June 8.
The morning, if we can so call it where night is negative, not positive, broke clear and cold, the north-westward savouring strongly of Greenland; and under the rosy sky the western horizon was a white streak, as though the gleam of an iceblink,[344] adding a strange Polar charm. After Eyjafjall there is a complete change of feature; the sea faces a great alluvial plain cut by many broad streams, which breaks inland into waves of rolling ground, with dots denoting hill and hillock, and which ends northwards in blue-black ranges jagged with many a detached peaklet. A host of gulls and terns[345] put in an appearance: I afterwards passed twice along this line, and found it almost desert of feather. Our Cockney gun again amused himself by slaughtering and maiming as many unfortunates as he could—it is only fair to own that this wanton cruelty was not looked upon with a favourable eye. The sable-crested and silver-breasted eider ducks with their brown wives fell easy victims. The same fate overtook the black diver (Colymbus Troile) and the Lundi[346] or puffin (Mormon Fratercula or F. Arctica), called sea-parrot, probably from the disproportionate painted beak which, however, does not lodge a talking tongue. They could hardly rise in the smooth sea, for their wings are short as if they were a transition to the penguins; but they scuttled away, paddling with their web-feet as fast as we approached them. The feathers of the Lundi are collected for stuffing, despite their prodigious growth of pediculi. It is the Shetlanders’ Tommie or Tom Noddy, the Norie of the Orcades, the Priest of Scotland, and the Pope of Cornwall. Some travellers strongly recommend puffin-pie stuffed with raisin pudding and baked, but the oily flesh has a bad name as diet: its chief uses are fuel and fish-bait. Yet the “pope” or “priest,” the half-fledged bird, is pickled and eaten in our islands. The Arctic Skúa (Lestris Thuliaca, Prey., or Stercorarius parasiticus), the Shetlanders’ Bonxie, kept out of our reach as it chased and plundered its feathery brethren. It derives the opprobrious “Stercorarius”[347] from a mere scandal, and “parasiticus” from its habit of harrying the tarroch (Rissa tridactyla) and the “graceful sea-swallow,” which Mr P. Miles holds to be game (Sterna macrura). The Icelanders call this “víking of birds” from its cry, Kjói (pronounced Kiowi); and the Færoese Tyovi, “the thief.” The white-robed Dominican, with its black scapular, has a strong wing, and the sharp, crooked claws which garnish the web-feet, make him a raptor addicted, they say, to attacking newly-dropped lambs. The gannets or solan geese (Sula Bassana, whence probably Sulisker, the Suleskerry or flat, insulated rock never awash) fell before the shot, but after a short sickness they rose struggling, and winged their way towards land. These interesting birds, made conspicuous by their cream-coloured heads and black primaries, form Indian files or wedges when travelling from place to place, and separate where the tide-rip shows the sea to be unusually fishy. The “Pelicanus Bassanus,” though connected by name with the Bass Rock, abounds about the Cape of Good Hope and Madagascar. It is a fowl of many titles. Here it is termed Súla or Haf-súla (deep-sea Sule); whence our solan, misnamed goose; and the Dutch know it as Jan van Genter—whence our “gannet” (?) Its fine shape and flight have probably given it a place amongst the “singularia naturæ et providentiæ,” with which the good Bishop Pontoppidan has supplied these northern regions. Hence, according to Meyerus (de volucri arborea), the conchæ avitificæ seu anatiferæ, birds growing like African oysters on trees: this fable finds a pendant in Los Pateros of Manilla, duck-hatching establishments where men incubate the eggs. Mr James Wilson, speaking of the Solan goose (Sula alba) of St Kilda, computes that the 200,000 birds forming the colony consume between March and September 214 millions of herrings. Jerome Cardan (Travels in Scotland) found the “Soland, perhaps Pliny’s sea-eagle,” a bird of general use. In spring they supplied the garrisons with fuel, to say nothing of fish; they patiently endured their young to be taken from them; they have quantities of fat under the skin used for dressing wool (hac lanas inficiunt), and a “certain small gut” yields a grease which is excellent for pains in the hip-joint. “The profit this bird gives is manifold, viz., from sticks, feathers, fat, and young ones; and it is said to amount to 500 golden crowns yearly”—an extinct industry!
We ran along the shore of Krísuvíkrberg, with precipices some 200 feet high fronting the leprous splotch upon the conical and jagged highlands that denote the Krísuvík Sulphur Mountain. This formation accounts for the sandstrips, which look notably yellow after the black lowlands to the east; and the colour is rendered brighter by quantities of comminuted sea shells thickly spread on the shore. This south-western projection is one vast “Hraun,”[348] or cold lava-field, a land seemingly afflicted with “black death,” yet it rejoices in the title of Gold-breast Canton (Gullbringu Sýsla); the plentiful fisheries representing the precious metal. At nine A.M. we ran by the “Karl” (carle or old man),[349] a detached mass standing boldly out from the lava-crested coast; it has a ridge and steeple, which, especially when seen from the west, justify the English “Church Rock.” Here, like the great lava lip beyond, its flanks are white with the guano of the Filungr or Fulmar[350] (Procellaria glacialis), foulest of sea-fowl. Beyond it is a bunch of volcanic cones and tumuli, spiracles and hornitos, all bare rock, or clothed with lapilli; one grass-clad crater appears to be of considerable size, and we easily count four distinct coulées or discharges spilling over the Palagonite cliffs.
Behind the leprous Karl lies Reykjanes, or Reeky Naze, so named with a reason. A puff of steam rose high in the air, suggesting, as I read with astonishment in the Scotsman (June 17th),[351] that “a new Geyser had burst out at a point a short distance inland, and about twenty miles in a south-westerly direction from Reikiavik, throwing up a vast column of water to a height of at least a hundred feet.” The “same outburst was observed in full play on the homeward voyage of the ‘Queen’” (June 11, 1874), and was held to be “premonitory of an eruption of Hecla.” Had the writer looked at the large map of Iceland, he would have seen four blue circlets placed behind Reykjanes to denote warm springs; they are supposed to be the work of the Skaptarfells eruption, which, in 1783, threw up Nyöe, “the new island.” The map of Iceland in Pontanus (1631) shows at this place a “fons commutans lanas nigras in albas.” I may observe that in the first place we saw only steam, not water, or rather that we were too far off to distinguish anything but the former. Secondly, the weather was exceptionally still and rainy; and the damp air, deficient in barometric pressure, allowed vapours to rise high, whereas, under opposite conditions, they would be dispersed, or hug the ground. The Geysirs are said to rage more furiously in wet than in dry weather; and on arrival at Reykjavik we distinctly observed the fumes of Laugarnes, which suggested the name “Reeky Bay,”[352] standing up in a tall, transparent column—it was not seen from the town during the rest of my three months’ stay. I twice voyaged past the site of my friend’s “new Geysir;” every glass was pointed shorewards, but none succeeding in detecting the least trace of water or vapour. In 1862 Mr Symington (p. 46) observed “steam rising from a hot sulphur spring on the coast” near Reykjanes. Finally, as will be seen, Icelanders who have visited the spot describe the features as “Hverar,” caldrons, boiling fountains; or as “Laugar,” baths, tranquil waters.
The Fire Isles being hidden by fog, our attention was drawn to the mosquito flotilla of fishing-boats around us, each confined to its beat by the various buoys and buckets. The general appearance of the craft is that of the Shetlands; Mr Spence compared them with the “Westræ skips,” but the Icelander is not nearly so solid as ours. The largest carry two low masts, both strongly supported by backstays; they are clinker-built, high at stem and stern, with a sharp projection for the rudder, which fits loosely into two iron eyes, and which often proves worse than useless. A transverse section forms the letter V; the planks belly out little, probably for facility of hauling up: the latter process, especially when the sun is hot, renders them exceptionally leaky, and want of care causes them to last for a very short time. There is no such thing as a decked boat in sight; the total of sixty-one to sixty-three which exists in the whole island being almost confined to shark catching on the north coast, whilst there are 3092 open boats, with from two to twelve oars. Row boats are preferred on account of the number of hands they feed; and hence the unusual loss of adult males, which is said to average forty per cent. drowned. At all times the crews must run three to six miles out before arriving at their ground, and repeat the task after work—a vast waste of time and toil. The craft has plenty of what the French call pied, and will not hesitate to cross the Faxa Fjörð, some fifty miles broad. The ballast is composed of basalt blocks, and the numerous sails are mere strips of cloth, for greater convenience of lowering. The oars are remarkably narrow, the rule even in “The Islands,”[353] a precaution rendered necessary, it is urged, by the strong currents. I strongly suspect it to be the mere effect of “father-to-son” principle. Below the handle, the shape is a heavy square, on the principle of the Rhine and the Kaikjis on the Bosphorus. The oars fit into coarse thwarts, lined with hoop-iron, or they play upon rude wooden pins doubled to the fore. The stroke is very long and slow, hardly to be recommended for Oxford and Cambridge; and of course feathering is impossible. Iceland nets are ridiculously small, and are floated by gourd-shaped bottles of Danish manufacture, closed at the mouth: these glass balls are also used by Norwegian fishermen. At the capital there are no lighters; farther north they will show themselves, shaped like the fisher-boats, but many-ribbed as herrings. Evidently the first want is a decked vessel of from twenty to thirty tons, which would employ fewer hands, and show better returns.
The smaller craft are four-oared, and at the landing-place we shall find two-oared boats: not a gig is to be seen, and the highest authorities must embark and disembark, if they cannot borrow from a man-of-war, in these receptacles of slime and filth. The seat is a mere perch, decidedly not comfortable; baling with the little wooden scoup is hardly ever thought of, and all are equally wet and greasy. We read in the Sagas of “long ships,” of dragon ships, and of merchantmen, whose common complement was some thirty oars: the figure-heads of the Vikings were so frightful that they terrified the Land-vættir, or local genii; and the decks were protected by awnings, and “girdled for war” by shield being laid to shield on rims or rails.[354] Truly, the mariners of Iceland have lost much by staying at home in ease; and piracy evidently had its advantages.
The crews of these outlandish “skips” are as degenerate as their craft. Silken kirtles, gilded helms, and spears inlaid with gold, are as unknown to them as the “Bisons” and “Serpents” which caused “a furore Normannorum libera nos, Domine!” to be inserted into the monkish litany. The men are good for fine weather, but in danger all become captains; very different from the Danish sailor. The comfortable primitive costume is gone; the Stakkr, hide blouse or jacket, extending from the neck and fastened round the waist; the large Sæskór, or water-boots; and the Leistabrækr, or stocking breeks, also lightly laced about the middle. The moderns are clad much like our fishermen; they have, however, sensibly preserved the long-flapped “sou’wester,” now “out of fashion” in Great Britain. They seem to rejoice in wet feet, wearing three or four pair of coarse woollen socks, which serve to retain the water. The only peculiarity of their dress is the Iceland glove, which even the shepherd and the mountain-guide will never doff. For the convenience of a dry and clean side near the palm, it has two thumbs, one projecting from the little finger, as if all were sexdigitati, like the Shaykhs of the Fazli clan near Aden. Little or no provision is taken on board, and the chief luxury is snuff, the pinch being spread in line from the root of the thumb upwards, somewhat after the style of the original Scotch “sneeshin’ mull;” at times the flask is raised to the nose, and poured in till that member, which ought here to be placed bottom upwards, is filled. These water-ousels reap golden harvests of cod during the season, sometimes clearing per diem ten rixdollars a-head; and if you hire a Reykjaviker two-oar for the afternoon, you will not pay less than $5. They are rarely long-lived. Privations, fatigue, and hardships, wet feet, poor food, and defective hygiene soon get the better of the “triste laboureur de l’ocean:” weakened by psora and ascarides; by obstinate coughs, measles, and hypochondria, he soon becomes a victim to chronic rheumatism, which will bend the fingers permanently back, and he dies early of visceral or pulmonary affections, gout, or paralysis. Better a life of a canvas-back shooter on the banks of the Susquehanna.
After Reykjanes we bore north (magnetic) along a shore exceptionally populous: farmsteads and chapels, each perched upon its own knoll, and not unlike the clachans of Lewis, formed a straggling line, black and gloomy, surrounded by walls of dry stone. We turned eastward off “Skagi Point,”[355] a long thin lingula with a beacon at the tip, and with a dwarf enceinte of dry stone inland, probably a look-out in the old Víkingr days. Steaming across the big back-bay towards the next headland, Suðrnes, afforded us for some moments an agreeable surprise. Right over the gulf called Faxa Fjörð, and distant some forty miles, rose a long broken dorsum of snow-range, not unlike the Friuli section of the Carnian Alps, the continuation of beautiful Cadore, as seen in winter from the Rive of Trieste. Here, however, the projection, a sister to that of Reykjanes, was terminated by the crescent-shaped head of Snæfell, the western Jökull, whose two cusps at once denoted the extinct crater-cup. The névé towered in the lift, catching a golden gleam which beautifully burnished the virgin silver, whilst above and below it slaty clouds were based upon a darker sea now smooth and mirrory as oil. The travelled few on board pronounced the spectacle grander than Mont Blanc from the Hôtel de la Russie, Geneva, but the fair vision was transient, and presently a bonnet de nuit of chilly lowering mist settling down made it a “Pileatus.” To the north-east, and far nearer, stretched the long sea-arm Hvalfjörð, an inverted arch, with its two giant steeples Akrafjall and Esja, whilst the scarps of Skarðsheiði formed the bottom of the great cul de sac. Passing clouds of pseudo-columnar shape, here a common feature, simulated volcanic smoke; mountain head and shoulders were streaked with snow, whilst at their feet brooded the sea-fog, a horizontal line of blue mists broken and detached. Presently the rain came on again, and perforce we confined our attention to the features close ahead.
The pilot now boarded us, leaving his cockleshell in charge of his mate, an angry water-rat with otter-like features, the usual fishy eye, and gold ear-rings, the general usage. We made straight for the little archipelago, which in this weather appears part of the mainland. The nearest item was Akrey: as craft in harbour can be seen to the south-east, and that direction leads straight to shipwreck, “Cornfield Isle,” a mere grass-grown bulge of rock, has an outlying buoy to the north-east, warning us off its long projecting point. The next feature left to port is Engey of the eider duck, a mound provided with the long, curving and knobbed tail of a scorpion. Then came Öffirs-ey,[356] a bit of turf-clad basalt, in places sub-columnar: a red buoy, “stone-men” and a beacon, give warning that its spit is also dangerous. About Öffirs-ey and Akrey are two islets, the Holmar: the larger and outer, bombé and slightly grassy, is the Sker (skerry), or Selsker (little-farm-skerry); and the other, dignified by the name of Grand Holmr, connects, like Öffirs-ey, with the shore at low water by a traversable natural causeway. The other islets are Viðey (wood or withy eyot), which we shall presently visit, and Lund-ey (puffin eyot), at the mouth of Kollafjörð (ewe firth): there are also sundry shoals and banks scattered about to the north and west, making the outer roads of Reykjavik safe enough except when the storm-wind blows from the north-east or the east-north-east.
The amount of shipping surprised us when we remembered that the first steamers appeared here in 1854-55. In the roads lay a French frigate, “Le Cher,” Capitaine Alfred le Timbre, looking taunt and gay: her consort, “Le Beaumanoir,” Capitaine Maylet, will soon come in from the east. The Danish gun-boat “Fylla,” the waiting-maid of Frygga, had lately been outside sounding in preparation for the telegraphic cable: she is a sister ship of the “Diana,” which also flies a pennant, and which to-morrow will land the governor of the island. The “Jón Sigurðsson” had just left, and the “Yarrow” lay inside amongst eight square-rigged ships bearing the flags of various nationalities, whilst, drawn up ashore, was a Noah’s ark, in the shape of a Danish galliot, almost circular, like the old Dutch dogger or the modern Russian monitor. Five to six steamers in port argued well for progress within the last twenty years, and presently we shall see the “Heimdall,” called after the giant foe of Loki.[357] This school-ship for the Danish navy is a frigate (Captain Skowstrŭp), freighted with thirty-six cadets—a rather noisy lot. An English yacht which floats like a sea-bird will also astonish the natives.