The Latin School at Reykjavik.

The Thinghús, Parliament Building, Reykjavik.

The climate of Iceland is exceedingly mild in winter and in the summer it never gets very warm. The annual mean temperature of the extreme north is about 2°C. lower than in the south. The climate changes very little with the latitude but more with the glaciers, the coast and the solfataras. The following table, compiled from the Meteorological Records at Berufjörðr, will convey a good idea of the conditions in the country. This table covers twenty-five years for the Max. and Min. temperatures. The station is in Long. 14° 15´ W., Lat. 64° 40´ N. and it is 55 feet above the sea. The temperatures are given in degrees Centigrade.

123456789101112thMo.
Max.10.512.312.114.320.425.426.320.720.516.411.711.5C.
123456789101112thMo.
Min.23.1-19.3-21.9-18.3-8.5-4.20.8-2.9-5.8-10.3-17.4-20.4C.
123456789101112thMo.
Sleet.0.10.50.00.10.00.00.00.00.00.00.20.1Days.
123456789101112thMo.
Snow.9.8.9.5.4.1.0.00.01.03.06.08.0Days.
123456789101112thMo.
Rain.17.017.016.014.013.011.011.012.015.016.017.018.0Days.

When we recall that zero on the Centigrade thermometer is the freezing point these figures will correct our erroneous ideas of the extreme low temperatures which we have ever associated with Iceland. The lowest temperature in twenty-five years at this station was only nine and one half degrees below zero on the Fahrenheit scale. During the summer of 1910 I travelled in the north and crossed the country in the vicinity of the western glaciers and the lowest temperature recorded during six weeks was 32°F. in a mountain pass in the north and the highest was 56°F. the mean for the entire time was 44°F. All these temperatures were taken in the shade at 7 A. M., Noon and 9 P. M.

At the summer solstice the midnight sun is just visible in the south and at longer periods in the north on the table lands. Even after the sun has set, it is as light as day and one can read at midnight in the houses during several weeks.

In a country so diversified with sea, glaciers, naked volcanoes, uplands and rivers the sunsets are glorious. Many nights have I climbed the hill back of the city at eleven to watch the sunset and to be present at the ushering in of the dawn. Below me lay the dreaming city with here and there a strolling couple by the waterside. South and east the scattered peaks of the Fire Peninsula, though twenty miles distant they seemed in the clear atmosphere to be near at hand and the purple perfect cone of Keilir, Tusk, stood apart, a guardian of the fire group beyond. Behind me stretched the long and precipitous table land of Esja, its slopes scarred and ragged and the patches of pale green sphagnum marking the location of the water pockets in the debris. It was crowned with a heavy cap of ice and the fluttering folds of fog hung over it like the bridal veil of an Icelandic maid. To the west and north is spread the broad and glimmering bay of Faxa while sixty miles beyond, though appearing less than half that distance, Snaefells Jökull at the head of its regiment of volcanic cones towers from the sea.

It is midnight, local time. The sun has been in his ocean bath for thirty minutes and in an equal length of time he will emerge near by the locality of his plunge. It is an entrancing scene and recalls the Twilight of the Gods. The heavens are overcast with a rose-flesh hue of varying tones. No stars dot the bending dome, no moon skirts the far horizon. The Faxa is like a molten sea of precious metal and across it roll billows of purple light which striking the base of Keilir, surge to its pointed summit in waves of lighter hue to break in confusion on the distant volcanoes. Esja catches the color of the sky, its dripping parapet glistens as at noon and its ice mantle is transformed into rosy quartz. The crowning glory of the moment is Snaefells. Behind it is the sun. A broad streamer rises vertically to the zenith from behind the mountain. It splits the warmer shades with a band of saffron. It spreads outward like an opening fan. Snaefells is the jewel in the end of the fan handle. The fan unfolds until a full quadrant of the heavens have turned to gold with radiating streaks of crimson. The ice-cap has become a ruby and Esja a fiery opal. Kaleidoscopic is the change. Like the Borealis the colors come and go, the mists open and close and the tints deepen. Esja lives doubly in the bosom of the fiord within whose shadow the fishing fleet rock gently at their moorings. Even the ribbons of mist are imaged in the sea and in those vast depths drift softly like the real ones of the upper air. The cone of Keilir brightens, the slumbering tints burst into fire, the fire resolves itself into white light. The sun has risen from its midnight bath, morning has come and I seek the hotel conscious that neither pen nor brush can catch the true values of this great harmony of colors, that it is impossible to set it to meter or spread it upon the canvas. But it lives indelibly in the soul of the poet, the painter and the musician. Yes it is music, a great symphony,—

“It is passion that left the ground