THE EAST COAST. BREIDAMERKR—SEYDISFIORD.
Sailing north-east along the coast, we see the Breidamerkr ice-plains, and the mouth of the river Jökulsá, which is only a mile or two long. Dr. Mackinlay informs us that the most dangerous rivers in Iceland are the shortest. They spring, full formed, from the bosom of the thick-ribbed ice. The Jökulsá, which crosses Breidamerkr-sandr, is one of the most dreaded of these. It springs from Breidamerkr-Jökul, which, however, is not a snow-mountain, but only a high field of ice projected southward into the plain from the great snow-range to the north. Some years it is eight or ten miles from the sea, in others only one; the length of the river varies accordingly. It is half a mile broad. Sometimes this river gets dammed up, then bursts from caverns of ice with a noise like thunder, carrying along with it masses of ice with uncontrollable fury to the sea. Sunshine melting the ice swells such rivers more rapidly than rain. The near view of this cold icy region—so dreary, lone and still—made one almost feel cold, although the sun was bright and the thermometer, at noon, stood at 100 degrees.[[38]] The dazzling whiteness of the snow and the ice-blink, made our eyes ache. It was literally
“A waste land where no one comes
Or hath come since the making of the world.”
NEAR THE ENTRANCE TO HORNAFIORD.
As we approach Hornafiord the character of the mountains changes; instead of great white massive ranges, many isolated, sharp-pointed, rugged peaks, called horns, now rise. They are almost free from snow, and of richly varied tints, chiefly lilacs and browns, glowing in the sunshine.
The general character of the mountain-ranges at this point, and indeed along the entrances to the fiords of the east coast, as far as Seydisfiord, resembles Goatfell and the Holy Island in Arran—firth of Clyde—only it is higher, wilder, even more serrated, and, in addition, exhibits many curious fantastic pointed rocks or drongs. Fleecy clouds often rested on the peaks, or rolled, incense-like, among them.
The western half of the island is diversified by a great network of lakes, on whose lonely waters, Dr. Mackinlay remarked, “thousands of milk white swans sport in the summer sunshine,” while the eastern half is broken up by isolated volcanoes whose smouldering fires are capped with snow.
The western coast is scooped out into two enormous gulfs, the Faxa and Breida fiords; while that portion of the east coast, to which we have referred, viz.: from Hornafiord to Seydisfiord, is all along closely indented with little fiords or arms of the sea. These run inland for a distance of from ten to eighteen miles, and average say about two miles in breadth. They are separated from each other by lofty mountain ridges, such as we have described, running far out into the sea, and ending in sheer precipitous headlands or lofty horns. Let the reader lay his hand flat down on this page with his fingers stretched apart, let him then suppose each of the fingers to represent a mountain range, and the interspaces fiords, and he will be able to form an idea of the way in which the coast is indented. At Reydar and Berufiords, these ridges appear to be about 2000 feet high, with many sheer precipices, half that height, from which a stone could be pitched into the sea. It will thus be seen, that the fiords are shut in on both sides by steep mountain ridges like walls of rock, the summits of which are often veiled in dark clouds, and in some places are covered with perpetual snow. These rocky heights are as bare as if they had newly been splintered—not a tree or shrub on their sides—and the lone stillness of the fiords is only broken by the wild “water lapping on the crag,” the cataract roaring and leaping down rock gulleys, or the streamlet trickling down the broad stair-like ledges of the trap, dripping from step to step like a white glassy fringe. These fiords appear to have been rents formed when the island was first heaved up; and, where the arm of the sea terminates, they are continued further into the interior as green valleys down which rivers flow. In places where mountain-tracks are utterly impracticable, these river-courses serve for bridle-paths in passing from one valley or fiord to another.
The tender herbage affords delightful pasture for sheep; fish, chiefly cod, are to be had in abundance in the fiords, and the streams abound in trout. Vessels can sail up and find sheltered havens in which to lie, thus affording water carriage for the exchange of commodities, and bringing the advantages of the coast to the interior.
In the country one never meets anything approaching to a village. It is a populous district where you see a farm in a valley, another group of turf hovels, called a thorpe, a few miles further up, and perhaps, a homestead of some kind perched on the green slope of a neighbouring hill-side. Should there be, in addition to these, a black wood building near the edge of the water, with a white flagstaff before it—it is a merchant’s factory and gives to the place the importance of a market-town.
It was now between 2 and 3 o’clock in the morning, but as the sky was clear and lovely, and we were sailing along a coast, the striking features of which, although singularly picturesque, we had never seen described in books, I remained on deck most of the night, and only, from a forced sense of duty, lay down for a short time without undressing.
These fiords on the east coast are very similar in character; most of the features we have noted being common to them all. I shall therefore simply enumerate, in their order, the names of those we passed between Hornafiord and Seydisfiord, a distance of about 100 miles, for the first 75 of which the steamer’s course lay north-east, and for the remaining 25 nearly due north:—Skardsfiord, Papafiord, Lonfiord, Altafiord, Hamarsfiord, Berufiord, Stödvarfiord, Faskrudsfiord, Reydarfiord, Nordfiord, and Mjofifiord.
On Saturday morning, between 5 and 6 o’clock, we entered Seydisfiord, sailed up to the head of it and dropped anchor, having now reached the extreme point of our destination.
This lonely fiord on the north-east of Iceland, is land-locked like Lochgoil or Teignabraich in Scotland. The valley at the head, with hills on either side, makes a bend to the north, so that there are high hills all round us. Those on the south—our left hand side—sweep round, forming an amphitheatre, till they are apparently met by those of the north-side; the fiord is thus shut in on the west, and the continuation of the valley, beyond it, shut out.
The hill-sides are terraced with sixteen or eighteen trap-steps, which run in regular horizontal layers and yet further complete the resemblance of the head of the fiord to a great amphitheatre. From these steps, water, glassy-white, may be seen trickling down, every little way, all round; with here and there a mountain cataract which has made a deep gully for itself. The hill-range on the left, which sweeps round and bounds the view, is capped with a series of singular rocky cones, occurring at regular intervals, and in shape resembling the chimneys of a glass work. They are mottled with snow-patches; mist streaks float athwart them; while in the west, not only those chimneys, but the top of the ridge itself is now hid from view, muffled up in dense clouds which form the curtain of the amphitheatre. A river flows into the fiord from the valley, which, although green and yielding a hay-crop, is marshy and much in want of draining. From the sloping nature of the ground, this could easily be done at little expense, and would, we doubt not, prove a highly remunerative investment.
MR. HENDERSON’S FACTORY AT SEYDISFIORD.
Near the beach are three stores, or factories as they are called; two belong to Danes, and the other to Mr. Henderson, one of the owners of the Arcturus, who has been here for sometime but is going south with us to-night. The factories are one-storey houses, built of wood. A traffic in produce, chiefly fish and wool, is carried on with the farmers, whose sod-covered dwellings are sparsely scattered along the neighbouring coast, or in valleys above the fiords. Customers are sometimes attracted from much greater distances; we saw long strings of ponies riding down water-courses, and crossing the shoulders of bare hills where one would think there was scarcely footing for a goat.
Before breakfast Dr. Mackinlay and I had a swim in the fiord, and found the water much warmer than we anticipated; indeed, it was pleasanter in this respect than the last bath I had in the sea at Teignabraich. We then breakfasted with Mr. Henderson, who gave us a most cordial welcome. The steamer was several days later in arriving than the time he had expected her, so that he had almost begun to despair of her ever coming for him, and was conjuring up gloomy visions of being obliged to winter here, and fancying all sorts of things. Now, for him, all was changed and bright. I tried to masticate a bit of raw dried stock-fish, which the Icelanders commonly use, eating it as we do bread. I also tasted “snaps,” of which the Danes are so fond, for the first and last time; it seemed like a mixture of gin and kirchen-wasser, flavoured with coriander seed. The breakfast before us was a most substantial one, there being no lack either of welcome, which is the best of cheer, or of mutton, fish, beer, coffee, milk, and stale black rye-bread. Be it remembered that this breakfast was neither Icelandic, Danish, nor Scotch; but, exhibiting some of the characteristics of all three, seemed marvellously adapted to our present requirements in this distant habitat.
We stepped into the store, and saw exposed for sale hardware and soft goods of all kinds. In a corner were standing lots of quart-bottles gaudily labelled “essence of punch,” whatever that may be. Mr. Henderson showed me some specimens of double refracting calc, or Iceland spar, which is obtained in the neighbourhood. It only occurs in one place of the island, filling a fissure of greenstone from two to three feet wide and twenty to twenty-five feet long, on the north bank of the Reydarfiord, about a thousand feet above the sea level. There, a cascade rushes over the rock, bringing down fragments of the spar from time to time. The mass itself gets loosened, bit by bit, through the action of frost on the moisture which enters edgeways between the laminae, wedging them apart in the direction of the cleavage of the crystals. Transparent specimens more than a few inches in size are rare and valuable. Mr. Henderson presented me with a beautiful large semi-transparent chalcedony weighing 1 ℔ 7 oz., and some pebbles.
His partner, Mr. Jacobson, an Icelander, also gave me a young raven to make a pet of. It was this year’s bird and quite tame. I called it Odin; and, having got hold of an old box, improvised a door from a few spars, that it might have a sheltered place to roost in at night till it got to the end of its voyage.
I now wandered up the valley, for an hour or two, alone, and sat down on a slope, on the right side of it, to look around me and rest. The river, near where I sit, flashes down over a steep rock and forms a fine waterfall, the roaring of which is echoed from the chimney-capped amphitheatre of hills opposite. Beneath the fall, it flows peacefully along, runnelling and rippling on, to the blue fiord, through the quiet green valley. White streamlets of water trickle down the trap hill-sides, every forty or fifty yards; the whole producing a continuous quiet murmur or undertone, not unlike that from the wings of an innumerable swarm of gnats playing in the sunshine on a warm summer’s day, but ever broken in upon by the clear liquid tinkle of the streamlets nearest us, heard drip, dripping, with a clear metallic sound which might be compared to the chirp of the grasshopper. This solitary glen, now lying bathed in light, is fanned by the gentle breeze, fragrant with the smell of tedded hay, and richly variegated with wild flowers—harebells, butter-cups, wild thyme, cotton-grass, and forget-me-nots—a gathered bunch of which is now lying beside me on a moss-cushioned rock. Quietly musing here on all, of strange or new, I have seen since leaving home, and dwelling more particularly on the great kindness I have received at all hands, I feel grateful to God, who has hitherto opened up a way for me and given me friends amongst strangers wherever I chanced to wander.
We saw specimens of surturbrand, which crops out on the top of a steep mountain, at the mouth of the fiord, on the north side, and obtained a few more geological specimens and plants.
After dinner, I strolled for a quarter of a mile up the valley with Mr. Henderson and Dr. Mackinlay, to visit the farm behind the store. It consists of a group of hovels, the walls are stone and turf, the gables wood, and the roofs covered with green sod. The entrance is a dark muddy passage leading into a ground-floor apartment as dark and muddy, where, in winter, cattle are kept. The kitchen is a dirty, smoky, sooty hole, with fish hanging in it to smoke and dry; a pot of seal-blubber stands steaming in a corner. The fire is raised on a few stones above the floor, like a smithy-forge; while there is a hole in the roof for the smoke. Picking our way through another long passage, dark and dirty, we found a trap-ladder and ascended to a little garret, where I could only walk erect in the very centre. The apartment was floored and fitted up with bunks all round the sides and ends. In these box-beds, at least seven people—men, women and children—sleep at night, and sometimes a few more have to be accommodated. The little windows in the roof are not made to open, and no regard whatever is paid to ventilation. Dr. Mackinlay prescribed for an old man we found lying ill in this abominable fetid atmosphere, where his chances of recovery were very slight. He was an old farm servant about whom nobody seemed to care anything.
FARM HOUSE, SEYDISFIORD.
In a little apartment shut off from this one, and in the gable portion of the building which in this case constitutes the front of the house, an old woman at the window sits spinning with the ancient distaff,[[39]] precisely as in the days of Homer.
To amuse the farmer’s daughters I showed them my sketches, with which they seemed much interested.
SEYDISFIORD, LOOKING EAST TOWARDS THE SEA.
I understood part of their remarks, and could in some degree make myself understood by them, with the few Danish and Icelandic words I kept picking up. On receiving a little money and a few knick-knacks, they, all round, held out their hands and shook mine very heartily. This, the Icelanders always do, on receiving a present of anything however trifling.
After sketching the farm-house, I took two views of Mr. Henderson’s store; one of them from a height behind, looking down towards the fiord, and the other from the brink of it, looking up the valley. In the latter, a part of the same farm-house appears, and thus indicates its exact position.[[40]] With the assistance of these three sketches taken together, the reader will be enabled to form some idea, of the appearance presented by this arm of the North Sea.
SEYDISFIORD, BY FARÖE TO LEITH
We sailed from Seydisfiord at half-past six P.M. on Saturday night, direct for the Faröe islands.
There is a singular cone-shaped mountain called Brimnæs Fjall at the mouth of the fiord, showing masses of clay-rock alternating with and pushing up trap, which is deposited in thin layers of perpendicular structure. Several pillars or shafts are left standing singly on the very summit, and present a very curious appearance, distinctly relieved against the amber light of the sky. At Dr. Mackinlay’s request I made a sketch of it.
BRIMNÆS FJALL.
A vessel of Mr. Henderson’s, which had been given up as lost, now unexpectedly came in sight, which necessitated Mr. Jacobson and a young Iceland lad, who were en route to Copenhagen, to get on board her and return to Seydisfiord to look after her cargo, evidently much to their disappointment.
The wild scenery of the coast, especially at Reydarfiord, was strikingly picturesque.[[41]]
Mr. Murray, Professor Chadbourne, Mr. Henderson and I walked the deck till a late or rather an early hour, and watched the fast receding mountain-ranges of Iceland—pale lilac, mauve, or deep purple—and the distant horns, shading through similar tints from rose to indigo, all distinctly seen athwart the golden light of the horizon which for hours has been ebbing slowly and softly away, but is now on the turn, and about to flow again.
Sabbath, August 7. The weather is fine; no land or sail in sight all day; whales playing about the ship. Had many pleasant deck-walks and talks, and several quiet hours, sitting perched on the stem, reading, or watching the prow, below, cutting and cleaving through the clear green water like a knife.
Monday morning, August 8. We are sailing between two of the Faröe islands, bright sunshine lighting up all the regularly terraced trap-rocks, caves, and crevices of this singular group.
I have now got a pet to look after, and, without Shakspere’s authority for it, we know that
“Young ravens must have food.”
The last thing I did last night was to shut Odin in his box, and the first thing this morning to let him out again and give him the freedom of the ship. The bird knows me, is pleased when I scratch his head, and confidingly runs hopping to me for protection when the boys about the ship teaze him more than he likes. His fellow traveller, a young Icelandic fox brought on board at Reykjavik to be sent to the Marquis of Stafford, also runs about the ship during the day. At first we had some misgivings on the subject; for
“Treason is but trusted like the fox—
Who ne’er so tame, so cherished, and locked up,
Will have a wild trick of his ancestors.”
However, these fears were soon dissipated; for Odin can hold his own, and when the fox, approaching furtively, uses any liberty with his tail feathers, he suddenly gets a peck from the bird’s great formidable beak, which he does not seem much to relish. The salutary fear continues for a short time, is forgotten, and again the dab comes as a reminder. We were often greatly amused, watching their individual habits and droll ways, when the one intruded upon the other. It was half play, half earnest, a sort of armed neutrality with a basis of mutual respect.
On the west coast of Stromoe is the roofless ruin of the church of Kirkuboe. It was begun in the twelfth century, but never finished. It is built of stone, has five large windows and several small ones below; a little farm house or hut, with red tiles on the roof, stands near it. What a strange lonely place for a church! Thorshavn lies on the other—the east—side of the island. It is only five miles distant as the crow flies, but as we have to sail round the south point, and Stromoe is twenty-seven miles long, we do not reach it till near noon.
On landing, Mr. Haycock accompanied me to call for Miss Löbner, who has been poorly ever since her sea voyage. Her mother presented wine, cake, coffee &c., and was most hospitable. None of us being able to speak Faröese, at first we felt a little awkward; but a brother of the old lady’s who speaks English soon came to the rescue and acted as interpreter. With justifiable pride, they again showed us their flower and kitchen garden. I got the whale-knives, caps, shoes, gloves &c., which had been made or procured for me during my absence in Iceland. Ere leaving, Miss Löbner appeared to say adieu! and insisted on my accepting several other specimens of Faröese workmanship as remembrances of Thorshavn. No people could have been kinder.
Again, wandering about, we explored the town, looked at the church, stepped into the stores, passed the governor’s garden, and wandered a mile or two in that direction in order to obtain a view, and get quit of the fishy smells which superabound in Thorshavn.
On our return we called for Mr. Müller, who presented me with a copy of the gospel of St. Matthew in Danish and Faröese, arranged in parallel columns. I understood him to say that this was the only book ever printed in the Faröese dialect, and that it is now out of print and very rare. It bears the date of 1823.
Here we saw an old man 76 years of age, an Icelander who has been in Faröe for the last 40 years. He had spent several years in England, and told me that, in 1815, he saw our regiments land at Liverpool after the battle of Waterloo. He speaks English fluently.
A Thames fishing smack, and a sloop from Lerwick, are lying in the bay. Piping and dancing goes merrily on, on board the latter, relieved by intervals of music alone. In one of these, we heard “The Yellow Hair’d Laddie,” rendered with considerable taste, although, doubtless, several “improvements and additions” were made on the original score.
We took some Faröese boatmen into the saloon of the steamer, and I shall not soon forget the look of wonder and utter astonishment pourtrayed on their countenances, as they gazed on the mirrors and everything around, or were shown things with which they were not familiar and heard their uses explained. They were greatly pleased with my life-belt. Dr. Mackinlay showed them a multiplying-glass, and, as it was handed from one to another—each man first making the discovery of what had so inexplicably excited the wonder of the last looker—the queer exclamations of amazement accompanied by inimitable pantomimic gestures reached their culminating point, and were irresistibly droll.
NAALSÖE—FARÖE.
The weather is all we could desire. The sailors are singing some curious Danish songs, with the time well marked, as they heave the anchor; and at 20 minutes past 6 o’clock P.M. we are steaming out of the bay. The evening is lovely, and the Thermometer, on the deck, stands at 68°. Thorshavn soon disappears, and we leave the Faröe islands astern, relieved against an amber sky, Dimon being the most striking and conspicuous of the group. A few stars shone overhead, and I walked the deck till midnight.
ENTRANCE TO THE SOUND LEADING TO THORSHAVN.
Tuesday, August 9. At breakfast, tasted a whale-steak which Miss Löbner had yesterday sent on board for me, with particular instructions to the stewardess to have it properly cooked. The flesh looked and tasted like dry tough beef, with a slight flavour of venison. The blubber, however was too strong for any of us to do more than merely satisfy—not gratify—our curiosity.
The day was lovely. Professor Chadbourne invited me to visit and spend a month with him during his holiday. Indeed, cordial, pressing invitations, all round, were the order of the day. As fellow-travellers we had been happy together, and felt sorry at the near prospect of our little party being broken up and scattered; for several valued friendships had been formed.
Between three and four o’clock in the afternoon, the thermometer indicated 98° in the sun and 75° in the shade. Dr. Mackinlay showed me an old Danish dollar he had got, in change, at Reykjavik; it bore the date of A.D. 1619, the year of the landing of the Pilgrim Fathers from the May Flower. Part of the day was spent in writing out these pages from my diary. In the evening we saw, far to our left, faint and dim on the horizon line, the north-west islands of Shetland; and by a quarter to 8 o’clock P.M. were sailing twenty miles to the west of Fair Isle, which lies between Orkney and Shetland. Both groups are in sight. We have not seen a sail since we left Faröe, and now, what we at first fancied to be one, off the north end of the Orkneys, turns out to be a light-house, rising apparently from the sea, but in reality from low lying land which is yet below the horizon.
The sunset to-night is gorgeous; cavernous recesses opening through a dense purple cloud-bank into glowing regions of fire; while broad flashing gleams ray out on every side athwart the sky, as if from furnace-mouths. Then we have moonlight on a sea smooth as glass, and not even a ripple to be seen. The Orkney light-house, now gleaming like a setting star, is left far astern. The phosphoresence along the vessel’s side and in her wake is most brilliant; while, seething, electric-like, from the screw, it rivals the “churned fire-froth” of the demon steed. The moon, half-hid, is at times deep crimson and again bright yellow. Many falling stars are shooting “madly from their spheres;” not that our music lured them, although, “on such a night” of nights, when all is harmonious, we cannot but sing. Mr. Murray gives us “Home, sweet home” and “The last rose of summer,” and ere retiring at midnight, all of us join together in singing the “Spanish Chant.”
Wednesday morning, August 10. We are off Inverness; wind a-head and rising. Professor Chadbourne to-day gave me an oak-leaf which he plucked from the tree, at Upsala, planted by Linnæus with his own hands. Wrote as long as the heaving of the ship would admit of it, then arranged botanical specimens and read Wordsworth. The wind is blowing so fresh, off Peterhead, that, with full steam, we are not making above one and a half knots; and at times can scarcely keep any way on. Passed the Bell-Rock; the sea still rising. Went to bed at 11 o’clock P.M.; vessel pitching a good deal.
Thursday morning, August 11. Rose at four o’clock and was on deck ere the Arcturus dropt anchor in Leith Roads. But as we cannot get our traps on shore till the custom-house officer comes at nine o’clock to overhaul them, we remain and breakfast on board. The examination made, at half-past ten o’clock A.M., we landed by a tug steamer, and made for our respective railway stations, each, on parting, bidding the other “a bright adieu!” in the hope that it might only be for “a brief absence!” “Odin” was in good feather: his owner sun-bronzed and strong.
At length, comfortably ensconsed in the fast express, I lay back in the corner of a compartment, closed my eyes and resigned myself to see pleasant pictures and dream waking dreams—of snow jökuls, volcanoes, glaciers, and ice-fields; of geysers, mud-cauldrons, and sulphur-pits; of lava plains, black, wierd and blasted, or dreary wastes of ice; of deep rapid rivers, flashing waterfalls, leaping torrents; of frightful chasms, rugged cliffs, and precipitous mountains mirrored in deep blue fiords; of pathless stony deserts, enlivened at times with oasis-like spots of tender green herbage and bright coloured flowers; of wild break-neck rides, over bare rocks, among slabs and lava-blocks of all shapes and sizes and lying in every conceivable direction; through volcanic sands and scoriæ; by red and black vetrified craters, or across dangerous fords; of multifarious scamperings too, and mud-plashings over hill and dale; or wild rides down rocky steeps, not on a phantom steed, but on a sure-footed Iceland pony; of pleasant companionship by the way; of cordial welcome and great kindness received, in quiet homesteads, and at all hands from the people, wherever we went; then again of Frost contending with Fire, and of all the varied and marvellous phenomena of Iceland, that singularly interesting island in the lone North Sea.
STROMOE—FARÖE.