With this short description of the crew we will pass over the voyage, as described by a French writer, M. Aragon, and take the reader to the Icelandic coast, Patrix-Fiord, where a number of vessels are already collected. Deserted during the past season, it now presents a scene of the greatest animation. A man-of-war is there to provide for any repairs that may be needed; carpenters and blacksmiths are busy doing their work, the bay echoes with the noise of hammers and saws. Other vessels, called chasseurs, come from France to take away the fish. On the shore rises the little wooden hut of the cocman, a Danish merchant who lives there during the summer months to trade with the people and sell spirits. No night comes on to interrupt the incessant labour; during the middle of May the sun is never below the horizon, and but a few stars may be seen on the zenith about the end of June.
Those ships that have chosen their position for fishing take down their sails and lie as quietly at anchor as the wind will permit, the men standing in a close line at the side of the vessel. They are clothed from head to foot in knitted or flannel garments, with waterproof capes and hats. A petticoat of strong linen is tied round the waist, descending below the knees, and to preserve the feet from wet they wear woollen stockings and waterproof boots. Thick woollen gloves lined with leather save their hands from the injury of constant friction from the heavy line. The whole forms a curious picture of ragged, patched, greasy, well-tarred habiliments, which a comic pencil might rejoice to portray. The men, indifferent to their appearance, seek only to be saved from moisture. The lines they use are necessarily very heavy to bring on board a fish weighing say forty pounds. There are two hooks baited with the entrails of fish; but the voracity of the cod is such that it is scarcely necessary to be too particular as to the lure. Thus the men stand for six hours consecutively, gently moving the line, and when a shake indicates a catch, lifting the heavy weight on board.
The fatigue is very great, and much of it is pure loss, as the line too often brings up another fish, called the flétan, which though very good to eat, does not bear preserving. The sailors hold this interloper in extreme aversion, as it often breaks the line by its weight, and gives them much trouble to heave on board.
Let us now take a glance at the scenery which surrounds these hardy seamen. The coast is broken up into large gulfs, strewn with shoals and reefs of a most dangerous character, where misfortunes are so frequent that the place is called by the fishermen 'The Ships' Cemeteries.' Enormous precipices line the coast, with heaps of volcanic stones, worn by the action of the waves, lying at the foot. These rocks are cut at certain distances into spaces like the mouth of an immense river, called fiords, which communicate with the sea by a comparatively narrow inlet, and spread out into a sort of lake, surrounded by vertical and jagged rocks. The more sinuous the outlet, the more sure is the anchorage; and in each bay there is generally found one sandy spit, forming a sort of natural jetty, behind which the ships are secure, and where the cocman builds his hut. Far away in the distance rises the gigantic cone of the extinct volcano Sneffiels-Jœkul, whose summit is covered with rosy-tinted snow. In the hollows of the rocks thousands of sea-birds build their nests, to be slaughtered by the inhabitants at a certain season for the sake of fuel, their flesh being utterly unpalatable to the least fastidious appetite.
One of the most important fiords is the Dyre-Fiord, where a small hamlet of a dozen huts or bœrs is built in a large meadow. These constructions are not easy to describe; they are low and massive, formed of lava-stone and peat. To avoid cold and damp within, a very small door opens into a dark narrow passage, towards which the rooms converge. The walls and pointed roof are covered with turf, upon which grows a thick crop of grass, making it very difficult to distinguish the bœr from the field in which it stands. Within, the accommodation is most simple—a kitchen and one sleeping-apartment, with closets to contain provisions, clothes, and fishing apparatus. Beyond the vegetable garden is a building for drying fish, the planks of which are separated to admit the free circulation of the air. Here the decapitated cod are hung, emitting a savour far from pleasant. The heads form the food of the Icelanders with butter and milk; the fish are sold for export. The sea-wolf is also largely eaten, though its flesh is tough and rancid, the frequency of leprosy and elephantiasis in the island being attributed to this unwholesome diet.
Men and women, masters and servants, all inhabit the same room, whilst cleanliness is not much attended to; but poor as they are, and accustomed to great privations, they set an example of cheerful contentment. The beauty of the young girls is remarkable; their fair hair falls in long plaits, partially covered by a black cloth coif, daintily worn on one side of the head, and finished at the top with a tassel of coloured silk run through a silver or steel buckle, which floats on the shoulder. It reminds the traveller of the Greek head-dress; but the blue eyes with their sweet benevolent expression soon recall to his mind their Danish origin. The dress is made of the cloth woven in the country, and on festival days the bodice is gaily adorned with silver braid and velvet, whilst the belt and sleeves are ornamented with silver devices, beautifully chased and often of great value. On wet and cold days the shawl becomes a useful mantilla, completely enveloping the head, and defending the wearer from the effects of the frequent storms.
The people offer the most generous and cordial hospitality to all travellers, and especially to shipwrecked mariners. An opportunity for proving this hospitality once occurred in the open and dangerous bay of the Westre-Horn, surrounded by breakers and reefs. Here forty vessels were fishing on a fine morning in March, when the breeze began to freshen. The cod was abundant, and the men were tempted to stay too near the coast. All the vessels but five doubled the point; these beaten back by the enormous waves, and not daring to raise a sail, were broken on the rocks. Thirty men reached the shore, sixty-six found a watery grave. The Sea-bird struggled long, until breaking up, all perished excepting the mate and cabin-boy; the former had received a severe wound in the leg by falling on some broken glass. Tied to the rigging, together they awaited their fate, frozen with cold, the waves washing over them. After three hours the boy expired of exhaustion; and the mate unloosing the ropes was soon thrown on to the shore. The corpses of his friends were lying around him, the survivors having gone inland for shelter; but with great difficulty he followed them, crossing streams and marshes, sinking into ice and snow at every step, his wounded leg torn by the sharp points. Six weary hours were thus passed, when his heartrending cries at length reached two Icelanders, who carried him into a bœr not far off.
For five months these good people nursed and tended the sufferer. At the end of that time he was still confined to bed, but the healing had begun. A vessel was sent round to bring him away; yet his hosts evinced much sorrow at the prospect of his departure. At their request the captain left him one night longer, when the shipwrecked mariner was escorted to the beach by the whole family, all manifesting a deep emotion. After thanking the father, not only for his care of the survivor, but also for the burial he had given to the victims of the storm, the captain assured him that the French government would indemnify him for the expense he had incurred; but the good man only pressed his hand, declaring that he had done his duty, and deserved neither indemnity, thanks, nor recompense. The Minister of Marine sent a gold medal to him after hearing of his generous conduct.
Robbery, murder, and theft are almost unknown in this peaceful little country; not a soldier or policeman is needed even in the capital Reikiavik; a fact which fully proves the virtues of the Icelanders. Travellers have asserted that the hospitality was not quite so disinterested as it appears, and there may be an exception in certain localities, such as the road to the Geysers, traversed every year by many tourists. Here the Lutheran ministers offer shelter in their churches, which are transformed into hotels, and provide fish, milk, and coffee for those who need it at a certain charge. Roads are almost unknown; the configuration of the ground wholly prevents their formation. The island has been the scene of such tremendous volcanic action that the mountains are heaped together in the most fantastic manner. From the glaciers which cover the summits of extinct volcanoes rush torrents of water, bringing down the disintegrated rocks to accumulate in the valleys below.