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.