THE WESTMANNA ISLANDS—REYKJAVIK.
Tuesday morning, July 26. Open sea and not a sail visible, although we carefully scan “the round ocean.”
Tremendous rolling all night; everything turning topsy-turvy and being knocked about—my portmanteau, which was standing on the cabin floor, capsized. Only by dint of careful adjustment and jambing in the form of the letter z could we prevent ourselves from being shot out of our berths.
To-day we have the heaviest rolling I ever experienced. It is impossible even to sit on the hurricane deck without holding on by a rope, and not easy even with such assistance. Deck at an angle of 40 to 45°. The boat fastened aloft aggravates matters. A very little more, or the slightest shifting of the cargo, would throw us on our beam ends. The boat getting loose from its fastenings when we are on the larboard roll would break off the funnel. The Captain has hatchets ready, at once to send it overboard or break it up if requisite for our safety. The bell tolling with the roll of the ship, first on the one side, and then on the other; generally four or five times in succession. A series of large rollers alternate with lesser waves; the bell indicates the former. Waves without wind roll in from the N. and N.W., both on the starboard and port bow.
In the afternoon saw a piece of wreck—mast and cordage—floating past, most likely a record of woe; involving waiting weary hearts that will not die.
Not a speck on the whole horizon line; a feeling of intense loneliness would at times momentarily creep over us. Birds overhead flying south brought to mind Bryant’s beautiful poem addressed to “The Waterfowl,” which he describes as floating along darkly painted on the crimson sky:
“There is a Power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,—
The desert and illimitable air
Lone wandering but not lost.
Thou’rt gone, the abyss of heaven
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart,
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,
And shall not soon depart.
He, who from zone to zone
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone
Will lead my steps aright.”
The heavy rolling still continues. Hope the cargo will keep right, or we shall come to grief. Thought of the virtues of my friends. However, maugre a dash of danger, a group of us on the hurricane deck really enjoyed the scene as if we had been veritable Mother Carey’s chickens. One sang Barry Cornwall’s song “The Sea;” another by way of contrast gave us “Annie Laurie” and “Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace bled;” and towards evening we all joined in singing “York;” that grand old psalm tune harmonizing well with the place and time—
“The setting sun, and music at the close!”
The gulf-stream and the rollers meeting make a wild jumble. Barometer very low—2810; low enough for a hurricane in the tropics. Stormy rocking in our sea-cradle all day and all night.
Wednesday, July 27.—Vessel still rolling as much as ever. Saw a skua—a black active rapacious bird, a sort of winged pirate—chasing a gull which tried hard to evade it by flying, wavering backwards and forwards, zig-zagging, doubling, now rising and now falling, till at last, wearied out and finding escape impossible, it disgorged and dropt a fish which the skua pounced upon, picking it up before it could reach the surface of the sea. The fish alone had been the object of the skua’s pursuit. The skua is at best but a poor fisher and takes this method of supplying its wants at second hand. Subsequently we often observed skuas following this their nefarious calling; unrelentingly chasing and attacking the gulls until they gave up their newly caught fish, when they were at once left unmolested and allowed to go in peace; but whether the sense of wrong or joy at escape predominated, or with what sort of feelings and in what light the poor gulls viewed the transaction, a man would require to be a bird in order to form an adequate idea.
We cannot now be far from Iceland, but clouds above and low thick mists around preclude the possibility of taking observations or seeing far before us. In clear weather we are told that the high mountains are visible from a distance of 100 or 150 miles at sea.
At half-past Three o’clock P.M., peering hard through the mist, we discover, less than a mile ahead, a white fringe of surf breaking on a low sandy shore for which we are running right stem on. It is the south of Iceland; dim heights loom through the haze; the vessel’s head is turned more to the west and we make for sailing, in a westerly direction with a little north in it, along the shore up the western side of the island which in shape somewhat resembles a heart.
NEEDLE ROCKS—OFF PORTLAND HUK.
The mist partially clears off and on our right we sight Portland Huk, the most southern point of Iceland. Here rocks of a reddish brown colour run out into the sea rising in singular isolated forms like castellated buildings; one mass from a particular point of view exactly resembles the ruins of Iona, even to the square tower; other peaks are like spires. Strange fantastic needle-like rocks or drongs shoot up into the air—the Witches’ fingers (Trollkonefinger) of the Northmen. The headland exhibits a great arched opening through which, we were told, at certain states of the tide, the steamer could sail if her masts were lowered. It is called Dyrhólaey—the hill door—and from it the farm or village close by is named Dyrhólar. Behind these curious rocks appeared a range of greenish hills mottled with snow-patches, their white summits hid in the rolling clouds.
There are numerous waterfalls; glaciers—the ice of a pale whity-green colour—fill the ravines and creep down the valleys from the Jökuls to the very edge of the water. Their progressive motion here is the same as in Switzerland, and large blocks of lava are brought down imbedded in their moraine. I perceived what I thought to be curved lines on the surface like the markings on mother-of-pearl, indicating that the downward motion of a glacier is greater in the centre than where impeded by friction at the sides.
On the shoulders of the range of heights along the coast, snow, brown-coloured patches and green-spots were all intermingled; while the upper mountain regions of perpetual snow were meanwhile for the most part hid in clouds which turban-like swathed their brows in fleecy “folds voluminous and vast.”
The steamer is running, at nine knots, straight for the Westmanna Islands, where a mail is to be landed. They lie off the coast nearly half way between Portland Huk, the south point, and Cape Reykjanes the south-west point of Iceland.
How gracefully the sea-birds skim the brine, taking the long wave-valleys, disappearing and reappearing amongst the great heaving billows. We note many waterfalls leaping from the mountain sides to the shore, and at times right into the sea itself, from heights apparently varying from two to four hundred feet.
We now approach the Westmanna Islands, so called from ten Irish slaves—westmen—who in the year A.D. 875 took refuge here after killing Thorleif their master. They are a group of strange fantastically shaped islets of brown lava-rock; only three or four however have any appearance of grass upon them, and but one island, Heimaey—the home isle, is inhabited. The precipitous rock-cliffs are honeycombed with holes and caves which are haunted by millions of birds. These thickly dot the crevices with masses of living white; hover like clouds in the air, and swarm the waters around like a fringe—resting, fluttering, or diving, by turns.
Westmannshavn, the harbour of the islands, is a bay on the north-west of Heimaey where a green vale slopes down to the sea. It is sheltered by the islands of Heimaklettur on the North, and Bjarnarey on the East. We observed a flag flying, and a few huts scattered irregularly and sparsely on the slope. This place is called Kaupstadr—or head town—but there is no other town in the group. The roofs of the huts were covered with green sod and scarcely to be distinguished from the grass of the slope on which they stood save by the light blue smoke which rose curling above them from turf fires.
A row-boat came off for the mail, which, we were told, had never before been landed here from a steamer; the usual mode is to get it from Reykjavik in a sailing vessel. For those accustomed to at least half a dozen deliveries of letters every day, it was strange to think that here there were fewer posts in a whole year. These Islands have, on account of their excellent fisheries, from very remote periods been much frequented by foreign vessels. Before the discovery of Newfoundland, British merchants resorted hither, and also to ports on the west coast of Iceland, to exchange commodities and procure dried stock-fish. Icelandic ships also visited English ports. This intercommunication can be distinctly traced back to the time of Henry III.; but by the beginning of the fifteenth century it had become regular and had risen to importance. It was matter of treaty between Norway and England; but, with or without special licenses, or in spite of prohibitions—sometimes with the connivance and permission of the local authorities, and at other times notwithstanding the active opposition of one or both governments—the trade being mutually profitable to those engaged in it continued to be prosecuted. English tapestry and linen are mentioned in old Icelandic writings, and subsequently we learn that English strong ale was held in high estimation by the Northmen.
Edward III. granted certain privileges and exemptions to the fishermen of Blacknie and Lyne in Norfolk on account of their Icelandic commerce. In favourable weather the distance could be run in about a fortnight.
From Icelandic records we learn that in the year A.D. 1412, “30 ships engaged in fishing were seen off the coast at one time.” “In A.D. 1415 there were no fewer than 6 English merchant ships in the harbour of Hafna Fiord alone.”
Notwithstanding the proclamations and prohibitions both of Eric and Henry V. the traffic still continued to increase; and we incidentally learn that in the year A.D. 1419 “Twenty-five English ships were wrecked on this coast in a dreadful snow-storm.” Goods supplied to the natives then, as in later times, were both cheaper and better than could be obtained from the Danish monopolists. It will be remembered by the reader that when Columbus visited Iceland he sailed in a bark from the port of Bristol.
Gazing on this singular group of rocky Islands, on the coast of Iceland, so lone and quiet, and reverting to the early part of the thirteenth century, it was strange to realize that into this very bay had then sailed and cast anchor the ships of our enterprising countrymen—quaint old-fashioned ships, such as we may still see represented in illuminated MSS. of the period; and that their latest news to such English merchants or fishermen as had wintered or perhaps been stationed for some time at Westmannshavn—supposing modern facilities for the transmission of news—would not have been the peace of Villafranca but the confirmation of Magna Charta;—instead of the formation of volunteer corps, nobles hastening to join the fifth Crusade;—not the treading out of a Sepoy revolt, but Mongolian hordes overrunning the Steppes of Russia;—and instead of some important law-decision, celebrated trial, or case in Chancery, they might hear of an acquaintance who had perished in single combat, or who had indignantly and satisfactorily proved his or her innocence by submitting to trial by ordeal. These were the old times of Friar Bacon—the days of alchemy and witchcraft. Haco had not yet been crowned King of Norway; Snorre Sturleson was yet a young man meditating the “Heimskringla.” The chisel of Nicolo Pisano and the pencil of Cimabue were at work in Italy. Neither Dante nor Beatrice as yet existed; nor had the factions of Guelph and Ghibeline sprung into being. Chaucer was not born till the following century. Aladdin reigned; Alphonzo the Wise, King of Leon and Castile, had not promulgated his code of laws. Not a single Lombard moneylender had arrived to settle in London; and the present structure of Westminster Abbey had not then been reared.
BJARNAREY.
On leaving Westmannshavn, sailing north between the islands of Heimaklettur and Bjarnarey, we saw two men rowing a boat deeply laden to the gunwale with sea-fowls, probably the result of their day’s work. The cliffs everywhere alive with birds, and the smooth sea beneath them, in the glorious light of the evening sun, dotted black as if peppered with puffins and eider-ducks.
Nine P.M. Sketched various aspects of the islands and several of the strange outlying skerries.
WESTMANNA SKERRIES.
When the Westmanna Islands are reckoned at fourteen, that number does not include innumerable little rocky stacks and islets of all fantastic shapes alone or in groups; some like Druidical stones or old ruins, others of them far out and exactly like ships in full sail, producing a strange effect on the horizon.
The island nearest the coast of Iceland on the east of Heimaey is called Erlendsey; that furthest north-west is Drángr; and the furthest west Einarsdrángr. On the south-west is an islet called Alsey; we have also an Ailsa in the frith of Clyde: both names probably signifying fire-isle. The islet furthest south is called Geirfuglasker. These names are necessarily altogether omitted on common small maps.
We witness a glorious sunset on the sea,—the horizon streaked with burning gold:
“Now ’gan the golden Phœbus for to steepe
His fiery face in billows of the west,
And his faint steedes watered in ocean deepe
Whiles from his journall labours he did rest.”
Although the surface of the sea is quite smooth, a heavy ground swell keeps rolling along. A bank of violet cloud lies to the left of the sun, while dense masses of leaden and purple-coloured clouds are piled above it. An opening glows like a furnace seven times heated, darting rays from its central fire athwart the sky, and opening up a burning cone-shaped pathway of light on the smooth heaving billows, the apex of which reaches our prow.
Such the scene, as we sail north-west between the northernmost out-lying skerries of the Westmanna group and the south-west coast of Iceland and silently watch the gorgeous hues of sunset. Strangely at such times “hope and memory sweep the chords by turns,” till the past, fused down into the present, becomes a magic mirror for the future.
The air is mild and warm; time by Greenwich twenty-minutes to eleven. The sun is not yet quite down, and—by the ship’s compass, without making any allowance for deviation—is setting due north. At a quarter-past 12 A.M. when we leave the deck, it is still quite light.
CAPE REYKJANES LOOKING SOUTH.
COAST NEAR REYKJAVIK.
Thursday Morning, July 28. Rose early—we are sailing along the Krisuvik coast in the direction of Cape Reykjanes—smoky cape—which runs out from the south-west of Iceland. The low lying coast is of black lava; behind it rise serrated hill-ranges, and isolated conical mountains; some of a deep violet colour, others covered with snow and ice, the dazzling whiteness of which is heightened by contrast with the low dark fire-scathed foreground. White fleecy clouds are rolling among the peaks, now dense and clearly defined against the bright blue sunny sky—now hazy, ethereal, and evanescent. We observe steam rising from a hot sulphur spring on the coast. These are numerous in this neighbourhood, which contains the principal sulphur mines of the island. Here, where we sail, volcanic islands have at different times arisen and disappeared; flames too have sometimes been seen to issue from submarine craters; this latter phenomenon the natives describe as “the sea” being “on fire.”
ELDEY.
On our left we pass Eldey—or the Fire Isle—a curious isolated basaltic rock resembling the Bass, but much smaller. It rose from the deep in historic times. The top slopes somewhat, and is white; this latter appearance has originated its Danish name “Maelsek,” which is pronounced precisely in the same way as “meal-sack” would be in the Scottish dialect;—in fact the words are the same. Many solan geese flying about; whales gamboling and spouting close to the vessel.
Nine A.M., Greenwich time. Got first glimpse of Snæfells Jökul—the fifth highest mountain in Iceland—height 4577 feet—lying nearly in a north-west direction, far away across the blue waters of the Faxa Fiord. A pyramid covered with perpetual snow and ice, gleaming in the sun, its outline is now traced against a sky of deeper blue than any of us ever beheld in Switzerland or Italy.
The Faxa Fiord, situated on the south-west, is the largest in the island, and might be described as a magnificent bay, forming a semicircle which extends fifty-six miles from horn to horn; while its shores are deeply and irregularly indented by arms of the sea, or Fiords proper, which have names of their own, such as Hafnafiord, Hvalfiord, or Borgarfiord. Snæfell, on the north side of it, rises from the extremity of the long narrow strip of steep mountain promontory that runs out into the sea, separating the Faxa from the Breida Fiord—another large bay;—while on the south the Guldbringu Syssel, terminating with Cape Reykjanes, is a bare low-lying black contorted lava field.
The Faxa Fiord, then, sweeping in a semicircle from Snæfell to Reykjanes, contains several minor Fiords, and is crowded with lofty mountain-peaks, sharp, steep, and bare. The intense clearness of the northern atmosphere through which these appear, together with the fine contrast of their colours—reds, purples, golden hues, and pale lilacs; rosy-tinted snow or silvery-glittering ice—all sharply relieved against the blue sky, as if by magic confound southern ideas of distance, so that a mountain which at first glance appears to be only ten or fifteen miles distant, may in reality be forty or fifty, and perhaps considerably more.
The capital of Iceland lies in the south-east of this great bay. We have been sailing due north from Cape Reykjanes to the point of Skagi, and, rounding it, we sail east by north right into the Faxa Fiord, cutting off the southern segment of the bay, and are making straight for Reykjavik.
Several low-lying islands shelter the port and make the anchorage secure; one of these is Videy on which some of the government offices formerly stood, but it is now noted as a favourite resort of eider ducks which are here protected by law in order to obtain the down with which their nests are lined.
Solitary fishermen are making for the shore in their skiff-like boats. A French frigate and brig, a Danish war schooner and several merchant sloops are seen lying at anchor, shut in by the islands and a low lava promontory. All are gaily decked with colours. On rounding the point, Reykjavik the capital of Iceland lies fairly before us. It is situated on a gentle greenish slope rising from the black volcanic sand of that “Plutonian shore.” There are grassy heights at either side of the town and a fresh water lake like a large pond behind it. The cathedral in the centre, built of brick plastered brown stone colour, and the windmill on the height to the left, are the two most prominent objects. The front street consists of a single row of dark-coloured Danish looking wooden houses facing the sea. These we are told are mostly merchants’ stores. Several of them have flag-staffs from which the Danish colours now flutter. All our glasses are in requisition. Numerous wooden jetties lead from the sea up to the road in front of the warehouses, and, on these, females like the fish-women of Calais, “withered, grotesque, wrinkled,” and seeming “immeasurably old,” with others younger and better looking, are busily engaged in carrying dried fish between the boats and the stores. Young and old alike wear the graceful Icelandic female head-dress—viz. a little black cloth scull-cap, jauntily fastened with a hair pin on the back part of the head. From the crown of this cap hangs a silver tube ornament, out of which flows a long thick black silk tassel falling on the shoulder.
Two streets run inland from the front street, and at right angles to it. That on the left contains the Governor’s house, and the residences of several officials. It leads to the house where the Althing or Icelandic Parliament now assembles, and where, in another part of the same building, Rector Jonson teaches in the one academy of the island. The other street on the right contains several shops, merchants’ dwelling houses, the residence of Jón Gudmundsson, president of the Althing, advocate, and editor of a newspaper. It leads to the hotel, and to the residence of Dr. Hjaltalin, a distinguished antiquarian and the chief physician of the island. In the same direction, a little higher up, is the lonely churchyard.
Between these two streets, houses stand at irregular intervals, and nearly all have little garden-plots attached to them.
On the outskirts, flanking the town, which in appearance is more Danish than Icelandic, are a few fishermen’s huts, roofed over with green sod; and these, we afterwards found, were more like the style of buildings commonly to be met with throughout the island.
As we cast anchor, the morning sunshine is gloriously bright and clear, sea and sky intensely blue, and the atmosphere more transparent than that of Switzerland or Italy. Beyond Reykjavik, wild bare heights rise all round the bay; here—mountains of a ruddy brown colour, deeply scarred and distinctly showing every crevice; there—snow-patches gleaming on dark purple hills; here—lofty pyramids of glittering ice; there—cones of black volcanic rock; while white fleecy clouds in horizontal layers streak the distant peaks, and keep rolling down the shoulders of the nearer Essian range.
The arrival of the steamer is quite an event to the Icelanders. A boat came off from the shore, and another from the French brig, to get the mail-bags. We brought tidings of the peace of Villafranca, and heard the cheering of the French sailors when the news was announced to them. Dr. Mackinlay, who had remained, exploring various parts of the island, since the previous voyage of the Arcturus, and for whom we had letters and papers, kindly volunteered to give us information about the Geyser expedition. From his habits of keen observation, patient research, and kind-heartedness, he was well qualified to do so.
He recommended Geir Zöga, who had accompanied him on board, as a good trustworthy guide. We wished to start at once, so as to make the most of our time, but the undertaking was a more serious affair than we had anticipated. Ultimately, before landing, we arranged to start next morning at eight o’clock, as the very best we could do.
The distance to be got over is 72 miles, literally without roads or shelter; and mostly over wild rough stony wastes, in comparison with which the bed of a mountain water-course would be a good macadamized road. Provisions, traps, and everything we require have to be taken along with us.
We are a party of six; the guide has two assistants; nine riders in all, each requires a relay horse, so that eighteen ponies for the riders, and six for the baggage are requisite for our expedition. These have to be bargained for and collected together by Zöga from the farms around Reykjavik; and as the ponies now run almost wild over the wastes in pursuit of scant herbage, and neither receive grooming, stabling, nor feeding, this is a work of time, and will occupy, Dr. Mackinlay tells us, not only the whole afternoon but the greater part of the night.
No one had brought provisions north but myself, so arrangements are made with the steward of the steamer for supplying them, and mine thrown in with the rest pro bono publico. Having fixed that Zöga should call in the evening at the hotel and report progress, at half-past 11 o’clock A.M. we got into the Captain’s boat to land, where, long ago, Ingolf the first colonist had drawn his ship on shore. As the remainder of the day is at our disposal, curiosity is on edge to explore Reykjavik, the general plan and appearance of which has already been described—partly by anticipation.
The sun-glare is oppressively hot. As we approach the jetty we observe groups of men and women standing on the beach to see the passengers land. Some of the younger women are good-looking, and become the picturesque costume of the country;—those curious little black caps with silver ornaments and long black silk tassels already described; jackets faced with silver lace or rows of metal buttons; belts similarly ornamented; long flowing dark wadmal skirts of home manufacture; and primitive shoes made of one bit of cow-skin or any kind of hide, prepared so as in colour to resemble parchment or the skin one sometimes sees stretched like a drum-head over the mouth of a jar of honey.
A few other ladies are in morning dress, with shawls or handkerchiefs thrown gracefully over their heads, and nothing peculiar or different in their costume from what we are accustomed to see at home.
Mr. Haycock had received a letter of introduction to Mr. Simson, and I had one to Mr. Sievertsen; the latter is a retired merchant, and the former carries on a large business of a very miscellaneous kind—such being the character of all the stores or factories here. As the houses of these gentlemen both lay in the same direction, we set out together in order to obtain advice as to what was to be seen in Reykjavik and its neighbourhood. In passing along the front street, the stores—mostly belonging to Danish merchants—presented quite a bustling business aspect; while the dwelling houses, with lattice windows, white curtains and flower-pots of blooming roses and geraniums, exhibited an air of cleanliness, comfort and refinement. From the absence of roads, carts are useless; one wheel barrow which we saw, belonging to an enterprising storekeeper, we were told, was the only wheeled vehicle in the island.
Mr. Sigurdur Sievertsen received us most cordially. This intelligent old gentleman conducted Sir George Mackenzie, who was his father’s guest, to the Geysers; and he is alluded to by Sir George, in his travels, as “young Mr. Sievertsen.” Time works changes! or, as Archbishop Whately would more accurately put it, changes are wrought, not by, but “in time.” However, Mr. Sievertsen is hale and hearty, and many summers may he yet see! On the wall we saw the portrait of his gifted and much lamented son, who several years ago died in Paris. He had been taken there by Louis Philip to receive a free education, as a graceful acknowledgment to the Icelanders for kindness shewn to the crew of a French vessel wrecked on their coast.
L Men’s shoes. G Girls’ shoes. S Snuffbox made of walrus tusk. H Female-head-dress with flowing silk tassel (see p. [49]). D Distaff. M Two-thumbed mits.]
Our host has visited Britain, and both speaks and writes English fluently. Neither he nor his amiable wife spared any pains in trying to be of service to us. They gave us all manner of information, and kindly assisted us in procuring specimens of native manufacture, such as—silver trinkets of beautiful workmanship; fine knitted gloves soft as Angola wool; fishermen’s mits with no divisions for the fingers but each made with two thumbs, so that when the fishing line wears through one side the other can be turned; caps; men and women’s shoes; quaint snuff boxes made of walrus tusk, or horn; and sundry other souvenirs which we wished to take south with us.
In Mr. Simson’s store we saw everything from a needle to an anchor; from the coarsest packsheet to French ribbons. At Mr. Smith’s, whose son had come north with us on his way from Copenhagen, we invested in seal-skins and eider-down—the latter for pillows and coverlets. This down, the eider-duck plucks from its breast to line its nest; it and the eggs are taken away. Again the nest is lined, and again robbed. The third time, the drake repairs it, supplying the down; and if this be also taken away the nest is altogether deserted by the ill-used pair. One nest yields about two and a half ounces of the finest clean down, or about half a pound in all if removed three times. What is plucked from the dead bird, it is said, possesses none of that wonderful elasticity which constitutes the value of the other. We should think, however, that this would depend on the state of the plumage at the time. Many thousand pounds weight of it are annually exported for quilts, pillows, cushions, &c. It sells in Iceland at from 10/6 to 17/6 per ℔. From three to four ℔s. are sufficient for a coverlet, which, to be enjoyed in perfection, ought to be used unquilted and loose like a feather bed. Quilting is only useful where a small quantity of down is required to go a long way; but, with three or four pounds at command, there is no comparison in point of comfort between loose and quilted—we have tried both. The eider coverlet combines lightness and warmth in a degree which cannot be otherwise obtained. With a single sheet and blanket, it is sufficient for the coldest wintry night. Its elasticity is proverbial; hence the Icelandic conundrum we had propounded to us by our good friend Mr. Jacobson, “What is it that is higher when the head is taken off it?” Answer—“An eider-down pillow!”
In walking along we saw some young ladies, in elegant Parisian costume, out sunning themselves like butterflies. The thermometer stood at 72°, so, light coloured fancy parasols were in requisition and enjoyed no sinecure to-day, even in Iceland. Single days here are sometimes very bright and warm, though rarely without showers; for the weather is very changeable, and summer short at best. Less rain falls in the northern part of the island than in the southern; because the mountains in the south first catch and empty the rain clouds floating from the south-west over the course of the gulf-stream. For this reason there is more sunshine in the north, crops too are heavier and earlier; for, notwithstanding the 3° higher latitude, the summer temperature is nearly the same as that of the south. In winter, however, it is colder, from the presence of Spitzbergen icebergs and Greenland ice-floes stranded on the shore, while the sea to the north and east is filled with them. Last winter was very severe: the south and west were also filled. My friend Dr. Mackinlay has treated this subject—the climate of Iceland—so admirably, that I cannot refrain from quoting his MS. notes:
“The number and size of the rivers” says he, “cannot fail to strike the attention of every visitor who sees much of the country especially along the coasts. The main cause of this is, of course, the abundant rain-fall which is out of all proportion to the latitude of Iceland.
“This excess is owing to two causes—The mountainous nature of the country; and its geographical position. Iceland lies in the direct course of one of the branches of the gulf-stream. No land intervenes between it and the Bermudas. The rain-charged clouds from the south-west are therefore ready to part with their moisture as soon as they touch the shores of Iceland. As they move northwards, to the back-bone of the island, their temperature diminishes so rapidly that the whole of their moisture becomes precipitated. Winds from the S.W., S., and S.E., drench the southern part of the Island, but bring fair weather to the north.
“As the southernly winds are the most frequent, the north side enjoys the greatest number of sunny days in summer; and hence vegetation is more luxuriant there, even though the latitude is 3° higher, and the southernly winds are chilled in passing over the great mountain chain. The mean summer temperature of the north is almost as high as that of the south; but the mean temperature of the year is 14° lower. In the south this is 47°, but in the north it is 33°. The climate of the south is insular in its character, while that of the north is continental. Severe continuous frosts are rare about Reykjavik; while along the north coast the winters are very severe. The severity of the winters is mainly caused by the presence of ice in the adjoining seas. The cold Arctic current from Spitzbergen, which impinges on the north coast, comes freighted in winter with an occasional iceberg; while the westerly winds and the west Icelandic branch of the gulf-stream combine to fill the seas to the north and east of the island with ice floes from Greenland. In ordinary winters, the seas to the south and east are open; but in extraordinary winters they also are filled. Such a winter was that of 1858-9. The corresponding winter in Britain was very mild, and owed its mildness to the same cause which produced the hard winter of Iceland—the unusual prevalence of westerly winds.
“In the first months of 1859, the sea between Greenland and Iceland—200 miles wide—was packed with ice floes; and upon these several bears made their way across to Iceland. Floating ice surrounded the island; but along the north coast the sea itself was frozen so far out that the people of Grimsey, twenty miles or so from the nearest point of Iceland, actually rode across to the mainland. At Akur Eyri in the beginning of April, Reaumur’s thermometer registered 26° of cold—a temperature equal to 26½° of Fahrenheit. So late as June, seven French fishing boats were lost in the ice on the north coast, and a French ship of war nearly met with the same fate. Speaking of northern ice, Captain Launay, of the French man-of-war referred to, told me that its approach could be foreseen at the distance of twenty-five to thirty miles by a peculiar reflection of the sky. As the distance diminishes, the sky gets overcast, the temperature falls rapidly, and fish and sea-fowl disappear. The Greenland ice is much more dangerous than the Spitzbergen. The latter is 120 to 150 feet high, massive and wall-sided, but of no great extent. The former is in immense floes, often forming bays in which ships are caught as in a snare. It seldom exceeds 40 feet in height; but is jagged and peaked. Sometimes drift-timber gets nipped between the floes, and is set fire to by the violent friction it sustains. The sound of the crushing ice was described by Captain Launay as most horrible.”
Thus much of the climate.
Dr. Mackinlay took Mr. Haycock and me to call for the Governor, the Count Von Trampe, who is a Dane, and well known for his urbanity to strangers. He kindly introduced us to his family. The house itself resembles, and at once suggests pictures we have seen of missionaries’ houses in Madagascar. Within doors, however, all is tasteful and elegant. One peculiarity is worth noting, viz.: that the walls of his suite of apartments are covered with French portraits, paintings, engravings, and lithographs, nearly all presentations. In the public room, I only observed one that was not French. Judging from the walls, we might have been in the residence of a French Consul. French frigates are put on this station, year after year, ostensibly to look after the fisheries. Great court is paid to the leading islanders, and France would fain be in the ascendant here as elsewhere. Iceland, meanwhile, costs Denmark an outlay of several thousands a year; because, say some of the Icelanders, more is not invested in improvements of various kinds in order to make it pay. This state of matters would render negotiations easy on the part of Denmark, were the acquisition of the island an object to France. It would be an easy method of paying for assistance rendered in any Holstein difficulty or other cunningly laid European mine that may yet explode; when the cause of justice and right, as it ever is, being declared all on the side of France, she will disinterestedly go forward with her eagles for freedom and glory.
Such contingencies may arise, although the Danes are our natural allies and our Scandinavian brethren. It may be asked, what would the French do with the island? It would be chiefly useful to them for forming and training hardy seamen for the navy, as they already do to some extent both here and on the Newfoundland coast where the fisheries are maintained and subsidized for that very purpose. It would furnish a station in the North Sea, from which to descend and menace our North American traffic; and it contains extensive sulphur mines, which, in the event of Sicily being shut against us, are available for munitions of war in our gunpowder manufactories; in another point of view, it is invaluable, as the great salmon-preserve of Europe.
Intelligent Icelanders who cherish the memory of their ancient freedom, to my certain knowledge, regard all such French tendencies and contingencies with decided aversion. But in the event of a transfer being mooted, would the Icelanders be consulted in the matter? I fear not, and that it would only be announced to them in the French fashion, as fait accompli: may such however, never be the fate of this interesting island!
These remarks, although suggested here by the pictures in the Governor’s drawing-room, have no reference, it is right to state, to the Count Von Trampe’s views on this subject, which I do not happen to know; nor on the other hand, to the officers’ of the vessels stationed here, who all seem to be gentlemanly kind-hearted fellows. A variety of facts and observations, however, all tended to confirm me in this impression; besides, it is the policy which the French are pursuing elsewhere.
From the Governor’s, we proceed to call for Mr. Randröp, the states apothecary, and receive a most hospitable, true, northern welcome. We meet several French officers and see the usual quantum of French prints on the walls. But he is the French consul or agent. Coffee, cakes, and wine, are handed round to us by the ladies, this being the custom of the country, and in drinking to us, the form is always, “Welcome to Iceland.” Mr. Randröp speaks a little English, and the two young ladies, his step-daughters, are acquiring it. Here, as in Germany, the class book in common use is “The Vicar of Wakefield.” Madame Randröp, who speaks French and German and plays on the piano-forte, shewed us several beautiful silver trinkets, bracelets, pins, &c., of Icelandic manufacture; the style an open mediaeval looking fretwork, that might satisfy the most fastidious artistic taste.
The Governor’s house and Mr. Randröp’s are the two centres of Reykjavik society, and at one or other of them, of an evening, any stranger visiting these parts is almost certain to be found. One is expected to make quite a round of visits if he be authenticated, or have any sort of introduction to any one of the circle; an omission would even be regarded as a slight. Hence Dr. Mackinlay took us to call for a considerable number of people, all of whom were cordial and glad to see us.
Our next visit was to the Rev. Olaf Pálsson, Dean and Rector of the Cathedral. Learned, intelligent, communicative and obliging, he at once, in the kindest manner possible, placed himself at our service and offered us every assistance in his power. In his library I observed many standard works of reference in various languages, and opened several volumes that seemed to recognize me as a friend whom they had met before: “Lord Dufferin’s Letters from High Latitudes”—a presentation copy—“Caird’s Sermons;” “Life of the Rev. Ebenezer Henderson”—the Icelandic traveller; “Stanley’s Sinai and Palestine,” &c. The worthy pastor both speaks and writes English fluently, and has translated a number of Icelandic stories and fairy tales.[[4]]
The Pastor’s honest ruddy face, light flaxen hair, and unassuming manner; his rosy cheeked children, the monthly roses in the window-sill, and the library—all go to form a pleasing picture in the Walhalla of memory. He afterwards accompanied us to call for Rector Jonson. The Rector is a good specimen of the genus homo; tall and burly, while his active mind is vigorous, inquisitive, and accomplished. He showed us over various rooms, where the different branches are taught, some of them containing cabinets of geological and zoological specimens. The school is supported by government; and about sixty select young men intended for the church and other learned professions here receive a free education; a few of them only go to Copenhagen yet further to complete their studies.
Although the island contains 64,603 inhabitants, this, as we have said, is the only Academy or College; and there is not a single juvenile school.
The population is so widely scattered that schools would be quite impracticable; for the six thousand farms which the island contains, on the habitable coast belt which surrounds the central deserts, are often separated from each other by many dreary miles of lava wastes and rapid rivers dangerous to ford.
Parents, however, all teach their children to read and write by the fireside on the long winter evenings, as they themselves were taught; and the people are thus home educated from generation to generation, and trained to habits of intellectual activity from their youth. Thus, as a mass, the Icelanders are without doubt the best educated people in the world.
For six centuries the Icelanders have evidenced their love of literature by writing and preserving old Sagas and Eddas;—by producing original works on mythology, law, topography, archaeology, &c.—several of these at once the earliest and best of their kind in Europe; and by executing many admirable translations from the classics.
Such literary labours have often been carried on by priests in remote districts, who subsist on a miserable pittance, and dwell in what we would consider mere hovels,—men who are obliged to work, at outdoor manual labour, the same as any of their neighbour peasants and parishoners, in order to keep the wolf from the door. Henderson found Thorláksson, the translator of “Paradise Lost,” busy making hay. His living only yielded him £7 per annum, and the one room in which he slept and wrote was only eight feet long by six broad. This translation was not printed till after his death. Verily good work lovingly done is its own reward. These men had little else to cheer them on.
We next visited the Cathedral, which stands in the back part of the town, with an open square space in front of it, and a little fresh water lake—inland—to the left. It is a modern edifice, built of brick, plastered. At the entrance we were joined by our friend Professor Chadbourne. The interior is very neatly fitted up with pews, has galleries, organ, &c.; and can accommodate three or four hundred people.
An oil painting above the communion table represents the resurrection; but the only object of artistic interest is a white marble baptismal font, carved and presented to the Cathedral by Thorwaldsen, whose father was an Icelander. It is a low square obelisk. The basin on the top is surrounded with a symbolical wreath of passion-flowers and roses, delicately carved in high relief out of the white marble. On the front is represented, also in relief, the baptism of our Saviour by St. John; on the left side, the Madonna and Child, with John the Baptist as an infant standing at her knee; on the right, Christ blessing little children; while at the back, next the altar, are three cherubs, and underneath them is inscribed the following legend: “Opus haec Romae fecit, et Islandiae, terrae sibi gentiliacae, pietatis causâ, donavit Albertus Thorvaldsen, anno MDCCCXXVII.” It is a chaste and beautiful work of art.
In the vestry the Rev. Olaf Pálsson opened several large chests, and shewed us numerous vestments belonging to the bishop and priests; one of these with gorgeous embroideries had been sent here to the bishop by Pope Julius II. in the beginning of the sixteenth century. The cloth was purple velvet, embroidered and stiff with brocade of gold.
Above the church, immediately under the sloping roof, an apartment runs the whole length of the building. In it is deposited the free public library of Reykjavik, which consists of more than 6000 volumes in Icelandic, Danish, Latin, French, English, German, and various other languages. A copy of every book published at Copenhagen is sent here by government, and from time to time it receives numerous presentations from foreigners. The ancient original Icelandic MSS. have all been removed to Denmark, so that here there is now nothing very old to be seen, except what has been reprinted. With great interest we turned over the leaves of a copy of Snorre Sturleson’s “Heimskringla,” and the “Landnáma Bok,” shewn us by the librarian and learned scholar Mr. Jón Arnason.
The hotel at Reykjavik is merely a kind of tavern, with a billiard room for the French sailors to play, lounge, and smoke in; a large adjoining room, seated round, for the Reykjavik fashionable assemblies; a smaller room up stairs, and some two or three bedrooms. On reaching it we were received by the landlord and shewn up stairs, where we found Mr. Bushby, who gave us a most courteous English welcome, notwithstanding our unintentional intrusion. He had, that morning, when the steamer came in sight, set out and ridden along the coast from the sulphur mines at Krisuvik—perhaps one of the wildest continuous rides in the world—to meet Captain Forbes.
Knowing the scant accommodation at the landlord’s disposal, he at once placed the suite of rooms he had engaged at our service, to dress and dine in, thus proving himself a friend in need. A good substantial dinner was soon under weigh, and rendered quite a success by the many good things with which Mr. Bushby kindly supplemented it, contributing them from his own private stores.
Mr. Gísli Brynjúlfsson, the young Icelandic poet—employed in antiquarian researches by the Danish Government chiefly at Copenhagen, but at present here because he is a member of the Althing or Parliament now sitting—joined us at table, having been invited by Dr. Mackinlay. He speaks English fluently, and gave us much interesting information. He kindly presented me with a volume “Nordurfari,” edited by himself and a friend, and containing amongst other articles in prose and verse, “Bruce’s Address at Bannockburn,” translated into Icelandic, in the metre of the original. This northern version of Burns’ poem may interest the reader.[[5]]
BANNOCK-BURN
ÁVARP ROBERT BRUCE TIL HERLITHS SINS.
EPTIR BURNS.
Skotar, er Wallace vördust med
Vig med Bruce opt hafid sjed;
Velkomnir ad blódgum bed,
Bjartri eda sigurfraegd!
Stund og dagur dýr nú er;
Daudinn ógnar hvar sem sjer;
Jatvards ad oss aedir her—
Ok og hlekkja naegd!
Hverr vill bera nidings nafn?
Ná hver bleydu sedja hrafn?
Flýti hann burtu sjer!
Hverr vill hlinur Hildar báls
Hjör nu draga hins góda máls,
Standa bædi og falla frjáls?
Fari hann eptir mjer!
Ánaudar vid eymd og grönd!
Ydar sona thrældóms bönd!
Vjer viljum láta lif og önd,
En leysa úr hlekkjum thá!
Fellid grimma fjendur thví!
Sól, eda ordna ad ná!
After finally arranging with Zöga to start for the Geysers at 8 o’clock next morning, Dr. Mackinlay, Mr. Haycock, Professor Chadbourne and I took a walk through the town, called for Dr. Hjaltalin, who unfortunately was not at home, and strolled along to the churchyard. It is surrounded by a low stone and turf wall. We gathered forget-me-nots, catch-flies, saxifrage and butter-cups among the grass; observed artificial flowers, rudely made of muslin and worsted, stuck upon a grave, but do not know if this is an Icelandic custom or the work of the stranger over the last resting place of a comrade.
Looking down upon Reykjavik from the elevation on which we stand all is bright in the mellow glare of evening; the windows of the houses gleam in the sun like the great jewel of Ghiamsheed; the near Essian mountains have a ruddy glow, and the bay, intensely blue, is gay with vessels and flags.
Gazing inland all is one wild dreary black lava waste—miles upon miles of bog, stones and blocks of rock. Botanized for an hour with the Professor.
On returning saw several heaps of large cod-fish heads, piled up near the sod-roofed houses of the fishermen in the outskirts of the town. On enquiry we were told that the heads of fish dried for exportation are thus retained; the people here eat them, and one head is said to be a good breakfast for a man.
Most of the houses in and around Reykjavik have little plots of garden-ground surrounded with low turf walls. In these we generally observed common vegetables such as parsley, turnips, potatoes, cresses, a few plants for salads, &c.; here and there a currant bush, and sometimes a few annuals or other flowers. These, however, seldom come to any great degree of perfection, and are often altogether destroyed; for the climate is severe and very changeable, especially in the southern portion of the island.
REYKJAVIK.
The Governor called at the hotel for Mr. Haycock and me, insisted on us taking the loan of his tent, and kindly invited us to come along and spend the evening with him. As we had to start in the morning for the Geysers for the present we declined the proferred hospitality, but promised to call on our return.
ICELANDIC LADY IN FULL DRESS.
As there was not accommodation for us at the hotel, we were rowed off to the “Arcturus” by the indefatigable Zöga at half-past 10 o’clock at night, and slept on board.
ROUTE TO THINGVALLA.