“Stones
of Sulphur,” 200-207
CHAPTER XIX.
Leave the Sulphur Mountains—Fun with Mr. Philmore—Stealing another
Man’s Thunder—Up and down Hills—A Horrible Road—Arrive at
Hafnarfiorth—Visit at Mr. Johnson’s—House full of Pretty
Girls—A Lady in a “fix”—A Bachelor in the same—Girls Riding
Horseback—The Town and Harbor of Hafnarfiorth—Journey to
Reykjavik, and Cordial Reception, 208-217
CHAPTER XX.
Ornithology of Iceland—Eider-Ducks Half Domesticated, yet
Wild—A Bird that won’t be Caught—Cormorants—The Gannet, or
Solan Goose, 218-225
CHAPTER XXI.
Snow-Birds—Gulls—The Iceland Gull—Skua Gull—The Great White
Owl—The Jer-Falcon, or Iceland Falcon—His Unequaled
Velocity on the Wing—Falcon of Henry IV. carrying the Mail
from Paris to Malta—Trained Falcons, 226-232
CHAPTER XXII.
The Faroe Isles—Little known to Modern Travelers—Majestic
Scenery—Thorshaven—The “Witch’s Finger”—Men Climbing
Crags—A Terrible Chasm; a Home for Sea-Fowl—Anecdote of
Graba—Norwegian Collectors, and Faroese Maidens, 233-241
CHAPTER XXIII.
Northern Mythology—The Chaotic World, and Scandinavian idea
of Creation—Surtur and Surturbrand—Ymir—The Myth of the
Ash—Mimir’s Well—Odin, Thor, and Baldur—Forseti, the God
of Justice—Bragi, the God of Poetry—Frey—Freyja, Heimdal
and Hödur—The Goddesses, the Valkyrjor, and the Norns, 242-253
CHAPTER XXIV.
Mythology of the Northmen, Concluded—Day and Night—The Earth,
Sun, and Moon—Loki, the Wolf Fenrir, the Midgard Serpent,
and Tyr—Hela, or Death—Valhalla—Death of Baldur—Adventures
of Thor with the Giants of Jötunheim—Ragnarök, 254-267
CHAPTER XXV.
Early Literature of the Icelanders—Eddas and Sagas—Manners
and Customs of the Period—Extracts from the Poetic Edda, 268-280
CHAPTER XXVI.
Modern Icelandic Literature—Icelandic Poetry—Jon
Thorlakson’s Translations of Milton and Pope—Burns’
Bruce’s Address—Icelandic Hymn—Franklin’s Story of a
Whistle—Quotations from an Iceland Newspaper, 281-292
CHAPTER XXVII.
Matters Personal, Literary, and General—Manners and Customs of
the People—Iceland Politics—Books and Newspapers—Congressional
Reports—Sir Henry Holland—Danish Laws Prohibiting Trade with
Iceland—Productions—Prospects of Trade being Opened to the
World—Letter from President Johnson on the Subject—Trade
Opened to the World, 293-302
CHAPTER XXVIII.
Agricultural Resources of Iceland—Improvements needed—Diseases
and Medical Practice—Public Worship in Reykjavik—Ancient
Costume—Further Extracts from President Johnson’s Letters—Social
Evenings—Young Ladies of Iceland; their Education and
Accomplishments—Mr. Brinjulfsson—Take Leave of
Friends—Embarkation, 303-312
CHAPTER XXIX.
Voyage to Copenhagen—Snæfell Jokull from the Sea—Basaltic Cliffs
of Stapi—The “Needles”—Portland—Mountains on the South Coast
of Iceland—Hospitality of the Icelanders to French Sailors
Shipwrecked—Liberality of Louis Philippe—Loss of the
Lilloise—Scandinavian Commission—Geimar’s Great Work—Mr.
Sivertsen—Young Ladies on Ship-board—Music—Dancing on a
Rocking Deck—Captain of the Sölöven—Contrary Winds—Arrive
at Copenhagen, 313-320
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PREFACE.
A PREFACE to a book, is a sort of pedestal where the author gets up
to make a speech; frequently an apologizing ground, where he “drops
in—hopes he don’t intrude;” a little strip of green carpet near the
foot-lights, where he bows to the audience, and with a trembling voice
asks them to look with lenient eyes on his darling bantling that is
just coming before the world. Very likely he tells of the numerous
difficulties and disadvantages under which he has labored; perhaps
apologizes for his style, under the plea of writing against time, and
that he has been greatly hurried. Readers and critics are usually
indulgent towards the minor faults of an author, provided he entertains
or instructs them; but they pay little attention to special pleadings.
The writer who deliberately perpetrates a stupid or silly book,
deserves the fate of dunces—obloquy and contempt. If he adds to this
the double crime of setting up a justification, and asks that his work
be not subject to the usual canons of criticism, then the reviewers
should level their heaviest guns, pepper him pungently, and prove him
but a buzzard, while he claimed the honors of a game-cock. We however,
have a right to expect and demand more from a veteran author, than from
a young and inexperienced one.
The world is so perverse, so incorrigibly an unbeliever, that very
likely it would not credit a word of it—without finding the statements
proved—if the author of this little volume were to say, that it was a
readable and valuable work, “just what has been wanted,”—a good thing,
and in season. Yet, gentle reader, “and still gentler purchaser,”
seeing you have paid your dollar!—it is most undoubtedly true of the
“Rambles” of this “Northurfari,” your humble and obliged servant.
Dropping the εγω, he will tell you how it was. Spending a few years
in travel, he found himself after the “Great Exhibition” epoch, like
the unconquered and unconquerable Macedonian, seeking for a world
to pommel—with his footsteps—and after diligent and long-continued
search on all the maps of all the Wylds, Johnstones, and Coltons in
Christendom, could find but one land that was untrodden; but one that
was not as contemptibly common as Irkoutsk, Timbuctoo, or the Niger
itself. ICELAND was the shining bit of glacier, the one piece of virgin
ore, the solitary lump of unlicked lava; and straightway to Iceland
he went. It might not interest his readers any, were they to be told
whether these pages were written in the saddle, or on Mount Hekla; in
a tar-painted house in Reykjavik, or in a marble palace in London; on
the deck of a Danish schooner, in a continuous summer day of the Arctic
sea, or by the light of bright eyes in Scotia’s land. It so happens
that the most of them were penned in the ULTIMA THULE, the _Terra
Incognita_ which they attempt to describe; and very little has been
altered or amended since the original draft. The spirit of travel is
the freshest at the time the travel is enjoyed; and all impressions are
then the most vivid. What is written on the spot, carries with it a
_vraisemblance_; and, though an after revision may add some polish to
the style, yet to a certain extent, it takes away the life and vivacity
of the narrative. This “polishing” and “editing” process, may reduce
it to a dead flat, and, like an attempt to smooth a butterfly’s wing,
remove the bloom, and leave it but a bony shard. Slang may be bearable,
though it can hardly be creditable; puns may be so bad that some might
call them positively good; but dullness, and a style that is heavy to
stupidity, are the unpardonable sins of authorship. This work, however,
may have all, and more than all these faults.
There are no accessible books, of a late date, in our language, that
give either an intelligible or faithful account of Iceland. The object
of the following chapters has been to present a readable and truthful
narrative, to create some interest in the people, the literature, and
the productions of the lonely isle of the north; and of the good or ill
performance of the task, the public must be the judges.
Washington City, June 1, 1854.
CHAPTER I
“And away to the North, ’mong ice-rocks stern,
And among the frozen snow;
To a land that is lone and desolate,
Will the _wand’ring traveler_ go.”
HEIGHO! for Iceland. The little schooner “SÖLÖVEN” rides at anchor
before Copenhagen. His Danish Majesty’s mails are on board, and at 4
o’clock, A. M., July 1st, we are set on deck. Yes; “we,” and a nice lot
we are,—at least a round dozen, and a cabin scarcely six feet square,
with only six berths and a sofa. “Every berth’s engaged,” said the
captain; “and you can’t go with us.” “Yes, but I can though, if I sleep
on deck.” So I ran my chance; and when sleeping hours arrived, I was
stretched out on a sort of swing sofa in the middle of the cabin,
suspended—like Mahomet’s coffin—between floor and skylight. As it turned
out, though I took Hobson’s choice, I had altogether the best berth in
the ship; the most room, and the best ventilation. So up the Cattegat we
sailed, or rather down, for the current runs north, towards the German
ocean. The SÖLÖVEN—Anglicé, SEA-LION—is a capital sailer, and we made
good headway—the first day exactly sixteen miles; and the next morning
found us fast at anchor under the guns of the far-famed castle of
Elsinore. Nearly a hundred vessels were in sight, wind-bound like
ourselves. “There goes a Yankee schooner!” says our skipper; and faith!
right in the teeth of the wind it dashed by, with the stars and stripes
flying. How the little fellow managed to get along, is more than I know;
but sail it did, and it was the only craft in sight that was not at
anchor. A fisherman came alongside to sell some codfish he had just
caught. He asked a dollar and a half—nine marks, Danish—for about a
dozen. He and the captain were a long time pushing the bargain, and
finally Piscator concluded to take four marks—less than half his first
price.
There’s no prospect of a fair wind, and most tantalizing it is to be
cooped up in our little craft, scarce a stone’s throw from shore, and
right in sight of gardens, fields, streams, and waving trees. Signalling
for a pilot-boat, we soon had one along side. These water-ousels know
their trade, and by a combination among them no one stirs for less than
five dollars. The purse was soon made up, and we had a day at Elsinore.
Indeed I enjoyed it. Didn’t “come from Wittenberg,” Horatio. No, but we
came from Copenhagen. Though but twenty-four hours on board, it was a
joyous sensation to touch the ground. A lot of people on the quay;
sailors of all nations, land-lubbers—like your humble servant—merchants,
pilots, idlers, and various other specimens of the _genus homo_. One
nut-brown looking chap, with the round jacket and flowing trowsers that
gave the unmistakable stamp of his profession, rolling the quid in his
cheek, and looking at me, sings out, “Old England forever!” “Yes,” says
I, “and America a day longer.”
Here, at Elsinore, are six or seven thousand people, who subsist on
contrary winds, shipwrecks, pilotage, and that celebrated “toll”—a mere
five-dollar bill, only—that all vessels pay that trade in the Baltic.
Danish vessels pay nothing. If a foreign vessel passes here without
paying, at Copenhagen she has to pay double. This toll has been paid for
over 500 years; and for this consideration, I am informed, the Danish
government keep up the light-houses that guide the mariner in and out of
the Baltic. It is not as heavy as the light-house fees of most other
nations. This place is sacred to Shakspeare, and Hamlet, Prince of
Denmark, and Ophelia, “the beautified Ophelia”—an “ill phrase” that, a
“vile phrase,” says old Polonius; and their names still live, albeit
their imperial persons,
—————“dead and turned to clay,
Might stop a hole to keep the wind away.”
All this the Danes seem to remember, for two splendid steamers, the
“HAMLET” and the “OPHELIA,” run regularly between here and Copenhagen;
and as if to disprove the poet’s account, they run in unison with one
another. We soon found our way to the castle, about half a mile from
town, through a long, shady walk overhung with trees. Somehow, when we
read of the castle of Elsinore, and of Bernardo and Francisco keeping
sentry before it, and the platform, and the ghost appearing there, it
hardly seems as if it was a real castle that we could now see and visit,
and climb over, and withal find sentries keeping guard over! But here it
is, and as substantial and real as that of Britain’s queen at Windsor. I
spent an hour on its lofty battlements. Here, too, is the “ordnance,”
such as the small-beer critics are always abusing Shakspeare for having
“shot off.” Yes, the theater manager, actor, and dramatist, in his play
of Hamlet, adds to his text, “_ordnance shot off within_”—while these
small-fry scribblers cry out “anachronism.” Yes, they have found out the
wonderful fact that king Hamlet reigned here about the year 1200, while
gunpowder—“thy humane discovery, Friar Bacon!”—was unknown for more than
a hundred years after. Go to: yes, go to Elsinore, and now you’ll find
ordnance enough to fire off, and blow up all the paltry criticism that
has been fired at Shakspeare since he first lampooned Sir Thomas Lucy.
The castle of Elsinore stands close beside the water, the big guns
sticking out directly over the Cattegat. On the land side it is
defended by bastions, cannon, moat, gates, and draw-bridge. The castle
covers, perhaps, two acres of ground, inclosing a hollow square or
court yard in the center. It is unlike any other castellated pile I
have ever seen. At the corners are towers of different heights; the
tallest one is about 175 feet high, and looks like a pile of Dutch
cheeses, the largest at the bottom. The party I was with were all
Danes; and, though their language is cousin-German to our Anglo-Saxon,
and I could in part understand it, as if “native and to the manor
born,” yet I preferred my own. With another party was a very pretty
and intelligent German girl, who spoke English, and was acquainted
with the place; and to her I was indebted for the best _vivâ voce_
account that I had. We were first taken into the chapel, a small and
very neat place of worship in the south-east angle of the castle. The
glaring and rather gaudy style of the coats of arms of the royal and
noble families whose dead are here, gave it something of a gingerbread
appearance; but otherwise I liked it. I looked in vain for a monument
to Mr. Shakspeare’s hero. Could I have found that skull of Yorick, “the
king’s jester,” I think I should have carried it off as a sacred relic,
and made a present of it to Ned Forrest. Alas! no Yorick, no Hamlet,
no Polonius—not one of their “pictures in little,” nor even a slab to
their memory, could I see. We ascended one of the corner towers—used
as a light-house and observatory, and provided with telescopes—from
whence we had a fine view of the Cattegat, the island of Zeeland, and
the lofty range of Swedish mountains on the opposite coast. Directly
across the strait, some three miles distant, is the Swedish town of
Helsingborg, a place about the size of Elsinore. The prominent object
in it is a tall square tower, probably the steeple of a church. In
one room of the castle, where I could fancy the “melancholy Dane”
in his “inky cloak,” the Queen, with “her husband’s brother,” and
Rosencrantz and Guildernstern, and old blear-eyed Polonius, too, there
was a broad fire-place, with the mantel-piece supported by caryatidæ
on each side. When some of our scenic artists are painting “a room in
the castle” of Elsinore, for a scene in Hamlet, if they have no better
guide, they may remember the above slight description, if they please.
Any traveler visiting Elsinore, will find this room in the northeast
corner of the castle, and on the second or third floor. We walked
out on the ramparts, and saw a few soldiers: wonder if any of them
have the name of Bernardo or Francisco! The men on guard were lolling
lazily about, not walking back and forth like English or American
sentries. The smooth-mown embankments, the well-mounted guns, and
the “ball-piled pyramid,” with the neat appearance of the soldiers,
showed the good condition in which the castle is kept. No marks of
ruin or decay are visible. I tried to find some musket bullet, or
something besides a mere pebble, that I could take away as a souvenir,
but I could get nothing. A woman was in attendance in the chapel, but
no one accompanied us about the castle; no gratuities were asked,
no “guides” proffered their obsequious services; but I believe the
German party knew the locality, for we found “open sesame” on every
latch. I thanked the fair German for her explanation; and we walked to
town, back, through the avenue of trees. At four we went to a hotel,
and had a capital dinner. I then strolled about the place, looked at
the “sights”—all there were to be found—went to a book-store and a
toy-shop, and bought some prints and some little porcelain dolls.
A very merry day I’ve had at Elsinore, on the firm earth; and now for
the rocking ship. Yes, a pleasant day we’ve had, but perhaps we shall
pay for it hereafter.
Our voyage through the Cattegat had all the delay and uncertainty that
ever attends these waters. Strong currents and light and contrary winds
make the passage slow; but it is usually far easier coming out than
going into the Baltic. In a few days we were north of the German ocean,
beating along the Norway coast with a northwest wind. We passed for two
days near the land, and had a good view of the bold mountain scenery
northwest of Christiansand. Long piles of mountains, reaching often
clear to the water’s edge, showed a poor country for cultivation. The
most distant were covered with snow, but the nearest were all of that
deep brown tint that reveals a scanty vegetation. Sometimes the strip of
green meadow land near the water had a house on it here and there; and
once or twice villages of twenty or thirty buildings were seen, all
built of wood, and covered with red tiles. We saw none of those famous
forests of Norway pine, where the ship timber grows, and which English
ship-builders tell you is “from the Baltic.” These must be in the
interior. On the fourth of July I was determined to have some fun. The
captain had two small cannon on board, and I asked him if I might have
some powder to wake up my patriotism. Yes, he was quite willing. I
produced some of the good things needful, lemons, sugar, et cetera, and
told the captain to mix a monster bowl of punch. He was good at it; the
punch was capital, and was soon smoking on the table. Our cannon were
iron pieces, not quite heavy enough to knock down the walls of Badajos,
but still of size sufficient for our purpose. They were mounted on each
side of the vessel, and revolved on swivels. The powder was furnished,
and we _banged_ away, waking up the echoes of liberty from all the
Norwegian mountains. I have no doubt but the pilots along the shore were
considerably astonished. Now, says the captain, we want the oration. So
up I jumped to the top of the boom, and in about nine minutes and a
quarter, gave them the whole account of the cause, the means, and the
manner of Brother Jonathan “lickin’ the Britishers.” The captain
translated it for the benefit of the Danish and Icelandic passengers,
and they applauded both the orator and translator. The punch was
glorious, the oration was undoubtedly a grand one, the cannon spoke up
their loudest; and altogether, for a celebration got up by one live
Yankee, it probably has never been surpassed since Burgoyne’s surrender
at Saratoga. It was a most beautiful evening, and very pleasing to think
that at that very hour millions of my countrymen, far far away over the
plains and valleys of my native land, were enjoying the festivities of a
day, the events of which will be remembered till time shall be no more.
The weather was pleasant for some days, and we were gradually wafted
towards the northwest. Vessels bound to the southwest of Iceland, from
Denmark, generally sail near Fair Isle, passing between the Shetlands
and the Orkneys. We were carried much further north, the ninth day
finding us near the lofty cliffs of the Faroes. I thought after getting
past the parallel of 60° north, in the latitude of Greenland, that the
weather would be perceptibly colder; and probably it would with the wind
constantly from the west or northwest; but with a southwest breeze we
had mild, pleasant, summer weather. Sea-birds, particularly gulls, were
our constant companions, and while near the Faroe Isles they came about
us in immense numbers. One day one of these lubberly children of the
ocean tumbled down on the deck, and to save his life he couldn’t rise
again. He was on an exploring expedition, and I’ve no doubt he learned
something. He didn’t seem to admire the arrangements about our ship very
much, and altogether he seemed out of his element. We had one or two
confounded ugly women on board, and I don’t think he liked the looks of
them very much. I pitied his case, and raising him up in the air, he
took wing and soared away. No doubt he will ever retain pleasant
recollections of his Yankee acquaintance, one of a race, who, enjoying
their own liberty, greatly like to see others enjoy it too. We had a
fine view of the magnificent cliffs of the Faroe Isles, some of them
nearly three thousand feet high. They are basaltic, and often columnar,
looking much like the cliffs about the Giant’s Causeway and Fingal’s
Cave at Staffa, but far higher.
We continued our course to the westward, lost sight of land, and for
some days were floating on a smooth sea, with very little wind. How
destitute of shipping is the Northern ocean! For near two weeks we did
not see a sail. Whales frequently came near the vessel, blowing water
from their spout like a jet from a fountain. In my travels by sea I had
never seen a whale before, and I looked on their gambols with much
interest. The sight of them very naturally called up the words of the
good old New-England hymn:
“Ye monsters of the bubbling deep,
Your Maker’s praises spout;
Up from the sands ye codlings peep,
And wag your tails about.”
It must be understood that I’m fond of quotations, particularly poetry;
and all must admit that this is a very appropriate one. Why couldn’t
good old Cotton Mather, or some of his compeers, have given us some more
of this sort? Perhaps he did, but if so, my memory has not recorded
them.
The noise of a whale spouting can be heard from one to two miles. He
throws the water from thirty to fifty feet high. The whale rises clear
to the surface of the water, gives one “blow” and instantly goes under.
He generally rises again in one or two minutes, but is sometimes under
five minutes. Once as I sat on the bowsprit watching two or three that
were playing about, one swam nearly under me, rose up, blew a blast with
his water-trumpet, giving me quite a sprinkling, and then sank. I had a
good opportunity to see him, and got a fair view of his breathing pipe.
It was a round hole in the top of his head, had a slight rim round it,
and I should think was about two inches and a half in diameter. This
animal, as near as I could judge, was between sixty and seventy feet in
length. The top of his head and shoulders was broad and flat, and near
or quite twelve feet across. His back, instead of appearing round, was
nearly level, and showed room enough for a quartette of Highlanders to
have danced a reel thereon. ’Twould have been a rather slippery floor
though, and I think a dancer would have needed nails in his shoes.
Loud sung out the captain one day, and looking over the side, close to
the ship, deep under the clear water, we saw a shark. O! it makes me
feel savage to see one of these monsters, I want to cut out his heart’s
blood. Many a good Christian do these villains swallow. The captain told
us that one Christmas day when he was in the Pacific, a shark came near,
and a large hook baited with a piece of pork was thrown into the water;
he instantly seized it, and they hauled the monster up the ship’s side,
and an officer on board drew his sword and cut him nearly in two, before
he was allowed on deck. Each passenger took some part of him as a trophy
of their Christmas-day fishing.
I had a few books on board, and did the best I could to make the time
pass agreeably. But with all our resources, literary, ornithological,
piscatorial, and miscellaneous, there were many dull hours. One calm day
I got out my writing materials, and thought I would write a letter, or a
chapter of these wanderings. After getting fairly engaged, a sudden
shower seemed to dash over me; and looking up, a sailor “high on the
giddy mast,” while painting the yard had upset his paint pot, and down
the white shower came on my hat, coat, paper and every thing around. We
must take things coolly on shipboard, as well as elsewhere, I suppose;
for there is no use in getting vexed, whatever may chance. As for the
letter, I sent that to its destination, with all its imperfections on
its head. I scraped the paint off my hat, and the mate and I set to work
to clean my coat. After scrubbing it an hour or two, we fastened a rope
to it, and throwing it overboard, let it drag in the sea a few hours.
The soapsuds and old Neptune together took nearly all the paint out, but
it never entirely recovered from the effects of the shower from the
mainmast. As for books, I left England with the very smallest amount of
luggage possible, restricting myself in the reading line, to my small
Bible, Sir George Mackenzie’s Travels in Iceland, and one or two more.
At Copenhagen, I purchased six or eight volumes of Leipsic reprints of
English works—what the publisher calls “Tauchnitz’s edition of standard
English authors;” some of them are English works, but by what rule of
nationality he reckons among his _English_ authors the works of COOPER
and IRVING, I do not know. Among the volumes I purchased, were some from
Shakspeare, Byron, Scott, Dickens, and Bulwer. I found my reading, as I
knew I should, quite too scanty. I would have given something for
_Diodorus Siculus_, and good old _Froissart_; two books that it would
take a pretty long sea-voyage to get through.
Among our passengers were two or three of the dignitaries of Iceland;
one Sysselman, and the landfoged or treasurer of the island, William
Finsen, Esq. On leaving London I took two or three late American papers
with me; and in one of them, the “Literary World,” there was by chance,
a notice of a late meeting of the Society of Northern Antiquaries at
Copenhagen. Among the names of distinguished persons present, there were
mentioned some Danes, some Englishmen, and “some Americans,” and among
the latter, William Finsen Esq. of Iceland! I showed this to Mr.
Treasurer Finsen, and he was greatly amused to learn that he was a
Yankee. We had among our passengers several ladies—one, a Miss Johnson,
a very pretty, intelligent, modest-appearing Iceland lassie, who had
finished her education at Copenhagen, and was returning to her native
land to establish a female school. The domestic animals on board, were
one large, curly-haired, black dog, who rejoiced in the name of
“Neeger,” and four rather youthful swine, who were confined, or rather
were pretended to be confined, in a box. The first day out they leaped
the barriers of their stye, and made a dinner on the slender contents of
several flower pots that the lady passengers were taking out to cheer
the windows of their parlors in their Iceland homes. The discovery of
the depredation was any thing but pleasant, and I believe had the
“prices of stock” been taken at that time, live pork would have been
quoted as falling, and if not clear down, would have been decided to be,
on that ship, a thorough bore. Though they went the “whole hog”—the
entire animal in the floral line—that day, they did not sleep or feast
on roses all the voyage. They did not like their quarters overmuch, and
would usually manage at least once a day, to get out and go on an
exploring expedition round the deck.
Our living on board was, I believe, as it usually is on Danish merchant
vessels. It consisted principally of a thin, watery compound called
“soup,” of black potatoes, black beef, and yet blacker bread. At the
evening meal we had for drink, hot water frightened into a faint color
by a gentle infusion of China’s favorite plant. This drink our captain
called “tea.” Believing that good order on shipboard is much promoted
by subordination and submission to the commanding officer, I never used
to tell him it wasn’t “tea.” If strength, however, is a sign of life,
I must say that this showed very little sign of vitality. It probably
contained at least half a teaspoonful of tea, to a gallon of water;
but Oh! that black bread! it was not so bad an article, though, after
all. We had one blacker thing on board, and that was our dog “Nigger.”
The good boys and girls in America, who eat “Indian bread,” “wheat
bread,” “short cake” and “johnny cake,” have all read of the peasants
of Europe living on “black bread,” and wonder what it is. It is made of
rye, ground, but not bolted much, if any; and the bread is very dark, a
good deal darker than corn bread. At first I did not like it very well,
and at Elsinore I purchased a couple of large wheaten loaves. This
bread is very dear: I paid half a dollar a loaf; these lasted me about
ten days, but before that time, the mould had struck clear through
them. Not so the black bread. That keeps much better than wheaten
bread. The mould walks into it gradually however, but thoroughly. At
first there appeared a green coat, on the side that stood next to
another loaf in baking. This coat of mould kept growing deeper and
deeper, getting first the eighth of an inch, then a quarter of an inch,
and before the end of the voyage, over half an inch deep of solid
green. Inside of this the loaf was moist and fresh; and certainly,
after getting used to it, it is very good bread. It was the “staff of
life” with us; and considerably like a _staff_ the loaves were, being
in size and appearance about like a couple of feet of scantling cut out
of the heart of an oak. So much for living on shipboard. If we did not
fare like princes, we had the consolation of knowing that the fares
we paid were very light. So bad fare and light fares went together;
and that made it all fair. On the fifteenth day out, we first saw the
coast of Iceland. It was an irregular, rocky promontory, ending in
Cape Reykianess, the southwestern extremity of the island. In two days
we saw and passed the “Meal sack,”—(Danish _Meel sakken_)—a singular
rock island about eight miles southwest of Cape Reykianess. While
passing I took a drawing of it, and certainly very much like a bag of
meal it looks. It is near 200 feet high, and about that in diameter,
apparently perpendicular all round; on the north a little more so!
All over its craggy sides, we could see thousands of sea-birds. As
sunset approached we saw great numbers of gannets flying towards it,
going to rest for the night. This bird, known as the solan goose, is
larger than a goose, and while flying, from its peculiar color has a
most singular appearance. They are white, except the outer half of the
wing, the feet, and the bill, which are jet black, and the head a sort
of brownish yellow. A word more about these birds, and some others,
hereafter. Southwest of the Meal sack a few miles, is another singular
island called “the Grenadier.” It is a most striking looking object,
standing up out of the ocean several hundred feet high, like some tall
giant or lofty pillar. What a constant screaming of sea fowl there is
at all times about these lonely islands! But where is the night in this
northern latitude, in the summer season? Ask the lovely twilight that
continues for the two or three hours that the sun is below the horizon.
At midnight I read a chapter in the Bible, in fine print, with perfect
ease. At a distance of several miles I could tell the dividing line
between the rocks and the vegetation on the mountains. And what a
splendid panorama of mountain scenery this singular country presents!
Unlike any thing that I have ever seen on the face of the globe.
Finally on the nineteenth day of our voyage, our little bark dropped
anchor in the harbor of Reykjavik, and our cannon announced to the
Icelanders the arrival of the “Post ship” with letters and friends from
Denmark. Then with expectation about to be gratified, I stepped ashore
on the rocky coast of Iceland.
CHAPTER II
There is not one atom of yon earth,
But once was living man;
Nor the minutest drop of rain
That hangeth in its thinnest cloud,
But flowed in human veins;
And from the burning plains
Where Lybian monsters yell,
From the most gloomy glens
Of Greenland’s sunless clime,
To where the golden fields
Of fertile England spread
Their harvest to the day;
Thou canst not find one spot
Whereon no city stood.
SHELLEY.
AND this is Iceland!—but I see no ice. This is the island that is shown
to us in our geographical books and maps, as a small white spot on the
borders of the Arctic ocean, and described as a cold, dreary, and
uninteresting region, inhabited by a few dwarfish and ignorant people,
who have little knowledge of the world, and of whom little is known. The
names of one or two of its mountains are given, and some place is
mentioned as its capital or largest town. That the country itself, or
any thing that is to be found here, is worth a journey to see, or that
the history or habits of the people possesses any degree of interest,
has not, probably, crossed the minds of a thousand persons. There is,
however, a vague tradition, and some persons actually believe that the
Icelanders or some other people from among the northern nations, once
sailed to the American shores, prior to the voyages of Columbus. What
may be the prominent characteristics of this ULTIMA THULE—this farthest
land—what its productions are, how extensive the country, how numerous
the population, and how the people live, there have been few means of
knowing. But Iceland is not a myth, it is actual and real, a solid
portion of the earth’s surface. It is not, either, what every one
supposes, nor what we have reason to believe it is, from its name, its
location, and the meager descriptions we have had of it. But it has not
been thought advisable to leave this country entirely alone, especially
in an age of travel and discovery like the present. The Yankee is here;
his feet tread its heath-clad hills and snow-covered mountains. He has
boiled his dinner in the hot-springs, cooled his punch in snow a hundred
years old, and toasted his shins by a volcanic fire. But a “chiel” may
come and take his notes: every thing of interest, past events and
present existing things, can not be seen by one pair of eyes. Let us
draw a little from the manuscripts of the Iceland historians. We can
find as reliable and as permanent records of this people, and their
early voyages and discoveries, as we have of the voyages of Columbus,
the warlike achievements of William the Conqueror, or the campaigns of
Napoleon Bonaparte. These records are the “Sagas” or historical writings
of the Icelanders, written soon after the events transpired; and they
are now in existence in the public libraries of Iceland and Denmark.
Some of these are in Latin, some in the old Norse, and some in
Icelandic; and duplicates of some of the more important have been made
by publishing them in _facsimile_, just as they stand on the original
parchment. The most important of these record with a good deal of
minuteness the “Ante-Columbian discovery of America.” Some account of
the early history of this singular people, and particularly a notice of
the early voyages of the Northmen, which I gathered from historical
records here in Iceland, and from the Icelanders themselves while
traveling through the land, will be of interest before speaking of the
present appearance of the country.
Iceland was first discovered by Naddod, a Norwegian pirate, in the
year 860, almost one thousand years ago. He was thrown on the coast
in the winter, and from the appearance of the country, he called it
Snæland, or “Snow-land.” Four years after, Gardar Swarfarson, a Swede,
circumnavigating it, found it an island, and named it “Gardar’s Holm”
or Gardar’s Isle. His account of the country was so favorable, that
Floki, another sea-rover, went there to settle; but neglecting to cut
hay in the summer, his cattle perished in the winter. From the vast
accumulations of ice on the west coast, ice that was driven over from
Greenland, he called the country _Iceland_, a name it has ever since
borne. In 874, the first permanent settlement was made in Iceland, by
Ingolf a Norwegian chieftain. Greenland was discovered in 980, one
hundred and twenty years after the discovery of Iceland. In 982, Eric
surnamed the Red, sailed to Greenland, and, in 986, established a
settlement there which flourished for more than four hundred years.
To induce settlers to go and reside in the new country, the most
fabulous accounts were given of the climate and productions. The face
of the country was represented as clothed in green, and it was even
stated that “every plant dropped butter.” The name of _Greenland_
thus given to it, was as great a misnomer as _Iceland_ applied to
the neighboring isle. In reality, the two countries should change
names for Iceland is a country of green fields and fair flowers,
while Greenland is covered with almost perpetual ice and snow. Eric
the Red had a companion in his Greenland settlement, whose name was
Heriulf. Biarni, the son of Heriulf, sailed from Iceland to join his
father in Greenland, was driven south, and landed on the American
coast—probably Labrador. Thus, the first discovery of America by
Europeans was in the year 986, by Biarni Heriulfson, a native of
Norway, though he sailed from Iceland. He returned north, landed in
Greenland, and gave an account of his discovery. Subsequent voyages
to the American coast, were made by Leif and his two brothers, sons
of Eric the Red, who after the style of names in Iceland were called
Ericsson. I am speaking on good authority in saying that a gifted
Swede, now an American citizen, and most prominent before the world,
is a direct descendant of Eric and his son. I allude to Captain
Ericsson, the inventor of the Caloric ship, a pioneer in American
discovery, and a worthy descendant of the Ericssons, pioneers in the
discovery of America. Another interesting fact may be noted. Among
the early settlers in America—for a settlement was formed, that
continued several years—some of the men had their wives with them.
One of these, the wife of Thorfin, while in America, gave birth to
a son, who was named Snorre. This Snorre Thorfinson, was the first
native-born American of whom we have any account, and may be set down
as the first Yankee on record. From this Thorfinson was descended
Thorwaldsen, and also Finn Magnusen the historian and antiquary, so
that we can almost claim the great sculptor of the North and the
great historian, as Americans. These facts I gathered from Icelandic
genealogical tables; and all who have investigated the history of the
northern nations, know with what accuracy these tables are compiled.
To return a little in my narrative. Leif Ericsson having purchased
the ship of Biarni Heriulfson, sailed from Greenland in the year
1000. The first land he made he called _Helluland_, or “land of broad
flat stones.” This was doubtless the coast of Newfoundland. The next
coast he saw was covered with forest, and consequently he named it
_Markland_, or “Woodland.” This was probably Nova Scotia. The next
land he discovered, still farther south, produced vines and grapes,
and this he named “VINLAND,” a name the Icelanders ever afterwards
used in speaking of the American Continent. We have the best of proof
in their account of the climate and productions, in the length of the
days, as well as in their maps and drawings, that their settlement was
on some part of our New-England coast, probably Massachusetts or Rhode
Island. In subsequent voyages, these adventurous navigators sailed
farther south; and it is supposed from the account they gave, that
they proceeded as far as Virginia and the Carolinas. Timber, furs and
grapes, were the most valuable articles the country produced; and for
these, several voyages were made to Vinland, from Greenland, houses
were built, and settlers resided in the country for at least three
years; from 1011 to 1014. In their intercourse with the Indians, the
Iceland and Greenland adventurers carried on their business about
after the same political code that Raleigh, John Smith, and others,
did afterwards. They first traded with the Indians, then fought them.
They sold them red cloth in strips the width of a finger’s length, and
in return, received their furs and skins. As their cloth grew scarce,
they cut the strips narrower; and finding they could buy just as many
skins for a strip an inch wide, as if it was four inches, they cut it
narrower and narrower, till they got it down to a finger’s breadth.
The Indians bound it about their heads, and were greatly delighted
with its ornamental appearance. Finally the red cloth grew scarce,
and then the Indians gave their furs for soup and other eatables; and
thus,—to use the words of an Iceland historian, they “carried off their
bargains in their bellies.” In the first skirmish that occurred in the
new settlement, the Northmen seemed to get the worst of it, and fled
towards their boats, when Freydisa, daughter of Eric the Red, and wife
of Thorvard, caught up a spear and turned on the Indians, reproaching
her countrymen for their cowardice. By her heroic example, the Indians
were defeated, so we find that the successful issue of the first
battle between Europeans and North American Indians, was owing to
the courage of a woman. Voyages continued to be made to America, from
both Greenland and Iceland, to as late a period as the middle of the
fourteenth century. The last trip of which we have any record, is that
of a vessel sent from Greenland to Markland (Nova Scotia) for timber
and other articles. While returning, it encountered heavy storms,
and was driven into port in the west of Iceland. The old Greenland
settlements continued for a long period, the latest account we possess,
coming down to the year 1484. When they perished, or from what cause,
is unknown. Remains of churches and other buildings are found there to
this day. We now come to one of the most significant facts connected
with the discovery of the American continent. It is doubly proved in
the records of that period, THAT COLUMBUS SAILED TO ICELAND, IN THE
YEAR 1477. An account of this is given by the Iceland historians, and
published in the “Antiquitates Americanæ.” It is also recorded by
Columbus himself, in a work of his “on the five habitable zones of the
earth.” In this book, which is now extremely rare, he says, in the
month of February, 1477, he visited Iceland, “where the sea was not
at that time covered with ice, and which had been resorted to by many
traders from Bristol.” It will be remembered that John and Sebastian
Cabot were both from Bristol. Humboldt, in his “Cosmos,” speaks of this
voyage of Columbus to Iceland, and of the record of it made by the
great navigator himself in his work on the zones. Humboldt also speaks
at considerable length of the early voyages of the Icelanders and
Greenlanders to America; and of all these events he speaks as he does
of other well-established historical facts. So let us hear no more of
the “vague tradition,” the mere “thought” or “belief,” that America was
known to the early navigators of the north. Let it be spoken of as one
of the well-known, and clearly authenticated historical facts in the
history of the world. It takes nothing from the merits and reputation
of Columbus. And what if it did? The reader of history is a seeker
after truth, and most certainly the writer of history should be. During
the visit of Columbus to Iceland, he might have conversed in Latin with
the bishop of Skalholt, or other learned Icelanders, on the subject of
the early voyages of the Northmen to America, but this does not seem
at all probable. Had this been the case, some record or mention of it
would probably have been made, either in the writings of Columbus or of
contemporary historians. Then, too, in his early struggles to obtain
material aid to prosecute his geographical researches, he omitted no
facts or arguments that would be likely to convince the kings and
queens whom he applied to, that his theory of the earth was correct,
and that land would be found by sailing to the west. His first voyage,
too, was for the purpose of finding China or the Indies, and not in
the direction of the Vinland of the Northmen. When he discovered land,
he believed it to be some part of the East Indies; and, to the day of
his death, Columbus never knew that he was the discoverer of a new
continent. One of the oldest of the sagas or historical documents
from which the facts were gathered respecting the early discovery and
settlement of America, was the saga of Eric the Red. The statements
in this and other historical papers, are corroborated in old Iceland
geographies, and also by some European writers, particularly by Adam
of Bremen, a theological writer, nephew of Canute, King of England. He
says that while he was in the north, propagating Christianity, Swein
Ethrithson, King of Denmark, gave him an account of these discoveries.
This was about the year 1070.
If we trace the history of Iceland from its first settlement to
the present time, we shall find that the intelligence, activity,
prosperity, and happiness of the people, and the rise and progress of
the arts and sciences among them, has been exactly proportioned to
the liberal and republican spirit of their government. For fifty-four
years—from the first settlement of Iceland, in 874, to the year
928—it was a Norwegian colony, governed by chiefs. As the population
increased, and the infant settlement waxed strong, difficulties arose
between the rulers and the ruled; and finally the people threw off
their allegiance, framed a constitution, and set up a republican
government, which continued for 333 years. The close of this era was
in the year 1261. All the native historians agree in calling this the
Golden Age of Iceland. During this period Greenland was discovered and
settled, the continent of America was discovered, and an enterprising,
daring, and successful series of voyages was carried on, that eclipsed
the efforts of all previous navigators. Christianity was established
and bishops appointed both in Iceland and Greenland, poetry and history
were cultivated, and a degree of intellectual activity was shown,
beyond that of any country in the north of Europe. Thrown on their
own resources, in a cold and dreary climate, the same causes operated
in raising up a vigorous, moral, and intellectual people, that was
shown in the history of our own Pilgrim Fathers. It was during this
period that the most valuable and important sagas were prepared and
written; papers that show the successful enterprise of the northern
voyagers. “The wonderfully organized free state of Iceland maintained
its independence for three centuries and a half, until civil freedom
was annihilated, and the country became subject to Hakon VI. King of
Norway. The flower of Icelandic literature, its historical records,
and the collection of the sagas and eddas, appertain to the twelfth
and thirteenth centuries.”[1] During these two centuries, their
poets—skalds or minstrels—visited nearly every court in Europe, and
composed and sung their lyrical productions. They were attached to the
suites of kings and princes, attended warriors to the battle field,
and celebrated the exploits of their employers in undying verse.
Instances are recorded, where a king has died, that his praises were
sung so ably by his minstrel that he was installed in his place, and
filled the vacant throne. In the Iceland republic the chief officer
was called the “LAUGMAN,” or administrator of the laws. He was elected
by universal suffrage. Their national assembly or congress was known
as the “ALTHING,” and had both legislative and judiciary powers. The
members were elected by ballot, and when they met formed but one
body, the president, or laugman, presiding over their deliberations.
They assembled in the open air at a place called Thingvalla, and large
numbers of the people gathered round them as spectators. I walked over
the ground, where this primitive congress had met for nearly a thousand
years. It is a raised circle of earth, shaped like an amphitheater,
and now overgrown with grass. On one side was a mound, a little higher
than the rest, where the president sat. Though the powers of the
Althing were greatly abridged at the fall of the republic, yet they
have continued to meet in this house, without a roof, until the year
1800. At that time the Althing was removed to Reykjavik, and has ever
since met in a building. Their sessions are annual, and always held in
the summer. At the end of each session, a journal of their proceedings
and reports of the debates are published in a volume. The Icelanders
have ever regretted, and with good reason, the removal of their
congressional meetings from the primitive location of Thingvalla, to
the town of Reykjavik, where they are surrounded by dissipation and the
corrupting influence of foreign merchants. The scene at Thingvalla, at
the time of my visit, July, 1852, was solitary, quiet, and peaceful.
Oxen, sheep, and horses, were grazing on every side; and the mower was
whetting his scythe and cutting the grass where legislators and grave
judges had assembled and made laws for the people. The scenery is grand
and picturesque. It is directly before the Thingvalla lake, the largest
in Iceland, and surrounded, on the north and east, by lofty mountains.
Thingvalla has thus been the legislative capital of Iceland, until its
final removal to Reykjavik, in the year 1800; though Skalholt—once
the location of a church and a bishop’s see, though now nothing but a
farm—is erroneously given as the capital, in the most of our books of
geography.
Foes within, not enemies without, overthrew the Iceland republic. A
corrupt body of chiefs and rulers sold it to Norway, in the year 1261;
and, one hundred and nineteen years afterwards—in 1380—it was, with that
power, transferred to Denmark; and under the government of that country
it has ever since remained. Until about the year 1490, their maritime
trade was open to all nations, and vessels of every flag were allowed to
take cargoes to Iceland. After that, for three hundred years, the
commerce of the country was either held by the Danish crown or farmed
out to merchants and traders, and often to foreign companies. The only
rule of action in letting out the trade of the country seemed to be, to
dispose of it to the highest bidder. The most of these companies
oppressed and starved the poor Icelanders into compliance with the most
rigorous and exacting measures. As the country produced neither grain,
fruit, coal, nor wood, they were dependent on commerce with foreign
countries for all the luxuries and many of the necessaries of life.
Trade being taken entirely out of the hands of the Icelanders, they
necessarily grew dis-spirited; their ambition was crushed, and, though
ardently attached to their country, they could but mourn over their
unhappy lot. Since 1788, commercial affairs have been on but little
better footing, the trade being entirely in the hands of the Danish
merchants, but not farmed out to a company. The trade, foreign and
domestic, is open to both Danes and Icelanders, but to no others. No
foreign vessels are allowed to visit Iceland for purposes of traffic,
unless they carry coal or timber, or go with cash to buy the products of
the country. As there are no merchants but Danes in all the commercial
towns, foreign traders would never find purchasers for their cargoes of
timber or coal were they to go there.
At this time the legislative powers of Iceland are vested in the
Althing, and presided over by the governor, who is called the
Stifftamptman. This body is composed of twenty-six members, one from
each county or syssel—twenty in number, elected by ballot—and six
appointed by the king. All the members of the Althing must be residents
of the country, but they may be either Danes or Icelanders. When an act
is passed by a majority, it must be sent to Copenhagen for the approval
of the king, and if not signed by him does not become a law. The
Icelanders very naturally desire “free trade,” and wish to have their
ports thrown open to the competition of the world; but the Danish
merchants and ship-owners in Iceland and Denmark, enjoying as they now
do, a monopoly of the commerce, are all opposed to this. In the session
of 1851, the king’s councillors—the six he appointed—prepared a bill,
and introduced it, allowing foreign vessels to trade here, but with the
proviso that they should pay a tonnage duty of about one rix-dollar per
ton. The trade of Iceland being neither extensive nor lucrative, this
would amount to just about a complete prohibition. The other members
nearly all opposed the bill, saying, “Give us free trade or nothing;”
and it never passed the house. The governor was incensed to see the will
of his royal master thwarted; and like some governors in our old
colonial times, he dissolved the Althing, and they broke up in a grand
row. It was adjourned over for two years, to meet again in 1853. The
friends of free and unrestricted trade, in Iceland, are in hopes of
having a law passed before many years, opening their ports to the ships
of all nations alike. The “Stifftamptman” or governor is appointed by
the king, and holds his office during the pleasure of His Majesty. He is
usually a Danish nobleman, and receives a salary of 3,000 rix-dollars a
year, which is paid by the Danish government. There are three amptmen or
deputy governors, residing in the northern, southern, and eastern
quarters of the island. The Stifftamptman, residing in the west, renders
a fourth amptman unnecessary. The governor presides at all sessions of
the Althing, manages all state affairs, presides over the post-office
department, and carrying the mails, and is in every respect the head of
the state, without a cabinet or advisers. There is a treasurer—or
landfoged, as he is termed—who is also appointed by the crown, and
receives a salary of 2,000 rix-dollars a year. The public funds are kept
in an iron chest in the governor’s house, under the protection of a
double lock and two keys, one of which is kept by the governor and the
other by the treasurer. Both of these are necessary to open the chest.
The principal officer in each county, or syssel, is called the
sysselman, and is elected by the people. The sysselman is both sheriff
and magistrate; and all suits at law in his syssel are tried before him,
an appeal being allowed to the Supreme Court at Reykjavik. The Supreme
Court is presided over by the chief justice, who is appointed by the
crown, and holds his office permanently. The sysselman, in their
respective syssels, call all public meetings, convene elections, and
preserve order. In the useful arts, so far as their productions and
circumstances will allow, and in moral and religious improvement,
Iceland has kept pace with the world. Printing was introduced in the
year 1530; and the Reformation, which had been going on in Europe for
some time, extended to Iceland in 1551. The Roman Catholic Church at
this time, the established religion of the country, had become so
corrupt, that the last Catholic bishop and his two illegitimate sons
were beheaded for murder and other crimes. Since then to the present
day, the religion of the country has been Lutheran, and there is said to
be not one person residing in Iceland except Protestants. Such is a
slight sketch of the settlement and progress of this isolated country.
FOOTNOTES:
-----
Footnote 1:
Humboldt’s Cosmos.
CHAPTER III
Happy the nations of the moral North,
Where all is virtue. * * *
Honest men from Iceland to Barbadoes.
* * * * * * Man
In islands is, it seems, downright and thorough,
More than on continents.
BYRON.
THE geographical features of Iceland, and the manners and customs of
the people, are no less interesting than the history of the nation.
Iceland lies just south of the polar circle, between sixty-three and
a half and sixty-six and a half north latitude, and between thirteen
and twenty-four degrees west longitude from Greenwich. Its length from
east to west, is about two hundred and eighty miles, and its average
width one hundred and fifty. In extent of surface it is nearly as
large as the State of New-York, containing not far from forty thousand
square miles. It is three hundred miles east of the coast of Greenland,
a little over five hundred from the north of Scotland, nearly one
thousand from Liverpool, thirteen hundred from Copenhagen, and about
three thousand miles from Boston. The coast is deeply indented with
bays, its valleys are drained by large rivers, and every part abounds
more or less with lofty mountains. Though volcanic regions have many
features in common, Iceland differs greatly from every country in
the known world. It presents a greater array of remarkable natural
phenomena than can be found throughout the whole extent of Europe and
America. To the naturalist and the man of science, to the geologist,
the botanist, and the ornithologist, it is probably less known than any
equal tract of accessible country in the world. The burning chimnies
of Ætna, Vesuvius, and Stromboli, have given inspiration to Horace and
Virgil, and been minutely described by the pens of Strabo, Diodorus
Siculus, and Pliny. Not so the region of Hekla and Skaptar Jokull.
In the Mediterranean states, art and nature can both be studied; in
Iceland, nature alone, but nature in her wildest moods. But how will
those mountains in the south compare with these in the north? All the
volcanoes in the Mediterranean would scarcely extend over more ground
than a single county in the State of New York, while Iceland is one
entire volcanic creation as large as the State itself. Though not
active all at once, yet throughout the length and breadth of the land
may be found smoking mountains, burning sulphur mines, hot springs that
will boil an egg, and jets of blowing steam that keep up a roar like
the whistle of a gigantic steam engine. The volcanic region of Iceland
may be set down as covering an area of sixty thousand square miles; for
volcanoes have repeatedly risen up from the sea near the coast, and
sometimes as far as seventy miles from land. Though Ætna is higher than
any mountain in Iceland, and of such enormous bulk that it is computed
to be 180 miles in circumference; yet if Skaptar Jokull were hollowed
out, Ætna and Vesuvius both could be put into the cavity and not fill
it!
Iceland, too, is classic ground. Not, however, in the same sense that
Italy, Sicily, and Greece, are. The hundred different kinds of verse now
existing in many volumes of Iceland poetry, the sagas, and other
literary productions of the Icelanders, have not been read and re-read,
translated and re-translated, like the works of Herodotus, Xenophon,
Tacitus, and Cicero, and for very good reasons. The country is not one
of such antiquity; it is not a country renowned for arts and arms, and
overflowing with a numerous population. As a state, it is nearly
destitute of works of art, and its scanty population can only procure
the bare necessaries of life. Scarcely a page of Icelandic literature
ever put on an English dress and found its way among the Anglo-Saxons,
until the pen that gave us Waverley and Rob Roy, furnished us with a
translation of some of the more important of the Iceland sagas. The
author of the “Psalm of Life” and “Hyperion” has given us some elegant
translations of Iceland poetry.
On stepping ashore in Iceland, the total absence of trees and forests,
and the astonishing purity of the atmosphere, strike the spectator as
among the more remarkable characteristics of the country. The fields are
beautifully green: the mountains, clothed in purple heath, appear so
near that you are almost tempted to reach forth your hands to touch
their sides. At fifteen or twenty miles distance, they appear but three
or four; and at seventy or eighty miles, they seem within ten or
fifteen. Such is the effect of the magical purity of the atmosphere. In
other countries you go and visit cities and ruins; here you see nature
in her most fantastic forms. In other states you pay a shilling, a
franc, or a piastre, for a warm bath in a vat of marble; here you bathe
in a spring of any desired temperature, or plunge into a cool lake, and
swim to the region of a hot spring in the bottom, guided by the steam on
the surface. In other lands you step into marble palaces that are lined
with gold and precious stones, and find hereditary legislators making
laws to keep the people in subjection; here you see a grass-grown
amphitheater where an elective congress met and legislated in the open
air for nearly a thousand years. In other and more favored climes, you
find comfortable houses, and “fruits of fragrance blush on every tree;”
here, not a fruit, save one small and tasteless berry, and not a single
variety of grain, will ripen, and their houses are mere huts of lava and
turf, looking as green as the meadows and pastures. In other lands, coal
and wood fires enliven every hearth, and mines of iron, lead, copper,
silver, and gold, reward the labor of the delver; but here, not a
particle of coal, not one single mineral of value, and not one stick of
wood larger than a walking-cane can be found. Many of the mountains are
clad in eternal snows, and some pour out rivers of fire several times
every century. But, though sterile the soil and scanty the productions,
our knowledge of the country must be limited if we consider it barren of
historical facts and literary reminiscences. A country like this, nearly
as large as England, must possess few agricultural and commercial
resources, to have at this time, nearly one thousand years after its
first settlement, a population of only sixty thousand souls. Yet the
Icelanders, while laboring under great disadvantages, are more
contented, moral, and religious, possess greater attachment to country,
are less given to crime and altercation, and show greater hospitality
and kindness to strangers, than any other people the sun shines upon.
Their contentment and immunity from crime and offense, do not arise from
sluggishness and indolence of character; nor are they noted alone for
their negative virtues. They possess a greater spirit of historical
research and literary inquiry, have more scholars, poets, and learned
men, than can be found among an equal population on the face of the
globe. Some of their linguists speak and write a greater number of
languages than those that I have ever met in any other country. Iceland
has given birth to a Thorwaldsen, a sculptor whose name will descend to
the latest posterity. His parents were Icelanders, but he was a child of
the sea, born on the ocean, between Iceland and Denmark. Among their
poets and historians will be found the names of Snorro Sturleson,
Sæmund, surnamed FRODE, or “THE LEARNED,” Jon Thorlaksen, Finn Magnusen,
Stephensen, Egilson, Hallgrimson, Thorarensen, Grondal, Sigurder
Peterssen; and these, with many others, will adorn the pages of
Icelandic literature as long as the snow covers their mountains, and the
heather blooms in their valleys. Their navigators and merchants
discovered and settled America long before Genoa gave birth to a
Columbus, and while Europe was yet immured in the darkness of the middle
ages. The works of their poets and literary men have been translated
into nearly every language in Europe; and they in their turn have
translated into their own beautiful language more or less of the
writings of Milton, Dryden, Pope, Young, Byron, Burns, Klopstock, Martin
Luther, Lamartine, Benjamin Franklin, Washington Irving, and many
others. In the interior of the country a native clergyman presented me a
volume—an Iceland annual, the “NORTHURFARI,” for 1848-9—that contains,
among many original articles, the “Story of the Whistle,” by Dr.
Franklin; a chapter from Irving’s “Life of Columbus;” translations from
Dryden; Byron’s “Ode on Waterloo;” Burns’ “Bruce’s Address;” Kossuth’s
Prayer on the defeat of his army in Hungary; part of one of President
Taylor’s Messages to Congress; and extracts from the NEW YORK HERALD,
the LONDON TIMES, and other publications. With scarcely a hope of fame,
the intellectual labors of the Icelanders have been prosecuted from an
ardent thirst of literary pursuits. Personal emolument, or the applause
of the world, could scarcely have had a place among their incentives to
exertion. As an example we need only notice the labors of Jon
Thorlakson. This literary neophyte, immured in a mud hut in the north of
Iceland, subsisting on his scanty salary as a clergyman, which amounted
to less than thirty dollars a year, together with his own labors as a
farmer, yet found time during the long evenings of an Iceland winter, to
translate into Icelandic verse, the whole of Milton’s “Paradise Lost,”
Pope’s “Essay on Man,” and Klopstock’s “Messiah,” besides writing
several volumes of original poetry. Throughout their literary and
political writings can be seen that spirit of republicanism, and that
ardent love of political liberty, which always characterizes a thinking
and intellectual people. Interspersed with their own sentiments
expressed in their own tongue, will be seen quotations from other
writers, and in other languages. With Dryden they say,
“The love of liberty with life is given,
And life itself the inferior gift of heaven.”
From Byron they quote,
“Better to sink beneath the shock,
Than moulder piecemeal on the rock.”
And with the noble poet, again, they express their
“—— plain, sworn, downright detestation
Of every despotism in every nation.”
Such is the literary and republican spirit of this toiling and
intellectual people.
The Icelanders live principally by farming and fishing. They take cod
and haddock, from five to forty miles out to sea. Whales often visit
their harbors and bays, and are surrounded by boats and captured. Their
season for sea-fishing is from the first of February to the middle of
May. In the summer they catch large quantities of trout and salmon in
their streams and lakes. They have no agricultural productions of much
value, except grass. Grain is not cultivated, and their gardens are very
small, only producing a few roots and vegetables. The climate of the
country is not what we would suppose from its location. Columbus, who
was there in February, tells us he found no ice on the sea. It is not as
cold in winter as in the northern States of America, the thermometer
seldom showing a greater degree of severity than from twelve to eighteen
_above_ zero. In summer, from June to September, it is delightfully mild
and pleasant, neither cold nor hot. The cold season does not usually
commence until November or December; and sometimes during the entire
winter there is but little snow, and not frost enough to bridge their
lakes and streams with ice. In summer, fires are not needed, and the
climate during this season is more agreeable than that of Great Britain
or the United States, having neither the chilly dampness of the one, nor
the fierce heat of the other. Thunder-storms in Iceland occur in the
winter, but not in the summer.
Their domestic animals are sheep, cattle, horses, and dogs. They rarely
keep domestic fowls, but from the nests of the wild eider-duck they
obtain large quantities of eggs, as well as down. Reindeer run wild in
the interior, but are not domesticated. Blue and white foxes are common;
and these, with eagles, hawks, and ravens, destroy many of their sheep
and lambs. White bears are not found in the country, except as an
“imported” article, when they float over from Greenland on the drift
ice. The domestic animals in Iceland are estimated in the following
numbers:—500,000 sheep, 60,000 horses, and 40,000 cattle. All their
animals are of rather small size, as compared to those in more temperate
regions. Their horses are a size larger than the ponies of Shetland, and
average from twelve to thirteen hands high. Their hay is a short growth,
but a very sweet, excellent quality. The Icelanders speak of their
“forests,”—mere bunches of shrubbery from two to six feet high. These
are principally birch and willow. The beautiful heath, so common in
Scotland and the north of Europe, is found throughout Iceland. Their
game birds are the ptarmigan, the curlew, the plover, and the tern.
Nearly every variety of water-fowl common to Great Britain or America,
abounds in the bays, islands, and shores of Iceland, and in the greatest
numbers. The Icelanders export wool, about 1,000,000 lbs. annually, and
from two to three hundred thousand pairs each of woolen stockings and
mittens. Besides these articles, they sell dried and salted codfish,
smoked salmon, fish and seal oil, whale blubber, seal and fox skins,
feathers, eider-down, beef and mutton, hides, tallow, and sulphur. They
import their principal luxuries—flour, rye and barley meal, beans,
potatoes, wine, brandy, rum, ale and beer, tobacco, coffee, sugar, tea,
salt, timber, coal, iron, cutlery, fish-hooks and lines, cotton and silk
goods, leather, crockery, and furniture. From thirty to forty vessels
sail from Denmark to Iceland every year. Reykjavik, the capital, on the
west coast, is the largest town in the island—a place of about 1,200
people. Then there are Eskifiorth and Vopnafiorth in the east, Akreyri
in the north, and Stykkisholm and Hafnarfiorth in the west, all places
of considerable trade. All goods are taken to Iceland duty free; and
letters and papers are carried there in government vessels, free of
postage, and sent through the island by government messengers. By the
present arrangement, the government “post-ship” makes five voyages to
and from Iceland in a year. It sails from Copenhagen to Reykjavik on the
first days of March, May, July, and October, and from Liverpool to
Reykjavik on the first day of January. It leaves Reykjavik, for
Copenhagen, February 1st, April 1st, June 1st, and August 10th; and from
Reykjavik for Liverpool on the 10th of November. One half of the trips
each way, it stops at the Faroe Isles. In addition to the mail service
by this ship, letter-bags are forwarded from Denmark by the different
vessels trading to Iceland.
All travel and transportation of goods and the mail through the interior
of Iceland is on horseback. There’s not a carriage-road, a wheeled
vehicle, a steam-engine, a post-office, a custom-house, a police
officer, a fort, a soldier, or a lawyer in the whole country. Goods,
dried fish, and valuables are left out of doors, unguarded, with
impunity, stealing being almost unknown. There never was but one prison
in the island, and that was used also as an almshouse. Even then it was
nearly useless, and most always without a tenant; and finally, to put it
to some use, it was converted into a residence for the Governor, and is
now the “White House” in the capital of Iceland. Taxes are very light,
and do not amount to as much as the expense of carrying on the
government, paying the officers, and transporting the mail. The
Icelanders are universally educated to that extent that all can read and
write. There is but one school or institution of learning in the
country—the college at Reykjavik. This has a president and eight
professors, and usually from eighty to a hundred students. The boys
educated here are nearly all trained for clergymen, or else to fill some
of the civil offices in the island, or they expect to go abroad, or live
in Denmark. This institution is endowed by the Danish government, and
was formerly at Bessastath, a few miles south of Reykjavik, whence it
was removed a few years since. The president is Bjarni Johnson, Esq., a
native Icelander, a gentleman of rare accomplishments and learning, and
one of the first linguists in Europe. The Hebrew, Greek, Latin, Danish,
French and English languages are taught here, as well as most of the
sciences. It was during college vacation when I was in the country, and
I used to meet in the interior, at their fathers’ houses, young men who
were students of the college, and who could converse fluently in Latin,
Danish, French, or English. The Bible or Testament, and usually many
other books, particularly historical and poetical works, are found in
nearly every house in Iceland. The population being scanty, with the
great majority of the people it is impracticable to have schools, so
that education is confined to the family circle. During their long
winter evenings, while both males and females are engaged in domestic
labors, spinning, weaving, or knitting—by turns one will take a book,
some history, biography, or the Bible, and read aloud. The length of
their winter nights can be appreciated when we consider that the sun in
December is above the horizon but three or four hours. Before and after
Christmas he rises, sleepily, at about ten o’clock, and retires between
one and two in the afternoon. This is quite different from the earlier
habits and longer visits of that very respectable luminary in more
temperate and tropical climes. True, he makes atonement in the summer,
when he keeps his eye open and surveys the land daily from twenty to
twenty-one hours. Then he rises between one and two o’clock in the
morning, looks abroad over a sleeping world, and only retires behind the
mountains at near eleven o’clock at night.
While traveling in the country, I used frequently to ask the children
in poor families to read to me in Icelandic, and I never saw one above
the age of nine years that could not read in a masterly style. Their
writing, too, is almost invariably of great elegance. This is partly
owing to their practice of multiplying copies in manuscript, of almost
all the historical and poetical works written in the country, copying
them in advance of their publication, and often afterwards. The manners
and customs of the people have changed with the progress of time and
the change in their form of government. In old times we are told,
that when the Icelanders or Norwegians were about setting out on any
expedition of importance they used to have a grand feast. At these
banquets, horse-flesh was one of their luxuries. Bards and minstrels
would recite poems composed for the occasion; and story, song, and
hilarity, added zest to the entertainment. After eating, drinking, and
singing, to a pretty high degree of elevation, they would close the
proceedings by throwing the bones at one another across the tables! We
are not informed, however, that the modern Icelanders indulge in these
luxuries. Their trade is gone, and they are now a simple, pastoral
people. In complexion the Icelanders resemble the Anglo-Saxon race,
often having florid and handsome countenances. They are fine figures,
frequently tall, several that I have seen being over six feet in
height. Light hair most usually prevails, but I have seen some that was
quite dark. In a large district in the northwest of Iceland, all the
men wear their beards, a practice that has been in vogue for hundreds
of years. They always seem pleased when a stranger appears among
them who has adopted a fashion so much in accordance with their own
philosophy, with nature, and the laws of health, and at the same time
that adds so much to the personal appearance of the lords of creation.
CHAPTER IV
Ask where’s the North: at York ’tis on the Tweed,
In Scotland at the Orcades; and there
At Greenland, Zembla, or the Lord knows where.
Essay on Man.
——— Hvar er norður ytst?
Sagt er i Jork, það sé við Tveit;
Segir Skottinn: við Orkneyjar;
En þar: við Grænland, Zemblu, sveit
Sett meinar það—og guð veit hvar.
_Pope’s Essay_; _Icelandic version_.
WE landed at Reykjavik at six o’clock in the morning. Though the sun
was near five hours high, scarce a person was up. At this season the
sun evidently rises too early for them. Sleep must be had, though,
whether darkness comes or not. Reykjavik with its 1,200 people, for a
capital city, does not make an extensive show. The main street runs
parallel with the low gravelly beach, with but few houses on the side
next the water. In one respect this is a singular-looking place. Nearly
all the houses are black. They are principally wooden buildings, one
story high, and covered with a coat of tar instead of paint. Sometimes
they use tar mixed with clay. The tar at first is dark red, but in a
little time it becomes black. They lay it on thick, and it preserves
the wood wonderfully. I walked through the lonely streets, and was
struck with the appearance of taste and comfort in the modest-looking
dwellings. Lace curtains, and frequently crimson ones in addition, and
pots of flowers—geraniums, roses, fuchsias, &c.—were in nearly every
window. The white painted sash contrasted strongly with the dark,
tar-colored wood. After hearing a good deal of the poverty of the
Icelanders, and their few resources, I am surprised to find the place
look so comfortable and pleasant. The merchant usually has his store
and house under one roof. The cathedral is a neat, substantial church
edifice, built of brick, and surmounted by a steeple. This, with the
college, three stories high, the hotel, a two-story building with a
square roof running up to a peak, and the governor’s house, a long,
low, white-washed edifice built of lava, are the largest buildings
in Reykjavik. Directly back of the town is a small fresh-water lake,
about a mile in length. What surprises me most is the luxuriance
of the vegetation. Potatoes several feet high, and in blossom, and
fine-looking turnips, and beds of lettuce, appear in most all the
gardens. In the governor’s garden I see a very flourishing-looking
tree, trained against the south side of a wall. This is not quite
large enough for a main-mast to a man-of-war, but still it might make
a tolerable cane, that is, provided it was straight. It is about five
feet high, and is, perhaps, the largest tree in Iceland. Certainly it
is the largest I have yet seen. The temperature, now, in midsummer, is
completely delicious. The people I am highly pleased with, so far as
I have seen them. There is an agreeable frankness about them, and a
hearty hospitality, not to be mistaken.
I have just had a ride of six or seven miles into the country, to
Hafnarfiorth. Professor Johnson, the President of the College,
accompanied me. We rode the small pony horses of the country, and they
took us over the ground at a rapid rate. The country is rough, and a
great part of it hereabouts covered with rocks of lava. We passed one
farm and farm-house where the meadows were beautifully green, strongly
contrasting with the black, desolate appearance of the lava-covered
hills. One tract was all rocks, without a particle of earth or
vegetation in sight. The lava had once flowed over the ground, then it
cooled and broke up into large masses, often leaving deep seams or
cracks, some of them so wide that it took a pretty smart leap of the
pony to plant himself safe on the other side. At one place where the
seam in the lava was some twenty feet across, there was an arch of rock
forming a complete natural bridge over the chasm. The road led directly
across this. We passed near Bessasstath, for many years the seat of the
Iceland college. Near this, Prof. Johnson showed me his birth-place. The
house where he was born was a hut of lava, covered with turf, and
probably about as splendid a mansion as those where Jackson and Clay
first saw the light. Suddenly, almost directly under us, as we were
among the lava rocks, the village of Hafnarfiorth appeared. This is a
little sea-port town of some twenty or thirty houses, extending in a
single street nearly round the harbor. We called on a Mr. Johnson, a
namesake of my companion, and were very hospitably entertained. The
table was soon covered with luxuries, and after partaking of some of the
good things, and an hour’s conversation, we had our horses brought to
the door. Our host was a Dane, a resident merchant of the place, and he
had a very pretty and intelligent wife. They gave me a pressing
invitation to call on them again, the which I promised to do—whenever I
should go that way again! I returned the compliment, and I believe with
sincerity on my part. That is, I told them I should be very happy to
have them call at my house when they could make it convenient. Now, some
of the uncharitable may be disposed to say that all this ceremony on my
part was quite useless. True, I lived thousands of miles from the
residence of my entertainers, that is, if I may be said to “live”
anywhere; and, being a bachelor, I had no house of my own, nor never
had; but if I had a house, and Mr. and Mrs. Johnson would call on me, I
should be very glad to see them!
I should mention that Prof. Johnson speaks English fluently; mine host,
not a word; neither could I speak much Danish; but with the learned
professor between us, as interpreter, we got along very well. A violent
rain had fallen, while we were coming; but it cleared up, and we had a
pleasant ride back to Reykjavik, arriving about eleven o’clock, a little
after sunset.
After a few days at the capital, I prepared for a journey to the
interior. A traveler can take “the first train” for the Geysers, if he
chooses; but that train will hardly go forty miles an hour. It is only
seventy miles; but if he gets over that ground in two days, he will do
well. There’s plenty of steam and hot water here, and “high pressure”
enough; but you may look a long while for locomotives; or—if I may
perpetrate a bad pun—any motives but local ones, in the whole country.
Roads—except mere bridle paths—or vehicles of any kind, as I have
mentioned, are unknown in Iceland. All travel is on horseback. Immense
numbers of horses are raised in the country, and they are exceedingly
cheap. As for traveling on foot, even short journeys, no one ever thinks
of it. The roads are so bad for walking and generally so good for
riding, that shoe-leather, to say nothing of fatigue, would cost nearly
as much as horseflesh. Their horses are certainly elegant, hardy little
animals. A stranger in traveling must always have “a guide;” and if he
goes equipped for a journey, and wishes to make good speed, he must have
six or eight horses; one each for himself and the guide, and one or two
for the baggage; and then as many relay horses. When one set of horses
are tired, the saddles are taken off and changed to the others. The
relay horses are tied together, and either led or driven; and this is
the time they rest. A tent is carried, unless a traveler chooses to take
his chance for lodgings. Such a thing as a hotel is not found in
Iceland, out of the capital. He must take his provisions with him, as he
will be able to get little on his route except milk; sometimes a piece
of beef, or a saddle of mutton or venison, and some fresh-water fish.
The luggage is carried in packing trunks that are made for the purpose,
and fastened to a rude sort of frame that serves as a pack-saddle. Under
this, broad pieces of turf are placed to prevent galling the horse’s
back. I prepared for a journey of some weeks in the interior, and
ordered my stores accordingly. I had packed up bread, cheese, a boiled
ham, Bologna sausages, some tea and sugar, a few bottles of wine, and
something a little stronger! I had company on my first day’s journey,
going as far as Thingvalla. There was a regular caravan; about a dozen
gentlemen, two guides, and some twenty horses. My “suite” consisted of
guide, four horses, and a big dog, Nero by name, but by the way a far
more respectable fellow, in his sphere, than was his namesake the old
emperor. Our cavalcade was not quite as large as the one that annually
makes a pilgrimage to Mecca, but a pretty good one for Iceland. We had
with us, Captain Laborde, commander of the French war frigate now lying
in the harbor, and several of his officers; Mr. Johnson, president of
the college, and some of the Reykjavik merchants. Nationally speaking,
we had a rather motley assemblage, albeit they were all of one color.
There were French, Danes, and natives; and—towering above the crowd (all
but one confounded long Icelander)—mounted on a milk-white charger
eleven hands high, was one live Yankee! We were to rendezvous in the
morning on the public square, and be ready to start at seven o’clock.
Notwithstanding great complaints that travelers sometimes make of the
slowness of Iceland servants, we were ready and off at half past seven.
On we went, at a high speed, for Thingvalla is a long day’s journey from
Reykjavik. The Iceland ponies are up to most any weight. There was one
“whopper” of a fellow in our company, mounted on a snug-built little
gray that seemed to make very light of him. Indeed ’twas fun to see them
go. The animal for speed and strength was a rare one; the rider, not
quite a Daniel Lambert:—
“But, for fat on the ribs, no Leicestershire bullock was rounder;
He galloped, he walloped, and he flew like a sixty-four pounder.”
No etiquette touching precedence on the road. You can go ahead and run
by them all, provided your pony is swift enough, but if not, you can go
behind.
To all appearance, an Iceland landscape does not come up, in point of
fertility, to the Genesee country or the Carse of Gowrie. “Magnificent
forests,” “fields of waving grain,” and all that, may exist in western
New York, in old Virginia, or in California; but not in Iceland. We
passed, during the first five miles, one or two farms with their green
meadows; then, mile after mile of lava and rock-covered fields. Was the
reader ever in the town of De Kalb, St. Lawrence county, New York? That
fertile and beautiful grazing country, where the sheep have their noses
filed off to a point, so that they can get them between the rocks, to
crop the grass! That paradise of the birds, where the crows carry a sack
of corn with them while journeying over the country, lest they starve on
the way, and tumble headlong on the plain! That delightful region will
give a little, a very slight idea of some part of Iceland. By the way,
that old town in New York, methinks, is quite rightly named. The name
was given it in honor of that Polish nobleman who poured out his blood
and yielded up his life on the field of Camden, in the sacred cause of
American liberty. Brave Baron De Kalb! Green waves the pine—I once trod
the turf—where thou did’st fall. We treasure thy name and title, and
endeavor to remember thy virtues, by calling a town after thee—_barren
De Kalb_!
In speaking of rocks in Iceland, it will be borne in mind that every
mineral substance here is volcanic—lava, pumice, trap, basalt, jasper,
obsidian, &c. The whole island is undoubtedly one entire volcanic
creation, produced by a submarine eruption. In the whole country there
has never been seen a particle of granite, limestone, mineral coal, iron
or precious metal, or any of the primitive formation of rocks. The lava
is most all of a dark color, usually brown; some of the very old is
quite red, and the new very black. It is scattered about, piled up in
heaps, regular and irregular, and of every imaginable shape and form.
About a mile and a half from Reykjavik is a large pleasant valley of
green grass. This is a common pasture for all the cows and some of the
horses that are owned in the town. A few miles brought us to the valley
of the Laxá or Salmon river; and here is a very good farm, the owner of
it hiring the salmon fishery, which is the property of the crown.
Several thousand salmon are taken here every year. The mode of catching
them is somewhat peculiar. The river has two separate channels, and when
the fishing season arrives, by means of two dams, they shut all the
current off of one, and, as the water drains away, there they are, like
whales at ebb tide; and all the fishermen have to do is to go into the
bed of the stream, and pick them up. Then the water is turned from the
other channel into the empty one, and there the unlucky fish are again
caught. The period of the salmon fishing is one of interest to the whole
community. They are sold very cheap throughout the country, and those
not wanted for immediate consumption are dried and smoked, and many of
them exported. These smoked salmon are often purchased here as low as a
penny sterling a pound, and taken to England and sold from sixpence to a
shilling.
In traveling over the country our “road” was seldom visible for more
than a few rods before us, and sometimes it was rather difficult to
trace. On stony ground the ponies had to scramble along the best way
they could. On the grass lands there were paths, such as animals
traveling always make. Sometimes these were worn deep through the turf;
and a long man on a short pony, when the paths are crooked and the speed
high, has to keep his feet going pretty lively, or get his toe-nails
knocked off! I got one fall, and rather an ignominious one. My pony
threw me full length on the grass, but I had not far to fall and soon
picked myself up again. On assessing the damage, I found it consisted of
one button off my coat, a little of the soil of Iceland on both knees,
and a trifle on my face. The pony kicked up his heels and ran off; but
one of the gentlemen soon caught him, and on I mounted and rode off
again. About half way to Thingvalla, we stopped where there was some
grass for our horses, and had breakfast. Starting at seven gave a good
relish to a _dejeuner_ at eleven o’clock. An hour’s rest, and we were
again in the saddle. In the morning it rained hard, but towards noon it
cleared up, and we had pleasant weather.
Our road led through one of the most desolate regions I ever saw on the
face of the earth. But, however rocky and forbidding in appearance the
country may be, there is always one relief to an Iceland landscape. A
fine background of mountains fills up the picture. Then, too, there is a
magical effect to the atmosphere here that I have never seen anywhere
else. The atmosphere is so pure, the strong contrasts of black, brown,
and red lavas, and the green fields and snowy mountains, make splendid
pictures of landscape and mountain scenery, even at twenty miles
distance. Captain Laborde said, in all the countries where he had
traveled, he never saw any thing at all like it, except in Greece. As we
approached lake Thingvalla, he said the mountains opposite formed a
perfect Grecian picture. I have thought myself a pretty good judge of
distances, and have been very much accustomed to measure distances with
my eye, but here all my cunning fails me. At Reykjavik I looked across
the bay at the fine range of the Esjan mountains, and thought I would
like a ramble there. So I asked a boatman to set me across, and wait
till I went up the mountain and had a view from the top. He looked a
little queer, and asked me how far I thought it was across the bay.
“Well,” I replied, “a couple of miles, probably.” As the Kentuckian
would say, I felt a little “chawed up” when I was told that it was
thirteen or fourteen English miles, that the mountain was near 3,000
feet high, and I should require a large boat, several men, a guide, and
provisions, and that it would be a long day’s work to begin early in the
morning! I left, I did.
There are few measured distances in inland travel here. They go by time,
and will tell you it is so many hours’ ride, or so many days’ journey to
such a place. We were seven hours to-day in going from Reykjavik to
Thingvalla, and I think we averaged five miles an hour. It is probably
thirty-five or thirty-six miles. Much of the way the roads were bad, and
we walked our horses; and when they were good we put them through at the
top of their speed. Our fat friend with his pony, did not steeple-chase
it much;
“But, those who’ve seen him will confess it, he
Marched well for one of such obesity.”
About ten miles from Thingvalla we came to a house, a solitary
caravansera in the desert. We concluded to patronize it, and
halted; and while the ponies were contemplating the beauties of
the mineralogical specimens that covered the ground, we took some
refreshment. That is, those who indulge in the use of the weed that
adorns the valleys of the land of Pocahontas, took a slight fumigation;
but having some ham in my provision-chest, I did not wish to make
smoked meat of myself then. So I pulled from my poke—look the other
way, Father Mathew!—a “pocket-pistol,” and extracted a small charge!
It was not loaded with any thing stronger than the products of the
vineyards of France. The “hotel” was one story high; and, without
trying to make much of a story about it, it had but one room, walls of
lava, and minus the roof. It is needless to say, the hotel-keeper had
stepped out. It had one piece of furniture, a wooden bench, and on the
slight timbers that supported what had been a roof, were the names of
sundry travelers. I took out my pencil, and in my boldest chirography
wrote the illustrious name of—“JOHN SMITH!”
A few miles from our caravansera we came to the banks of the lake of
Thingvalla, or, in Icelandic, “Thingvalla vatn.” This lake is about ten
miles long, and the largest body of water in Iceland. It is of great
depth, in some places over 1,000 feet deep. The town, or place, or what
had been a place, is at the north end of the lake. Just before arriving
there, while jogging along on the level ground, we came suddenly upon
the brink of an immense chasm, 150 feet deep, and about the same in
breadth. This was one of those seams or rents in the earth, common in
Iceland; originally a crack in a bed of lava. Its precipitous sides
and immense depth seemed at once a bar to our progress; and without
a bridge over it, or ropes or wings, we saw no way of getting along
without going round it. Without seeing either end, and wondering how we
were to get round it, we were told we must go _through it_. And sure
enough, and the animals, as well as the guides, seemed to understand
it; and if we had kept in our saddles I actually believe they would
have found their way down this almost perpendicular precipice. We,
however, dismounted, and in a steep defile were shown a passage that
much resembled the “Devil’s Staircase,” at the Pass of Glencoe, in the
Highlands of Scotland. By picking and clambering our way down some
pretty regular stairs—and our horses followed without our holding their
bridles—we made our way to the bottom. There we found grass growing;
and, while our ponies were feeding, we lay on the turf and admired
this singular freak of nature. We were in the bottom of a deep chasm
or defile, the wall on the west side being over a hundred feet high
and on a level with the country back of it. The wall on the east side
was lower, and beyond this wall the country was on a level with the
bottom where we were. By walking a short distance to the north, in
this singular defile, we found the wall on the east side broken down
by a river that poured down the precipice from the west, and being
thus imprisoned between two walls, it had thrown down the lowest one,
and found its way into the Thingvalla lake. This chasm is called the
_Almannagjá_ (pronounced Al-man-a-gow), or “all men’s cave.” In former
days, when the Althing, or Icelandic Congress, met at the place, all
men of consequence, or nearly all, used to assemble here; and no doubt
they admired this singular freak of nature. The river here, the Oxerá,
in pouring over the precipice forms a most splendid cataract. Here
is Thingvalla, a once important place, and, as I have mentioned, for
nearly a thousand years the capital of the nation. It is now a mere
farm, and contains two huts and a very small church. This church is
on about the same scale of most of the churches in Iceland. It is
a wooden building, about eighteen feet long by twelve wide, with a
door less than five feet high. It is customary for the clergyman or
farmer—and the owner of the land is often both—to store his provisions,
boxes of clothing, dried fish, &c., in the church; and strangers in
the country often sleep in the churches. Some travelers have made a
great outcry about the desecration of turning a church into a hotel,
but with all their squeamishness have usually fallen into the general
custom. Surely if their tender consciences went against it, they had
“all out doors” for a lodging place. I have not yet arrived at the
honor of sleeping in a church, though I have slept out of doors; and
when I have tried both, I will tell which I like best. A tent has been
presented to the important “town” of Thingvalla, by the liberality
of the French officers who visit the coast; and this was pitched for
our use. The clergyman here—who is also farmer and fisherman—a pale,
spare, intellectual-looking young man, received us very kindly. It was
the haying season, and the ground was covered with the new-mown hay.
Two of the working-men of the farm had that day been out on the lake,
fishing in a small boat. They came to the shore as we rode up, and I
had the curiosity to go and see what they had caught. And what had
they? Who can guess? No one. Over two hundred and fifty fresh-water
trout, all alive “and kicking.” They were large, handsome fellows, and
would weigh from one to three pounds each. Not a fish that wouldn’t
weigh over a pound. But didn’t I scream? “Oh, Captain Laborde! Rector
Johnson! I say; come and see the fish. Speckled trout, more than two
barrels-full.” Well, hang up my fish-hooks; I’ll never troll another
line in Sandy Creek. The tent pitched, some trout dressed, and a fire
built in the smithy, and we soon had a dinner cooking. And such a
dinner! Well, say French naval officers on shore, Icelanders, Yankees,
and Cosmopolites, can not enjoy life “in the tented field”! But this
chapter is long enough, and I’ll tell about the dinner in my next.
CHAPTER V
——“he was a bachelor, * * *
* * * * and, though a lad,
Had seen the world, which is a curious sight,
And very much unlike what people write.”
HAD that celebrated Pope whose Christian name was Alexander, believed
that his immortal Essay would have been translated into Icelandic verse
by a native Icelander, and read throughout the country, he would not
have vaulted clear over the volcanic isle in his enumeration of places
at “the North.” And then, too, our poetical Pope is the only pontiff who
has any admirers in this northern land. The last Catholic bishop of the
country left few believers of that faith in the island.
Yesterday, under the canvas of an Iceland tent, a party was seated
at dinner. It was on the bank of the Thingvalla vatn. The hospitable
clergyman furnished us trout, and a good sportsman among the French
officers produced several fine birds, plovers and curlews that he had
shot on the way, often without leaving his horse. We had excellent milk
and cream from the farm, and the packing-cases of the party furnished
the balance of as good a dinner as hungry travelers ever sat down to.
The Frenchmen—like those in the Peninsular war, who gathered vegetables
to boil with their beef, rather than roast it alone as the English
soldiers did theirs—our Frenchmen—gathered some plants, that looked
to me very like dandelions, and dressed them with oil and vinegar for
salad. Though it was rather a failure, it showed that an eye was open
to the productions of the country, albeit it was not a perfect garden.
I picked a bird for my share of the work—picked him clean, too, and
his bones afterwards—and found it as good as a grouse or pheasant.
With fine Iceland brushwood from a “forest” hard by, a fire was made
in the blacksmith shop, and there we roasted fish, flesh, and fowl. As
the rest of the party were to return the next day to Reykjavik, and as
I had a long tour before me, they would not allow me to produce any
thing towards the feast, but insisted on my dining with them. I was
too old a traveler to refuse a good invitation, and accepted at once.
The tent was pitched on a smooth plat of grass before the lake, and a
quantity of new-mown hay, with our traveling blankets and saddles, made
first-rate seats. I know not when I have enjoyed a dinner more than I
did this. The Frenchmen conversed with their own tongues in their own
language; some of the party spoke Danish, and several Icelandic; I gave
them English—and every other language that I knew—the modest Iceland
clergyman expressed himself in Latin, and Rector Johnson talked them
all. Time flew by—as he always flies, the old bird!—while the big white
loaves, the trout, the game-birds, the sardines, ham, and bottles of
wine, disappeared rapidly. We drank, not deeply, to all the people in
the world—kings and rulers excepted, for they always have enough to
drink to their good health and long life; and we toasted, among others,
“all travelers of every nation, and in all climes, whether on land or
sea,” and hoped that none were “seeing the elephant” more extensively
than we were. So passed our dinner. The clergyman was with us; and he
appeared to enjoy the foreign luxuries, as we all enjoyed everything
about us, viands, company, scenery, &c.
Touching the fish that swim hereabouts, and the so-called “sport”
of angling, I am told that the Iceland trout and salmon show a most
barbarous indifference to the attractive colors of all artificial
flies that are ever thrown them by scientific piscators. Our clerical
farmer-fisherman who hauls up the finny tribes in the Thingvalla vatn,
uses no barbed piece of steel to tear their innocent gills—“a pole and
a string, with a worm at one end and a fool at the other”—but pulls
them up in crowds with a net. He seems to think as some others do of
the barbarous old angler,
“Whatever Izaak Walton sings or says;—
The quaint old cruel coxcomb, in his gullet
Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it.”
After dinner, the clergyman took us about to show us the “lions” of the
place. Thingvalla, in a historical point of view, is by far the most
celebrated and interesting locality in Iceland. An account of their
republican congress or Althing, that met here, has been given in a
former chapter. The meeting of courts and legislative bodies, among all
the Scandinavian tribes, was in the open air. The word Thingvalla is
from _thing_, a court of justice, and _valla_, a plain. Undoubtedly from
the same origin are the names of Tingwall, in Shetland, and Dingwall, in
the north of Scotland. The cognomen “law” is given to several hills in
Scotland, and undoubtedly in consequence of courts of law being held on
them in former times. Such is the tradition attached to them.
The place here where the Althing met was a most singular and convenient
one. Except from six to twelve inches or more of soil on top, the earth
here is solid rock that was once lava. There are two wide and deep seams
or cracks in this lava-rock, that meet at an acute angle, and stretch
away in different directions into the plain. Between these, in a small
hollow, shaped like an amphitheater, is the place where the Althing met.
These seams or chasms are like natural canals, from twenty to fifty feet
wide, and said to be two hundred feet deep. They are filled up to within
twenty or thirty feet of the top, with still, black-looking water, and
are said to have a subterranean communication with the lake about half a
mile distant. Here, on this triangular piece of ground, covered with
grassy turf, the general assembly of the nation gathered once a year, in
the summer season. Those connected with the Althing were inside these
natural chasms, but spectators were outside, beyond the boundaries of
the court. This was, indeed, a primitive house of representatives.
Though the Icelanders are a staid, sober, matter-of-fact people,
undoubtedly many anecdotes and singular legislative scenes could be
related of events that have transpired at this spot. One was told us by
the clergyman, which, from its singular character, has been handed down,
though it took place long years ago. The Althing, having both
legislative and judicial powers, tried criminals and adjusted
differences, as well as made laws. A man was undergoing his trial for a
capital offense; and, though in irons, he watched his opportunity and
ran, and with one fearful leap vaulted clear across one of the chasms
that formed the boundary of the court. We were shown the spot. It is
twenty feet wide, and on the opposite side the ground was several feet
higher than the bank where he started. The legend says he got clear off,
and thus saved his life; going on the principle which the Indian
adopted, that if you hang a rogue you must catch him first. Near this
primitive capitol is a pool of deep, black-looking water, where females
convicted of capital crimes were drowned. A little to the west, we were
shown an island in the river, where male culprits were beheaded.
Another evidence of the civilization of the people during a former age,
was shown, quite as palpable as any similar signs in either Old or New
England. This was the spot where witches were burned; as late, too, as
the commencement of the eighteenth century. How singular are some
cotemporaneous events! As the unseen pestilence sweeps through the
atmosphere, from one nation to another, so will a moral plague, like the
delusion of witchcraft, enchain the minds of a Christian community, and
spread death and devastation before it. There are scenes and events in
the history of all nations, that the people would gladly blot out if
they could. One of our party, a very intelligent Icelander, told us he
had seen, not forty years before, heaps of charred bones, and ashes, on
this spot, where innocent people were sacrificed to a belief in
witchcraft.
But these assemblies at Thingvalla were principally identified with more
pleasant scenes. There was something besides the mere sitting of the
supreme court, and the gathering of the people’s congress. Sir George
Mackenzie has happily expressed the interest of these gatherings. “At
the assemblies at Thingvalla,” he says, “though artificial splendor was
wanting, yet the majesty of nature presided, and gave a superior and
more impressive solemnity to the scene. On the banks of the river Oxerá,
where its rapid stream enters a lake embosomed among dark and
precipitous mountains, was held during more than eight centuries the
annual convention of the people. It is a spot of singular wildness and
desolation; on every side of which appear the most tremendous effects of
ancient convulsion and disorder, while nature now sleeps in a death-like
silence which she has formed. Here the legislators, the magistrates, and
the people, met together. Their little group of tents, placed beside the
stream, was sheltered behind by a rugged precipice of lava; and on a
small, grassy spot in the midst of them was held the assembly which
provided, by its deliberations, for the happiness and tranquillity of
the nation.”
The people looked forward to these annual gatherings with great
interest. They met here in large numbers, and from all parts of the
country. Friend met friend, sociality prevailed, commodities were
interchanged, business was transacted, and all intermingled in
agreeable, social intercourse. Many families being here during the time,
young men found wives, and maidens obtained husbands; so that the bow of
Cupid flung his arrows near the scales of justice. Here, too, idolatry
first gave way in Iceland, and here the Christian religion was first
publicly acknowledged. This was in the year 1000. At that time, nearly
all the people were idolaters. Several zealous Christians were present,
and the subject was discussed at the Althing. The debate waxed warm, and
while the discussion was going on, a messenger rushed into the assembly
with the intelligence that a volcanic eruption had broken out but a
short distance to the south. The idolaters declared it was merely the
wrath of their gods at the people for turning away from their ancient
creed. “But what,” says Snorro Goda, a Christian, “were the gods angry
at, when the very rocks where we stand, hundreds of years ago, were
melted lava?” The question was unanswerable, the Christians triumphed,
and laws were immediately passed protecting all in the exercise of their
religion. The ecclesiastical courts were afterwards held here, under the
bishop of Skalholt. It is not to be wondered at, that the people wept
when the Althing was removed to Reykjavik. Hallowed by the reminiscences
of the past, they saw modern innovation and foreign customs break up one
of their ancient and venerable institutions. The Althing is forever
removed: their council circle is now a meadow, and I see oxen, sheep,
and horses grazing around it.
Captain Laborde took me slily by the arm, led me one-side to a cleft
in the lava, and waving his hand towards it, said he begged to have the
honor of introducing me to an Iceland tree. And sure enough there it
stood, green and flourishing, but of such dimensions that, had I not
been aware I was in Iceland, I should have been irreverent enough to
have called it a mere shrub, a bush, or perhaps a bramble. I find I was
very rash in pronouncing the opinion which I did, that the bush, some
five feet in height, that I saw in the governor’s garden was probably
the largest tree in Iceland. Now, here was one towering alone in the
majesty of luxuriant nature, at least six feet perpendicular; and were
the various crooks and bends that adorn its trunk, straightened out,
I have no doubt but it would be nine or ten inches higher. I took off
my hat, and made a low bow to it. In a meadow near the house, was a
rather novel sight—two girls milking the ewes. Here, as elsewhere, we
were furnished with excellent milk and cream. Many a bowl of rich milk
have I drank in this country, and never asked where the article came
from. After riding all day, and at night going up to a farm-house,
half exhausted with hunger and thirst, and getting what would quench
it, I have found something else to think of besides letting my fancy
go wool-gathering among snowy fleeces, and bleating lambs that go
without their supper. When a man leaves his own fireside and country,
and goes abroad, he has no business to take all of his prejudices and
fastidiousness along with him.[2]
With the new hay for a bed, our blankets spread over us, and our saddles
for pillows, we enjoyed a most refreshing sleep. At breakfast this
morning, the clergyman-farmer’s dairy and fishing-boat were again laid
under contribution. A large raven, one of a pair we had noticed
frequently, flew slowly up towards our tent, apparently looking for
something to break his fast. Our fowler saluted him with a charge of
fine shot, that sent him off at a tangent, and left him minus some of
his feathers. A word touching these ravens hereafter. They are among the
most ancient of the inhabitants of Iceland.
It was with great regret that I parted from my most agreeable and
intelligent company—but separate we must. The French officers, Rector
Johnson, and the others, prepared to return to Reykjavik, and I to go
towards the east, on a tour of several hundred miles in the interior.
They would gladly have continued with me as far as the Geysers, but for
some good and weighty reasons. One was, they had no guide to return with
them who understood the road, and mine must go on with me. Another
reason was, we had all made such terrible havoc with their provision
chest, that the remainder would scarcely have stood before a Captain
Dugald Dalgetty for a day’s campaign. Then, too, fishing-ponds ten miles
long and a thousand feet deep, and yielding trout by the boat-load, are
not to be found in every valley, even in Iceland. So a hearty shaking of
hands, and a buckling of girths, and we were once more in our saddles;
they returning to town, and I and my guide, with faces towards the
rising sun, going to see those wonders of nature—the great Geysers of
Iceland.
FOOTNOTES:
-----
Footnote 2:
I have since learned that the milk used in Iceland is cows’ milk, and
that the milk of the ewes is made into cheese.
CHAPTER VI
“You know I pique myself upon orthography,
Statistics, tactics, politics, and geography.”
WE shall climb over the mountains and their hard names, and gallop
through the valleys a little more smoothly, if we look at the spelling,
pronunciation, and meaning of some of the Icelandic terms. A great
appropriateness will be seen in nearly all the geographical names in
Iceland. By translating the language, we shall see some characteristic
feature embodied in the name of about every place, river, lake,
mountain, bay, and island in the country. The explanation of a few
Icelandic words will show the signification of many of the names that I
shall have occasion to mention. The letter _á_ (pronounced _ow_)
signifies river, and is the last letter in the names of Icelandic
rivers. _Bru_ is a bridge, hence _bruará_, or bridge river. _Hvit_ is
white; _vatn_, water or lake; _hvitá_, white river; _hvitarvatn_, white
lake. _Hver_ is a hot spring; _laug_ (pronounced _lage_), a warm spring,
and _dalr_, a dale or vale. There is a valley north of Hekla, known as
_Laugardalr_, or vale of warm springs. The Icelanders pronounce double
_l_ at the end of words, like _tl_. They have a distinct name for each
description of mountain. _Jokull_ (pronounced _yo-kut-l_; or, spoken
rapidly as the Icelanders speak, it sounds about like _yo-kul_) is the
term used to designate mountains that are covered with perpetual ice.
_Fell_, _fjall_, and _fjöll_ (pronounced _fee-et-l_, _fee-aht-l_, and
_fee-ote-l_), all signify mountains, but _fell_ is applied to single
peaks, to small and isolated mountains, and _fjall_ and _fjöll_ to large
mountains, or chains of mountains. _Bla_ is blue; _snæ_, snow; and we
have _blafell_, or a blue mountain standing alone—an isolated peak in
the middle of a plain. A celebrated mountain in the west of Iceland, is
_Snæfell Jokull_ (_snef-el-yo-kul_), a snowy mountain, standing alone,
and covered with perpetual ice; and in the comprehensive language of the
Icelanders, it is all expressed in two words. _Oræfa_ signifies desert
or sandy plain, and _torf_ is turf or peat. There are two mountains,
_Oræfa Jokull_ and _Torfa Jokull_; one standing in a desert, and the
other in a large peat district. One portion of the immense mountain, the
Skaptar Jokull, is known as _Vatna Jokull_, as it is supposed to
contain, on a portion of its surface, large pools of standing water. The
points of compass are, _north_, _suth_, _æst_, and _vest_. _Eyjar_
signifies islands. South of Hekla is a lofty and celebrated mountain
known as the _Eyjafjalla Jokull_. To an English reader, unacquainted
with the Icelandic, it is a crooked-looking mouthful; but on the tongue
of an Icelander, it flows off, a round, smooth, sonorous term. They call
it _i-a-fe-aht-la yo-kull_. It defines itself as ice mountain of
islands, having numerous knobs or peaks that stand up like islands in
the sea. Many Icelandic words are identical with the English, and many
others nearly so. It remains for some future lexicographer to show the
great number of English words that are derived from the Icelandic. The
points of compass have been noticed; a few more examples will suffice.
_Hestr_ is a horse; _holt_, a hill; _hus_, a house; _hval_, a whale;
_lang_, long; _men_, men; _mann_, man; _sandr_, sand; _sitha_, the side;
_gerthi_, a garden; _litil_, little; _mikla_, large (Scottish,
_muckle_); _myri_, a bog or miry place; _fjorth_, is a firth or bay;
_kirkja_, a church; _prestur_, a priest; _morgun_, morning; _ux_, ox;
_daga_, days. “July, or midsummer month,” stands literally in Icelandic,
_Julius etha mithsumar-manuthur_. _J_, at the beginning of words and
syllables in the Icelandic, is pronounced like _y_ consonant, and in the
middle of a syllable, like _i_ or long _e_.
Their affirmative _yes_, is _já_ (pronounced _yow_), and their _no_ is
_nei_ (nay). Their counting is much like ours: einn (1), tveir (2),
thrir (3), fjorir (4), fimm (5), sex (6), sjö (7), atta (8), niu (9),
tiu (10), ellefu (11), tolf (12), threttan (13), fjortan (14), fimmtan
(15), sextan (16), seytjan (17), atjan (18), nitjan (19), tuttugu (20),
tuttugu og einn (21), thrjatiu (30), fiörutiu (40), fimmtiu (50), sextiu
(60), sjötiu (70), attatiu (80), niutiu (90), hundrath (100), fimm
hundrath (500), thusund (1000). The date 1851, in words, would be: einn
thusund atta hundrath fimmtiu og einn. This list might be extended to
great length, showing the similarity between the Icelandic and the
English; but these examples are sufficient for my purpose.
I have a few words for my friends the geographers, who, in their
anxiety to Anglicize geographical names, so completely change them
that the natives of a country would not recognize their own rivers
and mountains when once disguised in an English dress. The Icelandic
is the only one of the old Scandinavian tongues that has the sound of
_th_; and they have two different letters, one to represent _th_ in
_thank_, and the other the _th_ as heard in _this_. The latter sound is
heard in _fiorth_ and in _north_[3]—different from our pronunciation of
north; and as the letter representing this sound of _th_ is a character
that some resembles the letter _d_, we find the above words written
and printed by the English as _fiord_ and _nord_. With the Danes and
Swedes, who have neither the sounds nor the letters, it is not to be
wondered at that they use _d_ or _t_ for these sounds. I shall give the
Icelandic names in their native spelling, as near as possible, with
perhaps the exception of the name of the country,—which they write
_Island_, but now with us is thoroughly Anglicized as Iceland. They
pronounce it _ees-land_, the _a_ in the last syllable rather broad. I
see no particular objection to using _y_ for _j_ in jokull, as it has
that sound; or in substituting _i_ for the same letter in _fjorth_,
_Reykjavik_, _Eyjafjalla_, and similar cases. I will, however, protest
against an Icelandic _Thane_ being turned into a _Dane_, without as
much as saying, “By your leave, sir,” or ever asking him if he wished
to change his allegiance.
If this chapter is dry and technical, it has at least the merit of
brevity.
FOOTNOTES:
-----
Footnote 3:
_Icelandic_; fiorð, norð.
CHAPTER VII
“And yet but lately there was seen e’en here,
The winter in a lovely dress appear.”
PHILLIPS.
ON a bright and beautiful morning, as my agreeable company of the day
previous disappeared behind the walls of the Almannagjá, my small party
turned towards the east, the bridle-path leading through a forest
several miles in extent. Before getting into the thickest of the wood,
we found the ground covered with immense rocks of lava, and look which
way we would, except a few feet of the path directly before us, the
country appeared quite impassable. It may excite a smile to talk of a
forest, with the largest trees but six or seven feet high; but these
patches of shrubbery dispersed over Iceland, are of great value to the
people. They are composed principally of birch and willow. Though
nothing but scraggy brush, it is used to make roofs to their houses, and
much of it is burned into charcoal for their blacksmithing. I have seen
one of their coalpits where they were burning charcoal, and a bushel
basket would have nearly covered it. Attached to every farm-house is a
“smithy,” where scythes, pitchforks, spades, horse-shoes, and other
articles, are made. Every man is a blacksmith; and some travelers have
asserted that the clergy are the best shoers of horses in the land. A
Gretna Green blacksmith will answer in case of emergency for a
clergyman; and Sir George Mackenzie, while traveling here, had his horse
shod several times by Iceland priests. I have not yet had an opportunity
of testing the skill of one of these clerical blacksmiths. They have, at
least, a poetical license for practising the two trades; though perhaps
they do not put the shoe on the horse as much as formerly, but
———————“grown more holy,
Just like the very Reverend Rowley Powley,
Who shoes the glorious animal with stilts,—
A modern Ancient Pistol, by the hilts!”
We crossed one of those deep chasms or cracks in the lava, so common in
volcanic regions. Here a natural bridge of lava was left, apparently on
purpose for a road across it. While riding along in this miniature
forest, a large flock or brood of ptarmigans flew up before us. This,
one of the fine game-birds of the mountainous parts of Scotland, is very
common in Iceland. From being long out of the habit of shooting, I
believe the murderous propensities bred in my youth—with “dad’s old
musket”—have pretty nearly all evaporated. And why should I regret it? A
more cheerful or happy sight than flocks of beautiful birds, young and
old, cannot be seen. Then see the terrible contrast of “sulphurous smoke
and dreadful slaughter,” that follows the “fowler’s murder-aiming eye,”
and all for “sport.” The ptarmigan, I believe, is seldom found in
America. It is about the size of the partridge of the State of New York,
a greyish brown in summer, and turning quite white in winter. The
Icelanders call this bird the _reaper_. Had they game laws here—and
thank heaven they don’t require them—it would not be permitted to shoot
this bird at this season. The young in this flock, though able to fly
short distances, were not over half grown. I have a bit of a confession
to make, and I may as well make it now. The day that I was traveling was
Sunday! I met several parties of Icelanders, traveling also; the
immediate object of our journeying being different: they were going to
church, and I was going to see the Geysers. The parties I met were going
towards the Thingvalla church, and had on their Sunday’s best. They were
all on horseback, the universal way of traveling in this country.
Indeed, indeed, it was very queer, the riding of the young Icelandic
ladies. These pretty damsels rode just like their brothers. My pen
refuses a more elaborate and bifurcated description. The matrons all had
a very convenient kind of side-saddle. It was like an arm-chair, the
back and arms forming part of a circle, all in one piece. The dame rides
exactly sideways, at a right angle with her horse, her feet placed on a
sort of wooden step. The saddle must be pretty heavy, but the little
animals and their riders seemed to get along very well. There was
nothing peculiar about the costume of the females, except the little
black caps with long silk tassels, universally worn in Iceland, in doors
and out, in place of any other cap or bonnet.
We journeyed towards the south, skirting the shore of the lake some
five miles, and then turned to the east, climbing a sharp and steep
mountain, but not of great height. From the top we had a fine view
of the surrounding country, and to the west, the broad lake, the
“Thingvalla vatn.” Across the lake, some ten miles distant—though,
from the magical purity of the atmosphere, it seemed but a stone’s
throw—was a range of mountains, sloping down to the water’s edge, with
patches of snow on their sides. Directly beneath us, at the foot of
the mountain, lay the lake with its myriads of trout, and its water a
thousand feet deep. Two abrupt islands rise high above the surface.
They are mere hills of lava and volcanic matter, without a particle of
vegetation. They are called Sandey and Nesey. We traveled some little
distance on the broad, flat surface of the mountain, and crossed—by
descending into it—one of the deep lava chasms. We did not descend,
in going down the mountain to the east, as much as we had ascended;
but found it spread itself out into a broad table-land, a number of
hundred feet higher than the lake. With long ranges of mountains before
us, we traveled several miles over a most desolate volcanic region,
completely covered with lava rocks, scoriæ, and volcanic sand. Like all
the lava-covered country, it was broken up in huge, irregular masses,
and very cavernous, in some places showing caves thirty or forty feet
deep. No description or picture will give a good idea of the old lava
on the surface of the ground, to a person who has never been in a
volcanic country. Not the roughest lime-stone region I have ever seen
will bear the slightest comparison with the lava-covered districts—near
two-thirds of the surface—of Iceland. In written descriptions of
volcanic regions, we often see mention made of “streams of lava.” These
streams in other countries are usually down the sides of mountains, but
here in Iceland they extend for miles along the surface of the level
ground, and we are puzzled to know where it came from, for usually we
see no crater or mountain anywhere near. I have seen these “streams”
standing up in bold relief, a black, rough, horrid mass, from ten to
a hundred feet deep, several hundred yards wide, and one or two miles
in length. Brydone, in his observations of Mt. Ætna, pulled all the
old theologians about his ears by making a calculation respecting the
age of the lava, and proving conclusively—to himself—that some of the
lava streams from Ætna were fourteen thousand years old. I believe,
however, that philosophers have to own themselves baffled in trying to
get at the age of lava. After cooling—which often takes some years—and
breaking up by the expansion of the air in it, the lava is usually
nearly or quite black. After several hundred years it turns a little
more towards a brown, or rather gets grey with age, and is covered with
a very slight coating of one of the most inferior of the mosses. Very
old lava often gets quite rotten, light, and porous, and in this state
is frequently very red. Take a thick piece of zinc and break it with a
hammer, and you will have a rough surface that, multiplied ten thousand
times, will give some idea of a stream of lava. The word “horrible,”
both in the Icelandic and in English descriptions, is often and most
appropriately applied to the fields of lava.
As we traveled east and approached nearer and nearer the range of
mountains, the way became much smoother till we found ourselves on a
plain of black, volcanic sand. Near the base of the mountain range
before us, the guide took me aside a hundred yards or so to see a
curious volcanic crater called the Tin Tron. It stands near twenty feet
above the surface of the ground, like a chimney, but on climbing up the
side of it and looking down into it, it appears like a well, but the
cavity grows much wider below the surface of the ground. On throwing in
a stone, after a little period, it quashed in a bed of water, seemingly
some fifty feet below where we stood. One side of it was partly broken
away, so we did not have to climb clear to the top of it to look down
the aperture. I broke off some pieces of lava from the top of the crater
with my hands, and found it very soft, light, and porous. This lava was
a beautiful purple, and some of it a bright red color. I brought away
several samples. We wound round the mountain and descended into a broad
and fertile valley called the “_Laugardalr_,” or vale of warm springs.
Broad meadows surrounded us, and we could see the steam rising from
numerous hot springs in the distance. This valley appeared like an
immense amphitheatre surrounded by mountains. I know not that a painter
could make much of it, but the Laugardalr is a fine landscape. It is not
like a vale in Derbyshire, or a country scene on the banks of the
Connecticut. No forests, no grain fields, orchards, fences, or houses,
and yet it is a scene of great interest, and not easily forgotten.
I had plenty of time, as we wound our way slowly down the hillside from
the elevated table land, and an opportunity to observe the peculiarities
of the country. Certain little green hillocks to my now more practised
eye showed themselves to me as habitations. To the left lay a smooth
lake, and in bright lines through the green meadow land were several
white looking rivers. On every side were high mountains, many of them
covered on the tops with snow. Here I got the first view of Hekla,
though more than forty miles distant. It was black nearly to the top,
where were some small snow banks. This valley, including much that is
beyond the Laugardalr, is one of the most extensive and fertile farming
districts in Iceland. It extends nearly one hundred miles south to the
Atlantic ocean, and is bounded on the east and southeast by Mt. Hekla
and the Tindfjalla and Eyjafjalla Jokulls. This tract of country is
watered by Iceland’s largest rivers; the Hvitá or White river, the
Brúará, the Túngufljot, the Laxá, and the Thjorsá.
We stopped near the first farm-house, and had the saddles taken off,
that the ponies could recruit a little on the fine meadow grass, while
we went through that very necessary daily ceremony of dining. The farmer
sent me out some excellent milk in a Staffordshire bowl, and soon after
he and his wife and daughter came out to see me hide it under my jacket.
Madame Pfeiffer, in her snarling, ill-tempered journal, complains
greatly of the idle curiosity of the people in crowding about and
looking at her. From what I heard of her, she was so haughty that the
simple and hospitable Icelanders could not approach her near enough to
show her any attentions. I exhausted my little stock of Icelandic in
talking with the farmer, praised his farm, his cows, the milk, his
country, his wife and daughter, called the latter handsome—“_fallegh
stulkey_”—what a lie!—and giving him a piece of silver, which he seemed
to like better than all the “fair words”—“butter without parsneps”—and,
jumping into our saddles, away we went.
We passed near the small lake, the _Laugarvatn_, and saw the steam
rising from the hot springs near it, but being out of our way we did not
visit them. Several hot springs have their source in the bottom of the
lake, and only reveal their existence by the steam that rises from the
surface of the water. We got into a fine road in a large meadow or
bottom land, and I was having a fine gallop across the plain, when the
guide called to me to turn aside. I was greatly provoked on his taking
me a mile out of the way to show me a cave in the hill side, which he
seemed to think was a great curiosity. This wonderful cavern was about
twenty feet deep! I “blowed him up” well for a stupid fellow, and told
him he need not show a cave like that to an American, for we had caves
that extended under ground farther than from there to the Geysers—some
ten miles ahead—and cared very little for such a fox burrow as that. He
said he showed it to English gentlemen, and they thought it very grand!
Well, I told him, he might show it to English gentlemen, but he better
not to Yankees, if he consulted his reputation as a guide. Rising a hill
we saw to our right another lake, the _Apavatn_. We crossed the Brúará
or Bridge river, the only river in Iceland—with one exception, the
_Jokulsá_, in the east country—that has a bridge over it. This bridge
does not span the river by any means, but it merely crosses a chasm or
deep place in the middle of the stream. Our horses waded over the rocky
bottom and shallow water forty or fifty yards, when we came to a deep
chasm, perhaps ten yards across, and over this a slight wooden
structure, about six feet wide, was thrown. In this chasm the water is a
most furious torrent, roaring some fifty feet below the bridge. Our
horses were some frightened, and required considerable urging to get
them to cross the frail bridge. The chasm commences but a little way up
the river from the bridge, and there the greatest share of the water in
the river pours into it, forming a furious and singular cataract. I
stopped my horse a few moments on the bridge, and looked at the angry
torrent as it rushed beneath me. The water, except where broken into
foam, has a deep green appearance. On the road from Thingvalla to the
Geysers, nearly all the way, we had mountains on our left, and fine
fertile meadows on the right, towards the south. A great deal of the
way, a ridge of lava extends along the foot of the mountain, and
sometimes, for a long distance, I noticed a strip of fine meadow land
between the foot of the mountain and this ridge of lava, the meadow as
well as the strip of lava being several hundred yards wide. How this
came to be so I could not tell, unless it happened that, after the last
eruption of lava, large quantities of ashes were thrown out of the
mountain, covering the lava for some distance from its base, and thus
forming a coat of soil where now the green meadow is seen. As I have
mentioned before, nearly every foot of land in Iceland shows proofs of
volcanic origin, and, without doubt, the entire island was formed by
volcanic action. At whatever period that took place, if mortal man could
have seen it, there would have been a picture of the power of the
Almighty most awful to behold. What a scene! A tract of land forty
thousand square miles in extent, rising amidst fire and smoke and
earthquakes, from the bottom of the ocean. The proofs of subterranean
fire shown at the present day, in the occasional action of the
volcanoes, and constant spouting of numerous geysers and hot springs of
water and boiling mud, exhibit scenes of sublimity and grandeur
unequaled on the face of the globe.
Crossing a high ridge of lava and winding around the Bjarnarfell
mountain, we came in sight of the Geysers, with the clouds of steam
rising up, at the base of a hill about three miles from us. We crossed
some small streams that came from the Geysers, and observed that the
waters were covered with a gilded kind of metallic lustre, such as we
often see in stagnant pools. This arose, undoubtedly, from some metallic
property in the water itself. Shakspeare, whose eye never missed an
appearance of nature, usual or unusual, observed this. In _Antony and
Cleopatra_, a man had been off on some expedition, and had no doubt
“seen the elephant” somewhere on his route, for on his return one of his
comrades said to him,
——“thou didst drink the gilded puddle
That beasts would cough at.”
These waters are very good for immersion, if one wants an outward
application in the shape of a hot bath, but I think for drinking I would
imbibe the “gilded puddle” in Warwickshire rather than suck the slimy
waters that flow from the Geysers. Eager to see these wonders of nature,
I spurred my pony up to the margin of the basin of the Great Geyser,
and, though in a quiescent state, I shall never forget its appearance
while memory holds her seat in my brain. The guide soon led the way to
the farmhouse and church of Haukadalr, nearly a mile to the east, where
we were to pass the night. A drizzling rain had been falling; I was wet,
and greatly fatigued by the unusual exercise of riding on horseback, and
glad to get some rest, and defer my examination of the place and its
curiosities until the next day. The farmhouse, with its furniture, was
better than the average in Iceland, and offered passable accommodations
for a weary traveler. After a cup of tea, taken from stores in my own
knapsack, I went to my room, crawled under the bed, and soon fell
asleep.
CHAPTER VIII
“It makes my blood boil like the springs of Hekla.”
BYRON.
MONDAY, July 26th, 1852, I spent at the Geysers. They rise out of the
ground near the base of a hill some three hundred feet in height. Most
of the hot springs I have seen in Iceland are at the base of hills. The
Geysers are on ground that is nearly level, sloping a little from the
hill, and cover fifty acres or more. The springs are over one hundred in
number, and of every size and form, some very large, others small,
scarcely discharging any water at all. The Great Geyser—“_the_ Geyser”
par excellence—attracts by far the most attention, as from its great
size, the quantity of water it discharges, and the magnitude and
splendor of its eruptions, it stands unequaled in the world. It is on a
little eminence that it has made for itself, a hollow rock or petrified
mass that has been formed by a siliceous deposit from the water. On
approaching the place, you readily see where the Great Geyser is, by its
large quantity of steam. I walked up the margin of it, and there it was,
perfectly quiescent, like a sleeping infant. It is shaped exactly like a
tea-saucer, in appearance circular, though it is a little elliptical. By
measurement, the larger diameter is fifty-six feet, and the smaller
diameter forty-six feet. When I arrived I found this saucer or basin
full of hot water, as clear as crystal. The temperature, by Fahrenheit’s
thermometer, was 209° above zero, only three degrees below the boiling
point. The basin itself is four feet deep, and in the centre there is a
round hole or “pipe,” as it is called, running down into the earth like
a well. At the top where it opens into the basin, this pipe is sixteen
feet across, but a little below the surface it is said to be but ten
feet in diameter. This pipe is round, smooth, and straight, and is said
by Sir George Mackenzie and others who have measured it, to extend
perpendicularly to a depth of 65 feet. The rocky bottom and sides of the
basin and pipe are smooth and of a light color, nearly white. The
quantity of steam that escaped from the surface was considerable, but
not nearly so great as I should suppose would come from such a body of
hot water. Such is the appearance of this most remarkable fountain while
still, and certainly it does not look like a violent or dangerous pool.
Without wishing to augur ill of it, certainly it is a great bore. When
in an active state, the Geyser is altogether a different thing. When I
arrived in the evening, the basin was not over half full of water, but
the next morning it was full and running over, though the quantity of
water that flows from it is not very great. A slight rising of the
water, as if boiling, is seen in the middle of the basin directly over
the pipe when in a quiescent state. Now arrived at the Geyser, we must
wait its motion, for the eruptions occur at very irregular intervals,
sometimes several times a day, and sometimes but once in two or three
days. Knowing that it gave a warning—by firing signal-guns—before each
eruption, I took the time to go about the grounds and see what there was
to be seen. I gathered some fine mineralogical specimens, some beautiful
samples of petrified peat, or turf, all roots and vegetable matter
turned to stone. Fifteen or twenty yards west of the Geyser is a gully
or ravine, with nearly perpendicular sides, and thirty or forty feet
deep. I went down into this, and found a little rivulet of warm water in
it, the banks being composed of volcanic matter and red earth. I heard a
gurgling noise in the bank, and went up to it, and there was a little
mud spring of blubbering clay, hot and steaming. While in this ravine, I
heard a sudden noise of explosions like cannon two or three miles away,
and yet it seemed to be near me, and under the Great Geyser. It was the
subterranean explosions that always precede an eruption. I ran up to the
Geyser, and saw the water in a violent state of agitation and boiling,
with considerable air coming up out of the pipe to the surface. This was
all; only a false alarm, and not an eruption. Off I went, on another
exploring expedition about the grounds. I heard a violent gurgling up
towards the foot of the hill to the west, and went to see the cause of
it. About 150 yards from the Great Geyser I found a jet of steam coming
out of a hole in the ground, and down out of sight I could hear mud
boiling and sputtering violently. I noticed here what I had heard was a
characteristic of the hot springs of Iceland, deposits of clay of
different colors and of great beauty. It was moist, in a state somewhat
like putty, and lying in layers, in several distinct colors. Red, blue,
and white were the prevailing tints. It was most fine-grained and
beautiful, and I could not help thinking would be of considerable value
as paints, if it were collected. I gathered some of it, but in the
absence of proper things to carry it in, and the long journey before me,
I reluctantly left the samples behind. About 140 yards southwest of the
Great Geyser I came upon two deep springs or pools of clear water,
hissing hot and steaming. These pools appeared two springs of irregular
outline, each from 10 to 15 feet across, and nearly or quite 30 feet
deep. The water was so clear I could see directly to the bottom. A
narrow, rocky boundary separated the two. This boundary, or rather
partition, as well as the sides of the spring, was apparently a
silicious deposit or petrifaction caused by the water itself. On going
up near the margin, and walking round on every side, I noticed that the
earth or rock overhung the springs on all sides, so I could see directly
under, and the crust near the margin was very thin, giving it a most
awful appearance. If one should approach too near the margin, and it
should break off, down he would go to inevitable death in the seething
cauldron. It is said, if a man is born to be hanged he can never be
drowned. Of course a like immunity attends such a man if he is in danger
of being boiled! I should rather meet the fate of Empedocles, and save
my boots! A person might very easily run splash into these springs, or
rather this double spring, for it is just even full of water, and on
level ground. I did not see it till I was just on the margin. Some late
traveler here said his guide repeatedly ran across the narrow rocky
partition that separated the two. Had he fallen in, whatever might be
the temperature of the future world that he would be destined to go to,
he would never require another hot bath in this. The guide now showed me
the Strokr, or what Sir John Stanley calls the New Geyser. It is a mere
hole in the ground, like a well, without a basin or raised margin. It is
nine feet in diameter at the top, and gradually grows smaller to about
five feet in diameter. The Strokr—a word signifying agitator—is a most
singular spring. I looked down into it, and saw the water boiling
violently about twenty feet below the surface of the ground. It is
situated 131 yards south of the Great Geyser. While looking at this, I
heard a noise, and looking up saw a burst of water and steam a little
way off, that the guide said was the Little Geyser. It is 106 yards
south of the Strokr. I went to it, and found an irregular but voluminous
burst of water, rising with considerable noise, eight or ten feet high.
It played about five minutes, and stopped. I found that it played in a
similar way at pretty regular intervals of about half an hour,
throughout the day. About noon, some two hours after the first alarm, I
heard again the signal-guns of the big Geyser. The discharges were near
a dozen, following one another in quick succession, sounding like the
firing of artillery at sea, at the distance of two or three miles. I ran
up to the Geyser, and saw the water in a state of violent agitation, and
soon it rose six or eight feet, in a column or mass, directly over the
pipe. It, however, soon subsided, and the water in the basin, from being
full and running over, sank down the pipe till the basin became nearly
empty. I was doomed to disappointment this time, there being no more
eruption than this. It was two or three hours before the basin got full
of water again. About four o’clock I heard the reports again, and louder
than before; the guide hallooed to me, and we ran up near the margin of
the basin. The explosions continued, perhaps, two minutes, the water
becoming greatly agitated, filling the basin to overflowing, and then,
as if the earth was opening, the fountain burst forth with a shock that
nearly threw me over. The water shot in one immense column from the
whole size of the pipe, and rose perpendicularly, separating a little
into different streams as it ascended. Such a spectacle no words can
describe. Its height, as near as I could judge, was about 70 or 75 feet.
The awful noise, as a renewal of the forces kept the water in play,
seemed as if a thousand engines were discharging their steam-pipes up
through a pool of boiling water. Great quantities of steam accompanied
it, but not enough to hide the column of water. We stood in perfect
safety within forty feet of the fountain all the time it was playing,
which was about six or eight minutes. Well was it said that, had Louis
XIV. of France seen the Geysers of Iceland, he never would have made the
fountains of Versailles. Compare the work of man, when he makes a
spurting jet from a pipe with a two inch bore, to a column of boiling
water ten feet in diameter, and near a hundred feet high, and rushing up
with the noise and actual force of a volcano! Fiddle-de-dee! As well put
a boy’s pop-gun beside of one of Paixhan’s sixty-four pounders. I had
thought that Niagara Falls was the greatest curiosity, and Fingal’s
Cave, at Staffa, the most pleasing one that I had ever seen; but—though
not at all alike—the great Geyser of Iceland, as a marvellous work of
nature, eclipses them both. Give a Barnum the power of a Prospero, and
let him gather together, in one place, the Mammoth Cave of Kentucky,
Niagara Falls, the Natural Bridge in Virginia, Fingal’s Cave, and the
Great Geyser, and get a fence built round them. Fury! What a show-shop
he could open! Well, after all, it is a happy thing that the great
curiosities of the world are pretty well distributed over the earth’s
surface. The Geyser played lower and lower, and in the course of two or
three minutes after it began to recede, had all sunk down into the pipe,
leaving the basin quite empty, and the pipe also down for about ten
feet. This was the first time I had an opportunity of looking into the
pipe. The water was scarcely agitated at all, but slowly rising. In the
course of two and a half hours the basin was again full and overflowing.
According to the most reliable estimates, the maximum height of the
eruptions of the Great Geyser is from 90 to 100 feet. Olafsen and
Povelsen, two Icelandic writers who flourished near a hundred years ago,
estimated the height to be 360 feet; evidently a great exaggeration.
Some have attempted to prove by mathematics and the law of projectiles
that water cannot by any force or power be thrown in a stream over 95 or
96 feet high. Fire-engines disprove this, but at any rate that seems to
be about the height of the highest jets of the Great Geyser. Sir John
Stanley, in 1789, calculated the height by a quadrant, of the highest
eruption that he saw, at 96 feet. Dr. Hooker estimated it at 100, and
Sir George Mackenzie at 90 feet. The first account of these remarkable
fountains dates back about 600 years. To me, one of the most remarkable
circumstances connected with Iceland is, the constant and regular supply
of fire that keeps springs of water at a boiling heat, and sends forth
fountains with a force beyond all human power, and with a constant and
unceasing regularity, for hundreds, and, for aught we know to the
contrary, for thousands of years. Whence is the supply of fuel? Why does
it not all get consumed? But a child can ask a question that a man
cannot answer. Some have attempted by drawings and illustrations to
figure out a theory of pipes, cavities, and conduits under the earth,
that, supplied with a constant stream of hot water, would produce the
eruptions that we see. The great irregularity in time and in force seems
to set at naught the wisest calculations. We can see the effect
produced, and can look on and admire, but the springs of action are hid
by the Almighty in the wonderful laboratory of nature.
When the poet spoke of his blood boiling like “the springs of Hekla,” he
undoubtedly meant the Geysers. A man’s blood would be in a state of
violent commotion if it equalled the activity displayed by the _Strokr_,
or his brother the Great Geyser. The _Strokr_ is little less remarkable
or interesting than the Great Geyser. Though of less magnitude, it
throws its stream of water higher, and wider too, and more varied, in
consequence of its rather irregular bore. This bore, or pipe, is
somewhat rough and a little crooked, like the Irishman’s gun, made for
“shooting round a corner.” One rule seems to pervade all the Geysers or
shooting springs of Iceland. The larger they are, the more seldom their
eruptions. The Great Geyser, from what I can learn, does not give one of
its highest eruptions oftener than once in one or two days, the _Strokr_
once or twice a day generally, and the Little Geyser every thirty or
forty minutes. The _Strokr_ can be made to erupt by throwing in stones
or turf. The former sometimes choke it up, but turf and sods do not; and
moreover they produce a fine effect by giving a black, inky appearance
to the water. I had my guide cut up a quantity of turf with a spade,
and, piling them up on the margin, we threw them—several bushels at a
time—down the well of the _Strokr_. They splashed in the water, which
was boiling furiously, as usual, about twenty feet below the top. The
ebullition nearly ceased, and we watched it with great interest for some
little time, but no eruption seemed to come at the call we had made. We
walked away a few steps, thinking that this method of producing an
eruption was not infallible, when suddenly it shot forth with a
tremendous explosion, throwing its column of dirty water an immense
height. As near as I could judge, the water ascended just about one
hundred and thirty feet. The explosive, or, rather, eruptive force was
not quite as regular as in the Great Geyser, but would momentarily
slacken, and be renewed, the height of the column sometimes not being
over seventy or eighty feet high. How black and inky the water looked!
and occasionally pieces of turf were seen flying high in the air. I know
not how it was, but after the first surprise was over, I had a most
irresistible propensity to laugh; and, considering it a very innocent
exercise, I indulged it. After playing about fifteen minutes, it began
to slacken, and gradually settled down. It took some time, however, to
get over its “black vomit,” caused by the turf and earth that we
administered. After dropping below the surface, and sinking down into
the pipe, up ’twould come again; and, as the water would reach the
surface of the ground, it would seem to burst and shoot not only high
but wide. The falling water wet the earth for some twenty or thirty feet
from the pipe. I picked up some small fragments of the grass turf that
we had thrown in, and found them literally cooked.
Some twenty years ago a horse fell into one of the mud springs here at
the Geysers, and never was seen afterwards. Poor pony! to be boiled in
seething mud was a worse punishment than Falstaff met with when he was
pitched into Datchett mead. In the northern part of Iceland, an ox fell
into a Geyser, and after he was fairly cooked he was blown out by an
eruption. Whether he was served up at a banquet afterwards, I have not
been able to learn. The pieces of turf that were thrown out of the
_Strokr_ looked more like pieces of seal-skin than they did like turf.
It was enough to alter the appearance of anything, a boiling of ten
minutes in this infernal cauldron. There is a singular cave, about a
mile in extent, a day’s journey north of Thingvalla, that the Icelanders
call _Surtshellir_, or Cave of Surtar (Satan)—in English, the Devil’s
Cave. No Icelandic guide will ever go into it. When travelers explore it
they must go alone. They believe it is the habitation of his satanic
majesty; and that when he comes above ground to set the world on fire,
he will come up out of this cave. I wonder if he don’t come to the
Geysers sometimes to cook his dinner. He might indulge in what Pope
calls a feast of “infernal venison.” In that case he probably catches a
wild reindeer—of which there are plenty in the island—and bakes him on
Mount Hekla, instead of taking the witty poet’s bill of fare, “a roasted
tiger, stuffed with tenpenny nails”!
Though the _Strokr_ plays once or twice every day, of its own accord,
yet I took a malicious pleasure in provoking it to a “blow out;” and a
few hours after the first, I asked the guide to give it another dose of
turf. He looked into it, and seeing the boiling rather feeble, said it
was no use; it had not yet received strength for another effort. Still
he tried it, and we waited to see it “go on a bu’st”! It would not; but
about two hours afterwards it exploded, and we saw another grand
eruption, similar to the first. Our sensations are altogether different
in looking at these works of nature, from what they are at seeing an
artificial fountain, however brilliant. In the latter case we know the
power that propels the water, but here we look on and wonder at the
unseen power that for hundreds of years keeps these marvellous fountains
in operation. It would be a problem worth solving to see how far a shaft
or excavation in the vicinity of those springs could be carried in a
perpendicular direction, before finding water or earth that should be so
hot as to stop the progress of the works. Hot springs are scattered all
over Iceland, to the number of thousands, and at nearly every step you
see lava, volcanoes, or extinct craters. Seeing the constant proofs of
subterranean heat, as developed in the hot springs, it cannot be doubted
that heat, if not actual fire, would be found at a short distance below
the surface, in most any part of the country. A truce to speculation. I
hope the day is not far distant, when experiments and investigations of
a scientific character shall be made by men of learning, in different
parts of this extraordinary country.
There are two or three farm-houses in the vicinity, and near one of
them, in a hot spring, I saw a large iron kettle placed, and in it were
clothes boiling. Indeed, if these hot springs were movable property,
would they not be worth something attached to a large hotel or bathing
establishment? I boiled a piece of meat for my dinner in one of the
springs, and while the culinary operation was going on, I went to a
pool in the brook that flows from the Great Geyser, and had a most
delicious warm bath. ’Twas all gratis—no charge for heating the water.
The brooks that flow from the Geysers all retain their heat more or
less for several hundred yards, until they are swallowed up in the
icy cold river into which they empty. Some travelers have spoken of a
sulphury taste to meat boiled in the Geysers, but I did not observe
it. A good many birds were all day flying about the Geysers. They were
the _tern_ or sea-swallow, a bird very common in Iceland, both on the
seashore and inland. The Icelanders call them the _cree_. This bird is
common in England, but I never remember to have seen them in America.
What light, elegant, and graceful creatures they are on the wing!
Their flight is as light and easy as that of the butterfly; in motion,
as swift as a swallow, and as graceful as a seagull. They are about the
size of the pigeon, with very long wings and a forked tail, like the
barn swallow. They are nearly white, with a slight blue shade, like
the clear sky; just like that delicate cerulean tinge that the ladies
like to give their white handkerchiefs. They kept up a constant cry or
scream that was not unpleasant, and often flew so near us that I could
see their eyes. I climbed to the top of the hill that is just west of
the Geysers, and found it higher than I had anticipated. It looks low
in comparison with the high mountain, the _Bjarnarfell_, that is back
of it. It is composed of lava, slags, scoriæ, volcanic sand, &c. The
back side of it is very precipitous; about perpendicular. This hill
is called Laugarfjall (pronounced _La-gar-fe-at-l_), or hot spring
mountain. Between this and the Bjarnarfell is a small river flowing
through green meadows. I should have been glad to have ascended the
larger mountain, but had not time without running the risk of missing
an eruption of the Great Geyser. I gathered some fine specimens of
the petrifactions formed by the water, by breaking them up from the
bottom of the brook a short distance from the basin. In appearance
they much resemble the heads of cauliflower; in color, nearly white.
The incrustations are far more beautiful a little way from the
fountain head than in the basin itself, as the silicious deposit is
made principally as the water cools. I noticed that grass grew over a
portion of the ground among the numerous hot springs; but near the
sources of them there is evidently too much heat, there being nothing
but bare earth around them. There are no springs of cold water in the
vicinity.
But night has arrived, and I must depart. Though I had seen all of these
remarkable fountains in active play, I was reluctant to leave them. I
turned my steps towards the humble cottage of the peasant of Haukadalr,
for another night’s rest before starting south to see Mount Hekla.
CHAPTER IX
—— It is no dream;—
The wild horse swims the wilder stream.
Mazeppa.
OUR pleasant stay at the Geysers was finished, the last look taken; the
last piece of bacon that we had boiled in Dame Nature’s cauldron, had
disappeared; the farmer of Haukadalr had given us his good benediction
and a hearty grip of the hand, while he pocketed the dollars that we
gave him; and, our ponies being ready, we prepared to leave. The old
raven, too,—for here in Iceland “the raven croaks him on the chimney
top,” as he did when and where Richard the III. was born,—the old raven
had croaked out his farewell. There is no blinking the matter; we have
to face it. Mount Hekla is in the distance, and visit it we must. It was
two days journey there, and several terrible rivers lay in the route;
but hospitable Icelanders lived on the way, and the soft plank floors of
orthodox church “hotels” invite the traveler to spread down his blanket
and repose. Reader, just glance at a map of Iceland, such a one as Mr.
GUNNLAUGSONN’S—but you haven’t got one; then put one “in your mind’s
eye,” or imagine yourself in a balloon about “these parts,” and see what
a tract of country we have to travel through.
To the north, just about the center of Iceland, the ranges of the Lang
Jokull and Hofs Jokull lift their heads and show their crowns of
perpetual snow; to the east lies Skaptar Jokull, once terrible, in an
eruption the most devastating that ever occurred, but now hushed in grim
repose, and covered with a snow-white blanket. Far to the south is Mount
Hekla, with a slight bit of snow near the top, and rearing its burning
summit near six thousand feet above the level of the sea. Encircled by
these mountains is a valley, the most extensive tract of fertile land in
Iceland, and drained by its largest rivers. Behind us lay the Bruará,
and next was the Arbrandsá; but the Hvitá (_Wheet-ow_), the Laxá, and
the Thjorsá, are far the largest, the last more than 150 miles in
length, and draining the extensive glaciers of the Hofs and Skaptar
Jokulls. These rivers flow in a southwestern direction, emptying into
the Atlantic between the Westmann Islands and Cape Reykjanes. We dashed
into the Arbrandsá, and were through it in a hurry, our ponies making
light of the three feet of water and a swift current. Don’t ask us how
we fared. The rain over head, and the rivers, lakes, and hot springs,
had made us amphibious before this, about as effectually as if we had
been born otters or sea-gulls. What a splendid meadow we pass through,
here in the beautiful valley of the Hvitá! Here the “mower whets his
scythe;” and such a scythe!—about two feet long and an inch wide, hung
on a straight snath. But don’t he cut the grass clean to the turf? He
shaves it down as close as some men reap their chins—those that shave at
all, I mean—“let the galled jade wince,” our beard is uncut. But we were
speaking of an Iceland meadow. How can grass grow in Iceland? you ask.
Why, right out of the ground; for the soil, though shallow, is quite
fertile. An Iceland meadow looks very much like a good pasture when
nothing has been in it for some six weeks: grass thick, green, and soft;
but very little of it running up to seed. The grass looks like our “red
top.” White clover would do well, undoubtedly, if they would sow it.
Almost every Icelander unites the occupations of farmer and fisherman.
In June he goes to sea “to fish for cod,” and in July and August cuts
and secures his hay. This is a very important operation with the
Icelander, for without hay his animals would die in the winter. The hay
is fed to the sheep and cattle; the horses have to do without. How a
race of animals like the horse manage to live without a particle of
attention, shelter, or food, for a long Iceland winter, except just what
they can get out of doors, is more than we can divine. Guess they’re
used to it! They eat the dead grass, often having to paw away the snow
to get it; they go on the mountains, gather moss, browse the stunted
shrubbery; and when driven from the fields and the mountains, they go
down on the sea-shore and pick up sea-weed. When badly pushed with
hunger, they will eat fish bones, offal, scraps of leather, wood, heath,
and shrubbery, and almost every thing but earth and stones. Still, they
very seldom die. They seem hardened by the climate, and fitted to endure
the changing seasons as they roll. In winter they get reduced to
skeletons, mere skin and bones; but towards the last of May, when the
grass begins to grow, it is surprising how quick they get fat. Every
horse in our troop is literally fat, and no oats did they ever eat;
neither have they swallowed the barrel, for you can’t see the hoops on
their sides! Were you to offer any grain to an Iceland horse, he would
not know what you meant, and undoubtedly would think you joking.
Tell John Gossin, if Tom Spring had been an Iceland pony, Deaf Burke
never would have kicked him “where he put his oats.” Of course the
horses in the towns that are worked, are fed in the winter. The hay
being cut and dried is tied up in large bundles and “toted” off on men’s
backs to the stack-yard. If the distance is long, they sling large
bundles each side of a pony’s back, and he carries it off. And big loads
they will carry; a pony thus loaded looks like a moving hay-stack. The
farmer makes a square yard, walls of stone, and turf, and this he fills
with long, low stacks, which he covers with long strips of turf cut up
from the surface of a tough bog grass-field; and when the stack remains
over a second summer, this turf grows, and an Iceland settlement
presents the curious appearance of houses, stone walls, and hay-stacks
covered with green grass like the meadows and pastures on every side.
Scythes, spades, small rakes with teeth about an inch and a half long,
pitchforks and ropes, are all the tools an Icelander uses on his farm.
His ropes are made of wool, braided, or wool and hair mixed, the manes
and tails of the horses being laid under contribution for the latter
article. At the farm of Haukadalr, this traveler astonished the natives
considerably, by taking hold of a scythe, and showing them that he could
mow. Leaving the fine farm and meadows, we crossed a long stream of
lava—a high bleak ridge—and soon reached the bank of the White River,
along which we traveled for several miles. Here, for the first time in
Iceland, we saw the red-headed pochard (_fuligula rufina_), the most
beautiful of all the duck tribe. This bird, naturalists inform us, is
found in North America, near to the Arctic circle, in Europe south, as
far as Italy, and east, to the Himalaya mountains in Asia; a pretty wide
range for one sweet bird. The pair we saw showed the spirit of ancient
Romans by manifesting an unconquerable hatred for _Nero_, our traveling
companion. They doubtless had a nest; for they chased us for miles, and
when they got tired of chasing the dog, he would chase them. As
beautiful as these birds were, had we carried a gun, it is barely
possible that an invitation might have been extended to these pretty
creatures to come down and dine with us. Blessed birds: of course I was
not so unfeeling as to wish to hurt them!
The pochard is a bird that lives on inland waters, not at sea. His head
and neck are reddish brown, with a rich gloss, a “collar” round the
neck; back and throat black; other parts brown, white, and mottled. It
is about the size of the canvas-back duck. One species of pochard has a
beautiful crest of feathers adorning the top of its head. Soon after the
pair of birds left us, we saw three or four more. We traveled several
miles down the right bank of the Hvitá, and a magnificent river it is.
Twice the size of the Hudson at Poughkeepsie, confined between high
banks, it rushes its milky-looking flood onwards to the ocean. Indeed,
this is a terrible stream.
The banks of the Hvitá, for several miles, are from 100 to 150 feet
high, and perpendicular. What an explosion there must have been when
that crack burst in the lava, and formed the chasm where the river
flows! The stream, too, has undoubtedly worn it much deeper than it was
at first. And how swift the river runs! Where will streams be swift, if
not on mountainous islands? The water, too, like milk; perhaps the snow
colors it! Some have dived a little deeper for the cause, and contend
the clay on the mountains colors it. We finally emerged on to a broad
plain; and here, near the church and farm of Bræthratunga, the high
banks became lower, and we prepared to cross. From certain ominous hints
thrown out by the guide, I made up my mind for a swim. The river was
nearly a mile wide, but the current was broken by several low islands.
We tightened girths, placed the baggage as near on the top of the
horses’ backs as possible, and rode in. The first island was gained
easily enough, the water not exceeding three feet deep. The next channel
was a turbulent and fearful-looking torrent. In we plunged, and as ill
luck would have it, my pony was the lowest one of the lot—scarcely
twelve hands high. The others were over their backs in the water, and
mine went a little lower down the stream, got out of his depth, and away
we went down the river. My head and shoulders were out of water, but
nothing could be seen of the poor pony except his nose and the tip of
his ears. I stuck to him like a kingfisher to a black bass, but let him
“gang his ain gait,” and he pulled for the island. Had it not been a
long one, and extended well down the stream, we should have missed it,
and gone out to sea, or else to Davy Jones’ locker. But we struck the
lower end of it, and just saved ourselves. Though I have not experienced
cold weather nor snow here, there is one thing that is cold in Iceland,
and that is, the milky-looking water in the turbulent rivers. It was a
little the coldest bath I ever took. The white pony did the swimming,
and he swam like a good fellow, or I should have jumped off and tried my
own flippers. The dog, too, had a hard time of it. Poor Nero, he did not
find his swim as comfortable as his imperial namesake used to in a Roman
bath. He swam after us, but the current carried him so swiftly away that
he got below the point of the island, and I thought he must be lost. The
poor dog howled in despair, and turned back. He was a noble animal, and
I really commiserated his unfortunate situation, for he was beyond any
help from us. By hard swimming he gained the shallow water, and got back
to the island we last left. Now, look at the sagacity of a dog. He saw
he must come to us, or be left the west side of the river, near a
hundred miles from home. So he went clear to the upper end of the
island, and started again. The diagonal course that his swimming and the
current took him, just lodged him on the lower end of the island, where
we were. The next two channels were wide, but not deep, and we forded
them without difficulty; and after about three-quarters of an hour, we
climbed up the eastern bank of the stream. We were now about ten miles
northeast of Skalholt, that apocryphal capital of Iceland. I saw a
beautiful red flower growing on one of the islands in this river, and I
stopped and gathered some seeds. Perhaps they will add one to our floral
variety in America.
My swim did me no damage—the rain for some days past having seasoned me,
so that, like the skinned eels, I was used to it. Be it here recorded
for the benefit of poor, erring, and sinful man, the slave of habit,
fashion’s minion, Plato’s biped without feathers—all erring mortals who
mar what God hath made, those who scrape their faces with villainous
steel, those who doff Dame Nature’s garb, and find no substitute—all
these, and any others, if such there be, are informed that this wanderer
has never once “caught cold,” not the slightest, since this “beard” of
mine had six weeks’ pith. And this with the damp fogs of England,
steamboating in the Baltic, coasting by Norway, “schoonering” in the
Arctic sea, camping out in Iceland, swimming the cold rivers, sleeping
on the ground, climbing snowy mountains, and various “moving accidents
by flood and field,”—this is saying something for nearly three years’
experience of throwing away the razor. But I see how it is, my friends
will never know what a “magnificent Turk” I am, until I get my phiz
engraved—brass on wood!—or else put in “dagger o’ type;” and this will
emphatically say to all my miserable, chin-shaven brethren, Go and do
likewise. Ahem, where was I? On the east bank of the White River,
shivering with the effects of a cold bath. A broad tract of lava was our
road, and no vegetable life for a long distance, save the heath that
appeared here and there, now in full bloom. A few hours’ ride, part of
it through a good farming country, brought us to Hruni. In various
directions on our route, we saw the steam of hot springs rising up.
Hruni is not a large town. It contains a church, a farm, and the
residence of the clergyman. Indeed, I was glad to see a friendly roof.
It had rained for hours, and though the rain had warmed the ice-water,
still ’twas _wet_. I felt as if a log cabin would have been a palace;
but here was a house, a good one, a framed building with a wooden roof.
Never was hospitality more welcome, nor was it ever extended more
freely. It was about three o’clock, and we had been in our saddles since
nine, and a long, rough, and wet time we had had of it. The clergyman,
Herre Johann Briem, one of nature’s noblemen, indeed, gave me a hearty
welcome. He set before me bread, butter, cheese, coffee, milk; and a
most capital bottle of port wine he uncorked. I shall not tell how many
glasses of it went under my jacket before I left. Indeed, I never
counted them.
Mr. Briem was physically one of the finest men I have ever seen. At
least six feet three inches high, and well-proportioned, he would have
been a striking figure among the grenadiers of Frederick the Great. The
house had good furniture, and a fine library covered one wall of his
parlor. Here I saw, for the first time in Iceland, the “_Antiquitates
Americanæ_,” a work issued by the Society of Northern Antiquaries at
Copenhagen, giving the full account of the “Ante-Columbian Discovery of
America.” Admiring a little book in Mr. Briem’s library, a volume of the
“_Northurfari_,” an Icelandic Annual for 1849, he very politely made me
a present of it. I felt ashamed at accepting it; but I could do no
otherwise, though I had nothing, not the slightest thing about me,
either English or American, that I could present him in return. A fine
intellect beamed from Mr. Briem’s countenance, and his hospitalities
were as graceful as his person was comely. He showed me a splendidly
printed volume, a large octavo Danish and Icelandic Dictionary.
I can inform the old Austrian dame—that Madame Trollope, the conceited
Ida Pfeiffer—that all the Iceland clergymen I met, were as hospitable as
Mr. Briem. Some of the very same clergymen who entertained her, also
opened their houses to me; and not a penny of compensation could I ever
get them to take, although she most falsely states they received her
money for entertaining her. This is the woman that runs all over the
world, and writes books about what she sees, and much that she does not
see; and because the governor of Iceland would not be bored by her
shallow Highness, then she pens all manner of false and libelous stories
of the most kind, hospitable, unoffending race of people that the sun
shines upon. The best comment that can be made on her book is, that she
describes her journey to Mt. Hekla, and _ascent to the summit_, when the
people here on the ground told me she never put her foot on the mountain
at all!
CHAPTER X
Up the high hill he heaves a huge round stone.
The huge round stone resulting with a bound,
Thunders impetuous down, and smokes along the ground.
HOMER.
ALL pleasant sojourns must end; all oases must fade in the distance
as we journey o’er the desert sands of life. Though it rained hard,
an hour after I stopped with “mine host,” the intelligent clergyman
of Hruni, we were in our saddles, and the white, the black, and the
chestnut ponies were scampering “over the hills and far away.” The
farmer of Haukadalr left us here, and Mr. Briem sent one of his farm
servants to show us the way. It is two pretty good days’ ride from
the Geysers to Hekla; and we had yet two large rivers to cross, and
sundry mountains, valleys, lava-beds, and green fields to go over or
get round, before we were half way to the celebrated volcano. Near
the house we passed a very large spring of limpid water that looked
most deliciously tempting for a swim. Getting off my horse, I tried
the temper of it, and found it 96° of Fahrenheit, just comfortable
for a warm bath. Our route took us across the Laxá, a broad, shallow
river; and here were some of the best farms I had seen in Iceland. The
white clover was here, the first I had seen of it, and the meadows
evidently produced nearly or quite double the hay that those did which
were seeded down with the native grass alone. The blooming clover
whitening the fields gave the land a fine appearance, and half made me
think I was back home again. A forest of maple and beech trees would
have completed the illusion. I saw here, as I did in other places,
caraway growing spontaneously in the fields; and it was as tall, as
finely-flavored, and as well-seeded as you find it with us. It is not
indigenous here; but some being brought to Iceland and planted, it has
propagated itself over a good portion of the cultivated parts of the
island. The same is true of the white clover.
The meadow lands in Iceland are rough in surface, just in a state of
nature, not one acre in ten thousand ever having had the turf broken.
They are not plowed and “seeded down,” but get seeded and grassed over
by nature. As I have mentioned, there is not a plow or a harrow in the
whole country. The garden spots round the houses seldom exceed the
sixteenth part of an acre, and they are dug up with a spade. The
angelica—_angelica archangelica_—the same that grows in our wet meadows
in America, is here grown and used as a salad. It is a native of
Iceland. With us it is reputed poisonous; but here I have eaten it, and
think it has a very pleasant taste. Many a boy in our northern States
has made a _flute_ out of an “angelica stalk;” but probably few of them
ever ate it afterwards, or thought of applying the Highland proverb to
it, “Here’s baith meat and music, quoth the dog when he ate the piper’s
bag.” Every thing in Iceland seems to go by contraries, the angelica and
“red-top” grass, and other of our aquatic and swamp plants, flourishing
everywhere, on dry as well as on wet soil.
The peasant soon returned, leaving us pursuing our way south. In the
valley of the Laxá the lava is seen in great variety of color. Much of
it is in high, red hills, as bright as if it had been painted. Some of
it is black, and some brown. The red was the softest and most porous.
Some of the hilly river-banks were crumbling down like slate cliffs, but
a near view showed them to be lava. A few miles travel brought us to the
banks of the Thiorsá, a mighty river, far larger than any we had seen,
and I believe the largest in Iceland. It comes from near the interior of
the island, and cannot be much less than 200 miles long. It drains the
waters that flow from the glaciers of Hekla, Hofs Jokull, Skaptar
Jokull, Vatna Jokull, and Torfa Jokull. A profile view of this river, as
laid down on the large map of Iceland, shows the highest branches of it
to be 3,000 feet above the level of the sea; half as high as Mt. Hekla.
Here was a ferry, the first we had seen. The Thiorsá is nearly
three-quarters of a mile wide here; and its depth—I believe I will not
tell how deep it is—ask the great northern diver, for he may have been
to the bottom of it: I have not. The farmer-ferryman and his son left
their hay-field, and in a stout skiff rowed us across. The horses were
tied together in a string, the nose of one to the tail of another;
and the guide sat in the stern of the boat, and led the forward one.
The poor ponies had hard work in swimming the cold river, and seemed
to suffer some. They tried hard to get into the boat, but that would
have shipwrecked us inevitably. The powerful current threw us a long
distance down the river before we landed on the south side. The boatman
charged me half a dollar, Danish, about thirty cents; cheap enough
certainly for his fatigue and danger. At eight o’clock we arrived
at the farm and church of Skarth, where we tarried all night. The
clergyman of the parish does not live here, but the obliging farmer
did every thing he could to make me comfortable. I think I stated
that I had arrived at the dignity of sleeping under the bed. That is
a luxury that until lately has only been accorded to princes. The
eider-down bed, from the Iceland eider-duck, has long been noted for
its lightness and softness. It is perhaps the greatest non-conductor
of heat that can be used as a covering. It is altogether too warm. A
down bed a foot thick looks as if it would smother you when put on top
of the bed, but its perceptible weight is nothing. I usually kicked
off this down covering long before morning, for it is impervious to
all the insensible perspiration, and consequently in less than half an
hour the sleeper finds himself perspiring profusely. I sometimes put
the down bed under me, and used my Highland plaid for a covering. The
unhealthiness of down beds has been discovered, and kings and nobles
have ceased, in a great measure, to use them; and consequently the
price of down has greatly fallen, and now every peasant can afford
to have a bed of down. Here I slept in a church for the first time.
Learning that it was customary for travelers in Iceland, I had no
scruples at sleeping under the same roof with the church mice. As we
are all destined to take a long sleep some day in a church yard, or
somewhere else, I thought I might as well begin now, try it by degrees,
and see how I liked it. I did not know but the rapping ghost of old
Thor with his sledge hammer would rap confusion into my noddle, after
his usual Iceland style of “thunder in the winter;” but I was not
disturbed. I slept perfectly sound, till the sun was high in heaven.
The green mounds around the church looked as peaceful, and no doubt the
spirits of the dead were as quiet in heaven, as if no Sassenach had
been here to disturb their slumbers. A good reason why old Thor did not
disturb me. He is a heathen deity, and totally indifferent to any use
whatever that churches may be put to. Perhaps, were I to go into one
of his caves without reverently laying my shoes aside, and offering up
my guide as a sacrifice, he might jump out of the crater of Hekla, and
hit me a rap that would give my “daylights” their exit, or knock me
where the sun never sets. I gave the farmer a dollar, for milk, cream,
horse-pasture, and church-rent, and for the first time got a hearty
Iceland salute. Throwing his arms round my neck he gave me a smack that
fairly echoed from the surrounding hills.
From Skarth, the Eyjafjalla and Tindfjalla Jokulls show their broad,
snowy sides and summits; but Hekla is the most conspicuous. The whole
mountain, near to the top, is black. Near the summit there are some
spots of snow that extend more or less down the north side, while a
curling wreath of smoke on the apex reveals the existence of the fire
within. We started directly towards the mountain, with the farmer for
our guide. On every side of Hekla, as far as we could see, much of the
ground was covered with black lava. The land over which we rode here was
covered with lava and volcanic sand, and, what is seldom seen in such a
situation, tufts of grass grew here and there. Heath is nearly the first
vegetation that finds root on the lava. Here, in a pasture near a river,
we saw a splendid lot of horses. What a wild, untamed look they had;
sleek and fat, with long, flowing tails and manes! They appeared like
the flock that crossed the path of Mazeppa. The Iceland farmers usually
keep great numbers of horses, and there is no country in the world where
they can be raised so cheaply. And they sell these animals cheap. I saw
a beautiful, jet black, four-year old, at the Geysers, an entire horse,
that had never been saddled. His form was symmetry itself. He was just
about twelve and a half hands high. I asked the price—less than ten
dollars, our money. In Boston or New York he would bring $150 or $200.
We crossed the Vestri Rangá, a small stream, and arrived about the
middle of the afternoon at Næfrholt, the last farm and the last green
spot this side of Hekla. The farmer was from home; and our farmer from
Skarth, who had accompanied us, started off after him. He had not got
far before down he came, thrown by his horse, or rather falling off, for
I could see nothing to bring him out of the saddle. Perhaps Mr. Cogniac
Brandy, or somebody else, had put a “brick” in his hat. He was a big,
beefy fellow, and fell tumbling down like a meal-sack. I thought he must
be killed, and ran to help him; but he was up in a jiffy, and under full
gallop in less than a minute, vaulting into his saddle on the off side
at that. It takes an Icelander, to fall and not hurt him. I rather think
this one would tumble down Mount Hekla and never bruise his shins. The
farmer came home, and told us we could put up at his house; and then the
Skarth farmer returned to his home. This was the first really pleasant
evening I had seen during my journey, and it bid fair for a clear day on
the morrow. Unless it were so, it would be useless to attempt the ascent
of Hekla, and expect to see any thing. I took the guide, and climbed to
the top of a steep mountain, one of several about a thousand feet high
that skirt the base of Hekla, and seemed to stand as sentries near their
fiery and warlike monarch. Here the recollection of my boyish days and
boyish sports came up, and I felt like having a little fun. There was a
grand chance for rolling stones down hill, and we improved it. After
setting off a number of different sizes, we noticed a ponderous boulder
partly buried in the earth. It looked as if it could be moved. It was
nearly round, and would weigh five or six tons. I called the guide to
help me push it off, but he looked ominously at the house far on the
plain below. I convinced him that it could not go there; and then he
showed me the farmer’s wall, a beautiful dyke of stones and turf that
separated the meadow below from the mountain pasture. I told him I would
pay all damage; and we got behind it. With our backs to the mountain,
and feet against it, we crowded it out of its bed. It fell with an awful
crash through about a hundred feet of jagged rocks, nearly
perpendicular, and then took the sloping plain below. But didn’t it
streak it? The ground fairly smoked. The surface was smooth sand and
gravel, and within thirty or thirty-five degrees of the perpendicular.
Lower down, the grass began to grow. The rock took a bee-line for two or
three hundred yards, till near the bottom, when it commenced a series of
flights of “ground and lofty tumbling” that would have done honor to
Ducrow. One leap that I measured was thirty-four feet, and there it
struck the farmer’s wall. It walked through it as if it had been a
cobweb, making a horrible gap near six feet wide, and moving one stone
that would weigh at least a ton. Well, it was capital fun. The old rock
curled round in a circuit, and rested in the meadow. The farmer and his
family ran out of the house at the noise, and he came up to meet us. The
guide got a furious blowing up, all of which he took very coolly. I
ended the confab by paying him a dollar for the damage done, and he went
away quite satisfied. As I had had my dance, it was all fair that I
should pay the fiddler.
The evening came on; as glorious a sunset as ever gilded the tops of
Arctic mountains. I retired early, hoping in the morning to climb the
rugged steep of Mount Hekla.
CHAPTER XI
Thule, the period of cosmographie,
Doth vaunt of Hekla, whose sulphureous fire
Doth melt the frozen clime, and thaw the skie;
Trinacrian Ætna’s flames ascend not hier:
These things seem wondrous.
Old Ballad.
HEIGHO for Hekla! Thursday, July 29th, was a lofty one in my calendar.
The sun had many hours the start of us, getting up as he does here at
two o’clock in the morning. An early hour, though, found us in our
saddles. The morning was magnificently bright, the mountain being
visible, clear to the curling wreath of smoke on the summit. Little
patches of snow, here and there near the top, made a break in the broad,
black streams of lava that covered every part of the mountain. We
provided ourselves with every requisite for a long day’s journey. My
knapsack was well stored with good things—solids and fluids; and then I
had my old Scotch companion, the tartan plaid, to keep the cold away;
and each of us had a fine staff—what the Swiss travelers call an Alpen
stock, but ours were Hekla stocks, Iceland staffs—some six feet long,
and armed with a strong, sharp, iron pike. My traveling guide, the
farmer of Næfrholt, and the reader’s most humble servant, made up the
party—not quite a princely retinue, but enough. Yes, and there was our
dog, Nero. The top of the mountain was distant about seven miles, of
which we could ride nearly four. Away we galloped through some fine
green meadows, till we came to a mountain gorge on our right, down which
in numerous cascades poured a small river. Several ducks and water-hens
flew away as we approached their mountain home. Passing through this
gorge, we came into a circular meadow entirely shut in by mountains,
like an immense amphitheater, and this was the last bit of productive
land on our way towards the summit of Hekla. A hut was erected here, as
a temporary residence for the farmer while gathering his hay. High,
precipitous hills of red lava overhung our path on the right, but the
ascent for some distance was gradual. For near a mile, we galloped our
horses over a gently ascending plain of fine volcanic sand. High up the
mountain side were several sheep, but scarce a blade of grass could be
seen where they stood. Perhaps they went up to enjoy the prospect of the
green meadows far in the distance. We soon found our mountain climbing
was not going to be play. Our ponies found it so too. Our route was
intercepted by a broad and high stream of lava that extended six or
seven miles from the summit of the mountain. We turned to the right in a
southerly direction, and for four or five hundred yards found it about
as steep as our ponies could climb. We took a zig-zag course to relieve
the animals, and after half an hour’s climbing found ourselves on a
level table-land, nearly half a mile across. We were now about a
thousand feet above the lower region, where we left the farm house; and
here we were obliged to leave our horses. The Icelanders have an
ingenious way of fastening their animals so they will not stray away.
They fasten all their horses in a circle, tying the head of one to the
tail of another, and bringing the head of the first round to the tail of
the last. If they choose to travel, they can; but like John on his
rocking-horse, they may gallop all day in one interminable circle, and
not get far. Near where we left the horses, extending away to our right,
was a large stream of lava—one that came from the eruption of 1845; and
though seven years had elapsed, it was not yet cool, and smoke was
rising from it in many places. The “streams of lava” that run from the
craters of volcanoes, and which here in Iceland are seen on the plains
as well as on the mountains, are usually from twenty to forty feet deep,
from a hundred yards to half a mile in breadth, and from one to ten
miles long. They are vast ridges of rough, black rocks, of a most
forbidding aspect, the largest masses weighing from one to three or four
tons. When it flows from the mountain, it is a stream of molten mineral,
and its progress generally rather slow, but dependent on the steepness
of the mountain, and the size and the force of the stream. Melted lava
often does not move more than from fifty to one hundred yards in a day,
but in some cases it may run several miles. It soon begins to explode
and break up; by the expansion and escape of the air within it, and by
the force of the steam created by moisture on the surface of the ground
beneath. While the lava is breaking up, for several days, it keeps up a
terrible roaring. Then this rough mass, as black as charcoal, lies
unchanged in appearance for centuries. After a long time, it begins to
turn a little brown, and on its surface appears in minute particles one
of the lowest order of mosses.
The learned Spallanzani, Brydone, Dr. Holland, and others who have
investigated the subject, have all agreed that there is no data on
which a rule can be established, or a judgment formed, as to the age
of the lava. It is light and porous, usually not more than half the
specific gravity of granite. Pumice, among other volcanic substances,
is lighter than water, and will float. Very old lavas are often of
a bright red color, and soft and light, having something of the
consistency of chalk. Much of the matter thrown out of a volcano,
at certain periods of the eruption, is in the form of fine, black
sand. We amused ourselves by rolling some masses of old lava down a
steep declivity into a valley. It was very red, and so rotten that
it broke into innumerable pieces. Leaving our horses, we commenced
the ascent. While crossing a rough stream of lava, a mass, weighing
one or two tons, rolled as I stepped on it, and threw me down, and I
had a narrow escape from a severe accident. I got off with a bruised
shin, certainly not so unpleasant a companion as a broken bone would
be, especially in a region like this, where there is not a skillful
surgeon within a thousand miles. Our ascent led up a valley, having
on our left the stream of lava aforesaid, and on our right and before
us a hill of volcanic sand. Into this our feet sank deeply at every
step. A half an hour brought us to the steep front of the mountain,
and now commenced the ascent in real earnest. There was no bilking
it; climb we must. Up, up we went, like crows scaling Ben Nevis.
How the guides traveled so easy I could not tell. They had a heavy
knapsack and bottles of water and bottles of milk, and I had nothing;
but they tripped lightly along under their burdens, while I found it
hard work. At first I could go ten or fifteen minutes without resting;
but after an hour or so I had to stop every five or six yards, throw
myself on the ground and recruit. Though nearly “tired to death,” as
boys say, yet in an astonishingly short space of time the fatigue
would vanish. Here the surface was volcanic sand—beaten hard by the
wind, apparently—and a good road to travel on. There were fragments
of lava—“slag” and “scoriæ”—scattered over the ground. Some of these
I started down the mountain, but they were so rotten that they broke
into pieces before rolling a hundred yards. We were getting between two
and three thousand feet high, nearly half way up the mountain; and yet
vegetation had not entirely ceased. Now and then, we could see a bit of
grass, and sometimes a very small plant. One tiny, yellow flower, not
bigger than a gold dollar, I gathered and put in my pocket-book; and it
proved to be the last flower that I saw in going up. While stopping to
rest, I found I had frequent recourse to a certain glass thing that I
carried—_vulgo vocato_, a “pocket pistol”—but what it was charged with
is nothing to nobody! After about two hours hard climbing, we arrived
at the top of an eminence where I had hoped we should at least see the
summit of the mountain, and that not far off; but we were yet a long
distance from it; hills peeping o’er hills, and one peak rising above
another. The weather was beautiful; and, far to the west, we could see
the rivers with their green valleys, and beyond them the snow-covered
jokulls of the far north. To the south we could see the Atlantic,
though more than thirty miles distant. But we must climb, and up, up
we go. I noticed here and there, among the dark-colored lava and sand,
a white-looking boulder, bearing evident marks of fire; some the size
of a cannon-shot, and some that would weigh nearly half a ton. They
were not granite, neither were they chalk; but I could not break them
or carry away a specimen; so I had to be content with knowing they
were not ordinary lava, but still something that must have been thrown
out of the volcano. Our ascent grew less precipitous, and we veered
to the left, not going directly towards the summit. At the height of
about 4,000 feet, we first struck the snow. This was the first snow
I had trod since arriving in Iceland; and, as if the whole order of
nature must be reversed here, this snow was black. This was not exactly
the natural color, but a complexion it had assumed from being so near
the mouth of the volcano. Sand, ashes, dust, and smoke had coated
and begrimed it so thoroughly that the whole surface was like fine
charcoal. A long valley was filled with it. As near as I could judge,
it was from five to fifty feet deep. We passed over several snow-banks
that were many hundred yards in breadth, some of which had not lost
their white color. From the level country in the distance, these
snow-banks looked like mere patches, but here we found some of them
nearly a quarter of a mile across. We ascended the mountain from the
west, but now we were north of the summit, and where most of the snow
lay. Clouds now gathered round us, and we had to grope our way in the
fog for some time. The ascent grew more precipitous, and the climbing
was exceedingly toilsome. The earth and lava now appeared of a red
color. We seemed to be approaching the region of fire. Sulphurous fumes
saluted our nostrils; the weather cleared a little, and, suddenly,
before us yawned a deep crater. What a horrible chasm! Indeed, it
seemed like hell itself. Fire and brimstone literally. Dark, curling
smoke, yellow sulphur, and red cinders, appearing on every side of it.
The crater was funnel-shaped, about 150 feet deep, and about the same
distance across at the top. This was one of four craters where the fire
burst out in 1845. After the eruption, they had caved in, and remained
as we now saw them. In a row above this one, extending towards the top
of the mountain, were three other craters, all similar in appearance.
Our progress now was one of great danger. At our left was the north side
of the mountain; and for a long distance it was a perpendicular wall,
dropping off more than a thousand feet below us. A large stone thrown
over, never sent back an echo. The craters were on our right, and
between these and the precipice on our left we threaded a narrow ridge
of sand, not wider than a common foot-path. A more awful scene, or a
more dangerous place I hope never to be in. Had it not been for my long
staff, I never could have proceeded. The dangers and terrors of the
scene were greatly increased by the clouds and cold wind that came up on
our left, and the smoke and sulphurous stench that rose from the craters
on our right. One moment in danger of falling over the perpendicular
side of the mountain on the one hand, and the next of being swallowed up
in the burning crater on the other. Our path was exceedingly steep, and
for nearly a quarter of a mile we pursued it with slow and cautious
steps. Old Nero saw the danger, and set up a dismal howl. A few moments
after, he slipped, and came near falling into the fiery pit. In five
minutes, an animal or a man would have been baked to a cinder. Pursuing
our way by the four craters, our path widened, and half an hour more
brought us to the top of the mountain. Our purpose was accomplished; we
stood on the summit of Mount Hekla, and a toilsome journey it had been
for us. I threw myself on the ground, and took a look at the scene
before me. The top of the mountain was not a peak, but broad and nearly
flat, with here and there a little irregularity of surface. It was about
a quarter of a mile across in one direction—from west to east—and some
fifty rods the other way. In several places were deep snow-banks, but as
yet we saw no crater on the summit.
It was now two o’clock, it having taken us about eight hours to make the
ascent. Though we saw no crater, we had very direct evidence that we
were in close proximity to volcanic fires. Little eminences of lava
stood up around us, from which smoke issued; and the ground under our
feet felt warm. On removing the earth to the depth of two or three
inches, it felt hot; and on digging down anywhere to the depth of six
inches, smoke would burst out. Six inches deeper, and no doubt a man
might light a segar. I went close to a bank of snow—to have something to
cool my punch—spread out my tartan plaid on a warm piece of lava, opened
my knapsack, sat down and dined. That was the loftiest dinner I had ever
partaken. I had nearly a bottle of claret left, and a small drop of
something stronger. The guides had a bottle of milk, the snow did the
cooling, and I made a capital lot of milk punch. I drank several toasts;
gave “the good health of all creation,” toasted “the girl I left behind
me,” and “a health to all good fellows.” Yes, and I thought, too, of my
friends far, far away; and the distance I had traveled, and must travel
again before I could see them. In that half hour—in that dinner on
Hekla’s smoking summit, I seemed to enjoy a sociality in the thought of
friends and home, that I would not suppose a communion with one’s
thoughts in solitude would bring. _Nero_ lay at my feet, the guides were
conversing at a little distance, the lava around me was warm; and after
a little time the weather cleared up, and left a blue sky and clear
atmosphere, with a full opportunity to survey the wondrous panorama of
nature that lay spread out below and around us.
A little way to the east was a slight elevation. To this I directed my
steps. Here I stood on the highest summit of Mount Hekla. A more
magnificent prospect was never seen. Iceland was spread below and around
me like a map. We were more than six thousand feet above the level of
the sea, and higher than the tops of nearly every mountain in Iceland.
To the west and northwest were vast green tracts of meadow land,
checkered with hills and surrounded by mountains. White, shining rivers
intersected the valleys and plains like long silver ribbons. Far in the
north, and to the northeast, were the snowy mountains, not in peaks, but
stretching away in immense plains of brilliant white, and glistening in
the sunshine.
In a valley, some twenty miles to the northwest, was a beautiful cluster
of lakes, the water often of a deep, green color as they reflected the
meadows on their banks. Now and then in the landscape would appear the
Iceland “forests,” like patches of shrubbery of a dark green hue. Some
hills and old lava districts were covered with heath, now in full bloom,
and clothing the land in a robe of purple. The surface of Hekla itself,
and the ground on every side, some distance from the base, was one black
mass of lava. To the northwest, and near at hand, rising abruptly from
the plain to the height of 2,500 feet, was _Bjolfell_, a bold and
singular-looking mountain. A dark cloud lay in the southeast
intercepting the view, but on every other side the sky was clear and the
prospect uninterrupted. To the south, far out to sea—distant about forty
miles—were the Westmann Islands, rising abruptly out of the water to the
height of more than 2,000 feet, and showing their basaltic cliffs in a
clearly-defined outline. Cities, villages, and human habitations filled
no part of the landscape. The magical purity of the atmosphere, and the
singular character of this volcanic country, make a view from the top of
Mount Hekla one of the most extensive and varied of any on the earth’s
surface.[4] The view from this mountain must extend more than 200 miles,
showing a visible horizon of at least 1,500 miles in circuit. Most
fortunately the day was beautifully clear; and, after the first half
hour on the summit—except a bank of clouds in the east—the whole country
was visible. To the northeast, seemingly quite below us, in the valley
of the river Tungná, was a landscape of tiny streams, little lakes,
green meadows, and heath-clad hills. One small lake—the Grænavatn
(_green lake_)—was shaped like the moon when nearly full, and looked
scarcely larger than a saucer. The mountains to the south, the lofty
Tindfjalla and Eyjafjalla Jokulls, rose up in separate knobs or peaks,
the latter justifying its name of “mountain of islands.”
I thought I never should tire of contemplating the varied scene around
me.
“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 sweetness in the mountain air,
And life that bloated ease can never hope to share.”
Time sped too quickly. The day was fast wearing away, and much yet
remained to be seen on the mountain top. As yet, I had observed no
crater on the summit; but going to the top of a little elevation, about
one hundred yards from my dining table, it yawned before me. This was
the principal crater of the mountain, and larger than all the four that
we had seen on our way up. It was of very irregular form, nearly a
quarter of a mile in extent one way—a long chasm some two or three
hundred feet deep—and not over one hundred yards wide. Some parts of the
sides were perpendicular, and smoke was coming out of fissures and
crevices in many places. There were several deep snow-banks in it; and
though the entrance to a region of perpetual “fire and brimstone,” yet
there has been no eruption from this crater for ages. We rolled some
stones down the steep side of the crater, that crashed and thundered to
the bottom, and were lost in a vast cloud of smoke. The guides now did
nothing without urging; but I was determined, if possible, to go down
into the crater. We went to the east end of it, where the descent was
most gradual, and on a steep bank of snow, by a process well known to
boys as “sliding down hill,” we soon found ourselves at the bottom.
Rather a risky place, inside of Hekla’s burning crater; but if the lava
and smoke proved too warm friends, we could cool off by jumping into a
snow-bank.
We went through every part of this wonderful pit, now holding our hands
in a stream of warm smoke, and again clambering over rocks, and standing
under arches of snow. The ground under our feet was principally moist
earth; the sides of the crater, rock-lava, and in many places loose
slags and scoriæ. One most remarkable basaltic rock lay near the center
of the crater. It was spherical, nearly as round as a cannon-ball, and
about twenty or twenty-five feet in diameter. It lay, apparently,
entirely on the surface of the ground, and though of compact and solid
structure, there were small cracks all over it, from the twentieth of an
inch to a quarter of an inch across. Out of these cracks, on every side
of the rock, smoke and hot steam constantly issued. The ground all round
it was moist earth and volcanic sand, and showed few signs of heat. Not
ten feet from this rock was an abrupt bank of snow, at least twenty feet
deep. In one place under it was a crevice in the lava, where the heat
came out; and it had melted away the snow, forming a beautiful arch some
ten feet high. We walked under it, and found streams of clear water
running from the snow. At these pure fountains we filled some of our
empty bottles. For the benefit of any future travelers here, I will
mention, that had it not been for my own curiosity and perseverance, I
never should have gone into this crater, or even have seen it at all. My
mountain guide, the farmer of Næfrholt, seemed to think his duty
performed after we were once on top of the mountain. I hunted up the
crater, quite out of sight from where we arrived on the broad summit of
the mountain, went to the brink, and then insisted on descending into
it. After getting down to the bottom of the crater, a way selected
entirely by myself, he very coolly informed me that he had a short time
before gone down into it with some Danish gentlemen. After I had
satisfied my curiosity in varied explorations, the guide proposed a
place for our exit on the west, but where, I am sure, had we attempted
an ascent, we should have broken our necks. As we could not well slide
up the hill where we had slidden down, I proposed an egress just to the
north of our enormous smoking boulder; and it was so terribly steep that
I thought we should inevitably tumble back into the crater after we were
nearly to the top. “_Festus_,” while traveling with Lucifer, says,
“Let us ascend, but not through the charred throat
Of an extinct volcano.”
Not so with us: we did come straight out of such a “charred throat.” We
emerged from our warm pit, directly on the north edge of the mountain,
where it fell off a vast distance in one perpendicular crag. There’s a
kind of fearful pleasure in gazing from a mountain’s craggy summit.
“And there’s a courage which grows out of fear,
Perhaps of all most desperate, which will dare
The worst to know it:—when the mountains rear
Their peaks beneath your human foot, and there
You look down o’er the precipice, and drear
The gulf of rock yawns,—you can’t gaze a minute,
Without an awful wish to plunge within it.”
The little green lake lay in its nest like a drop of water, some ten
miles away, and the majestic Bjolfell reared its black form in solemn
state nearly half as high as Hekla itself. We walked clear round the
crater, and came to a deep, broad crack in the lava, that we had to leap
across, and then returned to the place of our ascent, crossing a broad
field of snow.
This snow was many years old, and from five to thirty or forty feet
deep; and in several places heat came from the mountain, and melted it
out in a great hole—the shape of an inverted potash-kettle. I thrust
my pike into the snow; and on withdrawing it, it showed that deep blue
tint which I had supposed was only seen in new snow. Having gathered
samples of all the lavas that I had seen, and loaded the guides with
them, we prepared to descend. Our last six hours of the upward journey,
in going back, was performed in two hours. Perhaps the loads of lava
that the guides carried, increased their speed, urging them along in
their down-hill course. The narrow pathway between the craters and the
north brink of the mountain, we found far less dangerous on returning,
as the weather was clear and the wind had gone down. When we came to
the steep, sandy side of the mountain, it would be safe to believe that
we went down pretty middling fast. Perhaps we didn’t run, exactly, but
it was a specimen of rather tall walking. About half way down, I drank
the last drop of——, the contents of my pocket-flask. “Farewell, thou
lingering sweetness!” Our horses—condemned to fast or eat lava—had gone
round a few circles, circumnavigating one another by chasing their
tails; but they had not journeyed far. Leading them from the table-land
down the steep acclivity, we mounted: their hunger gave them speed; and
after a sharp gallop, we arrived at the farm-house about ten o’clock,
a little before sunset, having escaped the dangers, and enjoyed the
novelty of the loftiest journeying I had spent in all my travels.
FOOTNOTES:
-----
Footnote 4:
Since the above was written, the writer has ascended Ætna in Sicily,
and Vesuvius in Italy. Though these countries are far richer in
natural productions, and abound in towns and cities, and the bay of
Naples is proverbial for its beauty, yet he must say that the view
from Mount Hekla is far more varied and beautiful on account of the
clearness of the atmosphere, and the variety of the mountain, valley,
and island scenery.
CHAPTER XII
—————Fire that art slumbering there,
Like some stern warrior in his rocky fort,
After the vast invasion of the world!
Hast not some flaming imp or messenger
Of empyrean element, to whom
In virtue of his nature are both known
The secrets of the burning, central void below,
And yon bright heaven, out of whose aëry fire
Are wrought the forms of angels and the thrones?
Festus.
VOLCANIC eruptions in Iceland have presented some remarkable features.
There are volcanoes that are much higher than any in this country;
but, in the amount of lava thrown out at one time, no eruption on
record ever equaled that of Skaptar Jokull in 1783. A notice of this
may not be considered out of place. In May, about a month before this
eruption, a volcano rose up from the bottom of the sea, over seventy
miles from land, to the southwest of Cape Reykianes, and more than a
hundred and fifty miles from Skaptar Jokull. This was one of the most
remarkable submarine eruptions ever recorded. It formed a large island,
and ejected vast quantities of pumice, a light, volcanic substance that
floated on the surface of the water. It covered the sea for more than
a hundred and fifty miles, and in such immense quantities that ships
were detained in their progress while sailing along the coast. The
sea-birds paused and screamed in their wheeling flight, and the more
adventurous took a ride on a new volcanic raft. His Danish Majesty,
on hearing of a creation of new territory near his ancient possession
of Iceland, sent a ship with orders for its immediate annexation. The
commander took formal possession of it in the name of the king. But
the end was not yet. The flag of Denmark had not waved above it for
a twelve-month, before it sunk back into the ocean and disappeared
forever. Soon after this eruption in the sea—from the first to the
eighth of June—violent earthquakes were experienced in the vicinity of
Skaptar Jokull, and clouds of smoke obscured the sun for some days. It
was often so dark in the middle of the day, that a sheet of white paper
could not be seen when held up before the eyes. An immense shower of
ashes, sand, and sulphur filled the air, and completely covered the
land. It poisoned the vegetation, destroying every green thing where
it fell. Fortunately the wind carried it to the south, and it soon
reached the ocean. Incredible as it may seem, this shower of ashes and
sulphur was borne over the Northern Sea to the Faroe Isles, Shetland
and Orkney, entirely over Great Britain, across to Holland, and far on
to the continent of Europe, nearly two thousand miles from the place
where it started. Around the mountain, for many miles, darting flames
and lightning filled the air, and the sulphur flashed and burned far up
into the heavens. The next effect produced, was the heat of the volcano
melting the ice that had shrouded it for centuries; and this caused
such a deluge, that the rivers, particularly the Skaptá, overflowed
their banks, and submerged, washed up, and even carried away farms.
On the 10th of June, ten days after the first symptoms of an eruption
appeared, the torrent of lava burst forth, and poured down the side
of the mountain. This followed so quickly after the flood of water,
that in less than twenty-four hours the river was entirely dried up,
and people walked across its bed, where, for years, it had only been
passable in boats. While the fire was contending with the water, a
terrible and deafening, roaring sound was heard, and immense quantities
of steam filled the air. The fiery torrent poured down the bed of
the river, often from 400 to 600 feet deep, and over two hundred in
breadth. Lightning flashed through the heavens, thunder and concussions
of the earth were constantly heard and felt, and the volcano kept up
a continued and terrible roaring. In its course down the bed of the
river, the lava came to an immense chasm or pit, into which for many
hours it poured with a deafening noise. The stream of lava flowed first
south, then east, destroying farms, houses, and churches, and burning
up the thickets of wood near Kirkubær. Often great chasms in the earth
would get filled with the melted lava, and then, as it cooled on top,
the heat below would cause it to explode, and blow large masses of it
high in the air. For three months the lava continued to flow, but it
was not until the next February that the mountain ceased throwing out
ashes, sand, flames, and hot stones. The effects of this eruption were
more terrible than any thing of the kind that ever happened in Iceland.
The showers of ashes, sand, and sulphur, completely destroyed every
green thing for a long distance. Another most singular effect of this
eruption, extended to the ocean. The fish that had always frequented
the coast, were entirely driven away, and never returned. A terrible
famine ensued. Within two years, over 190,000 sheep, 28,000 horses, and
11,000 cattle, died of starvation. About 10,000 inhabitants—one-fifth
of the entire population of the island—perished from want and exposure.
The amount of lava ejected from this volcano was probably greater than
that of any eruption of the same duration, ever recorded. It covered a
tract of country 500 square miles in extent; and had it lain of equal
thickness over the entire surface, would have been over 300 feet deep.
The lava would have filled the channels of fifty rivers as large as the
Hudson from Albany to New York.
It is said that the personal appearance of a certain quadruped does not
give an unfailing indication of the distance he can jump. This can
scarcely be true of Skaptar Jokull. If size is an indication of power,
the vast magnitude of this mountain would seem to show that its
eruptions would be terrible. It is over one hundred miles in diameter at
the base, and more than three hundred and thirty in circumference. The
most of it is wrapped in a pall of eternal snow, and centuries sometimes
elapse without an eruption. Inaccessible, except in some places around
the edges, it appears from different points of view like several
distinct mountains; and in different parts it goes by different names.
On the west, it is known as Skaptar Jokull; and on this side the great
eruption occurred. On the south, it is called Oræfa Jokull; and at this
point it is the highest mountain in Iceland, being over seven thousand
feet above the level of the sea. Its vast central surface, and all
throughout its northern boundary, is known as Vatna Jokull or Klofa
Jokull, and is supposed to contain in its hollows large pools of
standing water. This particular account I had given me in a conversation
with Herre Biarni Gunnlaugson, the indefatigable Icelandic geographer,
who traveled over every part of Iceland for a period of twelve years.
During this time, he saw the entire country, and gathered the
information and executed the drawings for his most elaborate and
valuable map of the island. I can lay claim to some personal
acquaintance with Skaptar Jokull. Standing on the summit of Hekla, I
could look directly over nearly the entire surface of the mountain. It
does not rise from all sides to one peak in the center, like Ætna,
Stromboli, Hekla, and Vesuvius; but to the eye it presents the
appearance of one vast, glittering plain of snow. The few travelers who
have ascended the jokulls of Iceland, have described them as presenting
immense cracks in the snow and ice; making their ascent more dangerous,
in proportion to their height, than probably any other mountains in the
world. The enormous bulk of Skaptar Jokull may be imagined from one
comparison. Were it as steep and high in proportion to its breadth of
base, as the Peak of Teneriffe, its perpendicular height would be more
than ten miles above the level of the sea. Next to this mountain and
Hekla, the most noted in Iceland are the Eyjafjalla and Tindfjalla
Jokulls, in the south, and Snæfell Jokull in the west.
As an instance of the effects of volcanic eruptions, and also of the
inaccuracy of geographers respecting Iceland, one fact may be mentioned.
On nearly every English or American map where Iceland is represented,
there will be noticed a large lake called the “Fiske Vatn,” or _Fish
Lake_. There is not such a lake in existence, nor has not been for many
years. There _was_ such a lake, long ago—I have not the date, but think
it was nearly a hundred years since; and a volcano rose up from the
bottom, filled its entire bed, and literally drank it up at a draught!
Now there is no vestige of a lake in the vicinity; but there is a
mountain, and I saw it. It lies between Hekla and Skaptar Jokull, and
goes by the name of FISKIVATNAVEGR, or “Fish-lake-mountain.” Nature
works by general laws, but this particular sample of its work seems to
us rather singular. Now, this is a geographical and historical fact, and
poetry can be quoted to prove things that are quite as strange.
_Festus_, in describing his tour in “giant-land,” related some of the
customs of the inhabitants, and told how they lived.
——“A wheat-stack here would but make
One loaf of bread for them. Oak trees they use
As pickles, and tall pines as tooth-picks; whales,
In their own blubber fried, serve as mere fish
To bait their appetites. Boiled elephants,
Rhinoceroses, and roasted crocodiles—
Every thing dished up whole—with lions stewed,
Shark sauce and eagle pie, and young giraffes,
Make up a pot-luck dinner,—if there’s plenty.
STUDENT. And as to beverage?
FESTUS. Oh! if thirsty, they
Will lay them down and drink a river dry,
Nor once draw breath.
* * * * *
When death takes place,
They burn the bodies always in a lake,
The spray whereof is ashes, and its depths
Unfathomable fire.”
Now, either of these can be taken to prove the other. The poetry is
consistent, for it agrees, in all essential particulars, with the
natural phenomena in this case.
Mount Hekla has a greater celebrity than any other mountain in Iceland,
owing to the frequency of its eruptions. All of these, for eight hundred
and fifty years, are said to be recorded, and amount to twenty-four in
number. They have averaged about three in a century; and, though
occurring at irregular intervals, at no time has more than seventy-seven
years elapsed from one eruption to another. The following are the
periods of
THE ERUPTIONS OF MOUNT HEKLA SINCE THE YEAR 1000.
Interval between the
eruptions.
1. A. D. 1004
2. “ 1029 25 years.
3. “ 1105 76 “
4. “ 1113 8 “
5. “ 1157 44 “
6. “ 1206 49 “
7. “ 1222 16 “
8. “ 1294 72 “
9. “ 1300 6 “
10. “ 1340 40 “
11. “ 1374 34 “
12. “ 1390 16 “
13. “ 1436 46 “
14. “ 1510 74 “
15. “ 1554 44 “
16. “ 1583 29 “
17. “ 1619 36 “
18. “ 1625 6 “
19. “ 1636 11 “
20. “ 1693 57 “
21. “ 1728 35 “
22. “ 1754 26 “
23. “ 1766-68 12 “
24. “ 1845,46 77 “
According to the Icelandic records, the surface of the land in the
vicinity of Mount Hekla has been entirely changed by the eruptions.
Formerly, there were beautiful farms on every side, and the country was
thickly settled close up to the base of the mountain. The successive
eruptions or inundations of lava have covered the land for many miles
around, with a charred and blackened mass.
The Icelanders are much more devoted to history and poetry than to exact
science; and on this account the various eruptions of their volcanoes,
and other remarkable natural phenomena, have received much less
attention, and been recorded with far less accuracy and minuteness, than
historical events. Owing to this, we have not as many records of their
volcanoes, spouting springs, and submarine eruptions, as would be
desirable. Had we a more extended series of facts, much that now seems
irregular and mysterious, could be reduced to system.
CHAPTER XIII
I’ve traversed many a mountain strand,
Abroad and in my native land,
And it hath been my lot to tread,
Where safety more than pleasure led;
Thus many a waste I’ve wandered o’er,
Clomb many a crag, crossed many a moor;
But, by my halidome,
A scene so rude, so wild as this,
It ne’er hath been my lot to pass,
Where’er I happ’d to roam.
SCOTT.
AFTER our sojourn of two days in explorations of Mount Hekla, we took
leave of the farmer of Næfrholt and his family, and traveled towards the
southwest coast, the Reykir Springs, and the Sulphur Mountains. There
are some pleasing and original customs among the Icelanders; and with
these are their ways of saluting, at meeting and parting. Young and old,
male and female, have the same affectionate greeting and parting
compliments. They first shake hands, then embrace with arms about each
other’s necks, and then bring their lips in close contact. I have
sometimes fancied, when they took their faces apart, that I could hear a
slight _clicking_ sound; but this might have been imagination. When I
have been kindly entertained at a house, and especially if there have
been one or two pretty girls in the family, I have at parting adopted
the same kind of salute. Some of these compliments came off at the base
of Mount Hekla on the morning of July 30th. This day I had a charming
ride. Our road for some distance lay through a wood, and I have before
spoken of the stately grandeur of an Iceland forest. In addition to the
usual birch and willow trees, some of which were a little higher than
our horses’ backs, there were many bearing a small berry—the “blue
berry” they called it; and this is the only thing of the fruit kind in
all Iceland. They are eaten by the natives, usually with milk or cream,
and wherever they are found are highly prized. I have tasted them, but
they seem almost destitute of flavor. It takes a hot sun to give flavor
to fruit, and old Sol does not give much of his caloric to this country.
What would these northern people think of a luscious peach, just as it
is picked from a tree in New Jersey? One species of rose is found in
Iceland—the _Rosa Hibernica_; and I suppose they (the roses) hardly know
the difference between Iceland and Ireland. I have frequently observed
these rose bushes here, but I have never yet seen them in flower. A rose
in Iceland would be a sight. You might as well expect to see
“Roses in December, ice in June.”
Here, too, we found that most beautiful of all the shrubs and flowers of
Iceland, the fragrant heath. It is very plentiful, and of the same
species so common in the Highlands of Scotland. Here it is of small
size, seldom more than a foot in height. It is one of the first
vegetables found growing on the lava beds. It seems to grow on a medium
soil between the naked barren lava and the fertile meadows. Nearly one
half of Iceland is covered with heath, and some day it may be fertile
enough to produce grass. I have been told more than once that this
beautiful shrub will not grow in North America, but I cannot believe it.
In Europe and the northern isles, and Africa and Madeira, there are over
a hundred different varieties of heath. Why will not some
horticulturists rear a good variety, and try them from various climes,
Madeira, Scotland, and Iceland, and get some of them naturalized with us
in America, that they might cover our barren hills and waysides, and
adorn our gardens and fields? The heath and the ivy—two plants almost
unknown in America—are more beautiful and do more in Great Britain to
cover up and adorn barren hills and old walls and ruins than all other
vegetation, and yet they are rarely seen with us. I have been told,
however, that the late lamented Mr. Downing has planted and naturalized
the beautiful evergreen ivy, obtaining it from England. Let gardeners
and farmers blush or boast, neither nature nor cultivation has adorned
our hills with one nor ten plants that look half so beautiful as the
blooming heather that covers the hills of far-off northern Iceland. The
same species that grows here, I have seen in the Orkney and Shetland
Islands, the Hebrides, the Highlands and Lowlands of Scotland, England,
Ireland, France, Germany, Holstein, Denmark, Sweden, and Norway. It also
grows in Africa, as far south as the Cape of Good Hope, the Cape heaths
forming the most beautiful varieties of floral contributions that are
seen at the splendid Chiswick flower-shows in London. Wilkes, in his
Exploring Expedition, describes and pictures the forests of heath in
Madeira, the trees nearly or quite a foot in diameter, and forty or
fifty feet in height. I have an idea of offering a prize for the most
beautiful variety of heath that will flourish in the open air in our
Northern States, and then I think I will import some Iceland heath, and
carry off the reward myself! Perhaps some of our horticultural societies
will take the hint, go to work, and get it all done before I get back to
America. Leaving Næfrholt, we took our back track as far as Skarth,
where I had stayed all night, and slept in the church a few days before.
The farmer seemed glad to see me, gave me “a grip of his flipper,” and a
fine bowl of milk. I returned the grip, gave him a piece of silver,
mounted my horse, and off we galloped to the southwest. If the world was
not “all before us where to choose,” all Iceland was, and on we
journeyed. Some hours’ travel brought us to the banks of the Thiorsá,
and we prepared to face its turbulent and mighty current. Any one who
supposes that that little white spot in the Arctic sea, called Iceland,
cannot produce a river worthy of the name, had better try to swim across
this one. I should far rather breast the Hellespont, and follow Leander.
Larger than the Hudson at Newburgh, swift as an arrow, white with clay
from the mountains, and cold as ice,—really it is the most formidable
stream in appearance that I have ever seen. But we had ferried it once,
and could again; and a frail skiff put off from the opposite shore to
take us across. The only ferryman was a small boy, and so I manned one
oar myself. The guide sat in the stern of the boat, and led the horses
as they swam after us. The boy could not row evenly with me; the current
bore us furiously down the stream; the boat leaked badly; and, by the
time we were in the middle of the river, the horses got unmanageable,
nearly upset our frail craft, and finally broke loose altogether, and
floated and swam down the stream, the tips of their noses and their ears
just out of water. We let the horses go, and rowed like good fellows,
and landed on the west side of the river, but a good long way farther
down than the point opposite where we started. The poor ponies followed
the boat as well as they could, and after a while all came ashore, some
in one place, and some in another. We now traveled directly down the
Thiorsá, towards the south coast, bordering the Atlantic. We had a fine
journey through the valley of this great river. There was no crossing
except at the ferries; but the fine farming region, and a wish to get a
near view of the Westmann Islands, and, if possible, visit them, induced
me to make a long and circuitous journey on the southern coast. The
weather was clear and fine, and Hekla, and the Eyjafjalla and Tindfjalla
Jokulls stood up in bold relief against the eastern sky. The Eyjafjalla
Jokull, as its name imports—Mountain of Islands—shows, on its broad,
sloping summit, several knobs that stand up like islands. Near the top,
where it inclines towards the west, I could see a broad, deep chasm,
filled with snow. This pit must be of immense depth, for while it is
nearly filled with snow it is plainly visible for over thirty miles. On
the more even summit of the Tindfjalla Jokull, there are several little
elevations like islands or miniature mountains. Hekla looks black, clear
to the summit, except now and then a small spot of snow. I do not know
where those writers get their information from, regarding this mountain,
when they speak of the “three-coned Hekla.” From different points of
compass, including nearly every position whence Hekla can be seen, and
also from a sojourn on its summit, I must say that I have never seen
three cones, nor even two. From all sides, the highest point rises in
one single cone, like the profiles of most other volcanoes. On arriving
at the top, it is rather broad and flat, as I have mentioned; but this
is not observed from a distance. It is steeper than Ætna, but not so
steep as Vesuvius. That old Madam Pfeiffer should speak of Hekla as
having three cones, and _no crater at all_, is exactly in accordance
with the most of her statements about Iceland. Where she does not
knowingly tell direct falsehoods, the guesses she makes about those
regions that she does not visit—while stating that she does—show her to
be bad at guess-work, and poorly informed about the country. The valleys
of the Hvitá, the Thiorsá, and the Markarfliot, south, southwest, and
west of Hekla, comprise the largest tract of grass land in all Iceland.
A large share of it is in cultivated farms, and the rest is bog. In
drawing near to the coast, how magnificent the Westmann Islands appear!
Rising up like columns, they stand from one to two thousand feet above
the ocean. Formed of perpendicular, basaltic rocks, these and other
islands of the north of Europe rank with the most splendid coast-scenery
in the world. The Westmann Islands are most difficult to approach. The
place of landing is so treacherous, that unless the weather is calm and
the sea very still, a landing cannot be effected. A high cascade on the
main land of Iceland, near the town of Holt, is a sort of weatherometer
that decides whether a boat can put off with a prospect of gaining the
island. This cascade is one long stream of spray, formed by a small
brook falling a height of 800 feet. In windy weather, the spray is blown
entirely away, so that from the landing no cascade is in sight. If it is
still enough for this cascade to appear constantly two days in
succession, then the sea is usually calm enough to allow boats to land,
and they venture out. In the winter, it sometimes happens that for weeks
no boats can pass between the islands and the main shore.
The Westmann Islands—Icelandic, _Vestmannaeyjar_—were settled by a
colony of Irish slaves, in 875, one year after the first settlement of
Iceland. A Norwegian pirate cruising in the Atlantic, came upon the
coast of Ireland, landed, and captured forty or fifty persons, men,
women, and children, and carried them off as slaves. Before he got home,
they rose on their captors, slew them, and went ashore at the first land
they met. This was on the largest of the Westmann Islands; that name
being given them by the Icelanders, as these people came from the west.
Christianity came here with these Irish people; and to this day,
crosses, croziers, and other articles of a like nature are dug up on the
island, and were undoubtedly carried here by the first settlers. The
islands are fourteen in number; but only four of them produce any
vegetation or pasturage, and of these only one is inhabited. This is
very appropriately called Heimaey or Home Island. This is fifteen miles
from the coast, and forty-five from Hekla. On this island is a harbor,
partly encircled by a high, perpendicular rock. Here they land and
embark in boats. A precipitous path leads to the top of the island,
where the people, with their habitations, a few sheep, and their little
church, remain two thousand feet above the ocean. The islands are
basaltic, like Fingal’s Cave and the Giant’s Causeway; but, instead of
being one or two hundred feet in height, rise like immense columns,
nearly half a mile above the sea. The inhabitants draw their entire
subsistence from the ocean and the cliffs, catching codfish and killing
sea-birds, myriads of which haunt the rocks of their sea-girt shores.
The sea-fowl furnish large quantities of feathers. Some of the birds are
used for food, and some for fuel. They split them open, dry them, and
then burn them, feathers and all. From the accounts given of this novel
sort of firewood, the odor rising from it must be “most tolerable, and
not to be endured”! The birds most used for food are young puffins—the
_Fratercula arctica_—a rather small sea-bird, with a bill shaped like a
short, thick plow coulter. In England and Scotland, they are called the
coulter-neb puffin. This beak is a most wonderful one, large to
deformity—nearly as bulky as all the rest of the bird’s head. There are
several circular marks entirely round it, making it look like a small
barrel with the hoops on it. But do not these hardy islanders show skill
and daring in the pursuit of birds and eggs for subsistence? Wonder how
the Yankees would take the birds? Shoot them with rifles, I suppose,
“knocking their daylights out,” one at a time. But these islanders do
not take this slow method—not they. In the egg season they go to the top
of the cliffs, and, putting a rope round a man’s waist, let him down the
side of the perpendicular rock, one, two, or three hundred feet; and on
arriving at the long, narrow, horizontal shelves, he proceeds to fill a
large bag with the brittle treasures deposited by the birds. Getting his
bag full, he and his eggs are drawn to the top by his companions. If the
rope breaks, or is cut off by the sharp corners of the rocks, the
luckless duck-egging fowler is precipitated to the bottom, perhaps two
thousand feet into the sea, or is dashed to pieces on the rocks below.
Accidents happen but rarely, and here these hardy men glean a scanty
subsistence. At a later period in the season, they go and get the young
birds.
If the old birds object, they are ready for them, and serve them sailor
fashion, knocking them down with a handspike. The old often fight
desperately for their young, and will not give up till their necks are
broken or their brains knocked out with a club. Where the cliffs are not
accessible from the top, they go round the bottom in boats, and show a
wonderful agility and daring in climbing the most terrible precipices.
They furnish nothing for export on these islands, except dried and
salted codfish and feathers. With these they procure their few
necessaries and luxuries, consisting principally of clothing, tobacco
and snuff, spirits, fish-hooks and lines, and salt. The habit of living
entirely on fish and sea-fowl produces a disease among them, that
carries off all their children before they are seven years of age. I am
told that unless they are taken to the main shore to be brought up, not
one single one would live through childhood. Some well-informed
Icelanders have told me that the inhabitants of the Westmann Islands
would live as well, and be as free from disease, as the natives of
Iceland, were it not for their intemperance. Give a people few or no
luxuries—bread and vegetables as food being almost unknown—and expose
them to great fatigue, wet, cold, and danger; and would we not suppose
ardent spirits would be acceptable? The inhabitants of the far-off St.
Kilda, the most western of the Western Isles of Scotland, are said to
lose all their children that are kept on the island, and from the same
causes that occasion the mortality on the Westmann Islands. These
islands form a separate Syssel or county, and they have a church, and
usually two clergymen. Their church was rebuilt of stone, at the expense
of the Danish government, in 1774, and is said to be one of the best in
Iceland. It is supported by tithes, still raised here according to the
Norwegian mode. Christianity was brought here with the first settlers
from Ireland, and here it still remains; and I have sometimes wondered
if, during the changes of a thousand years, any of the brogue of the
Tipperary boys, or the lads of Connaught, could be discerned in their
conversation. Probably it has all been frozen up, or exchanged for the
more meliffluous tones of the followers of Odin and Thor.
Doubly secure as these inhabitants are, by their poverty and their
almost inaccessible cliffs, one would suppose that they would be secure
from any warlike or piratical depredations. Notwithstanding this, they
have twice been attacked and pillaged by sea-rovers. As early as the
fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, piratical cruisers—many of them
fitted out in the English and French ports—came north; and plunder,
rapine, and murder desolated all the western and southern coasts of
Iceland. One English pirate, named John, was noted for his success and
daring. He was called “Gentleman John,” being probably, like the Greek
cruiser,
——“the mildest manner’d man
That ever scuttled ship, or cut a throat
With all true breeding of a gentleman.”
This courteous corsair came to the Westmann Islands in 1614, pillaged
the church, and carried off their sacred relics. He probably knew the
inhabitants were descendants of the Hibernians, and only showed the
spirit of an Englishman towards the Irish. He also plundered their
houses, and no doubt from the contents of their beds managed to feather
his own nest considerably. He returned to Great Britain, but King James
I. caught and punished him, and with the true honesty of a Scotchman,
returned their church ornaments. In 1627, a vessel of Turkish or
Algerine pirates, after plundering several places on the eastern and
southern coasts of Iceland, landed on the Westmann Islands. They
murdered between forty and fifty of the inhabitants, plundered the
church and set it on fire, robbed the houses, carried off all the food,
clothing, and valuables, and then burnt their habitations. They took
near four hundred men, women, and children prisoners, bound them in
fetters, took them on board their vessel, and carried them in captivity
to Algiers. There were two clergymen among them, one of whom, Jon
Thorsteinson, was murdered at the time. He was the first translator of
the Psalms of David into Icelandic verse. He also translated the Book of
Genesis, and some other parts of the Bible, in a similar manner. He is
spoken of in Icelandic history as the “martyr.” The other clergyman,
Olaf Egilson, with his wife and children, and the rest of the prisoners,
were sold into slavery in Algiers.
Mr. Egilson got away two years after, and wrote an account of their
sufferings and privations, which was afterwards published in Danish.
It was not until 1636, nine years after their capture, that the
unfortunate Icelanders were released, and then only by being ransomed
by the king of Denmark. Their treatment and sufferings can be imagined;
only thirty-seven of the whole number survived, and of these but
thirteen persons lived to regain their native island. Notwithstanding
the sufferings, calamities, and hardships of the people, the Westmann
Islands continue to be inhabited.
Since the earthquakes and great volcanic eruptions of 1783, the fish in
the neighborhood of the Westmann Islands, and all along the south coast
of Iceland, have nearly all disappeared, so that the principal
dependence of the inhabitants is on the sea-fowl. Besides the puffin,
they use for food the fulmar—_Procellaria glacialis_. For their winter
supply, they salt them very slightly, and pack them down in barrels. I
wonder how one of these poor mortals, accustomed to so little variety,
would relish such a dinner as they serve up at the London Tavern, the
Astor, or the Revere House! Thor and Epicurus! He would probably surfeit
himself, unless it so happened that he could relish none of their
dishes, and refused to eat.
But my pony’s head is turned towards the west, and I am probably as near
the Westmann Islands as I ever shall be. The disappearing spray of the
“Driving Cascade” shows a rough and stormy coast; so good-bye to the
contented islanders, their sea-girt cliffs, and their sea-bird food.
CHAPTER XIV
—— A merrier man,
Within the limits of becoming mirth,
I never spent an hour’s talk withal.
SHAKSPEARE.
MY ride along the banks of the Thiorsá, before my detour to the south
coast, near the Westmann Islands, was a pleasant one. The little green,
turf-covered hillocks—not appearing much like houses, though they were
so—gave an air of solitude to the landscape, that but few civilized
countries possess. The air was vocal with birds, that constantly flew
about us. The mournful note of the plover, and the wild scream of the
curlew, were constantly heard, as they rested on the signal-cairns by
the way-side, or flew away towards a thicket. These birds, as well as
the ptarmigan, are quite plentiful in Iceland, and all reckoned as
game-birds.
A man could travel through Iceland in the summer, carrying a gun, a few
loaves of bread, some tea, coffee, and sugar, get plenty of milk and
cream at the farmers’ houses, and shoot game enough for his meat,
without once leaving his horse. Some might not consider it a great
luxury, after a hard day’s ride, to sit down to a banquet of roasted
raven, a fricasseed hawk, or a broiled sea-gull; but it would be quite
as good as the buzzard soup that Prince Achille Murat used to get in
Florida. Some nice ptarmigan, or plover, with a piece of a loaf, tea or
coffee, and butter, would make a feast that many a traveler would be
glad to have. Then, too, in the interior are large herds of wild
reindeer, where a good marksman could select a nice piece of venison.
Henderson, the missionary, saw a large flock, that approached quite near
him before offering to retreat. White and blue foxes, seals, and
sometimes an importation of white bears from Greenland, who not
unfrequently float over on fields of ice, might afford a little sport,
and perhaps profit, but would be rather tough eating. I, however,
carried no arms, except the “pickers and stealers” that Dame Nature
furnished me; so I did not speak to the birds in the loud tones of
villainous saltpetre. I have had my murderous propensities—nurtured when
a lad, by shooting crows and squirrels—the most excited here, in
Iceland, by some old ravens, who seemed to me to act with a very
unbecoming familiarity. These birds were sacred to Odin, and I believe
the Icelanders never molest them. Odin had two, one for memory, and the
other for news. They used to fly abroad during the day, and return at
night, bringing intelligence from all parts of the world. One would
perch on his right shoulder, and the other on his left, and relate to
him every thing that was going on, at the same time refreshing his
memory in regard to past events. The old Scandinavians never used to
make a voyage, or go a journey, without them. Floki, a Norwegian pirate,
one of the first settlers of Iceland, took three of them with him when
he started on his voyage, taking them as pilots, to show him the way.
After getting some distance beyond the Faroe Isles, he let off one, and
he returned to Faroe. Sailing awhile longer, he sent off another; and,
after a wide circuit in the air, he returned to the ship. Sailing some
days more, he released the third; and he flew away to the north-west.
Following him, he soon reached the coast of Iceland. There seems to be a
pair of these birds living near almost every house in Iceland. I have
never seen a church, with a house near by, where there was not a pair of
ravens. They seem to be a much larger bird here, than any of the kind
that I ever saw in America. At the little church and farm-house of
Haukadalr, near the Geysers, were two; and they would often alight on
the church, and sometimes on a gate-post, but a few feet from me. One of
them showed a great aversion to _Nero_, and would sometimes swoop down,
and nearly hit the dog’s head. Believing him to be nothing but a
heathen, I had a most Christian wish to send a bullet through him. But
my Colt’s pistol was far away, and his black ravenship could worship
Odin, Thor, or any other deity he pleased.
If these birds are not Christians, there is one excuse for them. They
are very long-lived, and, perhaps, having a distinct recollection that
some of the buildings now used as places of worship, were built and used
for worship during the days of idolatry and heathenism, they have been
unconscious of the introduction of Christianity. The ravens here have
the same costume as in other countries, dressing in the “inky cloak,”
and “customary suits of solemn black.” Their language, too, always being
uttered in slow and solemn tones, adds to their appearance of gravity
and wisdom.
But as for the corbies, the corn-fed pirates! they never come here. A
crow was never seen in Iceland. Here, there are no grain-fields to
plunder, nor trees to build their nests in. Ill-bred rascals, living on
bread-stuffs, were they to come here and ask for a loaf, they would get
a stone.
In my journey to-day, I passed near Skalholt, situated in the forks of
the Bruará and the Hvitá rivers. This place, dignified with the title of
the “capital” of Iceland, in most of the books of geography that I have
seen, is simply a farm, and contains the ruins of one small cathedral
church, where one of the bishops of Iceland used to officiate. It is now
only interesting as a locality connected with the ecclesiastical history
of the country. On the banks of the mighty Thiorsá, I traveled some
distance. I find it difficult to leave this river. I like its roaring,
turbulent torrent—to look at—wouldn’t like to swim it though, unless I
desired a much colder bath than I have been accustomed to. I believe it
would be difficult to find a river of the magnitude, or strength of
current, of this, in an island that only contains 40,000 square miles.
The Thiorsá is nearly a hundred and fifty miles long, falls over 3,000
feet in less than sixty miles, and carries far more water to the ocean
than the Hudson does.
We left the river near the church of Olafsvell, and bore away to the
west, through meadows and farms, and one large tract of lava. On our
left, for some distance, it was all lava; and on the right was a range
of hills and mountains. Our prospective stopping-place for the night,
was at the house of the sysselman of the district; and, a part of the
day having been rainy, I did not care how soon we arrived there. The
roads were tolerably good—that is, for Iceland—and custom had made a
seat in the saddle for eight or ten hours in the day, a comparatively
easy exercise.
But, ho! the sysselman’s house appears in sight. Some large flocks of
ptarmigan seemed to be tokens of good cheer and comfortable quarters.
Riding up a long lane between fences, we arrived at the house, a fine
framed building, and the only house I had seen in some time, that
appeared fit for the home of a Christian. Round it were out-buildings,
and a large number of hay-stacks. The afternoon had cleared off finely;
and the shining of the western sun, and the presence of a good many
well-clad people and children—some piling up the fragrant hay—made one
of the most pleasant and comfortable scenes that can be imagined.
We dismounted, and the guide went among the men, and first spoke to a
clerical-looking personage, dressed in black. He next saw and talked
with the sysselman, who was giving directions about gathering and
stacking the hay. The guide returned to me, and I understood him to
say the man in black was the parish clergyman. Still the sysselman
did not come near me; but he was busy, and his tardiness was only
the prelude to a most hearty welcome; for he finally came forward,
and shook me cordially by the hand, an operation he repeated several
times while walking towards the house. He was a native Icelander,
tall, well-dressed, and a man of intelligence. He spoke some English,
and was, evidently, a right down, merry, hospitable good fellow.
Opening the front door of his house, he ushered me into his parlor, a
well-furnished room, having chairs, sofa, a fine carpet, and on the
walls several pictures, looking-glass, &c., &c.
Here I was in clover, for once. Visions of down-beds, a plastered and
papered room, and capital cheer, crowded thick and fast upon me. The
good cheer was not long coming, either—for wine, brandy, hot water,
sugar, glasses, silver spoons, et cetera, and sugared cakes, soon
covered the table. He spoke most every language under heaven, I have no
doubt; but to me it seemed a mixture of Danish, English, Latin, Greek,
Icelandic, and French, with some broad patches straight from Babel, that
my learning couldn’t exactly sort out. The priest too was present; and
mine host characterized him as a finished scholar, and one who could
talk excellent Latin. His lingo, though, was many removes from the
language of Cicero and Horace. The sysselman poured out some brandy, and
mixed a glass of punch; and so did I; and so did the preacher; and we
sipped it. I had often heard of the Iceland sysselmen, and their
hospitality to travelers; but this was my first experience of it, and it
went clear up to the portrait my imagination had drawn.
We drank and ate; and he took me through his house, showed me
his library, his sleeping rooms, his handsome wife, and several
rosy-cheeked, well-dressed children. He showed me an octavo volume,
the journal of their Althing or Assembly; and I saw his name among the
national legislators, where he had figured as a statesman. He took
down from his library a life of Lord Byron, in Danish, with portraits,
and extracts from his works in English and translated, and, writing my
name in it, gave it to me.[5]
Meantime, the liquor seemed to improve him. He gradually grew mellow;
was first kind, then cordial, then sociable, then talkative, then
argumentative, then jolly, then affectionate, then drunk—or at least
rather “how come you so?” We walked out doors, and saw his people
building hay-stacks. It was a beautiful approaching sunset. I ran and
jumped on to a half-finished stack, to see how it was formed; but I came
off again pretty quick, and found I had a small brick in my hat! No
matter, however, considering the day’s travel was over. The guide,
though, didn’t take the saddles off, and only opened one of the trunks
to get a book I wished to show the sysselman. It seemed barely possible
we were not to stay all night here, after all. In fact, he hadn’t asked
me to stay. He would not have had to ask me but once. Our friend in the
clerical garb became very merry too. He made signs of departure, but
seemed waiting for me. Was it possible we were not to stay all night at
the sysselman’s? The guide had all day told me we should. But the fact
began to stare me in the face: so did a very extensive bog meadow,
directly to the west. But the sysselman didn’t ask me to stay all night.
I wished he had. But he didn’t. And our horses were led to the door, and
the saddles adjusted, and every thing got ready; and we mounted and rode
off. The jolly, clerical-looking chap accompanied us; though he was no
clergyman at all, but a drunken ferry-man, who lived on a river a long
way to the west. He was to be our guide over the interesting bogs, to
some very nice caravansera, no doubt; but where it could be, I neither
knew nor did I inquire. We left—we did—and I gave my kind entertainer a
very affectionate and cordial good-night. He is a merry, hospitable,
good fellow, I am sure; but I didn’t repose under his eider-down.
Our ride was a cheering one—in a horn! And miles we traveled,
and—and—and—wait till the next chapter, and we’ll see what.
FOOTNOTES:
-----
Footnote 5:
The presentation read thus: “Til Herre Pliny Miles, Raburky, fra New
York; erkjendtligst fra Th. Gudmundsen, Sysselmandi, Arnes Sysla, 30
Juli, 1852.”
CHAPTER XV
Our indiscretion sometimes serves us well,
When our deep plots do pall; and that should teach us
There’s a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough-hew them how we will.
Hamlet.
NO, I did not stay at the sysselman’s; but I had a ride of a
couple of hours, through a bog meadow, and arrived about sunset at
Hraungerthi—_Islandsk_—“Garden of Lava.” This, like many other towns
that may be seen laid down on the map of Iceland, contains nothing but
a farm and farm-house, the residence of a clergyman, and his church.
The pastor owns the farm and pastures, and labors in his own vineyard,
as well as in the vineyard of the Lord. During the week he looks after
his flocks and herds; and on Sunday he gathers his own little flock
of immortals together, and tells them of the green meadows and still
waters that lie in the domain of the Good Shepherd in that bright realm
where winter never comes, and where earthquakes and volcanoes are heard
not. The clergyman of this district is Herre Sigurthur Thorarensen,
and I soon found I had lost nothing by leaving the sysselman’s to come
under his hospitable roof. He was not a _bon vivant_ and a “jolly
good fellow;” but he was a man of sense and learning, a Christian
and a philosopher. He spoke Latin excellently; and his son, Stefan
Thorarensen, could converse fluently in English, as well as in four
or five other languages. I know not when I have enjoyed myself as
pleasantly and profitably as in my visit at this hospitable mansion. I
soon found that I had gained, not lost, by coming here, and that, as in
many other cases, what seems to be a misfortune or inconvenience turns
out for the best.
Mr. Thorarensen had a fine library of books in various languages, and a
copy of the large and elegant map of Iceland that had been lately
published. His house had excellent furniture, and he was everyway as
well lodged as his official neighbor, the sysselman. The church, a few
steps from the house, was a neat wooden building; and in it were two
monumental tablets—rather unusual in Iceland—one with an inscription in
gilt letters to the memory of Mr. Thorarensen’s late wife. Every-thing
in and about this church was in excellent order and good taste. Around
the church were small, green mounds, where—
“The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.”
Not a “head-stone,” a “piece of mouldering lath,” or single mark or
inscription was seen. Nothing but the little grass-grown mounds erected
over the dead in one of their churchyards. How simple such a mode of
burial! Shall any of these be forgotten at the sound of the last trump?
Would a “storied urn or animated bust” give them a surer passport to
heaven, or make the sleepers sleep more soundly? Would a lying epitaph
cheat the Great Jehovah, or be admissible testimony at heaven’s bright
gate? Sleep on! “All that breathe shall share thy destiny.” All shall
“mix forever with the elements,” or be a portion of “the clod that
the rude swain turns with his share and treads upon.” When time comes
to an end, and the earth is withered up like a scroll, fame will say
as much for these humble islanders as for the proud sons of genius in
more genial climes—those whose names adorn marble columns and gilt
title-pages.
Mr. Thorarensen and his son showed me their farm, a very neat, well
conducted one, and gave me a good deal of information respecting the
_modus operandi_ of farming in Iceland.
The great bar to improvement here, as in most old countries, is the
objections the people make to change old customs. On the banks of the
Nile and in Syria, in the days of Moses and Aaron and in Solomon’s
time, they plowed with a crooked stick, and for a team used a cow yoked
to a camel, or a ram harnessed to a donkey. To the present day, the cow
and camel and crooked stick scratch up the ground in Syria. In Iceland,
in the days of the Vikings, they had no plows, but dug up their fields
with a spade or a piece of iron. The spade is used to this day, and the
plow is still unknown. In the garden here at Hraungerthi, I saw Swedish
turnips, potatoes, cabbages, lettuce, radishes, parsley, caraway,
horse-radish, angelica, and some other vegetables.
One great difficulty with them in their gardening, is the want of seed.
Their seasons are often short, and the vegetables, though grown
sufficiently for the table, frequently will not go to seed; so that they
must obtain fresh supplies every year from Denmark. Aside from the
expense of this, the vessels that come from Denmark to some of the
Iceland ports arrive but once or twice in the year; and an order for any
article from Copenhagen cannot be executed unless given six months or a
year beforehand—often a longer period than a man will know his wants.
Accustomed as I had been to see plenty of vegetables, it did not seem
like good living to find few articles of food except beef and mutton,
fish, milk, butter, cheese, curds, tallow, and lard—all animal food—with
now and then a little black bread, or barley porridge. At Mr.
Thorarensen’s, I had set before me a fine piece of roast lamb, coffee,
wheat bread, Danish butter, and good wine. These articles, however, are
not all found in the houses of the poorer classes of Iceland. They can
all have mutton and beef, and coffee is a common beverage, and Danish
brandy is rather too common. The most of the Icelanders indulge rather
freely in the use of tobacco (snuff) and brandy. Having few, or, I may
say, no amusements, and families often living so far apart, that for
five or six months—the winter season—their nearest neighbors are not
seen, can it be wondered at that some excitement to the animal spirits
will be sought from stimulants? I never saw a man intoxicated in
Iceland, and am sure drunkenness is not common; but the poorer classes
do often indulge in too much strong drink. They generally keep a bottle
at the head of their beds; and when I have slept in the huts of the
farming peasants—not the better classes—I have always found a bottle of
brandy under the pillow, or at the head of the bed; not probably placed
there for their guest, but as its usual resting-place. I have sometimes
gone into a slight _nosological_ investigation of the contents, but have
never pursued the subject farther. Perhaps I’ll “look into it” at some
future time. I once, while sleeping in a farm-house, waked up, and saw
an Icelander, in another bed in the same room, pull a bottle out from
under his pillow, and give a long pull at the contents, then lie down
again. I profess a complete innocence and ignorance respecting the
peculiar qualities of the Danish brandy drunk in Iceland. If it is not
better than some of the “good and evil spirits” seen in some parts of
the world—Western United States, for example—then I should hardly care
to cultivate a close acquaintance. I never had a “pull” at one of these
“bottle imps;” but I have drunk champagne with His Excellency the
governor of Iceland, and had a very excellent glass of port wine with
mine host of Hraungerthi.
I said the Icelanders took snuff. They do; and a way peculiar to
themselves they have of taking it. Their snuff-boxes are much like
a Scotch snuff-mull. I have seen them made of the horn of a goat, a
calf, or a yearling, and sometimes ivory—the tusk of a walrus or a
sea-horse—and elegantly tipped with silver. They take a little stopper
out of the small end, and pouring out two little parcels of it on
the back of the left hand, apply each nostril, one after the other,
and snuff it up. It is very quickly done, and quite as neatly as the
method we are accustomed to see with us. That is, comparatively
speaking; for, in strict truth, I will scarcely allow the applicability
of any interpretation of the word _neat_ to a practice, one of the
most filthy—chewing always excepted—that ever besmeared and disgraced
human nature. I should have been glad to have been able to report the
Icelanders free from this vice; but in this they have been contaminated
by habits introduced from older civilized countries, and the truth must
be told. Smoking is not so common, though pipes and segars are often
seen in the sea-port towns.
Respecting cultivation on the Iceland farms, the term is scarcely
applicable. The meadow lands are rough by nature, and they make it still
more so by the way they put manure on it, leaving it in heaps. I am told
that the Icelanders imagine that more grass will grow on any given
number of acres if the surface is uneven, from the fact that there is
more area. They forget that the grass grows perpendicularly, and that no
more blades can stand on an uneven than on an even surface. Then, too,
it is so very uneven, that the turf is broken in many places, and, of
course, produces less than as if there were a level, unbroken turf.
Better counsels, however, are beginning to prevail; and many farmers are
leveling down their meadows, and improving their farms; and they find on
trial that level land produces more than that which is covered with
hillocks.
Here, at Hraungerthi, I saw considerable timber, and asking how it was
conveyed here, was told that it was brought on the backs of ponies, just
as every thing else is carried. Not very large timber, some that is four
inches square, and twelve to eighteen feet long, is carried long
distances. One or more pieces are lashed to each side of a horse, and
with one end dragging, they will go from fifteen to twenty miles in a
day. They cannot carry timber that is quite as ponderous as the staff of
Satan, described by Milton—a Norway pine, or “mast of some tall
admiral,” being but “a wand” to it. I asked about their heavy articles
of furniture, and was told that their sofa, bureau, and some other
articles, were made there.
The church of Hraungerthi was the best I had seen out of Reykjavik,
large enough, I should think, to hold two hundred people. Many of the
Iceland churches in the interior of the country, are not more than
twelve feet by eighteen, inside measurement.
I was so well entertained at Hraungerthi, and got so much information
about the country, that I did not leave till one o’clock the day after
my arrival. A fine breakfast was served at nine, coffee having been sent
me in my room as soon as I was up. I know not when I shall ever return
any of the numerous acts of hospitality and kindness extended to me by
the Icelanders; and I greatly fear the opportunity never will come,
unless Icelanders oftener go to America than they ever have. In fact,
since old Eric and his friend sailed to the American continent, near a
thousand years ago, I believe it would be difficult to find an account
of a single Icelander that has ever been in Brother Jonathan’s land. If
ever one does go to America, may I be there to meet him! and if the neck
of at least one champagne bottle doesn’t get wrung off, then—then—then
I’ll see what.
If the Danish government will open the trade of Iceland to the world—an
event not improbable—we might expect some commerce between that country
and this; and then the inhabitants of VINLAND, in their own cities,
could greet the followers and descendants of Eric and Heriulf.
CHAPTER XVI
A heart that, like the Geyser spring
Amidst its bosom’d snows,
May shrink, not rest,—but with its blood
Boils even in repose.
P. J. BAILEY.
WHETHER Americans will ever have the opportunity of returning any of the
hospitality that the Icelanders extended to one of their countrymen, is
uncertain. At any rate, their guest was made welcome. Mr. Stefan
Thorarensen insisted on presenting me with a fine copy of the poems of
Jonas Hallgrimson, one of the modern poets of Iceland. Perhaps, some day
I’ll translate it into English verse! The pleasantest meetings must have
an end; and, after the sun had passed the meridian, we had our horses
caught, and bade adieu to Hraungerthi. Two hours’ riding brought us to
the ferry of Laugardælir, on the Hvitá, too formidable a stream to ford
at this place, and far larger than I found it above Skalholt, where it
came so near carrying me away. Here we found our clerical-looking friend
who helped make the brandy-toddy disappear at the sysselman’s. He was
the ferryman, his house standing near the bank of the river. Like some
other sanctimonious-looking fellows, he was evidently a pretty hard
case—something of a sinner. No hospitalities in his house; not even a
glass of brandy and water. He was agent for an Iceland newspaper, and
seeing copies of the last number, I offered to purchase one. I took a
copy of the paper, and then held a handful of money towards him, for him
to help himself to the price. There were all sizes and values of Danish
coin down to a skilling, to select from; and, though the price of a
paper was just about one penny sterling, he took a third of a dollar! At
the ferry, he “tried it on” again, but there it didn’t fit. He asked me
a dollar, double the uniform price, for rowing me across, but I gave him
only the customary rate. This was the first little variety that I had
seen in Iceland character; but there are few flocks composed of all
white sheep. When we arrived at the bank of the river, we saw the boat
in the center of the stream, apparently coming towards us, but on the
opposite bank were two or three travelers, vociferating violently to be
taken across. We halloo’d to the boatman furiously, and seeing his
clerical-looking master, he came to us first. A hook was set near the
landing, and honest black-coat drew it up, and found he had hooked a
small trout. A comely, handsome girl came down to the water-side; and
our honest ferry-master told me, a number of times, that she was his
“dottir.” He seemed very proud of her; and well he might, for she was a
strong contrast to himself. If he ever gets to heaven, it will probably
be on her account. The prettiest girl I have seen since leaving England,
was selling flowers in the market, at Hamburg; and the next prettiest
stood bare-headed and bare-footed, in an old brown petticoat, on the
bank of the Hvitá, with a fish in her hand, and her long hair streaming
in the wind.
We had the usual variety in crossing the river. Several of the horses
got loose, and then tried to get into the boat, or overturn it; and some
of them went swimming and floating far down the stream before they
landed. The boat was rowed by the boatman, and the ferry-master in his
“suit of sables.” The master was a regular “lazy;” and I thought the
boatman would, though on the down-stream side, turn the boat round in a
circle. This boatman was the wildest-looking man I ever saw in my life.
He had no hat, coat, nor vest, and his long hair, hanging down on all
sides of his head, made him look like a wild man. He was a picture, and
would have made a subject fit for a Wilkie. He was not a man, though, to
be afraid of; and, in fact, I should rather trust him than his master.
Our journey, to-day, led through a country mostly level meadows and
bogs, with a constant range of hills and mountains on our right. The
same continued evidences of a volcanic region presented themselves, that
we see more or less, all over Iceland.
There was not as much lava, except on the hills, as we found in some
other places; but a constant succession of hot springs. Since crossing
the Thiorsá river, yesterday, we have passed at least six different
localities where the smoke arises from hot and warm springs. We were now
approaching some springs far more celebrated than any we had seen
lately, and perhaps the third in point of interest of any to be found in
Iceland. These springs are known as the Reykir springs, and are visited
by most everybody that comes to Iceland, being but one day’s journey
from Reykjavik, and far easier of access than the Geysers. The Reykir
springs, to be enjoyed, must be seen before visiting the Geysers, as
they are far inferior to their more celebrated spouting brethren in the
north. I was told I should come to these springs after winding round a
range of hills on my right; but we kept “winding round,” and I thought
the springs never would appear. The weather was rainy, and the roads
bad, and though we had but a short journey to-day, I was glad when the
wreaths of smoke announced the day’s travel nearly over. I had here a
hotel of the usual dimensions, and the ordinary sacred character—a small
church, and the poorest I had seen in Iceland. “Frouzly” haired men, and
fat, red-cheeked girls, with large pails of milk, were, as usual, seen
about the farm-house. A bed of down—what all the Icelanders have—and one
of those small and prettily-checked coverlets, the manufacture of the
family, were brought out to the church, and with some dry clothes, hot
water for my tea, and a large bowl of milk, _Nero_ and I were soon fast
by the altar, and enjoying ourselves as much as any two sinners in the
world. Oh! if a man wants to enjoy his loaf, whether it is white bread
or black, and if he wishes sound sleep, either in a church or on the
ground, let him mount a pony every day, and ride in storm and calm,
through bush and bog, brake and brier, and over fields of Iceland lava.
The Reykir springs are nearly a hundred in number, and cover some fifty
acres—a tract nearly as large as the Geysers occupy. These springs also
comprise every variety of hot, warm, spouting, and mud springs. The
springs here that spout, are more regular than the Geysers, but do not
perform on so extensive a scale. They don’t bore with so big an auger;
haven’t the caliber, nor the capital to do business on. They are very
beautiful; but, to be appreciated fully, should be seen before going to
the Geysers. The spouting ones are intermittent, giving their eruptions
at regular periods. I found, by consulting my watch, that the largest
one commenced an eruption once in three hours and sixteen minutes. Each
eruption continues about half an hour. This spring, or Geyser, is like a
well, about five feet in diameter. It has been nearly filled up, by
persons throwing large stones into it. When I arrived, it was not in an
eruption, and down among the stones I could see the hot water, boiling
violently. It was on the top of a rise or knoll of ground, and I could
see that the water had made an aperture, and escaped through the
petrified wall of the well, and appeared on the surface of the ground, a
little way down the knoll, making a fair-sized brook. No water ran over
the top of the well, only when in action.
At the time of an eruption, it rushed suddenly, without any warning,
up through the stones, separating into a great many streams. There it
continued playing beautifully, much like an artificial fountain, for
nearly half an hour. The noise could be heard for half a mile, or more.
The first time it played, after my arrival, was near midnight, after I
had got to sleep. Hearing the roar and rush of water, I was instantly
awakened, and ran to the church window, and looked out. There it was,
throwing up its broad, white, foamy jets, about a quarter of a mile
from me. There being no darkness here, at this season, sights and shows
appear to about as good advantage in the Iceland twilight as in the
noonday sun. I watched it from my window, till it settled down, and
gradually sunk into the earth. I saw it in eruption twice the next
morning, before I left. Its height was scarcely forty feet, but it
would be a grand addition to the artificial fountains and warm baths
in one of our cities. Wonder if the Icelanders would sell it? Guess
not; it is one of the “lions” of the country; and, if their curiosities
were gone, there would be nothing to attract the foreigners here. If a
stretch of the imagination could make a spring movable property, one
would hardly think of carrying off Mount Hekla or Skaptar Jokull. This
Geyser is near the foot of a range of hills, the same as the Geysers
in the north. The brook of hot water from this, ran near half a mile
before it emptied into a cold stream that flowed past. One of the
prettiest fountain-springs in the world is near the bank of this cold
brook, at the foot of a very steep ridge, near half a mile from the
larger Geyser. The basin itself was ten or fifteen feet across, and
shaped some like the half of an oyster, or rather a clam-shell. The
side next the hill was far the deepest, sinking into a kind of well
three or four feet in diameter, where the water came out. The direction
of the well was slanting or diagonal, the opening coming outward from
the hill. The brow of the hill hung partly over the spring, so that in
an eruption the water could not rise perpendicularly, but was forced
out at an angle of thirty or forty degrees with the ground. It did
not throw the water more than ten or twelve feet high, and fifteen
or twenty feet outwardly. This spring makes up for its lack of size
and grandeur, in the frequency of its eruptions, and the beauty of
the incrustations and petrifactions in and around it. All the bottom
of the spring is a mass of petrifaction, and nearly as white as the
purest marble. After an eruption, the water would gradually recede
from the basin, and sink down into the earth, nearly all disappearing,
so that the water could just be seen down the aperture of the spring.
Then it would at once commence rising gradually; and in three or four
minutes it would get to spouting, and continue going till the basin was
full, and run over considerably. After three or four minutes it would
gradually stop, and sink back again. A whole round of performance,
rising up, blowing off, and sinking down again, occupied about fifteen
minutes.
With a hammer that the guide brought me, I broke up some beautiful
incrustations to bring home. The samples of these petrifactions are
not unlike some found in the limestone caves of Virginia and Kentucky.
The mud-springs here are very curious. Some of them are like large
and sputtering cauldrons of black pudding. Again, some of them are
seen gurgling away down in the earth; and, attracted by the noise and
the steam, I would go and look down a hole, and see it sputtering and
boiling, apparently pure clay in a semi-liquid state. The clays here
are very beautiful, and a great variety of colors, as I had found them
at the Geysers. In many places near the springs—particularly near the
mud-springs—the clay is soft and hot, often dangerously so. Visitors
sometimes get into a soft place, and sink into it, getting their feet
and legs dreadfully scalded. In these places it is boiling hot. What
a terrible fate for a man to sink down here out of sight! _Nero_
accompanied me from the house up to the Geyser, and when he came to the
brook of hot water that ran from it, he stopped, and gave a howl. Poor
_Nero_! he knew it was hot, and would scald his feet, and it was too
wide for him to jump it. So I took him up in my arms, and carried him
across. He seemed to appreciate the favor perfectly. The poor dog did
not know but he had escaped being drowned in the rivers, or roasted in
Mount Hekla, to come here and be boiled in the Reykir springs. Good old
_Nero_! many a long league we’ve traveled together, and you have got so
you scarcely know whether you like your Iceland or your Yankee master
best. I rather think you like the one best for the time being, who
gives you the most boiled bacon, and fresh milk.
CHAPTER XVII
“By water shall he die, and take his end.”
HAVING seen the Reykir springs, I prepared to leave. I paid the man
the usual sum for the privilege of sleeping in the parish church, and
for the grass for our horses, and milk for ourselves. He was evidently
dissatisfied; returned no thanks, and did not offer his hand as a
token of satisfaction. From his demeanor now, and more from some
circumstances hereafter to be related, I think him a bad man. He was
of a much darker complexion than the most of the Icelanders, and a
morose, churlish-looking fellow. Perhaps, from the fact that he was the
landlord of the Reykir Springs—a “fashionable watering-place”—he had
grown worldly, and considered a stay on his premises worth more than it
is at most caravanseras. He saddled his horse, however, and prepared to
accompany us; probably, though, as a favor to the guide, rather than to
me, as he would not like to forfeit his future custom. The guide rode
ahead with the pack-horses, and I went a little way to the right to see
some hot and warm springs—a part of the great family here, that I had
not seen the night before. There were two, similar to two that I had
seen at the Geysers, large and deep; perhaps twenty feet across, and
entirely full of hot water, so clear that I could see perfectly plain
to the bottom—about thirty or thirty-five feet, as near as I could
judge. These springs did not discharge a very great quantity of water;
but there they were level, full, and hot enough to boil a dinner, and
there they had been in that state, probably,
“Amid the flux of many thousand years,
That oft had swept the toiling race of men
And all their labored monuments away.”
A little way off—perhaps twelve rods—was a cold spring, and between that
and the hot ones was one of tepid water. “Mine host” rode out near me,
to call my attention to this tepid spring. It was more like a well,
about ten feet across at the top of the water, which was below the
surface of the ground some six or eight feet. I got off my horse, and
with some caution went down the steep, sloping side of the well, and
felt of the water. It was about blood heat, and no steam escaped from
it. The water was pitchy black, and showed no bottom, appearing of
unfathomable depth. The Icelander also went down the bank, and felt of
the water; and while he did so, his feet gave way, and down he went into
the horrible-looking pool. As he sank, he turned his face towards me
with a look of terror and fear more horrible than I ever saw on a man’s
countenance before. May I never be a witness to another such sight! His
death seemed inevitable. To my utmost astonishment, he floated. To go in
after him was out of the question, and would only have resulted in
drowning us both. He floated over on his back, his face just out of
water, and reached his hands imploringly towards me. I stretched my whip
to him; and as he caught the end of the lash, I pulled him slowly
towards the bank, then grasped his hand, and got him out. The man was
drunk! It was brandy that threw him into the water, and no doubt ’twas
brandy that kept him afloat. Not being very fond of water, I think
’twould be very difficult to drown an Icelander. Certainly this one did
not show the “alacrity in sinking” that Falstaff did. He pulled off his
coat, and wrung the water out of it; and then, in his wet clothes,
mounted his horse, and we rode on after the guide, who by this time was
a long way ahead, crossing the green meadows.
To the left, towards the river Hvitá and the sea, it was level; and
on the right, ranges of hills and mountains. In the course of six
or eight miles, we arrived at the little town and church of Hjalli
(_he-aht-li_). It was Sunday, and the people for many miles around were
assembling for worship. Every one came on horseback. As for traveling
on foot any distance, such a thing is unknown in Iceland. Here the
landlord of the Reykir Springs left us. He showed the same ungrateful,
unthankful spirit that he did that morning at home, although I had
saved his life. Holding forth my hand, to shake his at parting, with
a wrathful look he drew his back, and said “Nay.” He had no reason to
treat me thus; but according to an old superstition, common in Orkney
and Shetland, and I believe in Iceland, I ought to beware of him. It is
related by northern journalists—see Scott’s _Pirate_—that when a ship
is wrecked, or under other circumstances, no one must try to save the
lives of the unfortunates; for if they do, the person so saved will
some day take the life of his benefactor, or in some way prove his
evil genius. I don’t think this Icelander can stand much of a chance
to be mine, for in all human probability we shall never meet again. He
is evidently not born to be drowned, but he better be cautious how he
imbibes too much brandy before going to the margin of a deep well. He
may not, at another time, have a Yankee to pull him out if he falls
in. Leaving Hjalli, we crossed a broad tract of country covered with
the beautiful heath, now in full bloom. I stopped and gathered a large
bouquet to carry home. This day it rained the most of the time; and,
though not near night, I was glad when we arrived at Vogsósar, where
the guide said we were to put up. We rode up to the house—bear in mind,
the Iceland towns often consist of just one tenement—and dismounted.
The resident was a clergyman—Rev. Mr. Jonson. He came out, and after
saluting me, had a long talk, in Icelandic, with the guide. It seemed
as if I had fallen on evil men and evil times, for I did not like the
appearance of this man at all. Somehow, he had a forbidding look; and
I fancied we should have to travel further, as I did not believe his
heart or house would open for me that night. How easy it is to be
mistaken! He was like all the Iceland clergy—and like almost every
one of the Icelanders—one of the most hospitable of men. Having got
the history of our former travels—as I presume he did—from the guide,
and finding, no doubt, that I was one whose character would bear
investigation, he “took me in;” not, however, as the landlady did Dr.
Syntax; but he took me into his house, showed me a warm fire, had some
fresh trout cooked for me, a fine cup of coffee, and with a change of
dry clothes, I was once more “in clover.” This was near the sea-shore,
on a lake known as Hlitharvatn, a kind of bottle-like arm of the sea,
where the water flowed in, through a neck or strait, at every flow
of the tide. About a mile south of the house, with the waves of the
Atlantic nearly washing it, stood the church. This bears the name of
“Strandar Kirkja,” or, Church on the Strand.
Southeast of this, a mile or two, is a cape known as the “Nes.” These
names of “kirk,” “strand,” and “Nes,” show the similarity in the
languages in the north of Europe. There is Inverness, on the north coast
of Scotland; Cape Lindesness, on the southwest point of Norway; and
Reikianess, on the southwest point of Iceland. Mr. Jonson had some good
books in his house, and was evidently a gentleman and a scholar. He
talked excellent Latin, in which dead language we exchanged our live
thoughts. He evidently lived rather comfortably; and, like most of the
Iceland clergy, was both farmer and preacher. He made some inquiries
about America, but seemed extremely contented, and well satisfied with
his own country. He told me, in order to cross the neck or strait that
led to the lake, I must start the next morning at six o’clock—“_hora
sexta_”—when it would be low tide. We accordingly made preparations for
an early start. I found it totally useless to offer him money for my
entertainment. Like all the clergy, not a penny would he take. I offered
a piece of silver to one of his servants, who brought up our horses; but
a half-dollar had no charms for him; he would not take it. He knew the
value of money, but he knew it was not the custom for his master or his
household to take money from strangers. Giving him, and his wife and
family, our best thanks and a hearty shake of the hand, while the
morning sun was gilding the broad Atlantic, and lighting up the mountain
tops, we rode away.
Our ride to-day, going west from Vogsósar, was quite a contrast to
yesterday’s journey. At six o’clock we found low tide, and the water
nearly out of the arm of the sea that supplies Lake Hlitharvatn with
water. A young tern, half fledged, was on a little island near us, as we
passed; and the old bird showed great signs of alarm. The little fellow
had not been in the world long, but we certainly were not among his
enemies. The mother bird swooped down at the dog and then at us, and
screamed at the whole party, and kept it up till we were far away from
the little one. Skirting the strand for some distance, the guide pointed
out with great interest several logs of drift wood that had been washed
ashore.
The gales from the southwest bring a good deal of drift wood on shore
along here, every stick of which is valuable. The coast being low, there
is a long line of breakers pitching their white caps on to the strand.
Large numbers of sea-fowl were riding and rocking on the waves,
“As free as an anchored boat.”
It seems to me that the life of a sea-fowl must be a continued romance.
I would like to fly and swim as they do, if I could. But some of them
have floated, and swam, and fished their lives away; for their skeletons
lie about on the beach. How black the whole line of coast is along here!
How different from the chalky cliffs of old England, or the clear-white
sand on the shores of America! Here it is all lava and volcanic sand,
and quite black. From Vogsósar we continued our journey west to
Krisuvik, a very small town near the coast, but it has no harbor. Never
were the striking features of a volcanic country shown more palpably
than where we traveled to-day. We rode on the plain, with the mountains
on our right and the sea to the left. Earthquakes, many of them very
violent, happen here every few years. Then large fragments of rocks and
lava are rolled down from the mountain tops far out into the plain.
These were very numerous and of all sizes, some that would weigh fifteen
or twenty tons having rolled from one to two miles. Here the old lava,
particularly that which had rolled down from the mountains, had a
different appearance from any I had before seen in Iceland. Much of this
looks like the conglomerate or “plum-pudding stone” found on the coast
of Scotland, in our New England States, in California, and in various
parts of the world. It looks just as if in the volcanic times, when
there was a general melting, that a quantity of sea-worn pebbles and
very hard round stones of various sizes would not melt, but became
incorporated or rolled up in the dough-like mass, and here they remain
like enormous plum-puddings at Christmas time.
Many of the hills and mountains are very abrupt and precipitous, like
those near Reykir, and farther east, near Hraungerthi.
CHAPTER XVIII
My hour is almost come,
When I, to sulphurous and tormenting flames,
Must render up myself.
GHOST of old MR. HAMLET.
KRISUVIK is not a very flourishing city. It contains a church and one
farm-house, the latter comprised in several edifices, as the farmers’
houses here usually are, and all covered with green grass. Sir George
Mackenzie’s book, which I have with me, gives a picture of this place;
and every building and object now, even to the garden wall, are an exact
facsimile of the Krisuvik of forty-two years ago. Two and three miles to
the north are the sulphur mountains, and at this distance show plainly
the yellow sulphur, the variegated clays, and the smoke arising from the
springs, “and the _mountains_ dimly burning.” The people at Krisuvik,
looked very poor and wretched, more so than any I had seen in a long
time. They let us have some excellent milk, for which I paid them, and
made them several presents of trifling articles, with all of which they
seemed greatly pleased.
We sat on an old grass-covered wall made of turf and lava, and
dispatched our dinner; and then, mounting our horses, rode to the
north towards the sulphur mountains. If there is an interesting
development of volcanic heat in all Iceland, it is in this most
remarkable place. The sulphur mountains are a great curiosity. The
name in Icelandic—_Brennisteinnamur_—looks a little “brimstony.” In
about two miles, we came to a beautiful lake of green water,—another
“Grænavatn”—like the one near Hekla. Near this, in order to examine the
mountains in all their glory and fire, and see the sulphur mines, I had
to leave my horse and climb for it. Sir George Mackenzie gives a very
interesting, but rather terrible, account of this mountain-pass and the
dangers he and the companions went through in exploring it. The guide,
with the horses, kept the plain, and I turned to the left; agreeing
after I had explored the mountains to come down one or two miles ahead
and meet him near some hot springs, the smoke of which we could see. As
the guide with our little cavalcade rode off, Nero followed me towards
the mountains. As the distance widened between the guide and me, the
dog would stop and cast a wistful look across the plain towards his
master. As all our separations had been temporary, he felt himself
safe, and with a little encouragement followed me. Still he would now
and then give a lingering look towards his master, and it required
more and more urging to get him to follow. The distance grew wider
and wider; and now we were near a mile and a half apart, when Nero,
with one glance at me, started upon the run. He flew like a deer, and
taking a bee-line across the plain, was very soon with his good master
and the ponies. Some sharp climbing up the mountain, nearly a thousand
feet, brought me to the sulphur mines—a scene I shall never forget, a
literal pool of fire and brimstone.
Had Milton ever visited the sulphur mountains of Iceland, I could have
forgiven him his description of the infernal regions. Here was a little
hollow scooped out of the side of the mountain; and all over and through
it, yellow sulphur, burning hillocks of stone and clay, and stifling
sulphurous smoke. The surface, too, was semi-liquid; in fact as near a
literal lake of fire and brimstone as this world probably shows.
“Dusky and huge, enlarging on the sight,
Nature’s volcanic amphitheater
* * * * * *
Beneath a living valley seems to stir;
* * * * * *
Pluto! If this be hell I look upon,
Close shamed Elysium’s gates, my shade shall seek for none.”
Here was sulphur, bred in heat, coming up out of “the bowels of the
harmless earth,” like saltpeter, that was so abhorred by Hotspur’s
dandy. The earth itself here was principally a fine pink or
flesh-colored clay; and all over this I could see holes communicating
with the mighty laboratory of nature below; and as the steam and smoke
came out of these holes, the fine particles of sulphur seemed to be
brought up to the surface. The clayey ground where the sulphur lay,
was in most places soft, and could not be walked over without the
greatest danger of sinking down through it, perhaps into the fiery
depths, in the bowels of the mountain. Indeed, it possesses a kind of
horrible and fascinating interest. Around the edges, and in certain
places, the soil is hard, and some stones are seen where one can go
in safety. By having a couple of boards, a man might walk all over
the ground. In some places, the sulphur was a foot thick; and as it
gathered, it seemed to consolidate, and I found I could break up large
pieces, beautifully crystallized. This sulphur appeared about as pure
as the sulphur sold in the shops, but not as dense. It had not half
that strong odor that sulphur and brimstone have, in a prepared state.
These mines showed signs that they had been worked, as some bits of
boards and planks lay about, and there were some paths to be seen. The
sulphur is taken off the surface, and then the ground is left for two
or three years for it to collect again. Sulphur is so cheap, and these
mines being so far from a seaport—Havnefiord, some twenty miles north,
being the nearest—and roads and means of transport being so scanty,
gathering it is not very profitable, nor carried on to a great extent.
There are other sulphur mines in the north; some productive ones near
Kravla mountain, on the shores of Lake Myvatn. How did Shakspeare get
his knowledge of sulphur mines? He was never in a volcanic country. I
think he got it, as he did every thing else, by inspiration. He knew
that sulphur was generated in heat. In Othello, he says:
“Dangerous conceits are, in their natures, poisons,
Which at the first are scarce found to distaste,
But with a little act upon the blood,
Burn like mines of sulphur.”
After Othello kills Desdemona, he calls all the vengeance of heaven down
on his head. He says:
“Blow me about in winds! roast me in sulphur!
Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire!
King Lear speaks of a
——“sulphurous pit, burning, scalding—stench.”
In the Tempest, Ariel, when he bothers the enemies of Prospero on their
ship, shows them
——“the fire and cracks
Of sulphurous roaring.”
The “beginning, end, and aim” of sulphur seems to be fire. Poets and
imaginative writers ever associate sulphur with fire. They give it a
home equally with the lightnings of heaven and flames of hell, the
roaring of artillery and the blazing of the volcano. It seems to have
birth in the thunder-cloud; for, after the flash of lightning, we can
smell it, and after the shower is over, it is often seen floating on the
rain-water. To give one more quotation; King Lear says:
——“Merciful heaven,
Thou rather, with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt,
Split’st the unwedgeable and gnarled oak,
Than the soft myrtle.”
To drive a thunderbolt to split the myrtle, the game would not be worth
the powder, I suppose.
Near the large bed of sulphur, were several mud springs, one several
feet in diameter. Here the boiling hot mud, like pitch, was spluttering
and splashing up into the air in jets. I gathered several large lumps
of sulphur, and then climbed over a mountain ridge, and came to another
similar place. Here sulphur had been gathered, and was constantly
accumulating. It seems to be brought up by the heat that exhales from
the interior of the earth, as it collects on every thing there is on
the surface. If left for ages, I presume it would gather in some places
hundreds of feet deep. Some have proposed the plan of laying boards
on the ground for it to collect on. It would then be very clean, and
easily gathered. In collecting it from the clay surface, considerable
earth must often get in it, but there is a way of cleaning it. In
places away from the sulphur, I saw the variety of beautiful colored
clays, such as appeared so plentiful at the Geysers, and at Reykir.
I had a comparatively easy walk down the mountain, through a sort of
ravine, towards some hot springs and a green plain where the guide
and horses were. Hearing a roaring sound on my left, I turned aside
to learn the cause; and there was a _steam spring_, or rather a jet
of steam, that rushed out of the mountain with a loud and constant
roaring. The noise and escape of steam were incessant, the steam coming
out in a slanting direction, at least twenty feet in a direct line. The
noise it made was greater than that of one of our largest steamship
engines “blowing off.” Without a doubt, if this was in a manufacturing
country, a house could be built over this natural steam fountain, an
engine erected, and by catching the steam in a cylinder, it could be
made to do good service, and all without fuel, fire, or water, and
perpetually. In Sir George Mackenzie’s book was a description and an
illustration of this same jet of steam; and I held the picture up, and
compared it to the present appearance of it, and apparently it had
not altered a particle in forty-two years. This, with the six hundred
years’ record of the Geysers, and the twenty-four eruptions of Hekla,
shows the perpetual and constant volcanic heat near the surface of the
ground in Iceland. Near to this was the most extraordinary mud spring
I have ever seen. It was the largest and most active. It was a regular
mud geyser. Imagine an enormous kettle ten feet across, sunk down into
the earth, and filled to within six feet of the top, with hot, boiling,
liquid mud. There it kept boiling and spouting; jets rising from its
pudding-like surface ten and fifteen feet high; and it kept constantly
going. Wouldn’t a fall into this cauldron of liquid pitch be boiling
enough for one live animal! Perhaps a boiled rabbit in this unpromising
kettle of “hell broth,” would be as good as the Indians’ way of rolling
a fowl in the mud, and then roasting it. The sulphur mountains, and all
that abound near them, are among the greatest curiosities of Iceland;
but Mr. Barrow, the “very enthusiastic” yachter, did not visit them,
because the morning he thought of going proved a little rainy! He also
consoled himself for not going to visit Mount Hekla, because “it might
have been cloudy” when he got there! This is your English traveler,
all over. Many is the time that I have seen them forego the pleasure
and profit—if such travelers could profit at all—of visiting the most
interesting scenes, just because it would make a dinner-hour a little
later or a little earlier than common.
A fine brook ran through the green plain, and emptied into a little lake
not far away. It looked delicious enough to bathe in; and a bath in a
warm pool or brook in Iceland _is_ a luxury, such as I have tasted. In
speaking of these sulphur mines where the sulphur is hot—and it is
gathered on or near Mount Ætna in similar situations—it may be
mentioned, that there are places where sulphur is to be found cold, and
dug up like other minerals. When a boy, I recollect being laughed at
greatly by my oldest brother, for asking if there were not “brimstone
mines.” Go to! He that runs may read, and he that runs far enough may
write. “The gods throw stones of sulphur on thee.”—_Cymbelline._ Go to.
CHAPTER XIX
“Over the hills and far away.”
ON and about the sulphur mountains are a great many curious sights, and
none more singular than the various-colored clays. At the distance of
several miles the contrast between the sulphur beds and the different
kinds of clay was so great, that the hills looked as if they had been
experimented on by a company of painters, so clearly did they show their
coats of many colors. I stopped some time admiring the great steam-blast
and its blubbering neighbor, the gigantic cauldron of boiling mud. Fury!
I wonder how beef and plum pudding would boil, if wrapped in a tight bag
and immersed in this boiling clay. Very well, no doubt. Methinks ’twas
very wise in the Almighty placing these prominent and numerous
exhibitions of internal heat in a “far off” and thinly peopled land,
where all the folks are incurious, and not disposed to pry into nature’s
sublime secrets farther than she chooses to show them. Now, if these
ebullitions of old Dame Nature’s cauldron were in America, some shrewd
Yankee or joint-stock company would go to boring right down to the
center, to get at the fountain head; and after getting a supply of
steam, proceed to let it out in streams, to turn grist-mills, saw logs,
cook hotel dinners, pump water, drain marshes, and do many other “acts
and things that a free and independent” people “may of right do.” They
would dig for gold, and finding it not, be content with fire. With that
fire they would cook, roast and boil, warm themselves, and make baths.
With the steam they would turn machinery and spin cotton. Whatever
compound of metals, mines, or elements they found, of that they would
make riches, or at any rate attempt it, and some would succeed. Some, I
fear, would come off as the alchemist in _Festus_ did, when the Devil
taught him. Lucifer, in the garb of a gentleman, and manners of a
scholar, says—
“I have a secret I would fain impart
To one who would make right use of it. Now mark!
Chemists say there are fifty elements,
And more;—would’st know a ready recipe
For riches?
FRIEND. That, indeed, I would, good sir.
LUCIFER. Get, then, these fifty earths, or elements,
Or what not. Mix them up together. Put
All to the question. Tease them well with fire,
Vapor, and trituration—every way;
Add the right quantity of lunar rays;
Boil them and let them cool, and watch what comes.
FRIEND. Thrice greatest Hermes! but it must be; yes!
I’ll go and get them; good day—instantly. [_Goes._
LUCIFER. He’ll be astonished, probably.
FESTUS. He will,
In any issue of the experiment.
Perhaps the nostrum may explode, and blow him,
Body and soul, to atoms and to——.”
And I wonder where he’ll find himself? Somewhere, no doubt. But I am not
going to moralize on what might be, or what will be, when philosophers
come to Iceland and bore out artesian wells. Perhaps if they do, they’ll
come to the conclusion that some of the Icelanders have, that the
entrance to a certain warm region is not far from this country. These
good people are very sensible, in leading upright, moral lives.
But a mountain lies before me, and I must ride. We had sharp climbing
for nearly a mile, and relieved the ponies by getting off and walking up
a portion of the way. On the summit of the mountain pass—perhaps 1,500
feet above the plain—we had an extensive view. A long range of mountains
extended far to the east and northeast; on the west were separate peaks;
and to the south we could see far out on the ocean. Smoke and steam from
hot springs and sulphur mines, rose up in various places.
Our descent on the north side of the sulphur mountains was far more
gradual, and quite circuitous. Passing from a plain through a rocky
defile, there I saw the foot-prints of a former traveler, and where he
had attempted to immortalize himself. It was not President Fillmore, of
the United States, but plain Mr. Philmore, of England. He was here the
year before, and my present guide had been his. There, on the face of a
large rock, he had cut with considerable labor, the letter “P,” the
initial of his name. As it happened to be one of the initial letters of
my name, I dismounted, and finished the business with my knife, by
cutting in the rock my other initial, the letter “M.” The rock was a
soft kind of pumice, and soon a gigantic M. stood at the right of the P.
Now, future travelers who come this way, will learn with delight that
the illustrious “Plinio Myghellz” one day penetrated the rocky defiles,
and clambered up the snow clad mountains of Iceland! By the scrupulously
conscientious, it may be alleged that I stole another man’s thunder, or
at least the P with which he put it down. But of what use is half of a
man’s initials? It scarcely means any thing; and, like half a pair of
scissors, cannot cut any thing; or like an old bachelor, without t’other
half, “isn’t good for nothing.” Now, he put down the P, and I mated it
with the M, and there the two, keeping one another company, will
flourish to everlasting glory. “Plinio Myghellz,” you are famous; and
you, Mr. Philmore, you’re “no whar.”
We now traveled over the most extraordinary road I’ve ever seen on the
face of the globe. It must have been a vast labor to make it passable;
but passable it was, and that was all. It was a bed of lava several
miles in extent, and known as the “horrible lava.” Indeed the road was a
horrible one, and I only wonder a road could have been made at all that
would be passable for man or beast. Imagine a plain overflowed with
melted lava to an indefinite depth, say fifty to a hundred feet. Then on
cooling, this broke up in masses of rock of every imaginable shape and
size; only none of it was small or smooth or regular,—rough and sharp
peaks and edges, twenty feet above the average surface; and deep,
yawning cracks or seams appeared, fifty or a hundred feet deep, and
large enough to swallow up horse and rider. To make a road, the rocks
were broken down, and crevices were filled up, to that extent that the
sure-footed Iceland ponies got over it with safety. Sometimes they
jumped over the seams, and sometimes they clambered or crawled over the
rugged rocks. For five or six miles it was all desolation; not one drop
of water, not a single blade of grass, not one living bird, not a house,
not a single scrubby tree, nor, apparently, a single specimen of animal
or vegetable life, save an inferior kind of moss or lichen that clung to
the rocks. We could see, now and then, a patch of stunted heather. Such
is the process and progress of nature in Iceland. Lava overflows the
land, and for hundreds of years it stands up, cold, black, and naked.
Finally, a slight and thin species of moss—one of the most inferior
lichens—begins to cover the rocks with a delicate brown or pale green.
After a long period—somebody else must tell how long, for I can not,—by
the winds carrying on the dust, by the flight and rest of birds, by
insects and the growth of mosses, a little soil appears, just sufficient
to support a scattering and scanty growth of heather. And now this
beautiful little shrub lights up and adorns the desert waste. If you
look on Gunnlaugsson’s large map of Iceland—a map made from surveys and
observations extending over Iceland for twelve years, it will be seen
that the green, or agricultural portion, is not more than one-third of
it; and about one-half of the remainder—another third of the island—is a
pink color, indicating the growth of the heath; and the balance is snowy
mountains, sandy deserts, and black and barren lava. Such is the surface
of Iceland. After the bare lava tract has been succeeded by a growth of
heath, another long period is necessary to get a sufficient accumulation
of soil to support a growth of grass, the most valuable and extensive
vegetable product of the country. I have noticed on a beautiful meadow,
where the turf had been disturbed, that only six or eight inches below
the surface, the rugged lava appeared. I have mentioned that no country
shows more beautiful meadows, or produces more fragrant hay than
Iceland. It is of short growth, but remarkably sweet, and I am sure more
valuable, taken by weight, than the coarser hay grown in England and
America.
Soon after getting across the plain of “horrible lava,” we rode over a
low mountain; and before us was the town of Hafnarfiorth. This is a nice
village, nestled in a quiet little nook; and in its harbor were two or
three vessels. To those who have seen the town of Scalloway, in
Shetland, this place bears some resemblance. Back of Scalloway, the
hills rise more abruptly than here. The village, though apparently near,
was several miles away, and we rode by a good many fine farms, with
beautiful, green meadows, showing a marked contrast to the lava tract
that we had passed. I had been here once before, as mentioned in a
former chapter, and made the acquaintance of a very agreeable and
hospitable Danish gentleman and his wife. My first visit was with
Professor Johnson, and he did the talking on both sides; mine host,
whose name also was Johnson, conversing only in Danish and Icelandic.
Knocking at the door of the nice little white house, it was opened at
once, and there was a house full of young Icelandic ladies,—indeed the
prettiest lot of Iceland fair ones that I had seen at one time. Neatly
dressed, and beautiful girls they were; not one plain one among them.
All were at work, knitting, just as we see the good dames in America,
when they “go visiting” in the country. One had on the little Icelandic
black woolen cap, with silk tassel, the head-dress of the country; and
the others wore nothing on their heads, dressing in the Danish style,
which differs but little from the “fashions” in Paris, London, and New
York. The good little lady of the house greeted me very cordially; but
she was in a terrible fix, for she could not talk with me. She tried
Danish, then Icelandic; and I _attempted_ the same, stumbled through two
or three sentences, stuck fast, went on again, and finally broke down
altogether, ending in a hearty laugh all round, at my expense. Never
mind; it’s no hard task to be laughed at by a bevy of pretty girls. Mr.
Johnson was not at home, having gone to Reykjavik. Though the poor
little lady couldn’t find her tongue, at least to any effect; but I can
tell what she did find. She went to her closet and found a bottle of
capital wine, and she put it on the table at once; and I shall not tell
how many glasses of it went under my jacket before I left.
After partaking of the solids and fluids that my fair hostess set before
me, I rose to depart. Wishing them all a very good day in the best
Icelandic I could muster, and shaking hands all round—the usual
affectionate parting salute I did not dare attempt, being a naturally
bashful man!—I mounted my horse and rode off. It was after nine o’clock
in the evening, and the sun was bending low toward the Greenland sea.
Hafnarfiorth is the finest Iceland town I have seen, except the capital;
and it has a fine harbor. It is quite as beautiful in shape, and as
secure for shipping, as Sackett’s Harbor, on Lake Ontario. The land
nearly surrounds the harbor, forming about three quarters of a circle.
Large stacks of codfish were piled up, and great quantities were
scattered about on the gravelly beach, drying. After once thoroughly
dry, they tell me it does not hurt the fish to rain on them; and they
leave them out of doors with impunity. They put boards and heavy stones
on the piles to keep them from blowing away. In this primitive
community, all goods are safe under the broad canopy of heaven, as
“thieves do not break through, nor steal.” Visiting seemed to be the
order of the day at Hafnarfiorth. Several horses stood about, with the
curiously shaped side-saddles on them—like an arm-chair—peculiar to the
country. Boys were holding some of these; and some little girls, having
got helped to seats in the large saddles, were galloping the little
ponies round in fine style. They were bare-headed, with their long hair
streaming in the wind; and they seemed to think riding was capital fun.
In fact, I never saw an Icelander, male or female, who was too young to
sit in the saddle. These little northern nymphs seem to take to riding
as naturally as the South Sea islanders do to swimming. The village of
Hafnarfiorth has twenty or thirty houses, and perhaps two hundred
inhabitants. There is but one street, and that is bounded on one side by
the water, with the houses and stores on the other; and it runs in a
circle nearly round the harbor, close to the water’s edge. If any one
comes here and wants to know where my friend Johnson lives, I can tell
him; always provided he does not move, and no houses are built beyond
his. It is the last house—a neat little white, story-and-a-half one—on
the southern side of the harbor, the side opposite to Reykjavik. In
journeying from here north, we had to climb directly up a very steep
ascent, to get on the lava bed that covers the ground for many miles. It
was six miles to Reykjavik, the road passing within about a mile of
Bessastath, for a great many years the site of the Iceland college. Had
I not by this time been accustomed to all sorts of traveling—swimming,
tumbling, flying, and ballooning—I should have called this road a bad
one. Indeed, it was abominable; but I was accustomed to it. There’s
nothing like habit. Long practice may make sleeping on a solid rock go
as well as a bed of down.
Rocks were piled on rocks, and deep and broad cracks and seams were seen
at intervals. Across one chasm through which, deep in the earth, we
could hear a stream of water running, was thrown a natural arch of lava,
that served as a bridge where the road crosses. Winding round a couple
of deep bays that set back from the sea, we put our ponies through, at
the top of their speed; they seemed to appreciate their approach towards
home; and at about 11 o’clock, we jumped from our saddles, and with a
loud hurrah, dashed into the hotel at Reykjavik, where I met my old
friend, President Johnson,
“A drinking of his wine.”
He shook my hand so heartily I thought he would unjoint the elbow: “My
dear Yankee friend, how are you; and how is old mount Hekla, and the big
Geyser, and all the little Geysers; and how are my friends the sulphur
mountains?” “Why, high, hot, and smoking; how should they be, my
literary loon?” “And a fine tour you’ve had, I hope.” “Well, I have, my
boy; clear to the top of old King Coal. Yes, and a peep into the
crater.” “Well, you’re one of the boys; and I wish I could go across the
Atlantic, and see old Niagara with you.” And here I had a bed; no more
sleeping in churches; a bed on an old-fashioned camp bedstead—two letter
X’s; high diddle diddle, the fool in the middle, like the circus clown
with a hoop over his head.
CHAPTER XX
The nice young man, the modern youth,
Who drinks, and swears, and rakes,
Does little work, speaks little truth,
But plays at DUCKS and DRAKES.
Old Play.
IF a man wishes to study ornithology, let him go to Iceland. The most
beautiful birds in the world, those having the most brilliant, and
finest, and warmest plumage, are to be found in the Arctic regions. Some
of the game-birds of Iceland, I have spoken of. The greatest favorites
and the most valuable of all the feathered tribes here are the eider
ducks. Their down is the lightest and softest of animal coverings,
probably the worst conductor of heat, and therefore the warmest
clothing, that is known. The eider down has long been one of the most
important of the products of Iceland, and until lately has usually sold
at several dollars a pound. The kings and princes of the north of Europe
do not sleep on the down of the cygnets of the Ganges, but on and under
the down of the eider duck. The increased products, the varied
manufactures, and the widely extended commerce of the world, have
brought into use other materials more conducive to comfort and health
than the eider down; and the consequence has been, the price has greatly
fallen, so that now the poor peasant can sleep on down, and it can be
purchased for less than fifty cents a pound.
The eider duck—_Somateria molissima_—is a large and fine-looking bird.
The male is over two feet in length, and weighs six or seven pounds.
His back, breast, and neck are white, inclining to a pale blue; the
sides white; the lower part of the wings, the tail, and the top of the
head black. On the water, he is as graceful as a swan. The female is
much smaller than the male, and differently colored. The female is pale
yellowish brown, mottled with both white and black. The tips of the
wings are white, the tail a brownish black. But a poor idea is given,
however, of the looks of these birds by an enumeration of their colors.
The down is a sort of brown or mouse color. These singular birds have
both the character of wild and domesticated fowls. In the winter they
are so wild that it is difficult to come near them, but in the breeding
season—the month of June—they are tamer than barn-door fowls. On the
islands all around Iceland, and many parts of the main shore, they
cover the land with their nests. When left to themselves the brood of
the eider duck does not exceed four; but remove the eggs daily, and she
will continue to lay for weeks. The drake is a very domestic husband,
and assists in all the little household arrangements previous to the
advent of the little ducklings. They build not far from the water,
making the nest of sea weeds and fine grass, and lining it with the
exquisite, soft down which the female plucks from her breast. If you
approach the nest—which is always near the water—the drake will give a
hostile look at you, then plunge into the sea with great violence; but
the female stands her ground. If in a gentle humor and used to seeing
company, she will let you stroke her back with your hand, and even
take the eggs and down from under her. Sometimes she will fight and
strike with her sharp beak, and she gives a blow in earnest. On finding
the down gone from the nest, she plucks off more, and when the supply
fails, the drake assists in furnishing it. I have been told, if their
nests are robbed of the down more than twice, they abandon the place,
and will not return there the following season. Half a pound is the
usual quantity taken from a nest, and this seems a great deal, for the
domestic goose at a single picking rarely yields more than a quarter
of a pound of feathers. A greater quantity of down is gathered in wet
seasons than in dry. What immense quantities of these birds come around
Reykjavik, and spend the breeding season, particularly on the islands
of Engey and Vithey in the harbor! Around the houses and frequently
all over the roofs, their nests are so thick that you can scarcely
walk without treading on them. The inhabitants get eggs enough to half
supply them with food. The eggs are the size and about the color of
hen’s eggs, though not quite so white, rather inclining to a yellow.
They are nearly equal in quality to those of barn fowls. After the
young are hatched, their education commences immediately. They graduate
after two lessons. The old duck takes them on her back, swims out into
the ocean, then suddenly dives, leaving the little mariners afloat.
Of course they swim. It gets their feet wet; but they don’t mind that,
as they never wear any stockings. In the winter the eider ducks seldom
go far from Iceland. They visit the outer skerries, and go to the
Faroes, and some to Orkney and Shetland. They breed some in these
islands and the Hebrides, and sometimes on the main shore of Great
Britain. Varieties of the eider duck are found in all the northern
regions, Siberia, Kamtchatka, Behring’s Straits, Labrador, and as far
south as New Brunswick. It seems a wonder, among all the bird fanciers,
that some attempt is not made in England or our Northern States to
domesticate them. Let some Captain Waterton give them a chance; and even
if they fly away after the breeding season, it gives them the wider
liberty, and the owner saves their keeping. The flesh of these birds is
excellent, better than any other sea-fowl. In Iceland their value is so
great, for their eggs and down, that there is a law against shooting
them. For the first offense a man is fined a dollar, and for the next he
forfeits his gun. They are greatly alarmed at guns, and, if often fired
among, they quit the coast. So, with kind treatment they give a good
return, but treat them unkindly and they will not return at all. The
power of flight of this bird, considering his weight, is almost
incredible. Mudie puts it down at ninety miles an hour. One variety, the
“western eider”—_somateria dispar_—is only found a native of the
northern part of the Pacific, on both the Asiatic coast and in the
Russian possessions of North America. One of these birds, in a wild
state, a solitary straggler, in “good condition,” was found near
Yarmouth, on the eastern coast of England. That was the only specimen of
this species ever seen in the British isles. What a journey was that! He
must have flown from eastern Siberia entirely across Asia and Europe!
Were man endowed with such powers, either natural or artificial, would
he not be a traveler? I can only speak for one, but I say this boy would
be a rover if he could go like the eider duck! I wonder if there are any
Humboldts among birds. If this one had not been invited to stay in
England to adorn some museum, he would have had a good budget of
adventures to relate by the time he had completed the circuit of the
globe. And is it unreasonable to suppose that birds sometimes actually
fly round the world?
But there’s one beautiful and interesting bird that has never revealed
himself to the ornithologists of Europe, except on the lonely cliffs of
the Meal Sack Island, far from the main land and the haunts of men. Here
they can be found for about three months in the summer. Not a specimen
of this bird is known to exist in any collection. Some Danish
naturalists have for years offered $200 for a pair, either dead or
alive. The great danger in approaching this almost inaccessible island,
with the strong currents that run by it, and the wild nature of the
bird, have, so far, defied the efforts of yachtsmen, travelers, hunters,
and fishermen. The Icelander scarcely ever does any thing for the sport
or adventure of the thing; and rarely will a large reward tempt him to
go into any scene possessing much novelty or danger, unless his own
direct duty lies in that direction. I have seen a water-color drawing of
this bird, at a gentleman’s house at Reykjavik. He evidently belongs to
the penguin tribe. He is not as large as the penguin, but about two feet
in height, and stands as straight up as a man. His back is dark colored,
nearly black, and the belly white. It is evidently a marine bird, and
one fond of lonely regions and cold climates, and at this time possesses
much interest, simply because we cannot catch him. He is entitled to his
liberty; at least I shall give him my vote to allow him to remain in his
present free and independent state. I have his Latin name written down;
and anyone that is good at deciphering bad writing, and thinks he can
read this language of the Cæsars when written by a Dane, may examine
this singular specimen of chirography. It appears to me, to be as
difficult to hunt out as a sample of the bird itself.
I have now to speak of a far different specimen of the feathered
tribe—the cormorant. He is a vile bird. I say vile, for he’s a glutton;
his flesh is rank and unsavory, and he’s far from being a neat, tidy
bird. The cormorant—_Carbo cormoranus_—is common on the shores of
Europe and America, and in the islands of the sea as far north as the
Arctic circle. They are apparently larger than the goose, but not so
heavy. Color black, except the wings dark brown, and sides of the head
and a spot on the thigh white. Though web-footed, he perches on trees,
and sometimes builds his nest there. The bill of the cormorant is about
five inches in length, the upper mandible much hooked. With this he
takes his prey, the unlucky loiterers of the finny tribe. He catches
them usually across, and, if large, he often rises in the air, throws
up the fish, and as it falls head first he catches him endwise, and
the fish, while struggling with life, finds a grave in the cormorant’s
stomach. He will eat his own weight of fish in one day; and then,
gorged to stupidity, he flies to a lonely cliff, spreads out his wings
to dry, and lays there in a state of half torpor for several hours,
like an anaconda after he has swallowed an ox. In this state, if his
resting-place is accessible, the bird can be captured readily. At one
season of the year—the breeding time—this bird and the _shag_, another
species of cormorant, have a crest on the head, of greenish feathers.
These afterwards disappear.
A far more elegant and interesting bird, is the gannet or Solan
goose—_Sula bassana_. On the wing, the gannet is the most
striking-looking bird I have ever seen. They are three feet in length,
and their wings stretch six feet. They are white, except the outer
half of the wing, which is black, the bill, legs, and feet black, and
head yellow. What crowds of them we saw, both in the air and on the
water, off Cape Skagen, near the southwestern part of Iceland! During
the summer, the Meal-Sack Island swarms with them. The female lays but
one or two eggs, nearly white, but not much larger than the common
duck’s egg, though the bird is as large as the goose. The gannet is
exceedingly fond of rocky islands a little way from the main shore,
like the Bass rock in the Forth, the Ailsa Craig in the Clyde, and on
the Iceland Meal-Sack. By these and similar places is either a strong
current or a strong run of tide, and here are plenty of fish. Herrings,
and very often cod and haddock, are their favorite prey. On the wing
as well as in the water, the gannet is a powerful bird. With terrible
impetuosity, they descend from a great height, and plunging into the
water, seize and carry off their prey. Like all fishing birds, the
gannet has a keen sight, keener probably than the eagle, for he can
discern his prey in the water, while at a great height, and when the
curl of the surface so scatters the light that human vision, aided by
all the contrivances of science, cannot penetrate a single inch. How
singular is nature in all her operations! But for a peculiar structure,
this bird, as swift as he has to plunge into the water, would be
killed, or at least stunned and rendered helpless. The cellular tissue
beneath the skin, on the under part of the bird, is formed into
air-cells, and inflated by a peculiar muscular action; and this gives a
surface of great elasticity, and both breaks the force of the blow, and
prevents the bird going very deep under water. When the gannet comes
up with his prey, he rises by a regular momentum directly out of the
water, and is on the wing the instant he appears above the surface.
In one more chapter, I shall complete my brief notices of some of the
more interesting of the birds common in Iceland.
CHAPTER XXI
The little boat she is tossed about,
Like a sea-weed to and fro;
The tall ship reels like a drunken man,
As the gusty tempests blow:
But the sea-bird laughs at the pride of man,
And sails in a wild delight,
On the torn up breast of the night-black sea,
Like a foam-cloud calm and white.
MARY HOWITT.
AMONG the birds of the far North, the snow-bunting—_Emberiza nivalis_—is
one of the most interesting. Who has not seen the pretty “snow-bird”
during a driving snow-storm, come round the barn for some hay-seed, or
to the house for a crumb? But where do they go in summer? Why, they go
to Iceland, and a nice time they have of it. They build their nests in
the crags; and the male perches on some rock in the vicinity and sings
all day long, while the female lays five small round eggs. The male bird
takes his turn in sitting on the nest; and they feed on the seeds of
grass, rushes, and other hardy northern plants. How extensively this
bird migrates, it is difficult to tell. We naturally suppose that small
birds have less power of flight than large ones; but the Mother Carey’s
chicken is found on the stormy ocean, a thousand miles from land. In
America, the snow-bird probably goes to the region of Labrador and
Hudson’s Bay in summer. Some may fly across Baffin’s Bay to Greenland,
or even across the Greenland Strait, from there to Iceland, a journey
that would not require a sea-flight of over 300 miles at any one place.
The snow-birds that summer in Iceland may, and very likely do, fly
south, taking the range of the Faros, Shetland, and Orkney, and so to
Scotland, England, and the Continent. Great numbers of these birds spend
their summer in Lapland, where they get very fat on the seeds that they
gather on the plains, and in the lowlands. The Laplanders kill many of
them for food, and prize them highly. In their winter plumage they are,
like the ptarmigan, almost entirely white; but in summer they are more
of a brown. In summer, this bird is fond of rocky and mossy places,
where there are no trees and few bushes.
A singular characteristic of most migrating birds, is very conspicuous
in the snow-bunting. The male is most sensitive to heat, and the female
to cold. In northern climes the male of this, as well as some other
birds, is often seen in spring several days before the female. Then
in their autumn migration the female appears in the region of its
winter residence considerably before the male. We should suppose they
would migrate together, when the male bird would have an opportunity
of showing off his gallantry; which, with another class of bipeds, is
considered mutually agreeable. Many of these modest and unostentatious
birds have I seen, while riding across the dreary heaths of Iceland,
perched on a stone or a mossy ridge, and singing and chippering away,
as much as to say, “Here I am, as far north as old Boreas will let
me go.” The snow-birds undoubtedly take pretty long flights at sea,
for they usually appear on the coast of England and Scotland late in
the autumn, along with, and apparently driven by the northeast winds,
having undoubtedly flown across the German Ocean, from the Norwegian
coast. On their arrival, they appear sadly emaciated and exhausted, and
some of them perish. With the wind that brings them, or soon after,
generally comes a fall of snow. Without resting on the water, like the
Mother Carey’s chicken, the gull, the pochard, the Solan goose, and
other sea-birds, the snow-bunting must have a weary time of it in his
flight across the stormy sea.
Of gulls, there is almost an endless variety in Iceland; and,
apparently, quite an endless quantity. Some of these are very large,
larger than geese; and, though much “run to feathers,” and not as much
solid flesh as the goose, will often weigh six or eight pounds. Their
wings extend over six feet. This bird is common, in some of its numerous
families, wherever there is salt water; but there is one species
peculiar to this country, and rarely found south of here—the Iceland
gull—_Larus Icelandicus_. It is a kind of bluish ash-color on the back,
and the rest of the bird white. Like all his brethren, he is a great
fisherman, and he knows where he can go and catch his dinner.
The skua gull—_Lestris Cataractes_—is a bird of very peculiar habits.
It is seldom found except in the Arctic or Antarctic regions. Captain
Cook found it while he was skirting the polar ice. They are a very
exclusive sort of bird, living in large colonies, where none but
their own species are allowed to come. They are terrible fighters; and
other gulls, or even the eagle or the raven, or scarcely man himself,
can invade their colony with impunity. Against a large bird of prey,
during the breeding-season, they will charge _en masse_; and wo be to
their enemy! He will get pierced with scores of angry beaks. It is
hazardous for man, and instances are mentioned of some who have gone
among them without much protection to their heads, and actually got
their skulls broken by these powerful birds. These gulls are not fond
of fishing; they prefer that others should fish for them. When the
great gull, or any other of the fishing-tribes, has got a load, and
filled his stomach, neck, and bill, with fish, and is flying slowly and
heavily away to his expectant brood, this arrant freebooter, the skua
gull, dashes at the sober fisherman; and his only chance of life is to
disgorge all he has, and the skua catches it in its fall, or picks it
up from the surface of the water or land. The Icelanders sometimes, in
visiting the haunts of skua, carry a sharp pike projecting a little
above the head, and the heedless gull comes dashing down at the man,
and is transfixed on the murderous iron.
One of the birds found in Iceland, and peculiar to high Arctic and
Antarctic regions, is the large snowy owl—_strix nyctea_. This is a
magnificent bird, two feet in length, and four feet and a half in the
stretch of its wings. One of these birds adorns the parlor of Mr.
Simpzen, an Iceland merchant at Reykjavik. This bird is literally as
white as snow, though the females and the younger birds have some
brownish feathers. The snowy owl is a bird of prey, and night and day
are the same to him. The ptarmigan and the tern, cannot, all of them,
find food during the long Iceland winters; therefore, some of them, in
their turn, furnish dinners for his majesty, the white owl. When the
wind beats, and the snow drives, so that they would sweep the birds to
destruction, out comes this king of the wilds, clad in his armor of
impenetrable down and feathers; and, riding on the wings of the tempest,
keeps holiday amid the wildest turmoil of nature. All parts of the bird,
except the point of the beak, the nails, and the eye-balls, are covered
with feathers, so that he fears not the cold. This bird remains the
whole year in Iceland, and is very rarely, and that in the coldest of
weather, found as far south as Great Britain.
One more feathered resident, and I have done. One of the hawk-tribe,
peculiar to this country, the Jer-Falcon—_Falco Icelandicus_—is a most
remarkable bird. He is peculiarly adapted to the wilds of Iceland, and
the cold, naked cliffs of the Northern Isles. Though not often seen,
there is no reason to believe their numbers are as small as might be
supposed. They are no parasites, like the skua gull. Not they. They
catch their prey alive and on the wing; and so terrible and unerring is
their flight, that nothing can escape them. Except his near relative,
the peregrine falcon, there is probably not a bird in the world that can
equal his speed on the wing. Gray, like his native cliffs, he will sit
on a projecting crag, quiet for hours, until a flock of rock-doves or
some ducks, are seen flying by. He leaps into the air, vaulting upwards
till he has “got the sky” of his prey, to a sufficient height for
gaining the necessary impetus; his wings shiver for a moment, as he
works himself into a perfect command and poise, and to the full extent
of his energy. Then he dashes downwards with such velocity that the
impression of his path remains on the sky, like that of the shooting
meteor or the flashing lightning, and you fancy there is a torrent of
falcons rushing through the air. The stroke is as unerring as the motion
is fleet. If it take effect in the body, the bird is trussed, and the
hunt is over; but if a wing only is broken, the maimed bird is allowed
to flutter to the earth, and another victim is selected. It sometimes
happens that some inferior bird of prey comes in for the wounded game;
but in order to get it, he must proceed cautiously and stealthily, for
wo betide it if it rises on the wing, and meets the glance of the
falcon. The raven himself, never scoops out another eye, if he rises to
tempt that one. This bird is found in Norway, and sometimes in the north
of Scotland. In former days they were used in hawking, and, in
consequence of their strength and daring and their unerring stroke, they
were more prized in falconry than any other; but they were difficult to
train; and, consequently, in the days of falconry they brought very high
prices. The velocity of their flight, as well as that of the peregrine
falcon, is put down at one hundred and fifty miles an hour. Compare that
to a modern “express train!” How the latter lags behind! The flight of
birds on long journeys is well ascertained, and numerous instances are
recorded of the amazing velocity of falcons. King Henry IV., of France,
had a peregrine falcon that flew to Malta, thirteen hundred and fifty
miles, and arrived there the same day that he left Fontainbleau. Mudie
says, the peregrine falcon is THE falcon, _par excellence_, of the
falconers, on account of his rapid, powerful flight, great tractability,
and other good qualities.
The _falcon_, in falconry, always means the female, as they only are
trained. The male is called the _tercel_. Indeed, our Saxon ancestors
must have had some lofty sport. Wish I had been there! The jer-falcon,
our Iceland bird, is not by any means confined to his native cliffs.
Iceland is four or five hundred miles from Scotland, but only a
morning’s flight for this fleet traveler! He could take his breakfast in
his native wilds, with the sun high in the heavens, fly over to
Scotland, dine on a ptarmigan or a rock-dove, sleep through the heat of
the day, and return to Iceland long before sunset. Such is the flight of
this powerful, swift-winged bird of prey.
CHAPTER XXII
THE FAROE ISLES.
——“It is a wild and wondrous scene,
Where few but nature’s footsteps yet have been.”
IN our outward as well as return voyage we passed near the Faroe
Islands. These, like Iceland, are under the jurisdiction of Denmark,
and, though near 300 miles from their northern neighbor, have many
features in common with it. The scenery is singularly wild and
picturesque. We sailed nearly under some of the tall cliffs, and could
plainly see the pillared columns of basalt, so common throughout Iceland
and nearly all the northern isles. From conversation with two English
gentlemen that I met a short time since, who had just returned from
Faroe, where they had been “birds’ nesting,”[6] and from one or two
authentic narratives, I gathered some interesting particulars of their
topography and history. The Faroe Isles are probably less known to
modern travelers than any inhabited land in the northern sea. Many there
are that visit Greenland—some catching whales and seal; a few to convert
the heathen; some on a scientific tour; and, latterly, many in search of
a distinguished navigator and the hapless screws of two long-missing
ships—and not unfrequently do civilized men land on the bleak and frozen
shores of Spitzbergen; and any one can visit Lapland by steam; but one
may go round the world and not meet a christian man that has stepped on
one of the seventeen of the inhabited islands of Faroe. The whole group
consists of twenty-five islands, extending about sixty-five miles from
north to south, and forty-five from east to west; and containing a
little less than a thousand square miles. They lie between 61° 26″ and
62° 25″ N. Latitude, and 6° 40″ and 7° 40″ West Longitude from
Greenwich. They are 185 miles northwest of Shetland, and 400 from
Norway. This much for their location and size. The surface of the
different islands varies in appearance considerably, but they all have
remarkably bold, perpendicular banks. The northeastern one, Fugloe—or
Bird-island—is quite flat on the top; but the banks on every side are
high and perpendicular, so that boats must always be raised and lowered
with ropes. Oesteroe, the largest but one, is the highest of the entire
group, rising 3,000 feet above the level of the sea. On some parts of
its precipitous cliffs are majestic octagonal pillars of basaltic rock,
a hundred feet high and six feet in diameter. Were these in a land of
population and wealth they would undoubtedly be selected by builders,
and be seen supporting and adorning the porticoes of temples of Grecian
or Roman architecture. One of these pillars, sixty feet in length, has
fallen across a deep chasm, and forms a natural bridge from one side to
the other. Another enormous mass of rock, twenty-four feet long by
eighteen broad is so exactly balanced across another that the strength
of a finger will vibrate it; and though the waves have been dashing
against it for ages, there it remains, poised on a pivot, like the
famous rocking stone in Cornwall.
Stromoe, south of Oesteroe, is the largest of the Faroe group, and is 27
miles long by about 7 broad, and contains 140 square miles. On this
island is Thorshaven, the capital and principal seaport. The Danish
post-ship between Denmark and Iceland, lands here twice or three times
in a year. Thorshaven has a church, and about 100 dwellings; some of
them comfortable framed houses. This important place is well protected
by a substantial fort—an excellent fortification, that lacks but one
essential article, cannon! However, there is little chance that they
would ever be needed did they have them. Were there any thing here worth
the trouble of an invading army or a piratical crew, at the most
favorable landing on the islands, the natives would stand a good chance
to crush their invaders with their natural means of defense, and keep
them off by rolling stones down upon them. But what freaks old nature
plays here among these tall cliffs! What houses for sea-monsters does
old ocean create! The island of Nalsoe is pierced from side to side, so
that in calm weather a boat can sail through it, under a natural arch,
with near 2,000 feet of solid rock overhead. At the northern end of
Stromoe is the promontory of Myling, which rises perpendicularly to the
height of 2,500 feet. If the spectator had nerve enough, he might go to
the brink, and toss a pebble clear into the sea from the lofty summit.
One singular rock in this group of islands, rises out of the water like
a lofty spire, and is called by the natives the Trollekone-finger, or
_witch’s finger_. The most western of the islands is Myggeness; and,
though inhabited, is so difficult of access that communication between
that and the rest of the group is not usually more than three or four
times a year. It is surrounded by precipitous cliffs, from 1,200 to
1,400 feet in height; and the passage or fiorth between this and the
neighboring island is the most dangerous in the group. Off Myggeness, is
Myggenessholm,—a precipitous rock standing alone in the sea, like a
solitary sentinel attendant on the larger isle. Any one who has seen the
Meal-sack island off the southwest coast of Iceland, or the Holm of the
Noss in the Shetland group, or Ailsa Craig in the Clyde, will have an
idea of the appearance of this rocky islet. This is the only island in
the Faroe group where the Gannet, or Solan Goose, builds its nest. The
choice of such a location as this, or Ailsa Craig, or the Meal-sack—all
favorite localities of this bird—is not altogether from the generally
inaccessible nature of the place and its consequent immunity from
hostile man—though this is some consideration. These haunts of the
gannet are always near a good “run” of fish, and this is usually where
there is a strong flow of the tide between two islands or between an
island and the main shore. Graba, a late traveler in Faroe, speaks of
landing on the small island of Store Dimon. He says the clergyman visits
this island but once a year, and the sides are so steep they have to
pull him up with ropes as they would a bag of meal. When Graba landed,
the natives pushed one of their number up the rocks, with their long
sticks that they use in bird-catching, and then he drew up the rest. In
this way they all passed from one cliff to another, till they arrived at
the top, 250 feet above the water. The steepness of the rock was fully
appreciated on their return, when a basket of eggs was let down into the
boat by a rope. In passing up and down they sometimes walked on a narrow
shelf of rock; and when this ceased, the “highway” was continued by
having holes cut in the perpendicular face of the cliff, once in two or
three feet, for the fingers and toes. Along this frightful precipice, a
drunken native passed in safety with a sack of barley on his back.
One of the great natural curiosities of the islands, is the Vogelberg; a
terrible chasm, of an elliptical form, almost entirely surrounded by
rocks, at least a thousand feet in height. The entrance is by a narrow
passage at one end; and here, in this remarkable house, with the sea for
a floor and the sky for a roof, are thousands of birds. Sheltered from
every wind, the boat glides along with perfect safety. Gulls and
guillemots swim by without fear; the seal looks from his watery cave in
fancied security; and the lazy cormorant stretches out his neck to scan
the appearance of the newly-arrived visitors. Long lines of kittiwakes
show their white breasts and dove-like eyes; from narrow shelves of the
rock, nest succeeds nest, and the downy young appear in frightful
proximity to the edge of the precipice beneath. The puffins take the
highest stations, perhaps because they are puffed up with ideas of their
own importance, being favorites of man, and often captured for their
flesh and feathers. In sheltered and dark places, will be found the
rock-dove; and dashing past like a pirate, is seen the skua, pursuing
the gull or the puffin, and striving for a dinner he has never earned.
Graba visited this singular place in a boat, accompanied by several
natives. He describes the noise made by the innumerable sea-fowl, as
almost deafening. Seeing a rare bird that he was desirous of obtaining a
specimen of, he raised his gun and fired. “What became of it,” says he,
“I know not. The air was darkened by the birds roused from their repose.
Thousands hastened out of the chasm with a frightful noise, and spread
themselves in troops over the ocean. The puffins came wondering from
their holes, and regarded the universal confusion with comic gestures;
the kittiwakes remained composedly in their nests; while the cormorants
tumbled headlong into the sea.” That was, undoubtedly, the first gun
that was ever fired there since the creation of the world. In a little
time, the confusion and smoke passed away, and every thing resumed its
wonted appearance.
Suderoe, the most southern of the islands, as indicated by its name, is
of very irregular shape, contains about forty-four square miles, and
differs materially from the most northern of the group. This island
produces more and better grain, is better cultivated, and has some
valuable beds of coal. Several kinds of land birds, the lark, the rail,
and the swallow, are found in Suderoe, and not in the islands farther
north. The natives of Suderoe are said to be more industrious and
ingenious, and to speak a language differing considerably from the
inhabitants of the other islands. Their principal town, Qualhoe, is the
finest and best-built village in Faroe.
The climate of Faroe is much more genial and mild than would be supposed
from its latitude, and far less severe in winter than many places in a
more southern latitude on the continent of Europe. The curlew and some
other birds winter here, while they are not found on the continent, at
this season, as far north as Hamburg. The ground is seldom frozen for a
month, and snow never falls deep, or lasts over a week at a time. The
summer, neither here or in Iceland, is hot, though there are some warm
days in July and August. While grain is never grown in Iceland, here
they cultivate barley and oats, at a height of from two to six hundred
feet above the level of the sea. Grass grows at an elevation of two
thousand feet, but a little above that vegetation ceases, and the land
is a desert. Sometimes a violent wind occurs, that will roll up the
grassy turf like a side of sole leather; and in this way the tops of
some hills get entirely denuded, the turf being carried into the sea.
Trees do not grow here; these islands resembling, in that respect,
Iceland, and the groups of Shetland and Orkney. Thunder here, as in
Iceland, is heard in winter, but seldom in summer. There are a few lakes
in the islands; Leinumvatn, in Stromoe, being one of the largest. It is
in a somber, melancholy-looking valley, and resembles some of the small
lakes in the Highlands of Scotland. As in all mountainous and peat
districts, there are plenty of springs of fresh water.
The spoken language of the Faroese resembles that of the Icelanders, but
the people have not the same literary taste and love of history. Their
written language is the Danish. Originally settled from Norway by
piratical cruisers, and about the time of the settlement of Iceland, the
history of the islands has much in common with the more northern land.
They paid tribute, or were expected to, to the reigning chief in Norway;
but the latter was very unfortunate in his collection of it. The deputy
or collector sent out for this purpose seldom returned, and was rarely
or never seen in Norway again. Some, attracted by the independent
bearing of the people, took wives from among the fair Faroese, and
settled permanently; thus paying a very direct and unmistakable
compliment to a brave, independent, and republican people. Others
declared themselves firm and incorruptible, and determined to execute
their trust. Marriage is a most excellent institution and all the
Norwegian collectors who took brides from among the Faroe maidens, found
it, no doubt, particularly to their own advantage, and, at the same
time, in accordance with the good wishes and prosperity of the islanders
themselves. Those who would not accept wives on such fair terms, were
never heard of again. Their bones were buried at low tide! The king of
Norway kept sending his deputies to Faroe, and they and their ships
disappeared one after another, till finally none of his majesty’s
subjects would undertake the voyage. At last, Karl Mære, a celebrated
pirate, offered his services; left Norway, and arrived at Thorshaven
safely. He commenced collecting the tribute, and succeeded until he was
himself compelled to pay a capitation tax. He was decapitated, and his
companions returned without the money. Had the “wanderer” in Iceland
been favored with the office of collector, he might perhaps have visited
Faroe; and, in that case, he probably would not much longer have
continued a WANDERING BACHELOR.
FOOTNOTES:
-----
Footnote 6:
Obtaining birds’ eggs of every variety that could be had, for an
ornithological collection.
CHAPTER XXIII
“Good workmen never quarrel with their tools;
I’ve got new mythological machinery,
And very handsome supernatural scenery.”
THE mythology of the Northmen is so intimately connected with their
literature, that any notice of the one would be incomplete without some
reference to the other. The whole system is as complicated and
ingenious, and quite as interesting, as the mythology of the Greeks and
Romans. At the dawning of time, according to the Scandinavian theory,
there were two primitive worlds,—MUSPELL, or MUSPELHEIM, and NIFLHEIM.
Muspell was located in the south, or _above_; and Niflheim, _below_, or
in the north. Muspell is the world of light and fire. On its border,
guarding it, sits SURTUR, the god of the flaming sword, and chief of the
chaotic demons. At the period of RAGNAROK, or end of time, Surtur comes
forth with his flaming falchion, enters the last great battle,
vanquishes all the gods, and consumes the universe with fire.[7]
NIFLHEIM, or the world below, is the region of cold and darkness; and in
the middle of it is the fountain Hvergelmir, from which flow twelve
rivers.[8] Between Muspell, above, and Niflheim, below, was a wide
chaotic space, known as GINNUNGAGAP. In this space, as will be seen, the
earth was formed and peopled. The part of Ginnungagap towards the north,
was filled with vast piles of congealed vapor from the rivers of
Niflheim. The part towards the south was full of sparks from Muspell.[9]
When the congealed vapor was met by the heat and sparks, it melted into
drops; and, “by the might of him who sent the heat,” the drops quickened
into life, and put on human form.[10] This being, so made, was called
Ymir; and from him the Frost-giants are descended. There was also formed
from the drops of vapor, a cow named Audhumla, and on the milk of this
cow Ymir subsisted. From the stones that the cow licked, there sprang a
man who was endowed with agility, power, and beauty. This man was called
Bur, and he had a son named Bör, who took for his wife Besla, the
daughter of the giant Bölthorn, Bör had three sons, ODIN,[11] VILI, and
VE; though the two latter are usually considered as attributes of Odin
himself. The sons of Bör slew the giant Ymir; and so much blood flowed
from his body, that all the race of Frost-giants were drowned in it,
except one—Bergelmir—who, with his wife, escaped on board of his bark.
From these two all the Frost-giants, or race of Jötuns, are
descended.[12]
The sons of Bör dragged the body of Ymir into the middle of
Ginnungagap, and from it formed the earth. From his blood they made the
ocean, which encompassed the earth on every side, like a broad ring.
Out of his flesh they made the land, and from his bones the mountains;
from his hair they formed the trees, and with his teeth and jaws, and
some pieces of broken bones, they made stones and pebbles. Of his skull
they formed the arched heavens, which they raised over the earth; and
in the four quarters of the heavens, like four sentries on the watch,
they placed four dwarfs,—East, West, North, and South[13]—and there
they keep their places, and bear up the sky. The brains of Ymir they
threw in the air, and of these the clouds were formed. The earth, or
Midgard,[14] was represented as level and circular, and midway between
Muspell, above, and Niflheim, below. Around the outer edge, next to
the ocean, the sons of Bör raised a bulwark of Ymir’s eyebrows, as a
protection against the Jötuns. Outside of Midgard, flows the great
ocean; and beyond this, in another circle, is Jötunheim,[15] the land
of the Jötuns, a rough mountain waste.
One of the most intricate and sublime conceptions, is the myth of
the ash Yggdrasill. This tree is typical of nature, and intimately
connected with and partly supporting the earth. The branches of this
tree extend over the whole world, and reach above heaven. It has three
roots, which are very wide asunder. One springs from the region of the
Frost-giants, in Jötunheim; the second, from Niflheim; and the third is
in heaven. The second root, in Niflheim, is gnawed by the great dragon
Nidhogg; and under it is the fountain Hvergelmir, whence flow the
twelve great rivers. Under the root of the ash that is in heaven, is
the holy Urdar-fount, where the gods sit in judgment. Under the root in
Jötunheim is Mimir’s well, and in this well wisdom lies concealed. All
who desire wisdom or knowledge, must drink of the water of this well.
The Jötuns are represented as older than the gods, and in consequence
they look deeper into the past. For this reason, the gods must go to
the Jötuns for knowledge. Odin came to Mimir one day, and asked for a
draught of water from the well; but Mimir would not furnish it, till
he left one of his eyes in pledge. In the branches of the ash sits
an eagle that knows many things; and the squirrel Ratatösk runs up
and down the tree, bearing words of strife between the eagle and the
dragon Niddhogg at the root. Four harts run over the branches of the
tree, and bite off the buds.
From earth to heaven is a bridge called Bifröst, or the rainbow. Over
this bridge the gods ride on horseback, every day, going to and from
their judgment-seat in heaven. Their horses all have names. The most
celebrated is Sleipnir, the horse of Odin. He is a beautiful gray color,
has eight legs, and excells all horses ever possessed by gods or men.
This famous steed, as will be seen hereafter, when ridden by Hermod the
Nimble, once sprang over the gates of Hel.
The gods, or race of ÆSIR, live in Asgard, a city in heaven, in the
center of the universe. ODIN, the first and eldest of the Æsir, is at
the head, governs all things, and all the other deities obey him, as
children do a father. He is the highest, the supreme deity, and is
supposed to be the progenitor of all the other gods; and, on this
account, is called ALL-FATHER.[16] Seated on his throne Hlidskjalf, he
sees throughout the world, and comprehends all things. His mansion,
called Valaskjalf, was built by the gods, and has a roof of pure silver.
Odin is represented seated on his throne, with a spear in his right
hand, and on each side his two wolves, Geri and Freki. On his shoulders
are his two ravens, who fly abroad throughout the earth during the day,
and return at night, and give him tidings of all that is going on. They
are named HUGIN and MUNIN, or _Thought_ and _Memory_; and nothing
transpires but what is caught up by them, and whispered in the ear of
Odin. All the meat that is set before him, he gives to his wolves, for
wine to him is both meat and drink. As related in the Edda:[17]
Geri and Freki
Feedeth the war-faring,
Famed father of hosts;
For ’tis with wine only
That Odin, in arms renowned,
Is nourished for aye.
The wife of Odin is FRIGA the daughter of Fjorgyn; and from these two
are descended the race of the Æsir. Friga foresees the destinies of men,
but never reveals what is to come.[18]
THOR,[19] the son, the first-born of Odin and Friga, is “the mightiest
of gods and men.” He is the god of thunder, is armed with a mallet
called Mjölnir, has a belt of strength or prowess, and wears iron
gauntlets. His favorite employment is fighting the Jötuns, with whom he
is at perpetual war. With his gauntlets on his hands—without which he
cannot grasp his weapon—he hurls at them his terrible mallet, and
crushes in their skulls. He is favorable to the race of men, and keeps
watch in Midgard—the home of man, or Manheim—and defends them from the
giants of Jötunheim. He has two sons, Modi and Magni. Thor is
represented in a car drawn by two goats; hence he is called Auku-Thor,
or Charioteer Thor.[20] He is attended by the nimble-footed boy Thjálfi,
and the girl Roskva the Quick.
Thor’s home is Thrudvang—the home of strength—and his mansion is called
Bilskirnir. This is “the largest house ever built,” and contains five
hundred and forty halls. Thor’s marvelous exploits, his combats with the
enemies of mankind—the Jötuns and the Midgard serpent—are favorite
themes with all the old Icelandic writers. Though Thor is the son of
Odin, he is not always considered as his inferior. Temples for the
separate worship of Thor, and statues dedicated to him, were erected in
various parts of Scandinavia.
The next god in rank, is BALDUR, the second son of Odin.[21] He is
represented as fair in form and feature, as universally beloved, and the
mildest, the wisest, and most eloquent of all the Æsir. Such is his
nature, that his judgment once pronounced, can never be altered. His
hair is supremely fair, and in allusion to it, a beautiful plant that is
almost white—the _Anthemis Cotula_—is called Baldur’s Eyebrow.[22]
Baldur dwells in the mansion called Breidablik, one of the fairest in
heaven. Nothing impure or unclean can enter it. His wife is NANNA, the
daughter of Nep. The myth of Baldur’s death, is one of the most
beautiful in the Northern Mythology. All the deities, as well as men,
joined in his praise; and at his death, the whole universe was in
mourning.
FORSETI, the son of Baldur and Nanna, is the god of Righteousness, and
presides over Justice. He possesses the heavenly mansion called Glitnir,
the walls, columns, and beams of which are of solid gold, and the roof
pure silver. He reconciles all disputants at law; those bringing their
cases before him never failing to find perfect satisfaction in his
decisions.[23]
BRAGI, the son of Odin, is the god of Poetry: hence the art of poetry is
called _Bragr_. Bragi has a flowing beard,[24] and is noted for his
eloquence, and the correct use of language. His wife is IDUNA, the
goddess of Eternal Youth. She is entrusted with the keeping of the
apples which the gods, on feeling old, have only to taste, to become
young again.
ÆGIR is the deity of the Ocean, though a Jötun, and not reckoned with
the Æsir. His wife is RAN; and with a net she catches unfortunate
mariners. Ægir entertains all the Æsir, at a grand feast of the gods
given at the autumnal equinox.
NJORD, who dwells in the heavenly region called Noatun, rules over the
winds and the waves, and checks the fury of the elements, the sea, and
the fire. His aid is invoked by fishermen and sea-farers. The wife of
Njord is SKADI, the daughter of a Jötun. Njord and Skadi have two
children; FREY, a son, and a daughter named FREYJA. Frey is one of the
most celebrated and beloved of all the gods. He rides in a car drawn by
a boar, presides over the rain, the sunshine, and the fruits of the
earth. His aid is invoked for good harvests, and also for peace; and he
dispenses wealth to those who do him honor.[25] Frey fell violently in
love with Gerda, one of the most beautiful of all the women, and ordered
Skirnir, his trusty messenger, to go and ask her hand for him. Skirnir
promised to do so if Frey would give him his sword, a weapon of such a
rare quality, that it would strew a field with slain, at the bidding of
its owner. Impatient for the possession of Gerda, he gave Skirnir the
sword; and afterwards, in a battle with Beli, he slew him with the
antlers of a stag. In the last great battle, where all of the gods are
engaged, Frey is without a weapon.[26]
HEIMDAL—called also the White god—is a sacred and powerful deity, the
son of nine Jötun virgins, who were sisters. He is called Gold-toothed,
his teeth being of pure gold. He dwells in Himinbjorg, at the end of
Bifröst, and has a famous horse named Gulltopp. He is the warder or
sentry of the gods, and therefore was placed on the borders of heaven,
to prevent the Jötuns from forcing their way over the bridge. His ear is
so acute, that no sound escapes him; he can even hear the grass grow, or
the wool on the backs of sheep. He requires less sleep than a bird, sees
a hundred miles around him on every side, and by night as well as by
day. In time of danger, or when he wishes to call the gods together, he
blows a blast on his Gjallar-horn, that sounds throughout all worlds;
and the gods immediately assemble.
HÖDUR is a deity who is blind, but possesses great strength. He is more
fully described in the account of Baldur’s death.
VIDAR, surnamed the Silent, and noted for his heavy shoes, is the son of
Odin and the Jötun-woman Grida. He possesses immense strength, being
nearly as strong as Thor himself. Great reliance is placed on him in
cases of emergency.
VALI, the son of Odin and Rinda, is most valiant in war; and, in his
youth, was as precocious as the Mercury of the ancients. He slew Hödur,
the murderer of Baldur, before he was a day old.
ULLUR, the son of Sif, and step-son of Thor, has great skill in the use
of the bow. His name signifies the White, or the Wool-like. He favors
the winter, and travels with great speed on skates and snow-shoes. He is
very handsome, has every quality of a warrior, and is often invoked by
those who engage in single combat. Vidar and Vali will survive the
destruction of the world by the fire of Surtur, and dwell on the plain
of Ida, where Asgard formerly stood. Thither shall come to meet them,
Modi and Magni, the sons of Thor, bringing with them their father’s
mallet.
Of the goddesses, FRIGA, the wife of Odin, is the highest. Her mansion
is called Fensalir. The next in rank is SAGA, the goddess of History.
Her house is Sökkvabek, and is of great size. The goddess EIR presides
over the art of Healing.[27] GEFJON is a maid, and all who die maids
go to her, and become her hand-maidens. FULLA is also a maid. She has
beautiful hair that flows over her shoulders, and a gold ribbon adorns
her head. She is an attendant and confidant of Friga, and is entrusted
with her secrets. FREYJA is the wife of Odur; and they have a daughter,
Hnossa, who is celebrated for her beauty. Odur travels through distant
countries; and, in his absence, Freyja weeps, and her tears are pure
gold. As she goes over the world in search of her husband, the people
give her different names. She rides in a chariot drawn by two cats. The
goddess LOFNA is mild in her demeanor, and takes delight in smoothing
the path of lovers, and promoting the success and union of those who
are sincerely attached to each other. VORA is a goddess that punishes
lovers’ false vows and perjuries. GNA is the messenger of Friga, and
is sent by her on various errands through different worlds. She has a
horse called Hófvarpnir, that can travel through water or air. Besides
these, there are many other goddesses whose duty it is to serve in
Valhalla, wait on the gods, take care of their drinking horns, &c.
These are called the Valkyrjor.[28] Odin sends the Valkyrjor to every
battle-field, to decide who shall be slain, and declare on which side
victory shall rest. They carry the spirits of the slain to Odin, in
Valhalla.
Among the inferior deities are three maidens called Norns. Their names
are Urd, Vernandi, and Skuld; or, Past, Present, and Future. They
preside over the birth and destinies of men, and determine their fate
and length of life. There are also other Norns besides these three. Some
of them are of heavenly origin, and dispense good destinies. Others are
of the races of elves, or evil spirits; and men who meet with numerous
misfortunes are said to be under the influence of evil Norns. There is
also a class of inferior beings known as Dwarfs. They dwell in caves and
caverns of the earth.
FOOTNOTES:
-----
Footnote 7:
Surtur, as interpreted to me by an intelligent Icelander, corresponds
pretty nearly to the evil one, the arch-fiend, and great enemy of
mankind. The gods, or Æsir, protect and defend man; Surtur is the
enemy of them all. The bituminous mineral or mineralized wood found in
Iceland, is very inflammable, and known as Surturbrand, or the devil’s
fire. The cave of Surtshellir, mentioned on page 109, is an
illustration of the character of Surtur; and from this cave, many of
the Icelanders to this day believe that Surtur will one day emerge, to
destroy the world.
Footnote 8:
The names of these rivers are, Svaul, Gunnþrá, Fiörm, Fimbul, Þulr,
Slið, Hrið, Sylgr, Ylgr, Við, Leiptur, and Giöll.
Footnote 9:
These, after the earth was made, became the stars that filled the
heavens.
Footnote 10:
The ingenuity of the heathen could not imagine a world created without
the power of a deity.
Footnote 11:
Oðinn.
Footnote 12:
This seems like a heathen version of the history of Noah and the great
flood.
Footnote 13:
Austri, Vestri, Norðri, and Suðri.
Footnote 14:
Miðgarð.
Footnote 15:
Yo-tun-hime, or _giant’s home_.
Footnote 16:
Alfaðir.
Footnote 17:
The Grimnis-mál.
Footnote 18:
A very rare quality for a female, to keep secrets!
Footnote 19:
Þor, supposed to be a contraction of Þonar; hence his title, the
Thunderer.
Footnote 20:
It will be observed that Odin and Thor, in their various attributes,
are represented much like Saturn and Jupiter. Thor’s youthful
attendants are like the Hebe and Ganymede of Jove.
Footnote 21:
He is known as Baldur the Good; and corresponds very nearly to the
Apollo of the ancient Greeks.
Footnote 22:
Balldursbrá; and so known in Sweden to this day.
Footnote 23:
In this he certainly excels the lawyers and judges of the present day.
Footnote 24:
There is no account of any of the Scandinavian deities using the
razor; not even the weakest and simplest of them; that folly being
specially reserved for men. Bragi in preserving the manly appendage,
the beard, showed himself in this, as in other things, one of the
foremost of his race, and a fit associate for superior intelligences.
Footnote 25:
A character much like Ceres.
Footnote 26:
In this myth we see a quiet satire on those, who to gratify some
darling passion or desire, sacrifice their most valuable possessions.
Footnote 27:
A sort of female Æsculapius.
Footnote 28:
Their names are Geirölul, Göll, Herfjötur, Hlökk, Hrist, Mist,
Radgrid, Randgrid, Reginlief, Skeggold, Skögul, and Þrudur.
CHAPTER XXIV
SCANDINAVIAN MYTHOLOGY CONCLUDED.—ADVENTURES OF THOR, AND THE DEATH OF
BALDUR.
NEARLY all the deities have been noticed. The origin of night and day,
and the sun and moon are thus given. The giant Njörvi, who dwelt in
Jötunheim, had a daughter called Night,[29] who, like all of her race,
was of a dark and swarthy complexion. Night married a man named Annar,
and had a daughter called Earth.[30] She next espoused Delling, one of
the Æsir; and their son was Day,[31] a child light and beauteous like
its father. Odin then gave to Night and her son Day two horses and two
cars, and set them up in the heavens, to drive successively one after
the other round the world in twelve hours’ time. Night goes first,
driving the horse Hrimfaxi; and he, every morn, as he ends his course,
bedews the earth with foam that falls from his bit. Day follows with his
horse Skinfaxi; and from his mane light is shed over the earth and the
heavens. The man Mundilfari had two children so lovely and graceful that
he called the boy Máni (moon), and the girl Sol (sun). The gods, being
angry at the man’s presumption, placed his children in the heavens. The
bright and illuminated car of the sun, which the gods made out of the
sparks that fell from Muspelheim, to give light to the world, was drawn
by the horses Arvak and Alsvid, and driven by Sól. Máni was set to
direct the moon in his course, and guide his increasing and waning
aspect. Two wolves, Sköll and Hati, are constantly in pursuit of the sun
and moon; and it is on this account that they fly so swiftly through the
heavens. One day these wolves will overtake and devour them.
One of the gods is named LOKI; and to him is ascribed nearly all the
evil that is suffered in the world. He was the calumniator of the
Æsir, the contriver of frauds and mischief, and the disgrace of both
gods and men. He had a terrible offspring by Angurbodi, a giantess of
Jötunheim. These were, the wolf Fenrir, the Midgard serpent, and Hela,
or Death. The wolf Fenrir could only be fed by TYR, the god of Bravery,
who, as will be seen, was called the one-handed. Tyr is the most daring
and intrepid of the gods. He dispenses valor in battle, and his aid
is invoked by warriors. The gods were warned by the oracles, that the
power of the wolf was becoming dangerous; and Tyr attempted to make
a fetter to bind him. The first trial failed, the wolf snapping the
cords asunder as if they had been threads. Tyr next made the fetter
called Gleipnir, fashioning it out of six things; namely, the noise
made out of the foot-fall of a cat, the beards of women, the roots of
stones, the sinews of bears, the breath of fish, and the spittle of
birds. Though this cord was as fine and soft as silk, the wolf would
not consent to be bound with it, unless Tyr would let him take one of
his hands in his mouth. To this he consented; and the gods then bound
the wolf; and, finding he could not free himself by breaking the
fetter, he revenged himself by biting off the right hand of Tyr. When
the offspring of Loki were born, Odin sent for them; and after having
the wolf put in fetters, threw the Midgard serpent into the ocean
that surrounded the earth. Here the monster grew to such size that he
encircled the whole earth, with his tail in his mouth. HELA (Death)
was cast by Odin into Niflheim; and her abode is known as Helheim,
or Hel. Her habitation is surrounded by exceedingly high walls, and
strongly-barred gates. Her hall is called Elvidmir; Hunger is her
table; Starvation, her knife; Delay, her man; Slowness, her maid;
Precipice, her threshold; Care, her bed; and Burning Anguish forms the
hanging of her apartments.
The spirits of those who fell in battle, were carried at once to Odin,
in Valhalla—the hall of the slain; and on this account Odin is called
Val-father, or father of the slain. Those who die a natural death, or of
old age, were taken to Hel. These abodes, however, were not of eternal
duration, but only continued until Ragnarok—the final judgment and
destruction of the earth and all material things. Valhalla is not
represented as a place of unalloyed happiness, nor Hel of continued
misery; yet the former was far the most desirable abode. The joys of
Valhalla are imagined and pictured on the basis of all our ideas of
happiness in another world—the highest degree of felicity known in
this.[32]
The joys and employments in Valhalla, will consist of eating, drinking,
and fighting. The spirits of the slain will roam through the vast hall,
and eat and drink with the Æsir. The whole celestial banquet will
consist of ale, and the flesh of one wild boar, which, being cut off
every day, renews itself every night. The goddesses, or women, wait at
table, and fill the drinking horns. When the morning repast is over,
they all ride out into the plain, and fight, and cut one another to
pieces. They are, however, perpetually renewed; and, towards evening,
all resume their usual form, and return to drink ale together. Valhalla
was of immense size, had five hundred and forty doors, and was spacious
enough to contain the Æsir, and all the brave spirits that Odin called
to him from earth. In all the accounts of Hel and Valhalla, to be found
in the ancient Eddas, there is nothing that goes to prove that the
Scandinavians believed in a place of eternal punishment. One or two
brief passages from the Younger Edda are quoted, to show that such was
the case; but these are proved to have been interpolations in the
manuscript of the Edda, by a modern christian writer.
An early period is spoken of, called the Golden Age. Odin had
constructed a court, or hall, of great magnificence. It was resplendent
on all sides, within and without, with the finest gold. He appointed
rulers or judges, to judge with him the fate of men; and in the hall he
had twelve seats for them, besides his own throne. This court of justice
was called Gladsheim. Another edifice, a very fair structure, was
erected for the goddesses. This was called Vingolf. Lastly, a smithy was
built, and furnished with hammers, tongs, anvils, and all manner of
tools for working in wood, stone, and metal. All the movable things
belonging to the gods, were made of gold; and from this the period was
known as the Golden Age.
The age lasted until women arrived from Jötunheim, and corrupted it.
The exploits of Thor form the subjects of the most lengthy and
characteristic legends in the mythology of the Scandinavians. At one
time Ægir, the ocean deity, entertained all the gods in Asgard, giving
them a great feast, at the period of the autumnal equinox. He furnished
enough to eat, but drink was greatly wanting; for he had no vessel large
enough to brew ale for such a numerous company. Thor hearing that the
giant Hymir owned a famous cauldron of great size, he, in company with
Tyr, set out for Jötunheim, to obtain it, determined either by fair
means or foul to carry it away. After various adventures he gets it,
claps it on his head like a huge hat, and walks off with it, the ears of
the cauldron reaching down to his heels! The giants follow and attack
him; but he slays them all with his terrible mallet. Having obtained the
cauldron, Ægir brewed as much ale as was required; and Loki, Thor, and
all the company, have a regular drinking bout. It ended as such scenes
usually do—in a fight; and Loki killed one of Ægir’s servants, for which
he was expelled by the gods, and kicked out of doors. He was afterwards,
however, restored to his place.
Thor and Loki had a famous journey to Jötunheim, the land of the giants.
Thor, as usual, rode in his car drawn by two goats; and when night came
they put up at the cottage of a peasant, both the travelers assuming the
form and costume of men. Thor killed his goats, and after flaying them,
put them in a kettle to cook for their supper, and asked the peasant and
his family to partake with him. The peasant’s son was named Thjálfi, and
the daughter Röskva. Thor told them to throw all the bones into the
goats’ skins, which were spread out on the floor; but Thjálfi broke one
of the bones to get at the marrow. The next morning, Thor raised his
mallet, consecrated the goats’ skins, and they instantly assumed their
usual form, alive and well and ready to pursue the journey; but one of
the goats was found to be lame in one leg. To appease the anger of Thor,
the peasant offered any thing he possessed as a compensation. Thor chose
both his children; and ever after Thjálfi the Nimble and Röskva the
Quick were his attendants. They then continued their journey, passed out
of Mannheim, crossed a broad ocean, and entered a deep forest. They saw
a large hall, and, entering it, went to sleep in a deep room at one end.
During the night, there was an earthquake and a terrible roaring, which
shook the whole edifice. In the morning they found a giant of enormous
size, sleeping and snoring near them; and the vast edifice was his glove
which he had thrown off, and they had slept in the thumb of it. The
giant’s name was Skrymir, and when he awoke he knew Thor at once and
called him by name. He offered to carry the wallet of provisions and
relieve Thjálfi, and after breakfast they journeyed together. Thor,
wishing to get rid of his new fellow-traveler, when night arrived,
hurled his mallet at him after he was asleep; and it was buried deep in
his skull. Waking up, the giant asked if a leaf had fallen on his head.
He slept again, and Thor made two more efforts—once his mallet going
deep into his cheek; and again, burying it in his head up to the handle.
The giant merely put up his hand and asked if a bit of moss or an acorn
had fallen on him. He soon, however, left Thor, and pursued his journey
to the north. The travelers arrived at the city of Utgard, situated in a
vast plain, and immediately paid their respects to Utgard-Loki, the
king. His majesty looked at the Thunderer with great contempt, called
him a stripling, and said if he was not mistaken it must be Aku-Thor.
The king challenged Thor and his companions to try various feats of
skill and strength with his subjects, the giants of Jötunheim. Loki sat
down to a trough filled with meat, and to eat a race with a giant; but
he got vanquished, his competitor eating the most, and swallowing bones
and all. Thor then produced Thjálfi to run a race, and he was completely
distanced. Thor himself then attempted a drinking bout with the giants;
but at three long pulls he could not empty a single horn. He then tried
his hand at lifting; but though the giants only furnished a common gray
cat to be lifted, Thor could not raise him from the ground, only lifting
one foot a short distance. Then he tried wrestling; but though his
competitor was a wrinkled old woman, he could not throw her, but came
near being thrown himself. Thor confessed that he was vanquished, and
turned his steps away, being accompanied without the walls of the city
by his majesty Utgard-Loki, in person. Then the king tells Thor that, if
he has his way, the god shall never come into his place again, for he
fears him and only got the better of him that time by stratagem. He said
it was he that met him in the forest, and he had a mountain before him
when he slept; and if Thor would see it on his return, he would observe
two deep vallies where he buried his mallet, while he thought he struck
Utgard himself. The two immense glens that could be seen in the mountain
were but the dints of Thor’s mallet. In the contest of eating, the
competitor of Loki was Fire itself, that consumed all before it. Thjálfi
ran a race with Hugi—Thought—which flies faster than the fleetest being
that is created. The old woman who wrestled with Thor was Old Age, which
could in time lay every thing low. What appeared to be a cat, was the
great Midgard serpent, that encompassed the whole earth. The horn he
drank from extended to the sea itself; and in this he performed a most
prodigious feat, for he settled it greatly, as could be seen, and which
was called the ebb. Thor, on hearing how he had been vanquished by
stratagem, raised his mallet to strike down the giant; but on turning,
he had disappeared, and, instead of a city near by, he saw nothing but a
vast plain. This was the end of Thor’s adventures in Jötunheim. Then to
reëstablish his reputation, Thor went out to fish for the great Midgard
serpent. He took no companions, not even his car or goats. He traveled
in the guise of a young man, and put up at the house of a giant named
Hymir, who was going fishing; and he asked Thor to provide some bait. He
went into a herd of the giant’s oxen, and seizing the largest bull,
wrung off his head; and returning with it, the two put off to sea
together. They rowed much further than the giant had ever gone before;
and Thor, baiting a hook and line of great strength with the head of the
bull, cast it out. The Midgard serpent immediately swallowed it, and
Thor drew upon him. The scene was now most dreadful. Thor pulled so hard
that his feet broke through the boat, and went down to the bottom of the
sea. Thor darted looks of ire at the serpent, and he in turn spouted
floods of venom upon him. The giant turned pale with fright, took out
his knife and cut the line, when the serpent sunk under water. Thor then
grasped his mallet and hurled it at the monster; but he was low down in
the sea, and escaped, though some say his head was struck off at the
bottom of the ocean. Thor then, with his fist, hit the giant a blow
under the ear that knocked him out of sight; and then, with rapid
strides, he waded ashore.
Baldur the Good having dreamed that harm was to come to him, Friga, his
mother, hearing of it, exacted an oath from every thing, animate and
inanimate, stones, trees, fire, metals, and all living things, that they
would not hurt Baldur. One thing only was omitted—the misletoe. It was
then a favorite amusement for Baldur to stand up, and have the Æsir
throw at him their darts, javelins, battle-axes, and other missiles; for
none could harm him. Loki, under the guise of an old woman, hearing that
the misletoe had not taken the oath, gathered a branch, and calling
Hödur, the blind god, told him to hurl it at Baldur, saying he would
guide his arm, and it being only a twig, it could not hurt him. Hödur
threw it, under the guidance of Loki; and Baldur the Good was slain. The
gods were speechless with horror, looked at each other, and broke out
into violent lamentations of grief. Odin was most sensible of the great
loss the Æsir had suffered; and Friga asked who would gain her love and
good will by riding to Hel, and trying to find Baldur, and offer to Hela
a ransom for his return to Asgard. Hermod offered his services, and
left, mounted on Odin’s famous horse, Sleipnir. While Hermod was on this
mission, Baldur’s body was borne to the sea shore to be burnt. His ship
Hringhorn, the largest in the world, was required for a funeral pile;
but no one could move it, till they sent to Jötunheim for a famous
giantess named Hyrrokin. She came mounted on a wolf, with twisted
serpents for a bridle, and with one push moved the vessel as they wanted
it. Baldur’s body was borne to the funeral pile on board the ship; and
the ceremony had such an effect on Nanna, that she died of grief, and
her body was burned on the same pile with her husband’s. Thor hallowed
the pile with his mallet, and during the ceremony kicked a dwarf into
the fire, because he ran before him. At Baldur’s obsequies was a vast
concourse. First, there was Odin, with Friga, the valkyrjor, and his
ravens; then Frey, in his car drawn by the boar with golden bristles.
Heimdall rode his horse, Gulltopp; Freyja drove in her chariot drawn by
cats. There were also present many Frost-giants and giants of the
mountains. Baldur’s horse, fully caparisoned, was burned along with the
body of his master.
Hermod pursued his journey till he arrived at the gates of Hel, and
found them barred. He alighted, tightened the girths, mounted, put spurs
to the horse, and at one leap sprang over the gate without touching. He
found Baldur occupying the most distinguished seat in the hall; and
after spending a night with him, asked Hela (death) to let Baldur return
to Asgard. She said she would consent to it, provided Baldur was so
beloved that every thing would weep for him. Hermod then returned,
bearing a gold ring as a present to Odin from Baldur, and some valuable
gifts from Nanna to Friga. Every thing wept for Baldur, except one old
woman, who refused. This was found to be Loki in disguise, who never
ceased to work evil among the Æsir. To escape the wrath of the gods,
Loki changed himself into a salmon, was pursued down a river, and in
leaping a net was caught by Thor in his hands. The gods then confined
him in a cavern, with a serpent directly over him; and as the venom
drops on him, he writhes and howls, and this makes that shaking of the
earth that men call earthquakes. Loki’s two children were taken, and one
changed to a wolf; and he immediately devoured the other.
The end of all material things is known as Ragnarök,—the twilight of the
gods, and conflagration of the universe. The world becomes corrupt; a
wolf devours the sun, and another wolf the moon; trees fall, and
mountains tumble to pieces. The wolf Fenrir opens his enormous mouth,
the lower jaw being on the earth, and the upper reaching to heaven; the
Midgard serpent gains the land, and heaven is cleft in twain. The sons
of Muspell ride through the breach, led by Surtur, in the midst of
flaming fire. Bifröst breaks in pieces, and a vast assemblage gathers on
the battle-field of Vigrid, which is a hundred miles long. Heimdall
stands up, and, with all his might, blows a blast on the Gjallar-horn,
which arouses all the gods. Odin asks advice of Mimir; the Æsir, and all
the heroes of Valhalla, led by the All-father, go forth to the field of
battle. The ash, Yggdrasill, begins to shake; a dissolution of all
things is at hand. Odin places himself against the wolf Fenrir, and Thor
encounters the Midgard serpent. Frey meets Surtur, and they exchange
terrible blows; but Frey falls, as he has been without his trusty sword
ever since he fell in love with Gerda. The dog, Garm, that had been
chained in a cave, breaks loose, and attacks Tyr, and they kill each
other. Thor slays the Midgard serpent, thereby gaining great renown;
but, retiring nine paces, he falls dead on the spot, being suffocated
with the venom that the dying serpent throws over him. Odin is swallowed
by the wolf; and Vidar, coming up, with his foot on the lower jaw and
his hand on the upper, he tears the animal’s jaws apart, and rends him
till he dies. Loki and Heimdall fight, and kill each other. This most
terrible battle being over, Surtur darts fire and flame over the world,
and the whole universe is consumed by it. A heaven, and many abodes,
both good and bad, are supposed to exist after this; for the spirits of
all who have lived are immortal. A new earth, most lovely and verdant,
shall rise out of the sea, and grain shall grow unsown. During the
conflagration, a woman named Lif (Life) and a man named Lifthrasir, lie
concealed in Hodmimir’s forest. They feed on morning dew, and their
descendants soon cover the earth again. Vidar and Vali survive the
conflagration, and dwell on the plain of Ida, where Asgard formerly
stood. Thither went the sons of Thor, Modi and Magni, carrying with them
their father’s mallet, Mjölnir. Baldur and Hödur repaired thither from
the abode of death (Hel) and there they hold converse on their past
perils and adventures. A famous ship, called Skidbladnir, is spoken of,
that is so large that it would hold all the Æsir, and their weapons. It
was built by the dwarfs, and presented to Frey; and, being constructed
of many pieces and with great skill, when not wanted Frey could fold it
up like a piece of cloth and put it in his pocket. In the language of
the Edda,
The ash, Yggdrasill,
Is the first of trees;
As Skidbladnir of ships,
Odin of Æsir,
Sleipnir of steeds,
Bifröst of bridges,
Bragi of bards,
Hábrok of hawks,
And Garm of hounds, is.
FOOTNOTES:
-----
Footnote 29:
Nót.
Footnote 30:
Jörð.
Footnote 31:
Dagr.
Footnote 32:
The learned and enlightened Christian imagines Heaven as a place or
state of being, where evil, sin, and pain are unknown; and where the
celestial employments will consist of investigating the works of the
Creator, and glorifying his name. The poor Indian dreams of pleasant
hunting-grounds—some happy island in the watery waste—and thinks,
——“admitted to that equal sky,
His faithful dog shall bear him company.”
An old lady who had just “experienced religion,” was asked what she
thought would be the employments of the good in heaven; or how they
would pass their time. She replied, that she thought she would be
permitted to sit all day, in a clean, white apron, and sing psalms. We
need not smile at the simplicity of the good old dame; for, is it not
probable that the celestial labors and enjoyments will as far exceed
the ideas of the most learned Christian, as his imagination goes
beyond that of the good woman, or the rude joys of the unlettered
savage?
CHAPTER XXV
EARLY LITERATURE OF THE ICELANDERS—EDDAS AND SAGAS—MANNERS AND CUSTOMS
OF THE PERIOD—EXTRACTS FROM THE POETIC EDDA.
ACCORDING to the system of the Northmen, man and woman were the last
and most perfect productions of the creative power. After the Æsir,
the Jötuns and the Dwarfs had a being. Odin and two other deities were
walking on the sea-shore, and came to two trees, and from them they
made the first man, ASK, and the first woman, EMBLA. They had allotted
to them, for a residence, Midgard, which, from being the home of man,
was called Mannheim; and from these two, Ask and Embla, are descended
the whole human race. Some time after this, Heimdal, the warder and
trumpeter of the gods, wandered over the earth under the name of
Rigr. He was received and hospitably entertained by the descendants
of Ask and Embla; first by Ai—Great Grandfather,—and Edda—Great
Grandmother,—who dwelt in a lowly hut; next by Afi—Grandfather,—and
Amma—Grandmother,—living in a comfortable habitation; and, lastly, by
Father and Mother,[33] who occupied a splendid mansion. The deity,
by his beneficent presence, infuses a vital energy into his hosts;
and, in due time after his departure, Edda, Amma, and Mother, each
give birth to a son. The infants are sprinkled with water at the
moment of their birth: Edda’s son is called Thræll—_Thrall_; Amma’s,
Karl—_Churl_; and Mother’s, Jarl, or _Noble_; and these three,
Thrall, Churl, and Noble, have each a numerous offspring. Here is an
aristocratic explanation of the three castes that appear, at an early
period, to have formed the frame-work of Scandinavian society,—the
thralls, or slaves; the churls, or free peasants—odalsmen, as they were
afterwards termed; and the nobles. The poet, in his Edda,[34] describes
the thralls as having black hair, an unsightly countenance, uncouth
appearance, and of low and deformed stature; physiological traits
characteristic of the Lapps, who were probably reduced to a state of
vassalage by their Scandinavian conquerors. The destiny of the thralls
is to toil incessantly, in order that by their labor the churls may
obtain sufficient produce from the earth to enable the nobles to live
with becoming splendor. The poet shows his contempt for this class, by
giving Thrall’s sons such names as Frousy, Stumpy, Plumpy, Sootyface,
Slowpace, Homespun, &c., and calling his daughters Lazybody, Cranefoot,
Smokynose, and Tearclout. Among the churls, sons of Karl, we find
such names as Stiffbeard, Husbandman, Holder (of land), and Smith;
the daughters being designated Prettyface, Swanlike, Blithespeech,
Chatterbox, &c. The poet, though, reserves the most of his eloquence
for the nobles, who, he says, have fair hair, a clear complexion, and
fine piercing eyes; their sole avocations being to wield the sword,
dart the javelin, rein the fiery steed, chase the deer, and other
elegant amusements, which Jarl’s descendants still delight to astonish
the churls with. Jarl—equivalent to Earl—marries Erna—Lively—the
daughter of Hersir—Baron; but the poet only gives the names of the
sons; names that usually designate relationship, as Cousin, Nephew, &c.
The literary history of Iceland, in the early ages of the republic, is
of a most interesting character. When we consider the limited population
of the country, and the many disadvantages under which they labored,
their literature is the most remarkable on record. The old Icelanders,
from the tenth to the sixteenth century, through a period in the history
of the world when little intellectual light beamed from the surrounding
nations, were as devoted and ardent workers in the fields of history and
poetry as any community in the world, under the most favorable
circumstances. Previous to the present century, the learned world seemed
to consider the writings of the Icelanders as almost unworthy of notice.
With the discovery through old manuscripts that the early voyages of the
Icelanders extended to the American coast, there was an interest
aroused, and curiosity was excited to learn the entire history of this
energetic and intellectual race. Springing from the old Norse, or
Norwegian stock, they carried the language and habits of their ancestors
with them to their island home. During a period of nearly one thousand
years, since the first settlement of the country, the Icelandic has
undergone less change—with perhaps one exception—than any language now
spoken. Though a very large number of our English words are derived
direct from the Icelandic, yet the most learned and indefatigable of our
lexicographers, both in England and America, have acknowledged their
ignorance of this language. Through the labors of Professors Rask, Rafn,
and Müller, M. Mallett, Mr. Finn Magnusen, and others, the language and
literature of this country is now open to us.
The writings of the early Icelanders are principally Eddas and Sagas.
The Eddas are the heroic poems of the day, and describe the deeds and
prowess of heroes and warriors; and some of them abound in mythological
machinery to an extent quite equal to the writings of Homer and Virgil.
The two principal Eddas are known as the Poetic, or _Elder_ Edda, and
the _Younger_, or Prose Edda. The Sagas are historical writings, give a
picture of the public and private life of the Icelanders, their manners
and customs, feuds, combats, voyages, and discoveries, biography of
eminent persons, and such a description of their national and social
state, as enables us to see the character and habits of the people
during the early years of the Icelandic Republic.
The ELDER EDDA consists of thirty-nine poems, and is ascribed to SÆMUND
SIGFUSSON, surnamed FRODE, or, “the _learned_.” He flourished at the
close of the eleventh, and beginning of the twelfth century; was
educated at the Universities of France and Germany, and returned to
Iceland, and became the parish priest of Oddi, a village near the foot
of Mt. Hekla. He devoted himself to the education of youth, deciphering
Runic manuscripts, and the cultivation of letters. Some suppose that he
was only the author of one of these poems; that he found the others in
manuscript, or obtained them from oral tradition. In proof of this, one
only—the Sólar-ljóth—Lay of the Sun—contains the least allusion to
Christianity. All the others bear marks of greater antiquity than the
eleventh century.
The PROSE, or YOUNGER EDDA, was written many years subsequent to the
Elder Edda. It contains a complete system of Scandinavian Mythology,
all, or nearly all, derived from the Elder.
The account of the Mythology of the Northmen in the former chapters, is
principally from Mallett’s account of the younger Edda,—Bishop Percy’s
translation. Snorri Sturlason, one of the most remarkable men in the
annals of Iceland, is said to be the writer and compiler of the younger
Edda. The prominent incidents of his life give a striking picture of
the manners of the age in which he lived. This was several generations
later than the time of Sæmund Frode. Snorri was born at Hvam, in Myra
Sysla, in the year 1178. He was a historian and poet, as well as a
powerful political chieftain, and at one time the wealthiest man in
Iceland. During his life he was twice elected Supreme Magistrate, or
President of the Republic. At three years of age, he was taken into
the care of John Lopston, of Oddi, grandson of Sæmund Frode, and
lived with him till he was twenty years of age. He flourished in a
stormy period, and led a turbulent and ambitious life. He received an
excellent education from his foster-father, and turned every favorable
circumstance to his own advantage. Appreciating the adage, that “money
is power,” he married Herdisa, the daughter of a priest called Bersi
the Rich—a very enviable surname, which, no doubt, enabled the reverend
gentleman to brave the bulls and decrees of popes and councils, and
take to himself a wife—who brought him a very considerable fortune.
If we judge by the career of Snorri, Christianity had not, at this
period, much improved the character of the Icelanders. We have the
same turbulent and sanguinary scenes, the same loose conduct of the
women, and the perfidy and remorseless cruelty of the men, as in Pagan
times. Snorri lived twenty-five years with Herdisa, obtained a divorce,
married a rich heiress, quarreled with a son and daughter of his first
wife respecting pecuniary matters, had a number of illegitimate, or,
rather, adulterine children, and was finally murdered by three of his
sons-in-law and a step-son. Three of his illegitimate daughters were
married to men of rank, and in more respects than one, were like the
daughters of Lear. Their husbands were obliged to get rid of them by
suing for legal divorces, on account of their loose conduct. One of
them, Ingjibjörg, married a second time, but was again divorced, and
became notorious, even in Iceland, for her debaucheries.[35] By his
marriages, his learning, shrewdness, and ambition, Snorri became the
most wealthy and powerful man in the country, and, for some time the
political head of the state. We are told that sometimes he made his
appearance at the national assembly with eight or nine hundred men
in his train. His ambition was literary, as well as political, and
his celebrity was not confined to his own country. He visited Norway,
composed and recited a poem in praise of Hacon, a powerful jarl; and
strengthened his position at home by an alliance with neighboring
chiefs on the continent. Like the emperors of Rome, he constructed a
sumptuous bath of cut stone and cement, which, to this day, is called
_Snorri-laug_, or Snorri’s Bath. It is circular, and spacious enough
to swim in. It is supplied with hot water from a spouting fountain or
geyser, by a conduit over five hundred feet in length. Though more than
six hundred years have passed since it was built, it is in good repair
at the present day, and has been used as a temporary bathing-place by
some modern travelers.
After a period of unexampled prosperity, Snorri began to experience the
frowns of fortune. His avarice, ambition, and turbulent disposition,
made him unpopular at home, and embroiled him in quarrels with
neighboring chiefs and rulers. Gissur Thorvaldsen, formerly his
son-in-law, was ordered by Hacon, king of Norway, to make him a
prisoner, and bring him before the king; and if he could not take him
alive, to bring him dead. Having an eye on his estates, Thorvaldsen
assassinated him, on the night of the 22d of September, 1241, and
immediately took possession of his property. Snorri fell in the 63d
year of his age. A letter in the Runic character, was sent to him, a
few hours before his death, warning him of his danger; but we are told,
notwithstanding his great learning and extensive acquaintance with the
antiquities and literature of the country, that he could not decipher
it. In addition to his poetical and other works, he was author and
compiler of the HEIMSKRINGLA, or “Chronicle of the Kings of Norway,” a
historical work of great interest and celebrity.
A bare recital of the titles of the different poems forming the Eddas,
would be of little interest. One was entitled the VÖLUSPA—_Völu-spá, The
Song of the Prophetess_. Another is the _Háva-mál_,[36] and contains a
complete code of Odinic morality; and, as will be seen by the following
extracts, translated by Bishop Percy, are, many of them, worthy of a
christian age and a christian people. We will close this chapter, and
our account of the Literature and Mythology of the early Icelanders, by
the following quotations from the Old Eddaic poem, the HÁVAMÁL:
1. Consider and examine well all your doors before you venture to stir
abroad; for he is exposed to continual danger, whose enemies lie in
ambush, concealed in his court.
3. To the guest who enters your dwelling with frozen knees, give the
warmth of your fire; he who hath traveled over the mountains, hath need
of food and well-dried garments.
4. Offer water to him who sits down at your table; for he hath occasion
to cleanse his hands; and entertain him honorably and kindly, if you
would win from him friendly words, and a grateful return.
5. He who traveleth hath need of wisdom. One may do at home whatsoever
one will; but he who is ignorant of good manners, will only draw
contempt upon himself when he comes to sit down with men well
instructed.
7. He who goes to a feast where he is not expected, either speaks with a
lowly voice, or is silent; he listens with his ears, and is attentive
with his eyes; by this he acquires knowledge and wisdom.
8. Happy he who draws upon himself the applause and benevolence of men!
for whatever depends upon the will of others, is hazardous and
uncertain.
10. A man can carry with him no better provision for his journey, than
the strength of understanding. In a foreign country, this will be of
more use to him than treasures; and will introduce him to the table of
strangers.
12-13. A man cannot carry a worse custom with him to a banquet, than
that of drinking too much; the more the drunkard swallows the less is
his wisdom, till he loses his reason. The bird of oblivion sings before
those who inebriate themselves, and steals away their souls.
16. A coward thinks he shall live forever, if he can but keep out of the
reach of arms; but though he should escape every weapon, old age, that
spares none, will give him no quarter.
17. The gluttonous man, if he is not upon his guard, eats his own death;
and the gluttony of a fool makes the wise man laugh.
21. The flocks know when to return to the fold, and to quit the pasture;
but the worthless and the slothful know not how to restrain their
gluttony.
22. The lewd and dissolute man makes a mock of every thing; not
considering how much he himself is the object of derision. No one ought
to laugh at another until he is free from faults himself.
23. A man void of sense ponders all night long, and his mind wanders
without ceasing; but when he is weary at the point of day, he is nothing
wiser than he was over night.
32. Many are thought to be knit in the ties of sincere kindness; but
when it comes to the proof, how much are they deceived! Slander is the
common vice of the age. Even the host backbites his guest.
37. One’s own home is the best home, though never so small. Every thing
one eats at home is sweet. He who lives at another man’s table, is often
obliged to wrong his palate.
41. Let friends pleasure each other reciprocally with presents of arms
and habits. Those who give and those who receive, continue a long time
friends, and often give feasts to each other.
43. Love both your friends and your friends’ friends; but do not favor
the friend of your enemies.
45. Hast thou a friend whom thou canst not well trust, but wouldst make
him useful to thee; speak to him with bland words, but think craftily,
and thus render him levity for lies.
47. When I was young, I wandered about alone; I thought myself rich if I
chanced to light upon a companion. A man gives pleasure to another man.
51. Peace, among the perfidious, continues for five nights to shine
bright as a flame; but when the sixth night approaches, the flame waxes
dim, and is quite extinguished; then all their amity turns to hatred.
55. Let not a man be over wise; neither let him be more curious than he
ought. Let him not seek to know his destiny, if he would sleep secure
and quiet.
67. They invite me up and down to feasts, if I have only need of a
slight breakfast: my faithful friend is he who will give me one loaf
when he has but two.
70. Whilst we live, let us live well; for be a man never so rich when he
lights his fire, death may perhaps enter his door before it be burnt
out.
72. It is better to have a son late than never. One seldom sees
sepulchral stones raised over the graves of the dead by any other hands
but those of their own offspring.
77. Riches pass away like the twinkling of an eye; of all friends, they
are the most inconstant. Flocks perish; relations die; friends are not
immortal; you will die yourself; but I know one thing alone that is out
of the reach of fate; and that is the judgment which is passed upon the
dead.
81. Praise the fineness of the day when it is ended; praise a woman when
she is buried; a sword when you have proved it; a maiden after she is
married; the ice when once you have crossed it; and the liquor after it
is drunk.
84. Trust not to the words of a girl, neither to those which a woman
utters; for their hearts have been made like the wheel that turns round;
levity was put into their bosoms.
86-87. Trust not to the ice of one day’s freezing; neither to the
serpent that lies asleep; nor to the caresses of her you are going to
marry; nor to a sword that is cracked or broken; nor to the son of a
powerful man; nor to a field that is newly sown.
90. Peace between malicious women is compared to a horse that is made to
walk over the ice not properly shod; or to a vessel in a storm without a
rudder; or to a lame man who should attempt to follow the mountain goats
with a young foal, or yearling mule.
92. He who would make himself beloved by a maiden, must entertain her
with fine discourses, and offer her engaging presents; he must also
incessantly praise her beauty. It requires good sense to be a skillful
lover.
95. The heart alone knows what passes within the heart, and that which
betrays the soul, is the soul itself. There is no malady or sickness
more severe than not to be content with one’s lot.
119. Never discover your uneasiness to an evil person, for he will
afford you no comfort.
121. Know that if you have a friend, you ought to visit him often. The
road is grown over with grass, the bushes quickly spread over it, if it
is not constantly traveled.
123. Be not the first to break with your friend. Sorrow gnaws the heart
of him who has no one to advise with but himself.
130. I advise you to be circumspect, but not too much: be so, however,
when you have drunk to excess, when you are near the wife of another,
and when you find yourself among robbers.
131. Do not accustom yourself to mocking; neither laugh at your guest
nor a stranger: they who remain at home often know not who the stranger
is that cometh to their gate.
136. Laugh not at the gray-headed declaimer, nor at the aged grandsire.
There often come forth from the wrinkles of the skin, words full of
wisdom.
140. The fire drives away diseases; Runic characters destroy the effect
of imprecations; the earth swallows up inundations; and death
extinguishes hatred and quarrels.
FOOTNOTES:
-----
Footnote 33:
Faðir and Moðir.
Footnote 34:
The _Rigsmál_, a poem of the Mythic-ethnologic class.
Footnote 35:
Mallet.
Footnote 36:
_Mál_, song, discourse, speech, a word cognate with the Anglo-Saxon
_mal_, _mæl_, the Greek μέλος, &c. Háva-mál signifies the discourse or
canticle of the sublime; _i. e._ deity. Odin himself was supposed to
have given these precepts of wisdom to mankind.
CHAPTER XXVI
——“Litera scripta manet,”
The poet saith. Pray let me show my vanit-
Y, and have “a foreign slipslop now and then,
If but to prove I’ve traveled; and what’s travel,
Unless it teaches one to quote and cavil?”
THE modern literature of the Icelanders is of quite a different
character from that in heathen times, and in the early history of the
country, from the tenth to the sixteenth century. They seem as much
devoted to poetry as their ancestors, and their style of versification
is similar; but they court the muse in a different strain. The poetry
of the modern Icelanders does not abound in mythology, hyperbole, and
fable; and it may reasonably be supposed that works of imagination
have lost something of the hue of romance that is thrown around
the productions of a heroic age. A study of the works of foreign
authors—translations from eminent christian poets, in Norway, Germany,
England, and the United States, are favorite pursuits of the modern
Icelanders; and works of this description are among the most popular
published in the country.
Among the original writers and translators of the present century, none
rank as high as Jon Thorlakson. Receiving a scanty salary of less than
fifty dollars a year, as parish priest of Bægisa, and laboring hard as a
farmer, he yet found time to translate from English and German writers,
and to compose original poetry, to the extent of several octavo volumes,
About the year 1818, his case attracted the attention of a learned
society in London, and a sum of money was forwarded to him to smooth his
declining years; but he survived only till 1821, being over seventy
years of age at the time of his death. His translation of Milton was
published in Icelandic, in octavo—double columns—a volume of over 400
pages, in 1828. The “Essay on Man,” and a volume of original poetry of
great merit were published in 1842. Among his original poems are two
versions of the story of Inkle and Yarico.
The style of versification in vogue among the early Icelandic writers
was very peculiar. Its harmony was dependent, not so much on rhyme and
the number of syllables in a line, as upon peculiar alliterations. Their
language abounding in consonants, this seemed easier than rhymes, which
were seldom used. Some of their kinds of verse had regular alliterations
at the commencement of the lines; other varieties, just so many
alliterations in a line, or alliterations in a similar position in
certain words of corresponding lines. The following is a very good
example. It is from an “Address to the New Year,” or, more literally,
“The sight of the New Year.”
NYARS VISUR.
Verði bliðda veðurs!
Viðir blómgi hliðar!
Veiðist vel á miðum!
Vaxi gengdin laxa!
Glitri grund og flötur!
Groi tun og floi!
Neytist afl til nota!
Nytist allt til hlitar!
How ingenious and regular are the alliterations! This is from a poem,
written in 1847. During the present century, rhymes have been gaining in
favor greatly. A longer meter and more perfect rhythm is also
cultivated. The old verse, and much of the more modern, is a very short
meter, which, to us, does not seem as poetical as a more stately and
majestic tread. Formerly, and sometimes at the present day, verse was
printed without capitals, except at the commencement of a stanza. Let us
see how old John Milton looks in an Icelandic dress; and how Mr.
Thorlakson sings:—
Of man’s first disobedience, and the fruit
Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste
Brought death into the world and all our woe.
UM fyrsta manns
felda hlýðni
ok átlystíng
af epli forboðnu,
hvaðan óvægr
upp kom dauði,
Edens missir,
ok allt böl manna;
Þartil annarr einn,
æðri maðr,
aptr fær
oss viðreista,
ok afrekar nýan
oss til handa
fullsælustað
fögrum sigri;
Sýng þú, Menta-
móðir himneska!
þú sem Hórebs fyrr
á huldum toppi,
eða Sínaí,
sauðaverði
innblést fræðanda
útvalit sæði,
hve alheimr skópst
af alls samblandi;
Eða lysti þik
lángtum heldr
at Zíons hæð
ok Sílóa brunni,
sem framstreymdi
hjá Frétt guðligri!
We can barely recognize the “heavenly Muse”—“Mentamothir
hymneska”—Mother of hymns!—
——“that, on the secret top
Of Oreb, or of Sinai, did’st inspire
That shepherd who first taught the chosen seed,
In the beginning, how Heaven and Earth
Rose out of chaos.”
Thorlakson’s version of Pope’s great Essay is a later translation, and,
probably, a better one. It is longer meter, is all in rhyme, and more in
accordance with the structure of English verse.[37] Here is a selection
from the fourth epistle of the Essay, with the translation:—
But, by your fathers’ worth, if yours you rate,
Count me those only who were good and great.
Go! if your ancient but ignoble blood
Has crept through scoundrels ever since the flood,
Go! and pretend your family is young;
Nor own your fathers have been fools so long.
What can ennoble sots, or slaves, or cowards?—
Alas! not all the blood of all the Howards.
Mr. Thorlakson gives it in this style.
En sé yðvart hið aldna bólð
i ótérligum runnið straum
þartil nu siðan Nóa flóð,
narra-registar gegnum aum,
segið þá heldur yðar ætt
unga; látið ei heyra neinn
að sér hafi svo lengi lædt
i legg þeim dáraskapur einn!
Hvað skarn-þræl, narra, skelmskum hal,
skapa kann aðals-mæti góð?
ei heilar ættar tallaust tal
til vinnst, ei gjörvalt Hovarðs blóð.
One of the finest specimens of Icelandic poetry, is a translation of
Bruce’s Address to his Army, on the following page. It shows the
flexibility of the Icelandic language in a striking light; the piece
preserving the exact number of stanzas, the same number of lines to a
stanza, and rhymes precisely like the song of Burns, so that in the
Icelandic version it can be sung to the same air.
BANNOCKBURN.
AVARP ROBERT BRUCE TIL HERLITHS SINS.
EPTIR BURNS.
Skotar, er Wallace vörðust með,
Víg með Bruce opt hafið sjeð;
Velkomnir að blóðgum beð,
Bjartri eða sigurfrægð!
Stund og dagur dýr nú er;
Dauðinn ógnar hvar sem sjer;
Játvarðs að oss æðir her—
Ok og hlekkja nægð!
Hverr vill bera níðings nafn?
Ná hver bleyðu seðja hrafn?
Falla þræl ófrjálsum jafn?
Flýti hann burtu sjer!
Hverr vill hlinur Hildar báls
Hjör nú draga hins góða máls,
Standa bæði og falla frjáls?
Fari hann eptir mjer!
Ánauðar við eymd og grönd!
Yðar sona þrældóms bönd!
Vjer viljum láta líf og önd,
En leysa úr hlekkjum þá!
Fellið grimma fjendur því!
Frelsi er hverju höggi í!
Sjái oss hrósa sigri ný
Sol, eða orðna að ná!
We give the original, so they may be readily compared.
BANNOCKBURN.
ROBERT BRUCE’S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY.
Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled!
Scots wham Bruce has aften led!
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victory.
Now’s the day and now’s the hour;
See the front o’ battle lour;
See approach proud Edward’s power—
Chains and slavery!
Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha can fill a coward’s grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
Let him turn and flee!
Wha for Scotland’s king and law,
Freedom’s sword will strangly draw?
Freeman stand, or freeman fa’,
Let him follow me!
By oppression’s woes and pains!
By your sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free.
Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty’s in every blow!
Let us do or die!
These examples, though but _disjecta membra poetæ_, are sufficient to
show something of the structure and appearance of Icelandic poetry; and,
probably to the general reader, as interesting as a dissertation that
would fill a volume.
One more specimen, however, of their verse, shall be given; a couple of
stanzas of a very popular Icelandic hymn. It is entitled, “The weeping
of Jacob over Rachel,” or,
GRÁTUR JACOBS YFIR RAKEL.
Hvert er farin hin fagra og blíða?
Fórstu Rakel í svipanna heim?
Fyrir sunnu sje jeg nú líða
Svarta flóka og dimmir í geim.
Rakel! Rakel! daprast nú dagar,
Dvín mjer gleði, brátt enda mun líf;
Leiðir eru mjer ljósgrænir hagar—
Liggur í moldu hið ástkæra víf.
Drottinn Abrahams! deyr nú minn rómur,
Dauðans skuggi í hjarta mjer er;
Drottinn Abrahams! auður og tómur
Er nú heimur og dagsbirta þver;
Drottinn Abrahams! barn Þitt sjá bifa!
Blóðug falla tár þess á mund;
Drottinn Abrahams! lát mig ei lifa!—
Liggur í moldu hið harmdauða sprund.
We will now have a specimen of Icelandic prose. See how queer our good
old plain philosopher Franklin looks in a Northern dress. Here is his
“Story of a Whistle.”
HLJÓTHPÍPAN.
EPTIR DR. BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.
Sönn saga—skrifuð frænda hans ungum.
Það bar til einhvern helgidag þegar eg var eitthvað sjö vetra
gamall, að kunningjar mínir fylltu vasa mína koparskildingum.
Jeg gekk þá strax beina leið til búdar þar sem barnagull voru
seld; en á leiðinni mætti jeg dreng, sem hjelt á _hljóðpípu_, og
þótti mjer svo fallegt hljóðið í henni, að jeg bauð honum af
fyrra bragði allt fje mitt fyrir hana. Siðan fór eg heim og gekk
um öll hús blásandi á _hljóðpípuna_ mína, og var hinn kátasti þó
eg gjörði öllum heimamönnum ónæði. Bræður mínir, systur, og
frændur komust brátt að um kaupskap minn, og sögðu mjer þa að eg
hefði gefið fjórum sinnum meira fyrir pípuna enn hún væri verð.
Þá fór eg að hugsa um hvað marga góða gripi eg hefði getað
eignast fyrir það, sem eptir hefði mátt vertða af skildingum
minum; og þau hlóu svo lengi að heimsku minni, að jeg grjet af
gremju, og umhugsanin um þetta hriggði mig meira enn
_hljóðpípan_ gladdi mig.
Þetta atvik kom mjer þó síðan til nota, því áhrifin urðu eptir í
sál minni; og opt, þegar freistni kom að mjer að kaupe einhvern
óþarfann, sagði eg við sjálfan mig, _gefðu ei of mikið fyrir
hlóðpípuna_; og með því móti hjelt eg fje mínu.
Þegar eg óx upp, komst út í heiminn, og fór að taka eptir
breitni manna, þá fannst mjer svo sem eg hitti marga, mjög
marga, sem _gáfu of mikið fyrir hljóðpípuna_.
Þegar eg sá mann, af eintómri eptirsókn eptir hylli konunga,
eyða aldri sínum í því að bíða eptir hentugleikum þeirra, fórna
næði sínu, frelsi, dygð og jafnvel vinum sínum, til að ná henni,
þá sagði jeg við sjálfan mig, _þessi maður gefur of mikið fyrir
hljóðpípu sína_.
Þegar eg sá annan mann láta mikið af alþýðu hylli, og verja
stundum sínum til að kvetja menn til óspekta, en sjálfum sjer
til óbætanlegs skaða vanrækja efni sín; _hann gefur sannarlega_,
sagði eg þá, _of mikið fyrir hljóðpípu sína_.
Ef eg sje einhvern armingja, sem einasta til þess að geta hrúgað
saman auðæfum, afneitar sjer um alla þægilegleika lífsins, alla
þá ánægju, sem í því er að gjöra vel við aðra, alla virðingu
segi eg þa, _þjer gefið vissulega of mikið fyrir hljóðpípu
yðar_.
Þegar eg mæti gleðimandi, sem fórnar hverju tækifært til að
auðga sál sína eða bæta hag sinn á lofsverðan hátt, og það vegna
eintómrar holdlegrar nautnar: _óláns-maður_, segi eg þá, _þjer
bakið yður böl en ei gleði_: _þjer gefið of mikið fyrir
hljóðpípu yðar_.
Sjái jeg mann af tómri hjegómadýrð sækjast eptir dýrindis fötum,
hússgögnum og öðrum útbunaði, allt meira enn efni hans leyfa,
safna fyrir þá sök skuldum og lenda loks í díflissu; _æ_, segi
eg þá, _hann hefur dýrkeypt, mjög dýrkeypt, hljóðpípu sína_.
Þegar eg sje fagra, blíðlynda meyju, gefna illum og hroðalegum
svola; _mikil hörmung er það_, segi eg þá, _að hún skuli hafa
gefið svona mikið fyrir eina hljóðpípu_.
Í stuttu máli, eg komst að raun um að mikill hluti af eydum
manna kemur af því að þeir meta ranglega gildi hluta, og gefa of
mikið fyrir _hljóðpípur_ sínar.
The word _Hljothpipan_, literally translated, is a pipe, or musical
instrument, made out of a reed. These extracts from Icelandic literature
are undoubtedly very interesting! If not so readily perused as our
English, they at least show the literary taste of the Icelanders, and
something of the variety and style of their composition. Here is an
extract from a newspaper published in Reykjavik a few days after I left;
a copy of which I received by mail after arriving in New York.
From the Þjoðolfur[38] of Aug. 20th, 1852.
Eptirfylgjandi GREIN bað ferðamaðurinn herra PLINY MILES rektor
herra BJARNA JÓNSSON að láta prenta í Þjóðólfi, og senda honum
svo til Vesturheims.
Herra _Pliny Miles_, Vesturheimsmaður og meðlimur
Sagnafjelagsins í Nýju Jórvík, hefur um bríð dvalið á Íslandi og
farið víða um hjeröð landsins. Hann hefur skoðað _Geisir_, litla
_Geisir_, brennisteinnámurnar í _Krisuvik_, og hann kom upp á
tindinn á _Heklu_. Herra _Miles_ hefur skoðað og aðgætt nokkrar
bækur landsins, og hefur hann haft heim með sjer til Vesturheims
nokkrar íslenzkar bækur. Stiptsbókasafnið hefur sent böggul af
bókum þjóðbókasafni Vesturheims, er _Smithson_ er höfundur að,
til endurgjalds fyrir dýrar bækur, er stiptsbókasafnið hafði
nýlega fengið frá bókasafni _Smithsons_. Herra _Miles_ siglir á
póstskipinu til meginlands Norðurálfunnar, og tjáir hann sig
mikillega ánægðan með allt, sem hann hefur sjeð út á Íslandi.
A translation of this is scarcely required, as its purport can be
readily seen. It is a short article written by Mr. Bjarni Johnson, for
the THIOTHOLFUR, and giving an account of the author’s visit to Iceland.
In the Icelandic, whole sentences from other languages are thrown
into one word. The word _Vesturheimsmathur_, fully translated,
is _a man who has his home on the western continent_. It goes on
to speak of this native of the West, as a member of the New York
Historical Society—“Sagnafjelagsins”—and that, during a somewhat
rainy period, he visited Iceland, traveled through the interior of
the country, went to the Geyser, the little Geyser, the Sulphur
Mountains—“brennisteinnámurnar”—of Krisuvik, and climbed to the top of
Hekla. It speaks of the visit as a pleasant one, and that on the return
of the traveler to America—“Vesturheims”—he took some books from the
Iceland public library—“stiptsbókasafnith”—as a present to the American
Smithsonian library, in return for a similar present formerly received
from Smithson’s. Then he journeyed on the mail packet—“póstskipinu”—to
the continent of Europe, after a long tour and an agreeable stay in
Iceland.
This shall close our extracts. Lest some may think that the writer of
this volume is an enthusiast, and overrates the value of Icelandic
literature, the following statement is quoted from the preface to the
English translation of Rask’s Icelandic Grammar, by Hon. George P.
Marsh, and shows the high estimate placed on the language and literature
of the Northmen, by this eminent linguist.
The translator cannot here enter upon so copious a subject as
the character and value of the literature of Iceland; and it
must suffice to remark, that in the opinion of those most
competent to judge, it has never been surpassed, if equaled, in
all that gives value to that portion of history which consists
of spirited delineations of character, and faithful and lively
pictures of events among nations in a rude state of society.
That the study of the Old-Northern tongue may have an important
bearing on English grammar and etymology, will be obvious when
it is known that the Icelandic is most closely allied to the
Anglo-Saxon, of which so few monuments are extant; and a slight
examination of its structure, and remarkable syntactical
character, will satisfy the reader, that it may well deserve the
attention of the philologist.
FOOTNOTES:
-----
Footnote 37:
A sample is given at the head of Chapter IV., page 61, of this volume.
Footnote 38:
“The Statesman.”
CHAPTER XXVII
MATTERS PERSONAL, LITERARY, AND GENERAL.
THE Icelanders, as I have pictured them, are intellectual in their
tastes; and in domestic life they are highly social. Their amusements
are few, their enjoyments being principally in the family, at their
labor, and attending public worship. Throughout the country, they gather
from a circuit of many miles, to hear their ministers proclaim “glad
tidings,” and tell them of the reward that awaits a well-spent life. In
the long winter evenings, one member of the family is much of the time
reading aloud, while the others are engaged in domestic duties,
spinning, weaving, knitting, and making clothing and domestic utensils,
in which the males as well as the females, all engage. In their personal
demeanor, the Icelanders are generally quiet, sober, and somewhat
taciturn. A love of amusement, and a fondness for sport, is not common.
Some of the Icelanders that I have seen, have had a great deal of
vivacity, and large conversational powers. Some that have visited
foreign countries, have returned home so impressed with their experience
of the great and busy world; that they have infused a spirit of activity
and inquiry into the whole circle where they move. They tell of one man,
an Icelander, who got off to the continent, and went through all the
wars of Napoleon, and after many years returned to his native land. He
was so glad to see his own good island, that he fell down and embraced
the earth, and declared, in the words of the national proverb, “Iceland
is the best country the sun shines upon.”[39] With all that the poor
soldier had seen of the luxury and variety of foreign countries, there
was, to him, “no place like home.” While the Icelander is fond of
conversation, when in the presence of strangers he rather listen than
talk. They come well up to Dr. Johnson’s favorite character, a good
listener. When a foreigner calls at the house of an Icelander, he
attends first to the personal wants of his guest; then he is desirous of
learning all the stranger has to communicate. He is shrewd and
inquisitive, and asks the most pertinent and ingenious questions, and
never rests satisfied till he has learned with great minuteness all that
the stranger has to tell him respecting the great world, and the foreign
countries he has seen. He is always most respectful and obliging, and
ready to communicate information, and answer questions about every thing
relating to his country or pursuits. He seems to appreciate the greater
amount of wealth and luxury abroad, and the superior magnificence and
splendor of cities like Copenhagen, Paris, London, or New York, as
compared to his own small towns; yet his _amor patriæ_ and contentment
make him superior to all temptations to emigrate. His industry, fondness
for reading and conversing, his great integrity of character, a
devotional spirit, and ardent love for the precepts and practices of
Christianity—these, with his contentment and love of liberty, are the
most prominent characteristics of the Icelander. They do not show much
fondness for exact science, though they pay some attention to the
studies of geography and natural history. Having no fuel but turf—except
what is imported—none of the precious or useful metals, no material,
except wool, for the manufacture of textile fabrics, raising no fruits
or grain, and having little use for water or steam power, they have few
incentives to exert themselves in acquiring a knowledge of chemistry,
mineralogy, geology, electricity, magnetism, hydraulics, pneumatics, or
many of the mechanic and useful arts. “Circumstances make men,” or bring
out certain traits of character; and the Icelander forms no exception to
the general rule. We see how he is placed. Obtaining his subsistence
from the products of the earth and the sea, engaged little in traffic,
he does not experience much of the fraud and wrong that is found in the
busy haunts of men; and in him we see little but the gentle and better
characteristics of our nature.
The Icelander is poor, and books are to him a luxury; yet he possesses
more, in proportion to his means, than the natives of any other country.
We shall see by comparison and looking at facts, what their intellectual
resources are. The number of books, of all sizes, published in Iceland
in each of the years 1847 and 1848, was seventeen—thirty-four volumes in
two years; and these for a community of 60,000 people. Were there as
many in proportion printed for our population of twenty-five millions,
the number of books—distinct works, independent of periodicals—published
annually in the United States, would be over seven thousand. The most of
the Iceland books are duodecimos and octavos; the largest volume for the
year 1847 containing 928 pages. This was a sort of “Congressional
Globe,” though not issued in numbers—a record of the proceedings of
their Althing or Congress.[40] This seems like a pretty lengthy journal
of a session that lasted but little over a month. They passed a number
of acts of much importance to the people; and very likely the session
was enlivened with as many “speeches to Buncombe,” as we hear in the
same length of time on Capitol Hill.
Some of the works published in Icelandic, are issued from the press in
Copenhagen; but the majority of them are printed and bound in Iceland.
They have several printing-presses constantly at work, and three
newspapers—one once a week, and two issued once a fortnight. In
mechanical execution, their books and newspapers are turned out in
better style than the average of those issued from the American press.
They are, however, always without illustrations.
From what has been said, it will be seen that the Icelanders of the
present day are a different people from those of an earlier period. In
former times, the tyranny of rulers and the ambition of demagogues, kept
up a warlike spirit, and an ardent love of political liberty. While they
were less amiable and peaceful, they showed, both in letters and
politics, a greater degree of activity. Lest it may be thought that I
have drawn too favorable a picture of the early Icelanders, I will here
give an extract from a learned dissertation on the history and
literature of Iceland, by the distinguished Dr. (now Sir Henry) Holland,
who visited the country in 1810, in company with Sir George Mackenzie.
Like the aurora borealis of their native sky, the poets and
historians of Iceland not only illuminated their own country,
but flashed the lights of their genius through the night which
then hung over the rest of Europe. Commerce was pursued by the
inhabitants with ardor and success; and they partook of the
maritime adventures of discovery and colonization, which gave so
much merited celebrity to the Norwegians of this period. Of the
several features which distinguish this remarkable period in the
history of Iceland, the literary character of the people is
doubtless the most extraordinary and peculiar. We require much
evidence to convince us of the fact that a nation remote from
the rest of Europe, dwelling on a soil so sterile, and beneath
such inclement skies, should have sent forth men whose genius,
taste, and acquirements did honor to their country, and to the
times in which they lived. Such evidence, however, of the most
distinct and decisive kind, we possess in the many writings
which have come down from this period to the present age, and in
the testimonies afforded by the cotemporaneous writers of other
countries. The reality of the fact, indeed, can admit of no
doubt; and it is only left for us to speculate upon the causes
which led to this singular anomaly in the history of
literature.[41]
The above was written forty years ago, and by one of the most
intelligent travelers that ever visited Iceland.
I was asked by the Icelanders, if it would not be an object for some of
my countrymen to settle in Iceland, and teach them the practical and
productive arts as understood in my country. I told them, I did not
think it would be an object for the natives of any country I knew to go
and settle there. The restrictive laws of Denmark do not favor trade
with foreigners; the country produces too little variety, and too small
quantities of suitable articles for exportation, to create a trade of
much magnitude. Their soil is, a majority of it, entirely unproductive;
and the balance produces too little ever to support a numerous
population. The articles they have are good of the kind; they raise
excellent beef and mutton; the wool of their sheep is soft and durable,
but not fine or handsome. It is not so good for first-class
manufactures, as the sheep are often pied, spotted, and variegated in
color; and it is not so good for coloring, as they always pull it off of
the animals, instead of shearing it.[42] Fish—salmon and cod—are
important articles of export; and their horses, though small, are very
desirable animals. A little larger than the Shetland pony, often of
singular color, hardy, gentle, and docile; for pony carriages, and for
children and females to ride, I think they would be a desirable addition
to our stock of horses in the United States. A schooner-load of them
went from Iceland to Scotland, when I was in the country; and I have no
doubt they sold at a good profit, as the average cost was less than ten
dollars a head. As these animals are never fed in winter, they are
necessarily raised very cheaply; and, were trade open with foreign
countries, I have no doubt a great demand would spring up for them, and
add largely to the profits of the Iceland farmer. Apropos of this
subject of free trade, I will here give an extract from the letter of an
intelligent Icelander, which I have just received, and which was written
after the commencement of hostilities in Europe. There is no reason why
the king of Denmark should not open the trade of Iceland equally to all
nations. It is not a particle of pecuniary benefit to his kingdom, as
there are no duties charged; but, by restricting the trade to Danish
vessels, it is kept as a kind of monopoly by a few merchants of
Copenhagen; while the poor Icelanders complain greatly of the oppression
and hardship of being dependent for their foreign necessaries and
luxuries, entirely on a few grasping speculators. Whenever the Iceland
Althing passes an act opening their ports to all nations, the king
vetoes the bill. They murmur at it as great injustice; but what avail
the murmurs of the weak? During the last war in Europe—1810-12—Denmark
came near losing the colony in two different ways. One was, the enemy
came near taking possession; and another escape they had, the “mother
country” not being able to protect the island, or send them supplies,
the people came near starving to death; and were only saved from the
greatest destitution by the clemency and liberality of Great Britain, in
treating the Icelanders as “friends,” while the country was at war with
Denmark. If his Danish Majesty should feel compelled to take up arms in
the present struggle, the island would be in similar peril. Respecting
this, and some other subjects, the following letter, from a learned
Icelander—the President of the Iceland College—will be read with
interest:
Reykjavik, March 1st, 1854.
SIR:
* * * * *
As to political news, I have not much to relate; nor, I am sure,
do you expect much from this quarter; yet, a change is about to
take place in our commercial relations. In all probability, the
Danish government will, after a monopoly of two and a half
centuries, at length, this year, condescend to allow of our free
intercourse, for mercantile purposes, with all nations. It would
be superfluous to write you any thing about the impending war;
but I cannot forbear stating, that in case of war between
England and Russia, to which Denmark would probably be
constrained to become a party, our situation here, in this
island, would needs become very precarious.
* * * * *
Sir: I should be charmed to visit your stately country, to get
an idea of her soaring aspirations, to view her wonders of
civilization, with all her rapid improvements. She seems to be
the only country that at present enjoys the blessings of
freedom, and on whose soil liberty can prosper. But I very much
fear my desire of paying a visit there will ever remain a “_pium
votum_” which neither my financial circumstances nor my
occupation will allow of.
* * * * *
Though you have, dear sir, already rendered me so many important
services, I must, before concluding this letter, once more
importune you with a boon, which is in the interest of my
college, to procure me a copy of the following work, a most
excellent one, by one of your countrymen—“Report on Education in
Europe, to the Trustees of the Girard College for Orphans, by
Alex. Dallas Bache, Philadelphia, 1839.” I have made several
applications to my bookseller in Copenhagen, but all in vain.
Then, I should feel much obliged to you, if you could procure
me, by the means of your influential friends in America and
Great Britain, some examination papers from some of your
colleges or schools of England, especially from Eton, Harrow, or
Winchester, containing the questions put to the pupils, as well
as copies of the best answers to them; together with specimens
of their exercises in Latin and Greek. If you could comply with
this desire of mine, you would render yourself one of the
benefactors of our college. I could send the expense to Mr.
Younghusband, your correspondent in Liverpool.
I remain, sir,
Your faithful and obliged friend,
BJARNI JOHNSON.
To PLINY MILES, Esq.,
Washington.
A man who can write thus, who can so express himself, in the purest and
most forcible English, does not belong to a community of people who are
entirely ignorant of the world at large, or indifferent to the national,
political, and educational movements of the powerful nations of the
earth. If the Danish government should open the ports of Iceland to all
nations, it would be in accordance with the advanced and progressive
spirit of the age, and while conferring a great benefit on a quiet,
peaceful, and isolated colony, knit more closely the ties of affection
and union between the colonists and the parent country. Then we might
chronicle the arrival and departure of vessels, _a little oftener_,
between the northern isle of the ocean and our own seaports.
Last year, a ship bearing the classic name of the “SAGA,”[43] sailed
into the harbor of New-York, direct from Iceland, _being the first
arrival from that country to this, in a period of more than eight
hundred years_! I think the maritime records of the world would be
searched in vain for a parallel case. The crew of this ship were the
“followers” of Eric the Red, and his compeers, who discovered the
American continent, and gave it the name of Vinland; but they were
certainly a long time in following him.[44]
FOOTNOTES:
-----
Footnote 39:
“_Island er hinn besta land, sem solinn skinnar uppá._”
Footnote 40:
“Tiðindi frá Alþingi. Annað þing, 1 Juli til 7 Agust, 1847.”
Footnote 41:
From “Mackenzie’s Iceland;” “Preliminary Dissertation” on the
Literature and History of the country, by Dr. Henry Holland.
Footnote 42:
This may be thought barbarous and cruel; but probably it is not; for
it is pulled at two or three different times, and only that portion
pulled off that comes easy. Then, perhaps, too, custom is something,
like the adage of the eels, &c.
Footnote 43:
A vessel—the “BALDAUR,” as it was printed in the newspapers—seems to
have derived its name from Northern Mythology—“Baldur, the Fair.” This
ship was spoken of as having sailed near a steamer on the track of the
missing “_Glasgow_.” Now and then, it seems, a name, or maritime
event, connects us with the far north.
Footnote 44:
Since the above was in type, intelligence has arrived from Denmark,
that a law has just been passed, throwing open the ports of Iceland to
the trade of the world. For this, none will rejoice more than the
Icelanders themselves; for a more relentless, grinding, and hated
monopoly never oppressed a poor people. The resident Danish merchants
will now not be able to have every thing their own way. As the law
takes effect in April, 1855, a trade between Iceland and England, and
Iceland and America, will soon spring up. The articles that the
Icelanders most require from foreign countries, and the productions of
the island which they have to export, will be found enumerated in
preceding chapters.
CHAPTER XXVIII
RAMBLES BROUGHT TO A CLOSE—EMBARKATION.
THOUGH this little book was not written for the Iceland market, I cannot
help making one or two remarks respecting their own internal affairs.
Most undoubtedly they have learned more from experience than a foreigner
from a hasty visit could teach them, but I believe they do not
appreciate the productiveness and value of their soil. As scanty as are
the agricultural resources of Iceland, and as short as their seasons
are, I am confident that this “art of arts” might be greatly advanced
here. Plowing would, certainly, in many places, greatly improve their
land, smooth the surface, and enable them to lay it down with a better
quality of grass. Their seed would, the most of it, however, have to be
brought from foreign countries. On seeing their fine meadows of “red
top”—the kind of grass most prevalent,—I at once told them that the
white, if not the red clover, would be much more productive than their
native grasses. Afterwards, I saw many farms in the valleys of the Laxá
and the Thiorsá rivers, that were well seeded with white clover; and as
it was the haying season, I could see that these farms yielded about
double the hay that other farms did, where there was no clover. The
clover had once been sown, and then it had propagated itself. I believe
many of the more favorably located farms could be made to produce barley
and oats, if the land were properly prepared. These grains are raised in
Orkney, Shetland, and the Faroe Isles; and the latter group is but
little south of Iceland. Nothing would do, however, without plowing; and
in Iceland never a horse wore harness yet, so it would take a little
time to get such a business started. If the governor of Iceland were a
thoroughly practical man, he could do much towards introducing these and
other improvements. A good opening place for the plow would be the
“public square” in Reykjavik, about two acres of irregular grass; that,
once broken up, and leveled, and seeded down to white clover, would make
a beautiful village green. If they had plows, they would make larger
gardens than they now do with the spade, and more table vegetables would
be raised. This would be conducive to the health and comfort of the
people, and would, probably, in time, if not entirely eradicate at least
greatly reduce the diseases of the skin, and that terrible plague, the
leprosy; both of which are somewhat common, and undoubtedly produced, or
greatly aggravated, by living to a great extent on animal food.
The Icelanders, like all other ancient people, are extremely attached to
their own customs, and averse to innovation. I noticed one thing here,
that—though, as Captain Cuttle would say, there was not much wisdom in
it—is characteristic of every people under the sun. While fond of every
foreign article, particularly of ornament, they about entirely neglected
the native productions. With great pains and trouble, they would rear in
their houses, geraniums, roses, fuchsias, violets, and other exotics,
and yet neglect to plant one single native flower. The beautiful and
fragrant heath, common over much of Iceland, does not grow within
several miles of Reykjavik; and yet not one single resident had planted
by his dwelling a stalk of this elegant little shrub, to bloom and give
out perpetual fragrance. I saw, also, beautiful annual flowers growing
wild in the fields, and on the river banks, but which were never
cultivated. Sir George Mackenzie has given a list of the Iceland Flora,
and a pretty long catalogue it is.
I believe a carriage road could be made in some places, particularly
between Reykjavik and Hafnarfiorth; but then it might not pay to attempt
to make many carriage roads, and introduce wheeled vehicles in Iceland.
If the land was leveled and seeded down, and bogs and wet places
drained, and converted into dry, productive meadows, I believe it would
be an object for the larger farmers to have carts to draw their hay on,
rather than carry it in bundles on the backs of men or horses. Then,
too, if their meadows were smooth the product would be much greater, and
they would be able to introduce a much larger scythe than the little
two-foot knife-blade affair used there at present. With the improvement
of their land, their tools could be greatly improved. The population of
Iceland has been stated at 60,000 souls, and probably the increase is
not one-and-a-half per cent. annually. Women, as well as men, work in
the fields, during the hay season; but, in fishing, the men only are
engaged. The exposure attendant on this latter business gives many
complaints of the lungs; and probably more die of consumption than of
any other disease. The plague, about five hundred years ago, visited
Iceland; but cholera and yellow fever have never been here. There are
but few physicians in the country, and the distances they have to travel
often make their services of no avail, Death calling on the patient
before the doctor does. In countries of more luxury and refinement,
Death often calls soon after the doctor! From what I learn, I should
judge longevity was not as great here as in most countries in the
temperate zones.
The last Sunday I was in Iceland I attended church at the Reykjavik
cathedral. This is a beautiful little edifice, of brick, with a fine
altar—altogether of an ornamental appearance. The sermon was in
Icelandic, the service Lutheran, but much after the style of the Church
of England. Three Sundays out of four, I think it is, that the service
in this place is in Icelandic, and every fourth Sunday in Danish. What
the use may be of having any service in Danish is more than I can tell,
for a more worldly, ungodly set than the Danish merchants of Iceland I
never saw in a Christian country. At this place, their example has
driven nearly all religious observances away from the Icelanders. Though
the day was beautiful, and but one church in the village, and all
professing the same religion, and all the people, too, understanding
both languages, there were not, from among the twelve hundred people of
the place, fifty worshipers. This certainly does not accord with what I
have said of the moral and religious habits of the Icelanders in
general. I do not think I do the Danes injustice, when I lay the
immorality in and around Reykjavik to their influence and example. In
several villages and country places I had a good opportunity of
observing, and I know that ten times greater proportion of the people
attended church than here in Reykjavik. A class like these merchants,
who notoriously do nothing but traffic, make money, gamble, and drink,
cannot improve the morals of a simple, pious, and intellectual people.
The people assembled at the church very quietly, and took their seats
without tarrying at the door, or entering into conversation. They were
all dressed neatly, and two or three females wore the ancient costume of
the country. It is very picturesque, but
“Description will not suit itself in words.”
I cannot do better than give another extract from the letter of
President Johnson—quoted in last chapter—under date of March 1st, 1854,
as well as part of one written the November previous. Only a portion of
the letters are given, and all of this is of a private and personal
nature, intended for no eye but my own. Barring the compliments that are
given, the extracts will be read with interest, both as showing the
composition of an Icelander in a foreign language, and the educational,
parochial, and local news communicated. Commencing his letter of March
1st, he says:
“MY DEAR SIR!
“I have to acknowledge from you the third letter since we
parted—of Dec. 4th, last (Washington)—together with a large
parcel of books, all sent to me by the care of your friend Mr.
Younghusband, at Liverpool, who, besides, had the kindness to
write me a very friendly letter, and send me the last copies of
the leading newspapers of Great Britain.—Indeed, sir, I feel
quite ashamed at receiving so many proofs of your friendship,
without being capable of giving you the least mark of my
gratitude; for all I can furnish is our little “Þjoðolfur,”[45]
a poor return for all your liberality. To this I take the
liberty to add an examination paper—(Program[46])—in Icelandic
and Danish—of the management and teaching of our College, for
the year 1852, ’53.
* * * * *
I have forwarded all your presents to the persons interested
that are living here in town and neighborhood: such as were
destined for the interior of the country, I must keep till the
spring, all communication therewith being impracticable except
on foot. Now I am charged with the task of bringing you their
thanks, for your kindness in remembering them when you had so
little to thank for. I left your direction with them, intimating
that a letter from them would be much esteemed by you, even
though written in Danish or Icelandic. And as to news concerning
your acquaintances here, all is unchanged. None of the ladies
you mention, are married. The Misses Johnson are keeping a
female school pretty successfully; the Misses Sivertsen living
with their parents, and I am to tell you the compliment of their
father.[47] He has delivered to me the flask you so kindly
presented me with, and which I shall keep as a souvenir of you,
though rather too small for my capacious stomach! The Dean
Johnson is going to leave in March, to the regret of his
friends. He is to have another living in the interior of the
country. Thorarensen has left the College, and you will find his
name (S. Thorarensen) as well as that of Jon Sveinson in the
examination paper I send you here inclosed. Mrs. Egilson,[48]
Mr. Ranthrys, the Apothecary, and his lady, Mr. Jon Arnason,[49]
were all extremely pleased with the _N. Y. Illustrated News_ you
sent them. I have also to salute you from the Bishop.”
In Mr. Johnson’s letter of Nov. 15th, 1853, he says:
“I have to acknowledge from you the reception of two letters;
the former of Sept. 24, 1852 (Glasgow), the latter of Sept. 5,
this year (Washington), both attended with newspapers, for which
I feel very much obliged to you, as for your friendship in
general. I am very glad to learn by your latter letter, that you
are returned sound and safe to your native country, from your
long and checkered journey. But I trust you will not repent the
toils and hardships inseparably connected with such a ’tour’
almost around the world. You will, I am sure, allow of its
important consequences for our own mental improvement and
development. Old Horace says: ’_Qui multorum providus urbes et
mores hominum inspexit—latumque per æquor, aspera multa pertulit
adversis rerum immersabilis undis_.’
“I am very much indebted to you for the copies of newspapers you
so kindly have sent to me. However, I deeply regret none of them
contained your lectures upon the curiosities of this country, as
in general what attracted your notice on your extensive journey.
But then I console myself by your kind promise to send me a copy
of your Travels in Iceland, when ready from the press.
* * * * *
I have to announce to you Jon Sveinson’s most heartfelt thanks
for your letter of introduction to your friend at Hull,[50]
which benefited him very much during his stay there; and I feel
obliged to join my thanks to his, as it was on my recommendation
that you gave him the said letter. Indeed, sir, he feels very
much bound in gratitude to you and your friends for all the
kindness they poured on him. He has now left the college—last
season—with a very honorable testimonial; and but for the
cholera that has been raging in Denmark during the latter part
of the last summer, he would have gone to the University of
Copenhagen; but now having postponed his journey thither to the
next spring, he passes this winter at his father’s, who is a
reputed clergyman of easy circumstances, in the interior of this
country. Jon Sveinson’s visit to Hull, has also procured me a
friend there. The last summer, I had successively received some
copies of English newspapers, without knowing from what quarter
they came. I thought of you or some of my other friends in Great
Britain; but a couple of months ago I received a letter from Mr.
Archibald Kidd, Saville street, Hull (if I decipher his name
correctly), who informed me that it was to him I was indebted
for the favor of the newspapers, and who asked me some
information about the means of studying Icelandic literature,
and the method of setting out about it. I most readily complied
with his request, as far as I could, and wrote him by the last
post-ship for Liverpool. As he intimated to know you, I expect
you to be so kind as to give me in your next letter some
information about this gentleman.
* * * * *
I send you enclosed a copy of the _Thiotholfur_ for the whole
year 1852-53. I wish you to tell me whether I am to continue it.
This I might easily do, especially in the summer time, as at
that season there are frequent occasions for sending to England;
whereas, in winter it is more difficult, the only ship going
there being the post-ship, and my extensive official
correspondence with the ministry of public instruction seldom
permitting me sufficient leisure to write to my private friends.
“Now, I wish these lines may find you in good health and
happiness; and I sign myself, my dear sir,
“Your very much indebted friend,
“BJARNI JOHNSON.”
“To Mr. PLINY MILES,
Washington.”
It should be stated that the great _capacity_ of my friend does not
consist in the appetite, so much as a certain _embonpoint_, coming, as
he does partly up to Shakspeare’s description of Cardinal Wolsey—“a man
of an unbounded stomach.”
In closing my account of the Icelanders at Reykjavik, I have to record
the pleasure and profit that I derived from the friendly attentions of
these excellent people. I spent many and most pleasant hours with
President Johnson, and with Mr. Sivertsen and his wife and daughters;
also a most agreeable evening at the house of the Dean, Rev. Mr.
Johnson, who made a small party on my account. The young ladies in this
family, as also in Mr. Sivertsen’s, and Mr. Ranthry’s, contributed much
to the agreeable socialities of my stay in Reykjavik. Were these fair
daughters of the North to appear in society in England or America, a
comparison to their disadvantage could not be drawn. Speaking several
languages—always two or more—good players on the pianoforte and the
guitar, skilled also in vocal music, and to these accomplishments, add a
knowledge of household duties, and I fear that many of the graduates of
our female boarding-schools could not successfully come into competition
with them. I also partook of the hospitalities of their most excellent
bishop, who lives a little way out of town, on a pleasant part of the
coast, opposite the island of Vithey. Before leaving Copenhagen, and on
my return there, I formed a most agreeable acqaintance with Mr. Gisli
Brinjulfsson, quite a young man, but already enjoying a good literary
reputation, both in his own country and in Denmark. He is a graduate of
the Iceland College, and edited for two successive years the
“NORTHURFARI,”[51]—an Iceland “Annual.” This volume gives a _résumé_ of
the political news of the world for the year previous, together with
tales, original poetry, and many interesting translations from English
and American writers. But the time of my departure from the country,
arrives and these jottings must close. As the vessel prepared to sail,
several of my Iceland friends came to see me off, and wish me a pleasant
journey. As I took their parting hands, I could not but think that this,
in all human probability, was our last meeting on earth. Promises to
write and send newspapers were mutually interchanged. The booming gun
echoes o’er the broad waters—the sail is set—the mountains fast
disappearing in the distance, and the shores of Iceland grow dim on my
sight. The little ship with the wandering pilgrim goes dancing over the
waves.
“The land is no longer in view,
The clouds have begun to frown;
But, with a stout vessel and crew,
We’ll say, let the storm come down.
“And the song of our hearts shall be,
While the winds and waters rave,—
A home, a home, on the firm-set lea!
And _not_ on the bounding wave!”
FOOTNOTES:
-----
Footnote 45:
“Þjoðolfur,” the Reykjavik newspaper.
Footnote 46:
“Efterretninger.”
Footnote 47:
To this excellent gentleman, Mr. Sivertsen, I am indebted for numerous
hospitalities. Forty-two years before, in 1810, he entertained at his
house Sir George Mackenzie and his companions.
Footnote 48:
Widow of Sweinborn Egilson, a poet and literary man, who died a few
days after I left the country.
Footnote 49:
Librarian of the public library at Reykjavik.
Footnote 50:
Mr. Joseph W. Leng, Publisher and Bookseller, Saville street, Hull; a
gentleman of intelligence and high worth, to whom I am indebted for
many kind attentions to myself, as well as for his favors to my young
Iceland friend.
Footnote 51:
“Norðurfari,”—literally, Northern Journalist.
CHAPTER XXIX
And we sailed, and we flew, and went near the Maelstrom bay,
And we danced, and we frolicked, and we fiddled all the way.
OLD SONG.
A FINE morning in August found our little schooner dancing over the
waves of the Greenland strait. Towering up on our right, was the lofty
Snæfell Jokull, one of the highest mountains in Iceland. It has the
regular conical shape of most volcanoes. It is six thousand feet high,
being one-third higher than Vesuvius. At this season about two-thirds of
its height is black, and the rest is covered with perpetual snow. When
more than fifty miles to the south, I took a drawing of it. It is near
the end of a long peninsula, south of Breithifiorth, and very nearly the
westernmost point of Iceland. The sharp outline of the mountain is
distinctly visible in the clear atmosphere here for more than a hundred
miles. This volcano has not had an eruption for several centuries. Two
or three parties of modern travelers have been to the summit. They have
described the ascent, after reaching the snow-line, as extremely
dangerous. Wide and deep cracks in the everlasting ice, and treacherous
bridges of snow, made the danger so great that they tied themselves in a
string, to a long rope, and walked about six feet apart. Then, if one
man fell through into a chasm, the rest pulled him out. No lives were
lost, however, in these excursions; the toil sweetened the pleasure, the
danger spiced it, and they were much gratified with their lofty journey.
To the east of Snæfell Jokull, we sailed by Stapi, a small town near
some famous basaltic cliffs, on the coast. Immense perpendicular
columns, and many thrown down, give the coast much the appearance of the
vicinity of the Giant’s Causeway, and the island of Staffa. The coast
here is more varied, and the scenery more magnificent, than the north of
Ireland; but there is no cave yet discovered that will vie with the
famed one of Fingal’s. Some of the pillars here at Stapi are near eight
feet in diameter, and all of them of the regular geometrical shape so
often seen in basaltic rocks. They are like the cells in honeycombs, but
solid, and generally hexagonal, but sometimes heptagons and pentagons.
Though the time when these basalts were in a state of fusion is very
remote, yet there is no doubt of their volcanic character. If geologists
and mineralogists wish to see volcanic matter in every variety of form,
let them come to Iceland.
We passed by the Meal Sack and the Grenadier Islands, the first day, and
rounded the long nose of Cape Reykjanes, and the second found us driving
before a southwest wind; due east, along the south coast of Iceland. We
sailed near the Westmann Islands, and plainly in sight of the lofty
summits of Hekla, Torfa, Eyjafjalla, and Tindfjalla Jokulls. The most
singular curiosity on the south coast of Iceland, that can be seen from
the sea, is a group of rocks that I should call _The Needles_, from
their great resemblance to the “Needles” of the Isle of Wight. They are
near a little fishing village called Dyarholar, or “Portland.” The rocks
are shaped a little more like bodkins than needles, and some of them
rear their pointed heads near a hundred feet high. They all stand in the
ocean, some of them over a mile from land. As we sailed east, the craggy
summit of the Oræfa Jokull showed his lofty and chilly head. The sides,
too, were visible as well as the summit, and perpendicular rocks and
dark-looking caverns showed the foot-prints of mighty convulsions of
nature. The Oræfa Jokull, forming part of that immense mountain known as
Skaptar Jokull, is, as I have mentioned before, the highest in Iceland.
By trigonometrical measurement, it is 6,760 feet high. Snæfell Jokull is
6,000 feet; Eyjafjalla Jokull, 5,900; and Hekla, 5,700. The Thiorsá
river, a stream larger than the Hudson or the Rhine, rises high up on
the side of Skaptar Jokull, 3,000 feet above the level of the sea, and
in a deep cañon in the lava, pours its resistless torrent down into the
ocean. Its rapid and turbulent current may be imagined. These mountains
in the interior of the country, the volcanic islands out at sea, the
rapid and powerful rivers, the Geysers, and innumerable hot springs,
along with the magnificent coast scenery, form the most prominent
physical features of Iceland.
For two days we were skirting the island on the south coast. This, and
the eastern part of Iceland, has few harbors. The coast is, much of it,
low and sandy, and difficult of approach. Some years since, a French
vessel was wrecked here in the winter season, and the crew cast ashore,
perfectly destitute. A few poor Icelanders that lived in the vicinity,
carried them to their huts, fed and took care of them, and gave them
shelter till spring. The next summer, on the annual return of the French
war-vessel that visits Iceland, the sailors were taken home; and king
Louis Philippe ordered a handsome compensation and reward in money, to
the Icelanders who had so hospitably protected his shipwrecked sailors.
They, however, did not wish it; said they had only done their duty, and
neither wanted nor deserved compensation; and steadily refused to accept
a single penny. Determined to do something in return for their kindness,
Louis Philippe ordered his representative in Iceland to state that he
would educate at the University of France, four young Icelanders; and
the Governor, the Bishop, and the President of the College, made choice
of the young men who were to be recipients of the favor. At the end of
their term—four years—as many more were selected; and thus the French
government undertook the constant care and expense of the education of
four Iceland boys, who were appointed for their ability, diligence, and
good conduct, to receive the bounty of the French government; and all
for an act of humanity towards a crew of shipwrecked sailors. The whole
transaction reflects the highest honor on all concerned. One of the
young gentlemen who was a recipient of this privilege, was a son of my
friend Mr. Sivertsen. After the French war-vessel, the unfortunate
LILLOISE, was lost, or failed to return from the Arctic sea, in
connection with one of the expeditions that went in search of her, there
was a scientific corps—a “Scandinavian Commission”—organized, of learned
men from France, Denmark, and Iceland, to gather information, make
drawings of landscapes, and collect specimens of mineralogy, botany, and
the various branches of natural history. The commission was headed by M.
Paul Geimar, and our young Icelander was one of the party. The results
of the expedition, in a scientific point of view, were of the highest
value. A work was published, containing several folio volumes of plates,
many of them colored, and the Journal of the Expedition, in six octavos;
and altogether it forms the most valuable work of the kind extant. It
comprises Iceland, Greenland, Lapland, and Spitzbergen; and nothing,
either of a geographical, scientific, or historical nature has been
omitted. Along with portraits of Geimar and others of the Commission, is
a “counterfeit presentment” of young Sivertsen; and his is one of the
finest faces ever delineated. It has the lively, intelligent
countenance, lofty brow, and beaming eye of the Anglo-Saxons, and equal
to the finest specimens of the Caucasian race in any part of the world.
This promising young man died in France, a few years after his return
from the North, universally esteemed by all, and by none more than by
Louis Philippe himself.
But the winds are drifting us lazily to the eastward. We sailed north of
Faroe, and saw the cliffs of the lofty Stromoe towering upwards like the
ruins of some gigantic temple. The return voyage was all beautiful
September weather. Our passengers—except the bachelor of the present
writing—consisted of twelve young Iceland ladies, and a small lad; and
we had a regular “jolly” time. Several of the young ladies were singers,
and two of them had guitars. Nearly every afternoon we had a dance. The
young ladies made fast progress in English—and Yankee—manners, customs,
language, _and_ dancing. I also got well posted up in Icelandic,
particularly in the sentimental,—or, as Sam Weller would say, in the
more “tenderer vords.” Guitar music, Iceland hymns, the violin, and
“threading the dance” on a rocking deck, were all matters of every-day
occurrence. Did I say every day? Not with me. But the master of the
Sölöven, Captain Heinrich Stilhoff, was certainly the most reckless,
irreligious man for a sea-captain, that ever I saw in my life. Had a
sober traveler come alongside of us on Sunday, he would have been
bothered to have found out what kind of worship we had aboard. His
reflections would probably have been like old Lambro’s, when he
returned, from his piratical cruise, to his island and his daughter.
Suppose such a one in his yacht had come up with us:
A Christian he, and as our ship he nears,
He looks aboard, and finds no signs of idling,
He hears—alas! no music of the spheres,
But an unhallowed, earthly sound of fiddling!
A melody which makes him doubt his ears,
The cause being past his guessing or unriddling:
But, lo! it is the sailors all a prancing,
The women, too, and Captain Stilhoff, dancing!
It does not speak well for the Danish people and nation, that their
mail-ship, the only government vessel running between Denmark and
Iceland, is commanded by a man of the character of Captain Stilhoff; and
I cannot think it will long continue so. Commanding a vessel carrying
the Government dispatches, and having the most popular and direct
passenger traffic between the two countries, a profligate who openly
boasts of debauching his female passengers, defenseless women, the
sisters and daughters of the citizens of both countries; a state of
things that certainly does not reflect any honor on the proprietors of
the vessel, or show much sagacity in their choice of a commander.
On, on, goes our little bark; the northern shore
“Fades o’er the waters blue;
The night winds sigh, the breakers roar,
And shrieks the wild sea-mew.”
Old Norway’s coast appears, and we are several days in sight of the
brown and snowy mountains, and little villages of wooden houses. The
thirteenth day, we passed Cape Lindesness, and Christiansand. We were
then within two hundred and fifty miles of Copenhagen—only a few hours’
voyage for a steamship; but we had no steam a-board, except what might
be found in certain kettles and casks, and these did not aid our
progress much. I thought two days, at farthest would suffice for the
rest of our voyage; but Boreas was not in the ascendant, nor any of his
brethren either, much, for we had very little wind from any quarter. The
current in the Skager Rack took us outwardly about two miles an hour,
and the wind was southeasterly, and we were bound in. One tack would
throw us near the coast of Norway, and the next brought us along the
low, flat sands of Jutland. We progressed from twenty-five to fifty
miles a day. Several huge steamers boomed past us, with their black
sides, and volumes of smoke, and swift progress. Some of them were bound
into the Baltic, and some out, and some to Norwegian ports. At last we
rounded the Skagen Horn, and entered the Cattegat. Finally, the towers
of Elsinore Castle appeared; and, a breeze springing up from the north,
we dropped anchor before Copenhagen, the twentieth day after leaving
Iceland; and, in a most terrible rain—so anxious were we to tread the
land again—all the passengers were set on the quay, and found lodgings
amid the turmoil of a great city.
GENERAL INDEX.
Adam of Bremen, page 41.
Ætna, 142, 151.
Agriculture in Iceland, 178, 303.
Almannagjá, 73.
Althing, or Iceland Congress, 42, 45, 78.
Althing, Journal of, 296.
America discovered by the Northmen, 36.
Angelica Archangelica, 125.
Angling, 78.
Annexation of an island to Denmark, 148.
Apavatn Lake, 97.
Arbrandsá river, 115.
Arnason, Jon, Librarian of Public Library, 309.
Atmosphere, its transparency, 141.
Barrow, the English traveler, 206.
Bath in the Geyser, 111.
Beard a protection against the elements, 121.
Beards worn in Iceland, 60.
Beards worn by the gods, 249.
Bessastath, 63.
Biarni Heriulfson, the First Discoverer of America, 63.
Birds—the curlew, 169;
cormorant, 223;
eider-duck, 219;
western eider, 221;
fulmar, 168;
gannet, or solan goose, 31, 224;
Iceland gull, 228;
skua gull, 228;
jer-falcon, 230;
white owl, 229;
penguin, 222;
plover, 169;
pochard, 118;
ptarmigan, 90;
puffin, 163, 168;
ravens, 114, 170;
sea-fowl on the Westmann Islands, 163;
on the coast of Iceland, 198;
snow-birds, 226;
tern, or sea-swallow, 107, 198.
Bjarnarfell mountain, 112.
Bjolfell mountain, 141, 145.
Blacksmithing, 89.
Blue berry, the only fruit in Iceland, 157.
Books published in Iceland, 295.
Bræthratunga church, 119.
Brandy, use of it in Iceland, 180.
Breithifjorth, 313.
Briem, Rev. Johan, 123.
Brinjulfsson, Gisli, 311.
Bruará or Bridge River, 97.
Bruce’s Address, in Icelandic and English, 286-7.
Brydone, 93, 135.
Caraway growing spontaneously in Iceland, 125.
Cathedral worship in Reykjavik, 306.
Cattegat, 17, 21, 22, 320.
Cave in a hill, 96.
Cave of Surtshellir, 109, 243, note.
Christianity introduced into Iceland, 82.
Christiansand, 23, 319.
Churchyards and burial customs, 178.
Clays, beautifully colored, 102, 191, 200, 208.
College at Reykjavik, 57.
Columbus, his visit to Iceland, 39.
Copenhagen, 17, 320.
Craters of Hekla, 138, 143.
Dancing on ship-board, 317.
Danish laws in Iceland, 298.
Danish merchants in Reykjavik, 306.
Dining on Mount Hekla, 140.
Diseases in Iceland, 305.
Domestic animals of Iceland, 55.
Domestic labor of the Icelanders, 58, 293.
Eddas, poems of the early Icelanders, 271.
Edda, the Elder; ascribed to Sæmund Frode, 271.
Edda, the Younger; ascribed to Snorri Sturlason, 272.
Egilson, Sweinborn, 52, 308.
Eider-down beds, 127, 218.
Elsinore castle and town, 17, 22, 320.
Eric the Red, 35.
Ericsson, descendant of Eric the Red, 36.
Exports of Iceland, 56, 298.
Eyjafjalla Jokull, 142, 151, 160, 315.
Farming in Iceland, 179, 182, 303.
Farming tools, 117.
Faroe Isles, 24, 25, 233.
Feasts, in old times, 59.
Ferryman on the Hvitá river, 185.
Fish, Iceland method of curing, 215.
Fishing season in Iceland, 116.
Fish lake, its disappearance, 152.
Finn Magnusen, 37.
Finnsen, William, Treasurer of Iceland, 28.
Floki, a pirate, 170.
Flower on Mount Hekla, 136.
Flowers on a desert island, 121.
Fourth of July at sea, 23, 24.
Franklin’s Story of a Whistle, in Icelandic, 289.
French officers traveling in Iceland, 66, 70, 76, 84.
French vessel wrecked in Iceland, 315.
Game in Iceland, 55, 56, 90, 169, 170.
Gardar Swarfarson, 35.
Garden vegetables, 62, 179.
Geimar’s Iceland, Greenland, and Spitzbergen, 317.
Geographical names and terms, 85.
Geyser, Eruptions of, 105.
Geyser, its appearance when still, 100.
Gissur Thorvaldsen, son-in-law of Snorri Sturlason, 274.
Graba, a Danish traveler in Faroe, 236.
Greenland, discovery of, 35.
Grenadier island, 31, 314.
Grænavatn, or Green Lake, 142, 201.
Gudmundsen, Thomas, 175.
Hacon, King of Norway, 274.
Hafnarfiorth, 63, 213, 215.
Hávamál, an Eddaic Poem, 275.
Haying season, 303.
Heath, 157, 158, 159.
Heimskringla, 275.
Hjalli, 195.
Hekla, ascent of, 132.
Catalogue of its eruptions, 153.
its height, 315.
its last eruption, in 1845, 134, 138.
seen from a distance, 95, 115, 128, 161, 314.
View from the summit, 140, 151.
Helsingborg, 21.
Herdisa, wife of Snorri Sturlason, 273.
Hlitharvatn, 198.
Holland, Dr. 135, 297.
“Horrible Lava,” 211.
Horses in Iceland, 65, 116, 129, 298.
Hospitality of the Icelanders, 197.
Hot Springs, 187.
Hraungerthi, 177.
Hruni, and its hospitable clergyman, 122.
Hunting sea-fowl in the Westmann islands, 163.
Hvitá or White river, 118, 119, 185.
Iceland, its discovery and settlement, 35.
its situation and extent, 48.
Hymn, Jacob weeping over Rachel, 288.
Newspaper, quotation from, 291.
Youths educated in France, 316.
Icelander in the Wars of Napoleon, 293.
Icelandic language, 270.
Icelandic poetry, its peculiar construction, 282.
Imports of Iceland, 56.
Indians in America in battle with the Icelanders, 38.
Ingolf, plants the first settlement in Iceland, 35.
Islands, Sandey and Nesey, in Thingvalla Lake, 92.
Johnson, Bjarni, President of the Iceland college at Reykjavik, 63, 66,
74, 77, 217.
Bjarni, letters from, 300, 307, 309.
Misses, 308, 311.
Mr. of Hafnarfiorth, 63, 213.
Jonson, Rev. at Vogsósar, 196.
Kirkubær, 139.
Krisuvik, 200.
Ladies riding on horseback, 91, 215.
Laugardalr, or Vale of Warm Springs, 94.
Laugarfjall mountain, 112.
Laugman, or administrator of the laws, 42.
Lava, 93, 126, 211.
Lava from eruption of Mount Hekla, 134, 146.
Laxá, or Salmon river, 68, 124.
Lilloise, French vessel lost in the Arctic Sea, 316.
Lindesness, Cape, 319.
Literature of Iceland, 52, 270, 281.
Louis Philippe’s liberality to the Icelanders, 316.
Markarfliot river, 161.
Marsh, Hon. Geo. P., opinion of the Icelandic language, 292.
Meadows in Iceland, 115, 116, 125.
Meal Sack island, 31, 314.
Milton’s Paradise Lost, translated by Thorlakson, 53;
extracts from, 283.
Mud Geyser, 206.
Myggeness island, 236.
Mythology of the Scandinavians, 242.
Index to, 331.
Myvatn, 203.
Needles, the, 314.
Newspapers in Iceland, 296.
Newspaper, quotation from, 291.
Næfrholt, 129, 159.
Norðurfari, 312.
Norway, coast of, 23, 319.
Norwegian collectors in Faroe, 240.
Ornithology of Iceland, 218, 226.
Petrifactions, 191.
Pfeiffer, Madam, 95, 123, 161.
Philmore, Mr., an English traveler, 210.
Plum-pudding Stone, 199.
Pope’s Essay on Man, in Icelandic, 53.
Quotation from, 285.
Portland, or Dyarholar, 315.
Postal arrangements in Iceland, 56.
Post-ship, time of sailing, 56.
Products of Iceland, 55, 56, 295, 298.
Ranthrys, Mr., 308.
Reindeer in Iceland, 55, 170.
Reykir Springs, 187.
Reykjaness Cape, 31, 314.
Reykjavik, the capital of Iceland, 32, 306.
River of fire, 149.
Rolling stones down hill, 130.
Roses in Iceland, 157.
Sæmund Frode, 271.
Sagas, historical writings of the Icelanders, 271.
Scandinavian Commission, 316.
Scythes used by the Icelanders, 115, 305.
Sharks, 26.
Ship from Iceland; the “Saga,” 302.
Sivertsen, the Misses, and Mr., 308, 311.
Sivertsen, Mr., jun., 316, 317.
Skagen Horn, 320.
Skager Rack, 319.
Skalds or Minstrels, 42.
Skalholt, 44, 172.
Skaptar Jokull, 115, 147, 151.
Great eruption of, 147.
Skarth, 127, 159.
Sleeping in a church, 127.
Snæfell Jokull, 151, 313.
Snorri Thorfinson, first European born in America, 37.
Snow on Mount Hekla, 137, 146.
Spallanzani, 135.
Stapi and basaltic cliffs, 314.
Steam jet in the Sulphur Mountains, 205.
Steam power without fuel, 205, 208.
Stifftamptman, 45.
Stilhoff, Captain, 318.
Strandar Kirkja, 197.
Strokr or New Geyser, 104, 108.
Submarine eruption, 147.
Sulphur Mountains, 200-208.
Superstition among the Northmen, 195.
Surtshellir cave, 109, 243, note.
Sveinson, Jon, 309.
Swein Ethrithson, 41.
Swimming a river, 119.
Sysselman, a merry one, 173.
Thingvalla, 43, 73, 78.
Thingvalla Lake, 72.
Thiorsá river, 115, 126, 159, 172, 315.
Thorarensen, Rev. S., 177.
Thorarensen, Stefan, 178, 185.
Thorlakson, Jon, the Iceland Poet, 53, 281.
Thorlakson’s Translation of Milton and Pope, 282.
Thorwaldsen, 37, 52.
Tindfjalla Jokull, 142, 151, 160, 314.
Tin Tron, an exhausted crater, 94.
Torfa Jokull, 314.
Trade of Iceland; probable results of opening it to the world, 299,
302.
Trollekone-finger, or Witch’s-finger, in Faroe, 236.
Trout-fishing in Iceland, 74, 76.
Vestri Rangá river, 129.
Vesuvius, 142, 151.
Vinland, the name given to America by the Icelanders, 37.
Vogelberg chasm, in Faroe, 237.
Vogsósar, 196.
Volcanic island rising from the sea, 147.
Volcanic sand, 135, 199.
Voluspá, the song of the Prophetess, 275.
Westmann Islands, 141, 161, 165, 166.
Whales, 25, 26.
INDEX
TO THE
Scandinavian Mythology.
Ægir, the deity of the ocean;
a Jötun, 249, 258.
Æsir, the gods of the Scandinavians, 242, 246, 265.
Afi, grandfather, and Ammi, grandmother, and their descendants, 268.
Ai, great grandfather, and Edda, great grandmother, and their
descendants, 268.
Annar, husband of Night, and father of Jörd, 254.
Arvak and Alsvid, the horses of Sol, 255.
Asgard, the city of the Æsir, or home of the gods, 246.
Ask and Embla, the first man and first woman, 268.
Audhumla, the cow on whose milk Ymir subsisted, 243.
Baldur the Good, son of Odin, 248, 266.
his death, 263.
Beli, a giant, slain by Frey, 250.
Bergelmie, a frost-giant, 244.
Besla, wife of Bör, 243.
Bifröst the Rainbow, a bridge from earth to heaven, 246.
Bilskirnir, the mansion of Thor, 248.
Bör, father of Odin, Vili, and Ve, 243.
Bragi, the god of Poetry, son of Odin, 249.
Breidablik, the mansion of Baldur, 248.
Bur, the father of Bör, 243.
Castes, or classes in Scandinavian society, 269.
Day, son of Night and Delling, 254.
Dwarfs, 253.
Eir, presides over the art of healing, 252.
Embla, the first woman, 268.
Elvidnir, the hall of Hela, 256.
Fenrir, a wolf, offspring of Loki, 255, 265.
Fensalir, the mansion of Friga, 252.
Forseti, the god of Justice, 249.
Freki and Geri, Odin’s wolves, 246.
Frey, the son of Njörd and Skadi, 250.
Frey in battle with Surtur, 265.
Freyja, daughter of Njörd, and wife of Odur, 250, 252.
Friga, wife of Odin, 247, 252.
Fulla, a maid, attendant of Friga, 252.
Garm, a dog that kills Tyr, 266.
Gefjon, a maid, attendant of Friga, 252.
Gerda, one of the most beautiful of women, 250.
Geri and Freki, wolves of Odin, 246.
Ginnungagap, the space between the upper and lower worlds, 243.
Gjallar-horn, the trumpet of Heimdal, 251, 265.
Gladsheim, Odin’s hall of Justice, 258.
Gleipnir, a fetter, 255.
Glitnir, the mansion of Forseti, 249.
Gna, messenger of Friga, 253.
Golden Age, 258.
Gulltopp, the horse of Heimdall, 251.
Hati and Sköll, two wolves, 255.
Heimdall, the sentry of the gods, 251, 265, 266.
Hel or Helheim, the abode of Death, 256-258.
Hela, or Death, 255, 256.
Hermod the Nimble, son of Odin, 246, 263.
Hlidskjalf, Odin’s throne, 246.
Hnossa, daughter of Odur and Freyja, 252.
Hodmimir’s forest, where Lif is concealed, 266.
Hödur, a blind deity, 251, 263, 266.
Hófvarpnir, the horse of Gna, 253.
Hrimfaxi, the horse of Night, 254.
Hringhorn, the ship of Baldur, 263.
Hugin and Munin, Odin’s ravens, 246.
Hvergelmir, a fountain in Niflheim, 243, 245.
Hymir, a giant, 259.
Hyrrokin, a giantess of Jötunheim, 264.
Ida, a plain where Asgard formerly stood, 266.
Iduna, the goddess of Eternal Youth, 249.
Jötunheim, or land of giants, 245.
Jötuns, giants of Jötunheim, 245.
Lif a woman, and Lifthrasir a man, who survive the destruction of the
world, 266.
Lofna, the friend of Lovers, 252.
Loki, the god of all evil, 255, 259, 263, 265, 266.
Magni and Modi, sons of Thor, 248, 252, 266.
Manheim, the home of man, 247, 268.
Máni, the Moon, 254.
Midgard, or Mid-earth, 244, 247.
Midgard serpent, 255, 256, 265.
Mimir and Mimir’s Well, 245.
Mjölnir, Thor’s Mallet, 247.
Modi and Magni, sons of Thor, 248, 252, 266.
Munin or Memory, one of Odin’s ravens, 246.
Muspell or Muspelheim, the upper world, 242.
Mythology of the Northmen, 242.
Nanna, wife of Baldur, 249, 264.
Nidhogg, a dragon, 245.
Niflheim, the lower world, 242.
Night, the daughter of Njörvi, 254.
Njord, the ruler of the sea, 250.
Njörvi, a giant, father of Night, 254.
Norns, inferior deities, 253.
ODIN, the supreme head, leader of the Æsir, and father of all the gods,
170, 244, 245, 246, 247, 266.
Ragnarök, the end of all things, 256, 265.
Ran, wife of Ægir, 249.
Ratatösk, the squirrel on the Ash, 245.
Rinda, the mother of Vali, 251.
Roskva the Quick, attendant of Thor, 248, 259.
Saga, the goddess of history, 252.
Skadi, the wife of Njord, 250.
Skidbladnir, a famous ship belonging to Frey, 266-7.
Skinfaxi, the horse of Day, 254.
Skirnir, messenger of Frey, 250.
Sköll and Hati, wolves that pursue the sun and moon, 255.
Sleipnir, the horse of Odin, 246.
Sokkvabek, the house of Saga, 252.
Sol, the source of light, 254.
Surtur, chief of the chaotic demons, 242, 265.
Surturbrand, or fire of Surtur, 109, 242, note.
Thjálfi, the Nimble, attendant of Thor, 248, 259.
Thor, son of Odin, the god of Thunder, 128, 247.
Thor encounters the Midgard serpent, 262-265, 266.
Thor’s adventures in Jötunheim, 258, 259, 260, 261.
Thrudvang, the home of Thor, 248.
Tyr, the god of Bravery, 255, 259.
Ullur, the archer, son of Sif, 251.
Utgard, a city in Jötunheim, 260.
Utgard-Loki, King of Utgard, 260.
Valaskjalf, the mansion of Odin, 246.
Valhalla, the home or world of the slain, 253, 256, 257, 258.
Vali, son of Odin and Rinda, 251, 252, 266.
Valkyrjor, the goddesses of Valhalla, 253.
Vidar the Silent, son of Odin, 251, 252, 266.
Vigrid, the last battlefield of the gods, 265.
Vili and Ve, sons of Bör, 244.
Vora, the punisher of perjured lovers, 252.
Yggdrasill, the Ash tree, 245.
Ymir, progenitor of the Frost-giants, 243, 244.
* * * * * *
Transcriber’s note:
Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation have been retained, but
obvious typographical errors have been corrected. However,
spellings of Icelandic words have been silently regularised, if
inconsistent within the text.
The cover has been created by the transcriber and is placed in the
public domain.
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