23. Plan du mouillage d’Akureyré (Oë-Fiord), 1864 (Butter, lieutenant de vaisseau).
24. Plan de Skutils-Fiord et du port de Pollen, 1867 (MM. Guérard et Petit de Baroncourt).
25. Croquis du mouillage de Bildal dans Arnar-Fiord, 1867 (MM. Guérard et Petit de Baroncourt).
This section can hardly end more appropriately than with a notice of Dr Ebenezer Henderson’s two volumes which, though published in 1818, and although we no longer land in Iceland as in Africa (i. 9), are still useful in 1874. The author died in 1829, but he is remembered by the islanders; and his name, cut in Hebrew letters upon the “soft yellow tufa” (Palagonite), the nafna-klettar (Wady el Mukattab) of Hýtardal, nearly sixty years ago, is, and long will be, shown to travellers. Lacking scientific training, and, probably, one of the seri studiorum, for his learning, especially his Hebrew, reads like an excrescence upon the simple journal, this writer has solid merits, and he enjoyed unusual advantages. His style is respectable; he has an exceptional eye for country, rare in the traveller as catching the likeness is in the portrait-painter; his powers of observation are remarkable, as shown by the observations upon the Skriðjöklar; he received every attention and much information from the clergy, in those days even more powerful than now; his employment as a colporteur of the “Sacred Oracles,” which, by the by, were so faultily translated that they did not deserve to supersede Bishop Guðbrand’s version, threw him much amongst the people; and his extensive travels during three years enabled him to publish the best, because the most general, book on Iceland known to the English tongue.
On the other hand, his pious expressions are so obsolete, that in these days we look upon them as almost irreverent. He has all the narrow-mindedness of the early nineteenth century—the Georgian era and the golden age of the evangelical middle classes. His credulity is astounding; he has a bulimia of faith; he eagerly records every ridiculous tale he hears—if you disbelieve him, you are a sceptic with a sub-flavour of atheism. He quotes without surprise the igneous vapours attaching themselves to the persons of the inhabitants; the under garments of a farmer being consumed when the outer suit was uninjured; and the lightning which burned in the pores of a woman’s body, singeing the clothes she wore (i. 311, 316), a tale frequently copied by others. He borrows his natural history from Horrebow, and from Ólafsson and Pállsson, who wrote in A.D. 1755. The weakest fox manages to secure all the food (ii. 98). The silly bear deluded by the mitten, a fable so well known to children’s books, is his. Upon the authority of a parson and an old woman, he supplies the Mus sylvaticus not only with a cow-chip canoe, but also with a mushroom carpet-bag (ii. 185): it excels the animantia plaustra of Polignac’s Anti-Lucretius. His terrific descriptions of the road and the ford, dangers mostly fanciful, and his exaggerated horrors, must not be set down to want of manliness. An earnest and pious man, he yearns in every page to pull off his hat, to fall upon his knees, and to thank protecting and preserving Providence for some imaginary hair-breadth escape. The French travellers made observations for temperature and other matters in the floods which he describes as the most dangerous; and his eight-miles-an-hour current (i. 181) is simply a delusion.
The book has one great element of success, and the string of initials appended to the author’s name prove that it has been successful. To use a popular phrase, all his “geese are swans”—a view highly flattering and very agreeable to the good geese, but a process hardly likely to leave a truthful impress upon the unprejudiced reader’s brain. He complains that there are free-thinking priests, but every clerk he meets is a model of orthodox piety. He vaunts the hospitality of the land, and only casually lets fall the remark that, although he was employed on a highly popular mission, a single peasant refused to take money from him. Critics are agreed upon his estimate of “J. Milton’s Paradísar Missir,” by Jón Thorlakson.[288] “The translation not only rises superior to any other translation of Milton, but rivals, and in many instances in which the Eddaic phraseology is introduced almost seems to surpass, the original.... Thorlakson has not only supported its prevailing character, but has nicely imitated his (author’s) peculiar terms and more refined modifications.” ... And “although Thorlakson has found it impossible to give the effect of certain sounds, yet this defect is more than compensated by the multiplicity of happy combinations where none exist in the original” (vol. i., 98). All good judges declare that the Icelander has recast Milton in Scandinavian mould, and has produced a beautiful Icelandic poem upon the English groundwork. The narrow bounds of the narrative measure (Fornyrðalag[289]) could never contain the now sweet now sonorous Miltonic verse; and the last sentence quoted from Mr Henderson, as well as his own specimens of the work, clearly show his ignorance of what a translation should be.
Mr William Longman, Vice-President of the Alpine Club, has done good service to the Icelandic traveller by digesting Mr Henderson’s Itineraries (Suggestions for the Exploration of Iceland, London: Longmans, 1861), and by adding many useful items of information. But the reader, however capable, must not expect to carry out the programme. In page 30 the author seems to think ten days sufficient to attempt the ascent or exploration of Kötlu-gjá, Kálfafell, Skeiðarárjökull, Öræfa, and Breiðamerkr Jökull. Each of these “congealed Pandemonia,” with the inevitable delays in travelling from one to the other, would probably consume a fortnight. Iceland is no place for dilettanti grimpeurs; it has neither comfortable inns nor Bureaux des Guides—these Alps are not to be passed over summâ diligentiâ; and M. Jules Verne’s balloon has not yet found its way there.
§ 2. Preparations Foe Travel.
Icelandic travel is of two kinds—the simple tour and the exploration. Most men content themselves with landing at Reykjavik, and with making the Cockney trip to Thingvellir, the Geysir and Hekla, perhaps visiting the Laxá, Langarnes Bessastaðir, Hafnarfjörð, Krísuvík, and Reykir. Others add to this a run to the local Staffa, Stappa, a more or less complete ascent of Snæfellsjökull, and a visit to Reykholt, Surts-hellir, Baula, and Eldborg. If more adventurously disposed, they cross the Arnarvatnsheiði and the Stórisandur to Akureyri, the northern “capital;” they push from Hekla across the Sprengisandur and the centre of the island; or they land at Vopnafjörð, and traverse the north-east corner viâ the Mý-vatn to Húsavik.
For these and other beaten paths very scanty preparations are necessary. Tourists usually exceed in their impedimenta. One party brought out butter where “smjör” is a drug; a second imported the Peter Halkett air-boat and wooden paddles, for crossing rivers three feet deep;[290] a third carried a medicine-chest, where air and water are perfection; a fourth indulged himself with a fine patent reading-lamp, where diamond type is legible at the “noon of night”—a new edition of warming-pans to Calcutta, skates to Brazilian Bahia, and soldiers’ pokers for stirring wooden fires in Ashanti-land. The “Oxonian in Iceland” his advice was taken by another tourist party, who invested £20 in presents for the clergy and clergywomen, books, razors and pen-knives, scissors and needles, ribbons and silk kerchiefs: on return to Reykjavik these inutilities fetched a dollar per pound. The only gifts required are silver specie; if you make a present, you are a richard, and your bill, as all the world over, will be doubled. To the usual travelling-dress add fishermen’s kit,[291] not the dandy Mackintosh, which sops at once in the pelting and penetrating rain. The boots should meet the waterproof: Mr Metcalfe objects that with such gear you cannot walk, and that if your pony fall in one of the “giddy rapid rivers,” you will be pounded to death by stones and water—but possibly you were not “born to be drowned.” Perhaps the best wear for the nether man would be long waterproof stockings, not the wretched stuff of West-End shops, nor Iceland oilskins, which are never impermeable, but Leith articles made for wear, drawn over common boots and overalls, fastened round the waist, and ready to be cast off in hot and sunny weather, or when preparing for a walk over lava. Horses and horse-gear, as well as tents and mattresses, will be described in another place. A common canteen, with iron plates and cups, lamp and methylated spirits, suffices for the cooking department. Cigars, tobacco and snuff, must be carried by those who are not likely to relish the island supply; also tea and cognac, if coffee and Danish “brandy-wine” are not good enough. Sundry tins of potted meat and soup and a few pounds of biscuit are the only other necessaries, to which the traveller may add superfluities ad infinitum. The fishing-rods and nets, the battery, instruments and materials for writing and sketching, must depend upon the tourist. It is as well for him to bear in mind that he will suffer from stinging gnats and midges near the water as much as from thirst, the effect of abnormal evaporation, upon the hills, and from dust and sand upon the paths called roads.