A few hundred yards beyond the place where the valley is blocked by

hundreds of moss-clad boulders, piled one on the top of the other in

picturesque confusion, the river Oxara (Axewater), which has just taken

a magnificent leap from the top of the precipice a little further on,

completes its descent to the plain, by tumbling, with loud roaring and

impetuous fury, from rock to rock till it takes its final plunge into

Execution Pool, whence it flows silently on, past church, parsonage, and

graveyard, into Lake Thingvellavatn.

Descending by the rough precipitous path—whose difficulties and dangers

have, we find, been somewhat exaggerated in a description given to us

before we left Reykjavik—we ride along the bottom of the rift, and,

looking round about us, or glancing upwards to the black frowning crags

on the ridges over our heads, are struck with the desolate wildness of

the scene which impresses us even more forcibly than it did from the

heights above. Leaving the Almannagja, near the second fall of the

Oxara, and fording the stream a little to the right we reach Thingvellir

at last, and are not sorry that the day’s journey is at an end.

My companion and Gudmundsen, having fortunately preceded me, have

managed to secure not only the best room in the parsonage, but, what is

much more important, the two best beds. They have thus forestalled the

members of the other expedition, who have resolved themselves into a

committee of ways and means and are deeply engrossed in discussing the

serious question as to which of the seven ought,—in virtue of age,

delicacy of constitution, or other sufficient reason,—to occupy the only

two remaining beds. It is an anxious moment for the five unfortunates

who after a hard ride of nearly forty miles—(which in at least one

instance has resulted in the loss of a few square inches of

epidermis)—will probably have to lie down upon bare boards.

Another serious matter is also weighing heavily upon their minds. They

have already been on the premises for upwards of an hour, and it is now

nearly nine o clock at night, yet there are no signs of supper, and they

are all desperately hungry. “All things come to those who know how to

wait,” however, even in Iceland, and shortly after my arrival a repast,

which includes coffee, brown bread, cheese, butter, and boiled char (the

latter fresh from the lake) is spread before us and enjoyed.

Having satisfied our appetites, we stroll through the churchyard, where

we see the famous stone used in days of old as the national standard of

measure. The church itself, like all the sacred edifices in the country,

is a plain little wooden structure capable of holding comfortably about

fifty or sixty persons. Here we meet our host the præstur, Sira Paulsen,

who speaks English fairly well, and whom we find to be an exceedingly

pleasant well-informed gentleman.

Subsequently in conversation with our guide I learn that churches are

built by subscription, and that land (the best in the country) generally

comprising from three to four farms, is set apart by the State in every

case as an endowment. These farms, which of course vary in value, are

called “Kirk farms” and are let to tenants, with the exception of what

is called the “home farm” which surrounds the præstur’s house, and is

cultivated by himself. The præstur receives marriage fees, rents of Kirk

farms, and tithes on live stock and produce. A house is also provided

for him which he is bound to keep and leave in good repair. On

induction, or ordination, he is presented with from one to four cows,

and from six to twenty-four sheep, according as the living is a poor one

or a rich one, and on leaving is required either to restore these in

good condition, or to provide satisfactory substitutes. The average

income of a well-paid clergyman from all sources does not probably

exceed a thousand kroner, and he is therefore “passing rich” on barely

“sixty pounds a-year.” In many cases the stipend is not half of this

sum. As regards his qualifications for his sacred office, he must have

attended the Latin School for five or six years, and subsequently spent

two years at the Theological College. If approved on examination he is

appointed to a church either by the Bishop, or by the Governor with the

sanction of the Bishop, according to the conditions of the presentation.

There are, however, more churches than parsons at present, and it is not

uncommon for a præstur to have to officiate at four or five different

places at a considerable distance from each other. In such cases the

services are of course occasional. The people strongly disapprove of the

present system of patronage, and are agitating for the right of electing

their ministers, which will, it is thought, probably be granted by the

Althing next year. There is only one bishop for the whole of Iceland,

who resides at Reykjavik, and whose official salary is 3,416 rixdollars

or about £380 per annum. But in each of the different counties—of which

there are altogether twenty-one—there is a dean, or Bishop’s deputy, who

looks after the temporal and spiritual condition of the churches, and

superintends the education of children.

There is one Government School called the Latin School at Reykjavik, and

a School of Science has recently been established in the north near

Akureyri. Education in these is free, and the students who attend them,

having generally been privately prepared by the præstur, or by tutors,

may be considered the pick of the country. Those who are too poor to

support themselves receive an allowance from the State for maintenance.

The remainder of the schools are what are known in England as “private

adventure schools,” and the fees usually paid in these vary from ten to

twenty kroner per session of six months, commencing on the 1st of

October and ending on the 1st of April. During summer education is at a

standstill, the children being engaged in haymaking, and other work, or

permitted to enjoy a long holiday. They thus probably forget a good deal

of what they had learnt during the winter. Our guide, who is a

schoolmaster, informs us that he teaches his pupils reading, writing,

arithmetic, orthography, geography, history, mathematics, Danish, and

English, but no branch of either art or science.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Illustration:

PLATE V.

1 The Almannagja from the South.

2 Lake Thingvellavatn and Hengill.—3 Rocks on summit of

Almannagja.—4 A rest by the way.

5 The Almannagja from the North.

]

But it is getting well on to midnight, and we have a long ride to-morrow

so I shut up my notebook and make for the house, stopping on the way to

my own room to take a look at the arrangements made for the five poor

fellows who are to sleep on shake-downs. I find them ruefully

contemplating sundry deal planks and wooden boxes, on which, without

bedding, and with a bare sufficiency of rugs or other coverings, they

are about to stretch their weary bones. I feel that it would sound like

a cruel mockery to wish them a “Good night,” and as I turn into the bed

that has been prepared for me on the sofa in our sitting-room, it is

with an uncomfortable feeling that there is something decidedly selfish

in the satisfaction I experience at being better off than my neighbours.

But

“Sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleave of care,

The death of each day’s life, sore labour’s bath,

Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course,

Chief nourisher in life’s feast,”

soon seals my heavy eyelids, and ends my first day’s experiences of

travel in the interior of Iceland.

--------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER V.

“From Nature’s constant or eccentric laws,

The thoughtful soul this general inference draws,

That an effect must pre-suppose a cause.”

PRIOR.

The weather is so charming, the sky so clear, the sunshine so bright,

and the air so pure and invigorating that it would be a shame to lie

abed under such circumstances, so in spite of the fatigues of the

previous day we are up early on the morning after our arrival at

Thingvellir and have visited and photographed half-a-dozen interesting

scenes before breakfast. These are the Almannagja, described in the

previous chapter, the Upper and Lower Waterfalls, Execution Pool, the

ford of the Oxara, and the famous Lögberg, or Law Hill.

The latter,—by far the most classical spot in Iceland,—is interesting to

the traveller principally on account of its historical associations.

Before I refer to a few of these let me try to describe its appearance.

The Lögberg is situated on the same side of the river as the church and

parsonage, is reached by clambering over two or three hundred yards of

hilly ground, and is simply a long irregular-shaped tongue of grass land

in the centre of an undulating plateau which forms the summit of a low

lava-hill.

Two immense fissures, one on either side, completely surround it, save

at the point of approach. These fissures, into which you can look down

from their precipitous edges, vary in width in different places from

perhaps ten to twenty feet. It is impossible, however, to judge their

depth with any accuracy, for, at about thirty feet from the surface,

they are filled with beautifully clear water, which flows into and out

of them by subterranean channels, and almost converts the Lögberg into

an island.

Here, however, on the green oasis under our feet, which contrasts so

strikingly with the grey moss and bare rocks that encircle it, the first

Althing, or Parliament of Iceland, assembled in the year 929 to consider

a code of laws which had been drawn up, and submitted for adoption, by

one of the settlers well versed in the laws of the mother-country

Norway.

Here occurred the scene, already described, when Christianity subverted

Paganism; and here parliamentary meetings, and general courts of justice

continued to be held for centuries.

Here also as recently as June 26th, 1873, as if to seek inspiration in

their struggle for civil liberty amid scenes that reminded them of the

brightest days of their history,—the days of the Icelandic

Commonwealth,—a great gathering of delegates from all parts of the

country assembled, and pledged themselves to obtain either absolute

independence or the right of self-government.

And when in 1874 the new constitution was signed by the King, and

Iceland received that which is the inalienable right of all free

nations, Home Rule—subject, and wisely subject, only to Imperial

interests—it was towards the Lögberg that the hearts of the people

turned in all their rejoicings.

And here, too, in “the good old days,” which have happily given place to

better and older days, many a dreadful tragedy was witnessed. Below

yonder, where the Oxara takes its second leap, is a deep quiet pool in

which, under the very eyes of the assembled multitude who looked down

upon the scene from the spot on which we now stand, it was customary to

drown poor miserable women convicted of offences against the moral law.

There, close by, criminals were executed, and witches burnt to death;

and on the plain at the base of the hill many a quarrel between

individuals or parties was settled by an appeal to the ordeal of combat.

Thank Heaven the days of Feudalism, of Kingcraft, and of Priestcraft

have all but come to an end in Iceland as in other free countries, and

there is now “government of the people, by the people, for the people.”

On returning to the parsonage to breakfast we are met with the

unpleasant news that three of our ponies have taken it into their heads

to run away, and that our guide has started in search of them. As we are

bent upon visiting the Geysirs, and also upon crossing Hengill, a task

which some of the knowing ones at Reykjavik have pronounced to be too

difficult to be performed in four days, the delay thus caused is both

unfortunate and annoying. There is nothing for it, however, but “to

possess our souls in patience.”

“Whatever can’t be cured,

Must with patience be endured.”

The traveller,—especially the traveller in Iceland, which is not a land

flowing with milk and honey—can learn no more useful lesson than the one

contained in the foregoing couplet from an old English song. It will

stand him in good stead “many a time and oft,” and will even help him

occasionally to derive amusement from his misfortunes.

About noon after three or four hours’ hard riding Gudmundsen returns to

report his non-success, and shortly afterwards sets out again in another

direction. Growing tired of loafing about the graveyard, or paddling

down the river in the parson’s boat, we make up our minds to go on with

the three ponies which are standing tethered to the church gate; leaving

our guide to follow should he find the wanderers before nightfall. Sira

Præstur Paulsen who kindly volunteers to accompany us a few miles on our

way, gives us careful instructions as to the route, and at our request

also furnishes us with the following question which we take down in

Phonetic Icelandic, “Whar er veyaguerin till Geysis?” which means “Which

is the way to the Geysirs?” He further instructs us to enquire for a

farm called Efstaydalr, about half-way, and to wait there till

Gudmundsen joins us, as he thinks it may not be safe to ford the Bruera

without a guide.

After winding along the plain by a narrow and very rough path for

several miles the kindly parson pulls up, bids us “good bye,” and starts

off to hunt up Gudmundsen, having learnt that the missing ponies are in

custody on a neighbouring farm. We ride rapidly on, and gradually ascend

through a country which seems to grow wilder and drearier as we advance

into it; passing on the way several lava-rifts similar to, but smaller

than, the Almannagja, the largest of which is called Ravnegja, or

Raven’s Rift.

It is recorded in Professor Geikie’s work on Physical Geography that

“the floods of lava which poured from Shaptarjökull during the years

1783–5 were the most tremendous ever known. Torrents of molten rock

destroyed the surface of the country for many hundreds of square miles,

filling up water courses, ravines, and lakes, and reaching to an extreme

distance of forty-five miles in one direction, and of fifty miles in

another. In some level places where the lava spread out, the stream

attained a breadth of fifteen miles, and a thickness of one hundred

feet, but it accumulated in narrow valleys sometimes to a depth of six

hundred feet. It has been computed that the total mass of lava poured

forth during that series of eruptions would form a mountain equal in

bulk to Mont Blanc.”

The awful nature of such occurrences as the foregoing is a subject of

conversation during the next two hours, at the expiration of which we

reach a veritable plain of desolation, covered on each side of us with

boulders of immense size, and broken fragments of lava of the most

fantastic shapes.

The snow-drifts in cleft and crevice that look, as Shakespeare says:

“like snow upon a raven’s back,” contrast vividly with the shelving

slopes—black and smooth as those of a colliery embankment—of the group

of hills on our left, whose steep overhanging summits wear crowns of

grim and jagged rock, that literally appear to have become solidified in

the very act of boiling over while the lava was in its molten state.

On our right the stony wilderness, terrible in its utter desolation, and

unrelieved by a single tree or patch of cultivation, stretches away till

it meets the sky, and Hope and Despair kiss each other on the horizon.

Away ahead of us, and many a hundred feet below, lies the plain whither

we are hastening, bounded by a chain of distant mountains, beyond which

we hope soon to see the snow-clad crest of Hekla.

No trains of ponies, tied head to tail, such as we often met yesterday,

plodding patiently along the stony paths with their burdens of timber,

cod’s heads, brandy-skins, and other necessaries and luxuries are to be

seen either before or behind us, and there are neither folds filled with

bleating ewes waiting to be milked, nor little grass-covered farm

houses, with their adjoining cattle-shelters, to indicate the presence

of human beings. A few birds, with breasts the colour of the moss from

which they rise, are the only living things that meet our eyes for at

least an hour as we ride over a landscape whose description may be

summed up in three words—wilderness, mountain, and sky.

But after a long descent by a steep path which winds round the base of

one of the hills on our left, we arrive at an extensive plain called

Laugerdal, on which sheep and ponies are grazing not far from a party of

men who have pitched tents in the middle of it. We have hitherto

followed the track without much difficulty, but are now a little at

fault. Riding up to one of the tents, however, we put our one question

and are understood, the path is pointed out, and away we go across a

barren undulating plateau till we reach a second plain, where, on the

shores of a large lake, we see steam issuing from the ground in various

places, these being the first signs that we are at length nearing the

region of volcanic hot springs.

Away beyond the lake,—distant about fifty miles, and lying to the left

of two other cones which seem to rival it in height, but lack its

shapely beauty,—rises Hekla, once included among the seven wonders of

the world, and still the best known, though perhaps not the most

important, of the burning mountains of Iceland. Unfortunately its summit

is shrouded in mist, and we are only able to distinguish the lower

portions of its snow-covered slopes, which rise gracefully behind a low

intervening range of hills. The setting sun throws the latter into

complete shadow, and it lies across the horizon like a line of intensest

black, above which the white glistening mountain beyond shines like a

dream of heaven.

Turning to the left we skirt the plain, ford the river, pick our way

over a stretch of bog-land, scramble up a rocky slope, and at last reach

a church and a farm house, where being satisfied that we have missed the

road, we apply to a youth for information, dwelling particularly in our

enquiry on the word Efstaydalr.

We manage to understand one another, and with the help of a bright

little fellow, who joins us, and who knows what “milk” means, succeed in

conveying to the good lady of the house the fact that we should like

something to eat, and are accordingly shewn into the best room and

presently served with hot milk, coffee,—excellent coffee too—and sweet

biscuits apparently home-made. I have never tasted better coffee in any

part of the world, and attribute this to the fact that the beans were

ground in an adjoining room while we were waiting. It is the favourite

beverage of the Icelanders, and they take care to have it good.

While we are refreshing ourselves, the youth first addressed, a

pleasant-faced good-natured intelligent fellow persists in addressing us

in Icelandic, stopping in his discourse every now and then to apply to

his nose a snuff bottle which resembles a small brandy-flask. This is

generally made of wood, and has a stopper attached to it by a few inches

of silver chain. The snuffer having removed the stopper puts the neck of

the bottle into one or other of his nostrils and sniffs up the tobacco

dust. The habit, which is a vicious one, is so universal that one is

constantly reminded of the old distich:—

“Tobacco is an Indian weed,

It was the devil sowed the seed,

It drains the pocket, spoils the clothes,

And makes a dust-bin of the nose.”

Paying our hostess a couple of kroner—twice as much as she asks—we start

about 9.0 p.m. for Efstaydalr, accompanied by the talkative youth, who

throws himself across our spare pony and constitutes himself our guide.

We ascend a very steep hill, from whose summit we can see the distant

ocean and Myrdalsjökull—we might have seen the Westmann’s Islands had

the sky been clearer—ride at a rapid pace along a path cut through

dwarf-birch scrub, and arrive in a short time at a spot whence our guide

points out Efstaydalr. He then takes his leave, but on pocketing the

kroner which he gets for his willing services insists upon shaking hands

with us, and does so very heartily. This we simply regard as an act of

friendliness on his part, for the Icelanders strike us as being a

kindly-disposed good-natured polite people, who almost invariably salute

strangers, and each other, by removing their hats and uttering a word

(sœlir) which sounds like “silur” and means “May you be blest or happy.”

We learn subsequently, however, that it is customary for the recipient

of a gift to shake hands with the donor. The Icelanders also shake hands

all round after a meal, beginning with the host or head of the family.

Men salute one another by kissing, and I am told it is usual,—and no

doubt very much more satisfactory,—for them to salute women in the same

way. Even the most desolate regions have something to commend them.

Everyone with whom we have conversed—especially among those whose

opinions are entitled to most weight—bears emphatic testimony to the

honesty of the Icelander; and to his willingness to oblige. One of our

friends on the Camoens told us that having lost the winch of his

fishing-rod it was brought to him by a man who rode twenty miles to

restore it. Our captain stated that on one occasion he entrusted a large

sum of money—amounting to £2,000—in silver to a man who undertook to

convey it across country to Messrs Slimon & Co.’s resident agent. The

money was packed in boxes and carried as usual on ponies, one of which

unfortunately broke down on the road. The man in charge left the boxes

containing the bullion in a mud-hole by the wayside, and went on with

the remainder, returning to fetch the other two a few days later, when

the money was found untouched. The captain also mentioned the case of a

passenger who had travelled with him—an officer in the British army—who,

having unfortunately started off into the interior without his watch,

borrowed one from a man whom he met on the road. The latter gave it up

without any hesitation on the understanding that it was to be left at a

house in Reykjavik which he was in the habit of visiting when in town.

Being thoroughly honest himself, the poor Icelander had perfect faith in

the honesty of the stranger, and fortunately was not deceived, for on

calling for his watch some time afterwards at the place appointed it was

returned to him with a handsome gratuity.

At Efstaydalr—(Upper Dale)—we dismount and knock at the doors of the

long row of turf-covered buildings that form the homestead. There seems

to be no one at home, however, and we are wondering what we shall do

next when two men turn up who seem somewhat anxious to get rid of us. We

have a shrewd guess that their anxiety arises from the fact that our

poor ponies are taking advantage of the opportunity to nibble a few

blades of the rich grass which is growing upon the “tun.” This grass is

so precious in the farmer’s eyes that he guards it with jealous care, it

being reserved for his cattle, and not intended for ponies or sheep. It

grows naturally upon the few acres of hummock-covered land round the

farm, and it is manured only by the cattle that feed upon it. It is

never ploughed up nor otherwise prepared for seed, neither is it sown. I

may here remark that we have not yet seen a single plough, harrow or

other agricultural implement of any kind during the whole course of our

journey up to the present.

Our next stage is the Bruera—(Bridge Water)—which after about an hour’s

riding we reach in company with two or three trains of pack-ponies,

which like ourselves are travelling late. Remembering the Præstur’s

advice not to cross the river without a guide, but to wait at Efstaydalr

for Gudmundsen, we deem it prudent to keep near the lad who is in charge

of the leading team, but on reaching the ford find that there is neither

difficulty nor danger. Though it is eleven o’clock at night, the sun is

still shining just below the horizon, and the light is as clear as that

of an English summer evening.

Before us a stream, apparently fifty or sixty yards broad, rushes with

loud roaring from a defile on the left, and at the spot where we ford

it, leaps into a rift or chasm in mid-channel, and forms a sort of

miniature horse-shoe fall. From this chasm which we cross by a frail

bridge of wooden planks, the river takes another plunge to a lower level

where it again broadens out by a series of stages, till, after rushing

between two high natural gateways of rock, it once more rolls grandly

between its green banks on to the sea. On reaching the opposite side we

halt to give the ponies a rest, being still a long way from the Geysirs.

Leaving the patient animals to crop the scanty herbage, wherever they

find it best and sweetest, we lie down under the shelter of a bank where

we are protected from the breeze by a belt of dwarf-birch scrub. Taking

out of my pocket a valued and favourite companion, a little birthday

book which has been round the world with me, and which contains extracts

from Longfellow’s poems, I while away the time till midnight by reading

selections to my friend by the soft light that fills the sky above. I

have just read the following appropriate extracts:—

“The day is done; and slowly from the scene,

The stooping sun upgathers his spent shafts,

And puts them back into his golden quiver!”

“THE GOLDEN LEGEND.”

and

“Silently one by one in the infinite meadows of heaven,

Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.”

EVANGELINE.

and we are discussing the beauty of the thoughts therein expressed, when

we hear the clatter of hoofs, and are presently joined by our errant

guide. After a few words of explanation we resume our journey, and for

more than two hours plod on again over the wild desolate country that

lies between us and the Geysirs, which we eventually reach about 2.15

a.m.

Riding over the silicious crust, and rivulets of boiling water, with

which we are so familiar from our experiences in the Wonderlands of New

Zealand and the United States, we pass the great Geysir. Two or three

tents have been pitched close to it, in which we guess that a couple of

our late shipmates—soldier and parson—are lying sound asleep. Being by

this time very tired and very stiff, and rather sleepy, we would

willingly lie down even under a tree, if there were one, but have to

push on for other three-quarters of an hour till we arrive at a

farmhouse about two miles beyond the hot springs, and on the other side

of the river.

With a little difficulty we succeed in rousing an elderly lady who, in

petticoat and chemise, barefooted and bare-headed, and with a big black

smudge on a nose dirtier than the rest of her dirty face, and a sleepy

look in her half-closed eyes, but with perfect good nature, hands us the

key of the little church, that stands in the centre of the adjoining

grave-yard. We subsequently find that we should have been almost as well

off—(so far as comfort is concerned)—had she given us what is slangily

known as “the key of the street.”

She next retires into the house and presently returns with three beds,

two horse rugs, and a couple of pillows—but neither pillow slips nor

sheets—and throwing these on the floor, leaves us to arrange them in the

spaces right and left of the altar, which we lose no time in doing. We

then lie down and stretch out our weary limbs with a sense of relief,

for we have been on the march for eleven hours and in the saddle for

nine and a half, during which time we have ridden nearly forty-five

miles. My companion wisely avails himself of the third bed, brought by

mistake, and placing it, German-fashion, on the top of him, and covering

his feet with several of the old gowns which are hanging on nails on the

church walls, is soon sound asleep.

I am not equally careful, but merely putting a little wooden

footstool—(which I hunt up in one of the pews)—under my head to raise

the apology-for-a-pillow, and spreading the horse-rug over me, I close

my eyes and try hard to sleep, alas! without success. My legs project a

considerable distance beyond the bottom of the bed, which is barely long

enough to accommodate me as far as the knees. The rug, though probably

one of the best our hostess has to give us,—like Nanny’s sark in “Tam o’

Shanter”—“in longitude is sairly scanty,” and the consequence is that,

unlike Nanny, I feel far from “vaunty.” The wind whistles and howls

round the little wooden building, finding its way in through a hundred

unseen cracks and crevices, and attacking me in front and rear. My feet

numbed by the long ride, and by the wetting they have received a score

of times in consequence of fording rivers without riding boots, are cold

as ice. These discomforts and a constant succession of shivering fits

prevent me from enjoying the rest I so much need.

After four hours of troubled dozing, broken every five minutes by a

convulsive start, I rise about seven o’clock, and threading my way among

the green mounds that mark the last resting places of many who after

“Life’s fitful fever are sleeping well,” stroll down to the river and

there perform my ablutions.

Having completed our toilette we procure hot milk and boiling water from

the house, unpack our provisions, and sit down in one of the narrow

straight-backed pews to breakfast under the very shadow of the pulpit.

The good lady has provided neither plates nor knives nor forks, and only

a single spoon, so we are compelled to make considerable use of our

fingers and begin to appreciate the old saying that “fingers were made

before forks.” Gudmundsen’s jack-knife is found useful as a

sardine-opener, and a few scraps of newspaper do duty for plates. Our

menu includes cocoa,—sweetened with dirty sugar candy,—dry biscuits,

hard boiled eggs—brought from England, for eggs are scarce in

Iceland,—and sardines à l’huille. These delicacies are discussed with an

appetite sharpened by two days’ hard riding.

Before we leave I take “a last fond look” at our ecclesiastical

domicile, which presents a curious spectacle. It is a small building

about thirty feet long, fifteen feet broad, and twelve feet high,

constructed of weatherboard, with three windows on each side, and a

little belfry over the door. On entering I almost touch with my head the

floor of a loft which extends half way into the church. This loft,

reached by a rickety stair, on the left of the entrance, contains some

old saddles, a little lot of wool, a spinning wheel, and several heaps

of lumber. At the further end of the church is a railed altar on which

stand two common brass candlesticks each containing a half-burnt tallow

candle. The space under the altar has been converted into a cupboard.

Right and left of this are our beds and bedding, and from the walls are

suspended not only ecclesiastical vestments but sundry other nameless

garments belonging both to men and women. On the left of the altar as we

face the door is the pulpit, once as gaudy as red and blue and yellow

paint could make it, though its glory has evidently long ago departed.

Fifteen pews, with perpendicular rail-backs and narrow knife-board seats

about seven or eight inches broad, occupy the remainder of the edifice,

and fill me with pity for the unfortunate Christians who are obliged to

receive spiritual consolation under such uncomfortable conditions. An

elaborate brass chandelier depends from the centre of the ceiling, and a

large pewter plate, used to receive the collection, hangs significantly

on the wall behind the pulpit. A curious notice-board, apparently

specifying high-days and holidays, is affixed to a beam in front of the

altar, and the ends of two or three of the pews are decorated with our

overcoats, a pair of stockings, and sundry other articles of attire

placed there last night to dry.

Having packed up our traps, saddled our ponies, and paid all charges, we

commence our journey to Hengill by way of the Geysirs, which can be seen

steaming furiously at a short distance on the other side of the river.

On reaching the tents, previously referred to, we are welcomed by our

two compagnons de voyage who hospitably entertain us while we wait a few

hours in the hope of seeing “the Strokr” spout. The old farmer, who is

making a fortune by cutting turf to throw into it, tells us that we may

expect it to go off in about three-quarters of an hour. After waiting

more than twice that time in the vain, but momentary, expectation of

seeing it erupt, our friends order a second load of turf to be thrown

in, which is accordingly done. Then we retire into the tent for lunch,

keeping our eye anxiously fixed meanwhile upon the hole where the sulky

Strokr is bubbling furiously, and sending up great clouds of steam; but

alas! no column of boiling water. Having satisfied our appetites we

again moon round the edge of the crater for a couple of hours, but there

being no appearance of an outburst, my friend and the guide decide to

ride on, leaving me to follow in the course of an hour, as I am anxious

to get a photograph of the Strokr in action. I am compelled, however, to

follow my companions without being more successful than themselves.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Illustration:

PLATE VI.

1 The Upper Fall of the Oxara, Thingvellir.

2 The Lögberg.—3 View of plain at Thingvellir.—4 The Parsonage.

5 The Church.—6 Execution Pool.—7 Train of pack-ponies.

]

While we are refreshing ourselves in the tent, the parson, who is fond

of a joke, observes that he wishes the Strokr, like a reformed

betting-man, would “throw up the turf.” Pardoning the pun in

consideration of the cup of good tea which he has just brewed for us

with water boiled in one of Nature’s own kettles, we take advantage of

the delay to inspect the great Geysir, which is a large circular pool of

water seventy-two feet in diameter and four feet in depth, with a shaft

in the centre from four to nine inches in diameter, and according to

Professor Bunsen from sixty to seventy-four feet deep. The temperature,

according to the same authority, varies, but the maximum is 270 deg.

Fahrenheit, or 58 deg. above boiling point, and is given by other

scientific observers at from 168 deg. to 188 deg. Fahrenheit on the

surface. The water is green in colour and wonderfully clear.

The basin of the Strokr is about eight feet in diameter at the mouth,

with a shaft in the centre forty-four feet deep and about ten inches in

diameter. The turf sinking into the shaft clogs it up at the narrowest

part, and thus excites the violent action which results in a fountain of

hot water.

Burton mentions that in 1770 the great Geysir spouted eleven times, and

in 1814 only four times, per day of twenty-four hours. It is now

quiescent for much longer periods. The height it attains is variously

stated by different observers at from 60ft. to 360ft.; but the mean

height, according to the best authorities, is 80ft., which is exactly

equal to that of the “Great Fountain” at Versailles.

To any one who has visited the Wonderlands of Rhotomahana in New

Zealand, and the Yellowstone Park in the United States of America, the

Geysirs of Iceland seem by comparison unimportant. One misses, for

instance, the Paints Pots or pools of boiling mud of various colours,

the curious formations, the roaring steam-vents, the Obsidian cliffs,

and more than all these, the wonderful Terraces, up which the traveller

may climb from ridge to ridge, till he reaches the top where the Geysir

is bubbling and steaming furiously in the centre of the crater, and

whence he is able to look down upon a succession of receding alabaster

shell-like basins, each carved by Nature’s hand with the most delicate

fret-work, and filled with water so exquisitely blue in colour that no

description can convey even a faint idea of its loveliness. For these

substitute an extensive wilderness dreary barren and treeless, and

bordered by distant hills. In the centre of this waste on the summit of

a silicious mound, imagine several holes in the ground of greater or

less size, filled with pure or dirty boiling water, which is sending up

clouds of steam, and you have a picture of the Geysirs of Iceland before

you.

Not far from the Great Geysir there is a little mud hole, which our

reverend friend nicknames “The Grumbler.” He says, that it reminds him

of a man who on seeing the ocean for the first time remarked “Do yon be

always a-troublin’ itself like that?” I may mention here that “Geysir”

is the Icelandic for “Gusher.” Would it be very wrong to apply it, in

this sense, to some of the spouters who are now wooing the new

constituencies?

On resuming my journey I put my pony on its mettle and overtake my

companion a mile or two from the Bruara, where we halt to rest the

ponies. Again pushing on we stop for tea about eight p.m. near a farm

house on the plain, a mile or two beyond Efstaydalr, and in the course

of the following hour, as we ride on our way to Laugerdal, have a series

of splendid views of Hekla from the top of the highest of its three

peaks down to the point where its slopes appear to touch the intervening

hill. There is no time when the scenery of Iceland is seen to such

advantage as during the summer nights when the light of the midnight sun

bathing the landscape in softened radiance, and deepening the tint of

the clear blue sky, causes the dark fire-scarred crags and snow-white

cones of the mountain ranges to stand out with marvellous clearness and

photographic minuteness, tingeing them at the same time with

ever-varying hues that change with its own intensity.

As we ride along amid a silence that is unbroken, I am reminded of the

words in which it is said of Heaven that “there shall be no night

there,” and realise, perhaps more than ever I did before, the depth and

fulness of their meaning.

--------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER VI.

“The palaces of nature whose vast walls

Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps,

And throned eternity in icy halls

Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls

The avalanche—the thunderbolt of snow.”

BYRON.

It is considerably after midnight before we reach Laugerdal, and after a

short halt on the plain we remount our ponies and set out for Zog,

taking a southerly direction, a little to the east of Lake

Thingvellavatn. We have been on the march with an interval of rest at

the Geysirs, from about eleven o’clock in the forenoon; but the ponies

step out bravely, and we do the distance from Laugerdal to the Zog in

better style than any previous portion of the journey, though in many

places the road is rough and stony, the country around being simply a

howling wilderness.

About three a.m. we knock up the ferryman, who, after rubbing his sleepy

eyes, accompanies us with perfect good nature, for about a mile, to the

spot where his boat lies. I cannot help thinking that if he were either

an Englishman or a Scotsman he would neither look so pleasant, nor be so

good-tempered under the circumstances. To be roused out of bed at such

an untimely hour, to row a couple of wandering Englishmen and their

guide across the swift rushing stream, would try the patience of many a

man! The Icelander, however, makes no difficulty about it, but, on the

contrary, shews every disposition to oblige, and behaves generally with

the greatest courtesy and civility.

On the right, on the way to the ferry, we have a splendid view of the

river Zog, which here rushes down a long, precipitous incline, in such

volume, and at such a rate of speed, that it is one oft-broken sheet of

foam from its first fall till it finds its level and broadens out

towards the waters of the lake. It is said to be the finest fishing

stream in Iceland, and is therefore a favourite resort of anglers. One

of our friends, who camped on its banks for a week, had excellent sport,

killing, with his own rod, as many as fifty pounds of trout and char

daily.

On the left a smaller torrent, called the “Kalda”—(Cold Stream)—leaps

from rock to rock till, near the ferry, it mingles its waters with those

of the larger stream.

The name “Zog” means “the act of drawing a long breath,” and is applied

to the river to indicate the noise made by it in its steep descent.

While we are unsaddling the ponies, and removing the bridles, to prepare

them for their long swim to the opposite shore, the ferryman rows across

to his nets, hauls them in, and returns with a few fine trout. I then

seat myself in the stern of the boat, the saddles and bridles are laid

at my feet, the boatman bends to his oars, and the little white pony,

which I hold by a halter that has been tied round its upper jaw and

nostrils, takes the water under compulsion, and strikes out bravely. His

six companions, which are perfectly free, plunge in after him without

hesitation, and with dilated eyes, and much snorting, keep well up with

their tethered leader.

On reaching the further shore, which rises almost precipitously from the

stream, they at once make tracks for the hilltop in search of grass, and

I find full occupation for my time, while my companion and our guide are

being ferried across, in climbing after them in order to turn them back,

and keep them from wandering. It is after three o’clock in the morning;

we have been in the saddle at least ten hours, and still have to travel

a few miles to reach the house where we propose to sleep; and it would,

therefore, be a serious misfortune if any of the ponies were to succeed

in making their escape. Fortunately, the natural goodness of their

disposition prevents them from doing so, and in a short time, with the

assistance of the ferryman, we manage to collect and saddle them.

It is the general custom for tourists, when travelling in the interior

of Iceland, to take with them, in addition to the guide, a man whose

sole duty is to keep the spare ponies in the track, and prevent them

from straying in search of grass, which they invariably do whenever they

have the slightest opportunity. Having neglected to provide ourselves

with this necessary rider, we are obliged to perform the duty ourselves,

and thus cover a good many extra miles over country that would astonish

an Irish fox-hunter, and tax the powers of a Montana cow-boy.

By this time I am beginning to feel thoroughly at home in the saddle,

nor have my powers of endurance been unduly strained by the hard work of

the past three days. But I want sleep, and am glad, between four and

five a.m., to see on a little eminence ahead of us, on the other side of

an extensive meadow, the farm of Villingavatn, at which our guide has

arranged to stop.

A few minutes after our arrival the farmer makes his appearance, and

bids us welcome, and presently we are ushered through the long, low,

narrow passage, common to Icelandic farm-houses, and past the doors of

several dingy, peat-smelling rooms, into the best sleeping-chamber,

where we lie down on beds which, we have every reason to believe, have

just been vacated by three or four girls and women—whom we see peeping

round the edge of one of the doorposts—one of whom, a buxom,

good-looking lassie, in a few minutes enters our room with a large basin

full of new milk, which we find very refreshing.

It is considerably after ten o’clock before we awake, and the first

thing that catches my eyes on opening them is a portrait engraving of

Sira Halgrimur Petursson, who is staring down upon me with the severe

melancholy of a sacred poet, such being his claim to distinction. The

little room in which we are lodged contains the two beds which we

occupy. These are placed end to end along the right hand side of the

wall, and fill one-half of the floor space. The rest of the furniture

consists of a table, a chair, a common American clock, and a dilapidated

tarnished looking-glass. Light is admitted through one small window so

constructed as not to open, and there is consequently a decided want of

ventilation.

The beds, as well as the coverlets commonly used in Iceland instead of

blankets, are filled with the down of the Eider duck, highly esteemed in

the country and largely exported. The annual supply in 1870, according

to Bunsen, was 7,909 lbs., worth about as many pounds sterling. An

inferior class of feathers, obtained from the “puffin,” is also

exported, the quantity sent out of the country in 1870 being 32,081lbs.

I am told that it takes about a pound and a half of feathers to make a

good bed. The eider duck is bred and carefully farmed for the sake of

its feathers only. It plucks its own breast of the finer down in order

to make its nest, which is appropriated by the farmer as soon as

finished. The bird then makes a second nest, which is also removed, and

even the third is sometimes taken, though generally left. By this time

the breast of the little creature has become quite bare, and like man it

may almost be called an “unfeathered biped.”

As soon as we are dressed breakfast is placed upon the table in our

sleeping apartment, and includes hot milk, skyr (curd), hardurfiskur

(dried fish), kaka (cake), rugbrand (rye bread), skonrug (rusk), in

addition to tinned meats, white bread and cocoa from our own supplies.

The “skyr” resembles curded milk, in the condition in which it is put

into the press to be made into cheese, and is a very common article of

diet in Iceland. So is the dried fish, which is eaten uncooked, and is

considered exceedingly nutritious. The rye bread, commonly used, is very

black and rather sour, the cakes and rusks being much more palatable to

an English taste.

While at breakfast, haunted by the eyes of Sira Halgrimur Petursson,

which seem to follow us everywhere, we question our guide about the

literature of Iceland, and obtain a smattering of information on the

subject. He furnishes us with the following names of the great

authors;—Snorri Sturlusson, author of her greatest historical tales, and

regarded as the Shakespeare of Iceland; Bejarni Thorarensen, her

greatest poet; Jonas Halgrimmson, John Thoroddsson, and Steingrimur

Thorsteinsson, also poets. He tells us that the greatest

historian—Thorkall—is still living, and that the greatest living poet is

Matthias Jochumsson.

There is no theatre in Iceland; but she has had playwrights whose works

have been performed in Reykjavik upon stages erected for the occasion.

Through our interpreter we cross-question our host about his farm, which

is a tolerably large one, and forms part of the church lands. He says

that he pays an annual rent of one hundred kroner—equal to £5 12s 6d of

our money—and that he grows a few potatoes and turnips, but that the

bulk of his land is under natural grass.

The great summer work of the Iceland farmer is “haymaking,” which

occupies most of his time, and is a task of some difficulty on account

of the unevenness of the land caused by the frost mounds, which, as I

have said before, are never levelled by the plough, and therefore impede

the action of the scythe. Fifteen years ago there was not a pair of

shears in Iceland, and wool was not clipped, but pulled off the sheep’s

back at the time when it was shedding its coat naturally.

Some persons have referred to this practice as a cruel one; but we are

assured that it is not so, as the wool comes away in the hand without

difficulty, and without causing any pain to the animal. Shearing is now

becoming general, indeed if the sheep are in good condition it is

necessary to clip, for we are told that the fact of the wool “sloughing”

is a sign of the poor condition of the animal on which it grows.

Manure though not often used by the farmer, is sometimes during winter

placed upon the snow that as the latter melts the tillage may sink down

upon the land.

Farms are of different sizes—and as my informant stated, must be

reckoned not by acres, but by square miles—a small one supporting two

cows and about sixty sheep, a large one ten cows, and from five hundred

to six hundred sheep. Where held as freeholds the prices vary from three

thousand to ten thousand kroner,—more or less,—according to extent and

quality of the land.

I ask our guide who is the richest man in Iceland? He replies “The

Bishop,” though the income of his lordship—if I am correct in thus

styling him—is less than a tithe of that of the poorest of his Episcopal

brethren in England. A man is considered well off if he possesses 10,000

kroner, that is between £500 and £600, and very rich if he has ten times

the amount.

Shortly after noon we start on our way back to Reykjavik by way of

Hengill, and have not been long in the saddle before I begin to pity the

ponies, for the road which lies over the mountains is both precipitous

and rough.

On reaching the summit of the first high hill we cross—which rises from

the grey lava-plain that extends a short distance inland from the shores

of Lake Thingvellavatn, which we have to skirt to reach it—we have a

magnificent view of the Lake, its mountains and islands, and also of the

snow ridges beyond. We are even able to distinguish Thingvellir in the

distance, including the upper fall of the Oxara, which, like a thread of

silver, divides the Almannagja in the centre, and deepens the shadows in

the clefts of the surrounding rocks which are clearly visible to the

naked eye.

The spot on which we halt for a few minutes to look upon this panorama

is one of the dreariest and most desolate that could be imagined, the

mountain summit being literally covered with tremendous crags and

boulders, which rise like islands out of the sea of stones that

everywhere surrounds them.

From this point we push on towards Hengill, whose snow-streaked sides

tower above us on the left. On a little slope, considerably higher than

the path along which we are travelling, are several hot sulphur-springs,

the steam from which can be seen issuing from the ground. Here the path

descends almost precipitously to a fine grass-covered plain, on which,

however, not a single animal can be seen grazing.

Having given the ponies a short rest, we commence another ascent, and

shortly reach a scene of desolation wilder and more weird than anything

that has as yet come under our notice. Rocks, rent by some Titanic

convulsion, and split up into huge, blackened, sharp-peaked masses, hang

over our head on both sides of the track, and shut us out from the

brighter world beyond—from lake, plain, and glistening snows—by an

encircling wall of mountains so bare, barren, and fire-blasted, as to

remind us instinctively of that place which is “filled with the

blackness of darkness for ever.”

Through a ravine, called “Dyravegur” or “Door Way” we make our way out

of this gloomy scene to a slope, whence, away beyond an extensive plain,

we can once more see the blue waters of the distant ocean. On reaching

the plain we halt for our evening meal, over which, however, we do not

linger as we have still several hours’ journey before us, and cannot

hope to reach Reykjavik much before midnight. Plodding steadily on,

across bog and meadow, along winding rain-channels, and over miles of

frost hummocks, we find ourselves about ten p.m., much to our

satisfaction, once more upon a high road, on which from time to time we

have opportunities of again seeing a few of our fellow creatures, as we

are frequently passed by men and women driving long trains of ponies.

At Heimaey, with her kind permission, I photographed an elderly lady who

was riding astride of her pony in man-fashion, and I took it for

granted—no doubt correctly—that she was not the only woman in the

country who occasionally did so. The general custom, however, is for

women to use a side-saddle, which differs from our own in having a

circular support for the back, like that of the armchairs familiar to

frequenters of bar parlours.

When walking, it seems to be the invariable custom of women to muffle up

their heads in shawls, thus almost entirely concealing their features,

and when on horseback they generally wear in addition a many-coloured

scarf which crosses their chest like the double shoulder-belts worn by

our soldiers in “good King George’s golden days.”

Shortly before midnight we arrive in the outskirts of Reykjavik, and

being almost as tired as our wearied ponies, are glad when the familiar

outline of the Observatory rises upon the horizon like an old friend to

welcome us back. At midnight, “that hour o’ nicht’s black arch the

keystane,” we ride past the windows of the Island Hotel, from which we

receive the smiling salutations of our worthy captain, several of our

shipmates and other friends, whom I presently join in the mazy dance.

We learn that a great ceremony has taken place during the afternoon, the

Camoens having been publicly presented with a portrait of Sugersson, the

Liberator of Iceland, as he is called, and that a ball was extemporised

after the speeches were over.

Having supped and had a chat with our friends I turn into bed, thankful

once more to have an opportunity of enjoying a good night’s rest in a

comfortable bed, but at the same time highly satisfied with the

experiences of the past four days, and by no means indisposed to rough

it again, even under less favourable conditions, should another

opportunity present itself.

The following itinerary is given for the benefit of any who may make the

trip:—From Reykjavik to Thingvellir, the distance is about thirty-five

miles; from Thingvellir to the Geysirs, forty-three miles; from the

Geysirs to the Zog, at least forty-five miles; from the Zog to

Reykjavik, forty miles. I am satisfied that these figures are by no

means over stated, and to them must be added the extra miles covered in

driving the ponies back to the path when they strayed, as they did

scores of times during the journey, in search of a mouthful of grass.

On the first day we were in the saddle from 10.30 a.m. till 8.30 p.m.,

with a rest of about an hour; on the second day from 4 p.m., till 3

a.m., with two rests of about three-quarters of an hour each; on the

third day from 11 a.m. till 5 a.m on the following morning, with a halt

at the Geysirs of about four hours, and a rest at three subsequent

stages of the journey, one of half-an-hour, and the other two of

three-quarters of an hour each, the stages referred to being the Bruara,

Efstaydalr, and Laugerdal; and on the fourth day from 12.30 p.m. until

midnight, with two stoppages of about three-quarters of an hour each. We

have therefore been actually in the saddle altogether in the course of

the four days for upwards of forty hours out of eighty-five, and have

had about fifteen hours’ broken sleep during that period.

At noon on the morning after our return from the interior we sail from

Reykjavik for Akureyri, but before we leave the Island Hotel are

introduced to Mr Jonsson, a leading merchant. He is a nephew of

Sugersson, the Liberator of Iceland, a man who holds a high place in the

hearts of his grateful countrymen as the patriot to whose untiring

efforts and powerful eloquence the granting of Home Rule in 1874 is

universally attributed.

Mr Jonsson is himself a well-known political speaker, and is the leader

of the young Iceland party. He informs me that the Danes do not

associate with the Icelanders, regarding themselves as a superior race,

and consequently holding themselves aloof from intercourse with those of

their fellow-subjects who are natives of the country in which they have

made their homes. He says that so strong is this feeling that even on

board ship Danes and Icelanders, although travelling together, and free

subjects of the same Power, do not fraternise as other people do. On

this point, however, there is a difference of opinion among Icelanders,

some of whom speak much more kindly of their Danish compatriots.

Mr Jonsson tells me that he has a small farm outside Reykjavik—bought

for one thousand kroner (£56 5s),—which supports two cows that would

cost him two hundred kroner (£11 5s.) per annum for grass if he had to

buy fodder. These figures prove that good grass land will pay a splendid

interest as an investment, and confirm me in the belief which I have

formed that by sowing grass, as has been done in New Zealand, and by the

extensive use of the plough, the stock-raising capacity of the country

can be enormously increased in spite of climatic disadvantages.

Mr Jonsson also states that the best ponies, and the best farms are

undoubtedly in the northern portion of the island, and mentions that

some more enlightened men are actually beginning to drain their land.

This fact, and the sight of one solitary iron plough, which was lying

idle on a farm near the Geysirs, are the only indications of

agricultural progress we have as yet seen or heard of.

Shortly after weighing anchor as we are steaming across the Faxa Fiord,

we sight Snaefellsjökull, (4713 ft.) one of the highest mountains in

Iceland. We keep it in view for several hours both on approaching and

after leaving it, and the sky being perfectly clear and blue have a

splendid opportunity of seeing it to perfection. The little cones at its

apex shine out with peculiar brightness in the afternoon sun,

contrasting even in this respect with the white snow-covered slopes

below, which extend well down towards the black surf-beaten rocks at

their base.

The coast line on each side is wild, rugged, and hilly, and utterly

destitute of vegetation of any kind. Along the water’s edge are numerous

fine specimens of basaltic columns, some of which, in the Bay of

Stapi—so a fellow passenger informs me,—have been graphically described

by Jules Verne in one of his interesting romances.

In this neighbourhood we observe several French fishing-smacks and sight

a French war vessel, which we expect to signal us respecting letters.

She does not do so, however, but steams away north.

Our captain says that there are sometimes as many as ten thousand

Frenchmen engaged in fishing in these waters, which they do by means of

long lines, to which baited hooks are attached. The French Government,

with the view of making the fishing industry a nursery for the navy,

grants a bounty of from thirty to forty shillings per month to every man

who pursues this occupation afloat. In addition, the fisherman receives

a proportion of the value of the “take.”

The fish are salted as they are caught, the centre of the boat being

used to work in, while the chambers fore and aft are utilised to store

the fish after they are salted, a mode of preparation which in the case

of herrings accounts for the superiority of the Dutch brands over our

own.

The vessels employed in this important industry are ordinary two-masted

schooners, and carry a crew of from twenty to thirty men. There is a

duty on dried fish imported into France, in foreign bottoms, and the

Icelander exports chiefly to Spain, the Mediterranean, and South

America.

This afternoon in the course of conversation we discussed the war in the

Soudan. Speaking of Suakim, from which he recently returned—the

“Camoens” having been engaged by the Government as “No. 82” in the

Medical Transport Service—our captain said that the heat was so

excessive that the water in which his ship there lay at anchor shewed a

temperate of 90 degrees when tested by the thermometer. How different

the atmospheric conditions that now surround us!

------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Illustration:

PLATE VII.

1 The Bruera and Bridge.

2 Washing clothes in the “laugs,” or hot springs.

3 Tourists’ tents at the Geysirs.—4 The Great Geysir.

5 The Strokr in the sulks.—6 The Strokr in action.

]

The general opinion on board which I gather from both officers and crew,

is that the campaign would probably have lasted longer had the climate

been even tolerable; but the discomforts and miseries of camp life on

the shores of the Red Sea were so many and so unendurable, that neither

soldiers, sailors, nor civilians were sorry when the wretched business

collapsed, and released our army of occupation.

All on board speak of the Australian contingent with unstinted praise.

The men who composed it are represented as having been fine specimens of

British bone and muscle; courageous, and soldierly; thoroughly amenable

to discipline; and animated by a spirit of the staunchest loyalty and

patriotism. This is only what any one who has visited our Australian

colonies would have expected to hear, for nowhere in the whole world is

the old flag held dearer than among our fellow-subjects at the

Antipodes.

The navvies—who were employed by Messrs. Lucas and Aird in laying down

the railway—were a wild lot, and caused a good deal of trouble and

annoyance to the authorities. On Lord Wolseley’s arrival they were

mustered and drawn up in line, that he might address them, which he did

in strong terms, animadverting severely upon the disgrace they had

brought upon their country and themselves by their misconduct. In the

middle of his harangue he was completely “flabbergasted” by a

broad-shouldered Yorkshire navvy who broke the ranks, stepped to the

front, and with the remark, “Look ’ere we aint no bloomin’ soldiers,”

turned on his heel and walked off amid the sympathetic applause of his

fellow-labourers. The Commander-in-Chief had not another word to say and

rode off in disgust.

The same evening the stores having been removed from a shed in the

outskirts of Suakim, the navvies were ordered to occupy it, which they

did. One of them—evidently a witty fellow—succeeded in getting

possession of a telegram-form, and wrote out the following message which

he managed to deliver at head-quarters—“Navvies ordered to the front;

Guards retreating.” It is needless to say, that although it created a

good deal of amusement in high circles this despatch travelled no

further.

When passing Snaefell I am reminded by a remark of one of our

fellow-passengers that the name first given to Iceland was “Snaeland,”

or Snowland, a very much more appropriate designation than its present

one, for as yet, save of course on the distant glaciers, we have seen no

ice either on land or sea.

“There she blows” is becoming quite a common cry amongst us, for we are

now in waters in which whales “do congregate,” and have therefore

frequent opportunities of seeing them spout as they rise to the surface

for air. The discovery of mineral oils has no doubt seriously affected

the prosperity of the whale fisheries everywhere, not only in Scotland,

but in the Southern Seas. There is still a small fleet of whalers,

however, belonging to the port of Dundee, which annually braves the

dangers of the Arctic Circle in search of blubber. It seems to me,

therefore, that the Icelander who has the advantage of being so much

nearer the fishing ground, ought to have turned his attention to this,

as one among other industries, which he might follow with profit to

himself and advantage to his country, for as Dr. Hjaltalin says, “the

sea round the coast might be an inexhaustible mine of wealth, if the

fisheries were not carried on in the most primitive fashion.”

We are not more than 250 miles from the ice-bound shores of Greenland,

another colony of Denmark now used as a penal settlement. In the course

of conversation this afternoon, the fact was mentioned that it was

accidentally discovered about the year 1000 by an adventurous Icelander,

called Eirikr the Red, who settled there, and in order to attract

settlers called it “Green” Land in contradistinction to the “Snow” Land

or “Ice” Land, from which he had migrated.

It is asserted, on what is considered undoubted evidence, that not only

did Icelanders in these early days succeed in getting as far north in

the Arctic regions as the most adventurous explorers of modern times,

but that, during “the first decade of the eleventh century they also

discovered the mainland of America and made several unsuccessful

attempts to settle on the east coast, south of Newfoundland.” It is also

believed that it was from Iceland that Columbus originally obtained the

information which induced him to sail to the West in search of the New

World.

The origin of the name Iceland is thus related by Dr Hjaltalin—“Between

the years 860 and 870 the island was visited by two Norwegians, called

Naddoddr and Garthar, who were driven to it by stress of weather, and

thus discovered it accidentally.” It was subsequently also visited by

Floki, a Norwegian, “who sailed with the object of discovering a new

land, the existence of which was rumoured among the Scandinavians.”

Floki prepared for the voyage by entertaining his friends at a great

feast, and by consecrating three ravens to Odin. These ravens were to be

his compass and pilots. “He went first to the Shetland, and then to the

Faroe Islands. When he had sailed a considerable distance he liberated

one of the ravens, which flew back in the direction of the Faroes, from

which he concluded that these were still the nearest land. After some

time he sent forth the second raven, which returned to the ship. The

third raven which was set free, flew towards Iceland, and was followed

by Floki, who sailed round the south coast into a bay in the north-west,

where he found abundant fishing, both in sea and rivers. He had brought

some cattle and sheep with him; but these perished during the winter for

want of food, which he had neglected to provide for them in the summer.

One day, in winter, having ascended a mountain near his temporary

dwelling, he discovered in the north a firth filled with Polar ice. This

firth he called ‘Isa Fjorthr,’ or ‘Ice Firth,’ and the land ‘Is Land,’

or ‘Ice Land.’ On his return to Norway he gave a poor account of the

country; but was contradicted by one of his companions, who said ‘it was

a land flowing with butter.’

It is generally believed that the island in the ninth century had more

attractions for the settler than it has in the nineteenth.” Dr Hjaltalin

says, however, that “there was a stronger reason than choice which made

the colonists go to Iceland. It was necessity.” They were compelled to

leave Norway in search of liberty, that priceless blessing for which all

men who have real manhood in them have ever been willing to dare, and to

sacrifice, so much.

The national flag of Iceland to-day represents a raven on a blue ground,

and has been selected in reference to the historical circumstance

abovementioned.

Fortunately, we have none of the hardships to endure which were

experienced by Floki and his companions. Our good ship is both

well-manned and well-found, and as she steadily ploughs her way through

the dark waters round her, we find ourselves admiring her excellent

sea-going qualities.

Even when she rolls—as all ships do when they encounter storm or

swell—she does so gracefully and easily, and having had an arm broken

last year in mid-ocean in consequence of the vicious lurching of a crack

Atlantic liner, I think I am qualified by painful experience to express

an opinion on the subject.

Fortunately, too, we are able to rely upon more certain guidance than

that of the ravens of the ancient Norwegian voyagers, and should we

escape being hindered by the fogs which so often surround vessels in

these latitudes, and render navigation both difficult and dangerous, we

hope to round the North Cape early to-morrow morning, and to reach

Akureyri late to-morrow night.

--------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER VII.

“In such a world, and so stormy, and where none

Finds happiness unblighted, or if found,

Without some thistly sorrow at its side,

It seems the part of wisdom, and no sin

Against the law of love, to measure lots

With less distinguished than ourselves, that thus

We may with patience bear our mod’rate ills,

And sympathise with others suffering more.”

COWPER.

Since leaving Reykjavik at noon yesterday, we have passed into, and out

of the Western Hemisphere, and have almost touched the Arctic Circle.

We spend our second Sunday in High Latitudes at sea, and shortly after

midnight drop anchor off the port of Akureyri, the principal town on the

north coast of Iceland. It contains a population numbered only by

hundreds, and is pleasantly situated on the right hand side of a

land-locked bay, which forms the southern extremity of—and is entered

through—a narrow channel from the Eya Fiord. The encircling mountains,

even at this advanced season of the year, are streaked with snow, which

not only covers their summits, but in many places creeps down the slopes

till it touches the weed-strewn beach. There is plenty of deep water in

the magnificent harbour before us, in which, to all appearance, the

combined navies of the world might lie at anchor at one time.

At an early hour on Monday morning (July 20) the Camoens is boarded by

Dr Jon. A. Hjaltalin, the Physician General of Iceland, to whose

extensive knowledge of the history and condition of his country our

captain has made frequent reference during the voyage, and to whom he

presently introduces us. In the course of conversation Dr Hjaltalin

kindly enlightens me on a few points about which I have been in doubt.

Nothing could be brighter or more enjoyable than the weather with which

we are favoured; but I am informed by Dr Hjaltalin that this is the

first fine day the people of Akureyri have had for ten days, the sun not

having been seen during that period in consequence of constant rain and

fog, and the thermometer having shown no less than six degrees of frost

at night. One of our shipmates tested the temperature of the water in

the fiord at half-past ten o’clock last night and found it to be

forty-three degrees, that of the atmosphere at the same hour being

indicated as forty-nine degrees.

But from published returns I learn that though the winter is much keener

in the north, the summer is proportionately milder. In winter the fiord

is filled with ice, and a photograph taken by a local photographer

represents it under such circumstances, and gives one an excellent idea

of the severity of the Arctic winter.

The Icelanders generally wear knitted worsted gloves, with two thumbs

but no fingers, the object of which must be economy, for gloves so made,

being reversible, can be worn on either hand, and thus exchanged when

they become shabby.

Dr Hjaltalin confirms the statement I have heard that women are not

expected to marry in Iceland until they are able to educate their own

children, and tells me that the people generally—though by no means

remarkable for scholarship—are able, one and all, to pass a creditable

examination in the elements of education.

I have heard that in Iceland the wife does not sit down to table along

with her husband, family, or guests; but either serves them, or sits in

an adjoining room where she can see and be seen during the progress of

the meal. This I learn to be correct! It does not arise, however, as I

naturally supposed, from any assumption of superiority on the part of

the man, or from any intention on his part to indicate the inferiority

of the woman, for such is not the case, the sexes occupying that

position of equality which invariably distinguishes highly civilised

from comparatively uncivilised communities. The fact is that the food,

being served in portions—a custom which has originated no doubt on

account of its scarcity and the consequent necessity for care in its

distribution—the wife, who is entrusted with the household management,

naturally takes upon herself the duty of supplying the wants of her

family and friends to prevent waste. When she does not herself wait at

table she sits in an adjoining apartment, for the ostensible purpose of

superintending her servants, whom—like many mistresses elsewhere,—with

or without reason, she has a habit of distrusting. An Englishman who had

dined with a man of good social position in Iceland told me that he had

been greatly struck with the absence of his hostess from the table,

especially as he observed her seated, handsomely dressed, in the next

room. It is high time that such a custom were abolished, for it is

certainly out of sympathy with those of other European communities where

woman, in the family and social circles, is treated with becoming

respect.

Referring to the state of agriculture in Iceland, a subject on which I

am beginning to be somewhat interested, Dr. Hjaltalin states that the

Icelander of early days cultivated a good deal more land than his

descendants do; that he himself is one of those who believe that the

climatic and other difficulties which stand in the way of cultivation,

though very great, are not altogether insuperable; and that there are no

doubt large tracts of land, hitherto untouched by the plough, which

might, if the people possessed more energy and more enterprise, be made

to yield crops of some sort.

He tells me that imported seed has been sown in Iceland experimentally,

but that after repeated trials it has proved a failure. He admits,

however, that there is force in my suggestion that there must be some

kinds of fruits and cereals—not indigenous—which with the exercise of

skill and care might be coaxed to become acclimatised.

I learn with pleasure that in various parts of the country schools of

agriculture have been established which are conducted by teachers who

have been educated in Norway. Believing, as I do, in the absolute

necessity for technical education in every trade and calling to which it

can be applied, I note this fact with surprise and satisfaction,

especially when I remember that in England, where the farming interest

is so great, no attempt has hitherto been made to teach the science of

agriculture to those engaged in that occupation which the Chinese—with

the shrewdness and common sense which characterise so many of their ways

and habits—rank as the highest that a man can follow; placing the farmer

first in order of social precedence, and the soldier last; the one being

regarded as a national benefactor, the other as a necessary evil.

In many of our colonies, where both Governments and people are alive to

the folly of neglecting this branch of national education, Schools of

Agriculture have been established, notably in Canada, at Guelph, Ont.,

where there is an admirable and world-famed institution. It must,

therefore, be regarded as a sign of ignorance and apathy on the part of

British tenant-farmers and landed proprietors alike, that though the

material interests of both might be largely advanced thereby, they have

as yet taken no steps either to supply the want of such teaching as is

now being given to the poor peasants of Iceland, or even to agitate for

its provision by the State. I am quite aware that there are several

institutions in Great Britain where agricultural science is taught to a

superior class of students, but I believe nothing has been done in the

direction I have indicated. Dr. Hjaltalin himself presides over a large

institute, or college, at Modruvellir, in which the students receive

thorough training in scientific and other branches of higher education.

On asking for a reason for the general and evident neglect of

agriculture by the people, he tells me that during the continuance of

the oppressive monopoly, to which I have already referred at length, the

Icelander worked for a drudge’s wages in preference to cultivating his

land, because the monopolists wanted fish and oil and not agricultural

produce. The poor peasant being literally “between the Devil and the

deep sea,”—between Monopoly and Starvation—had no alternative but to

apply himself to those industries which would afford him the means of

eking out his miserable existence, and thus allowed land to lie untilled

which ought to have yielded sufficient food to have rendered him more

independent.

There were, however, in early days, as now, isolated families and

communities, who lived in the interior, a long way from the sea, and it

is a striking fact, and one worth mentioning in these days of coming

land reforms, that these peasant proprietors, to use Dr. Hjaltalin’s own

words, “were the best off, no doubt, because necessity, which is a hard

taskmaster, compelled them to depend upon the produce of the land

instead of that of the sea.”

I remark to Dr. Hjaltalin that I am inclined to believe the country is

capable of raising stock to a greater extent than is done at present,

and he agrees with me. He says that the grass in Iceland is better in

quality than that of Scotland, and can be cut, in favourable districts,

three times during a season, though the latter cannot be said to last

more than five months. Land is considered good which produces one ton of

grass per annum per Danish acre of nine hundred square fathoms. The

ponies, which exist in a state of semi-starvation during winter, can be

kept on grass alone, without oats or any other kind of food. Cows in

Iceland give more milk, in proportion to what they eat, than those of

any other country, the average yield of each cow per annum being about

two thousand quarts. Dr. Hjaltalin has one milker which gave more than

three thousand quarts last year. Each cow eats about twenty-five pounds

of grass per diem. A sheep can be kept indoors during winter on three

hundred pounds of hay.

Being aware that Iceland exports a considerable quantity of wool which

is used in the West Riding I put a few questions to Dr Hjaltalin on the

subject, especially with the view of ascertaining how it is that wool

consumed in Yorkshire is shipped to Copenhagen, and not to Leith. He

tells me that it arises from the fact that there is still a little

difficulty in persuading farmers to sell their wool for money, they

having been accustomed for many years to set it aside to be exchanged

with the Danish merchants for the necessaries of life.

They are now fast becoming wider awake, however, and it is probable that

before long the trade in wool, and in everything else, will be

conducted, not upon the “tick and truck system,” but upon the basis of

currency. When that time arrives, Iceland wool will no doubt find its

way direct to the English market, but the result of the present mode of

doing business is that there is what Dr Hjaltalin calls “an inflation”

price both for goods imported and exported. Just now washed wool fetches

about sixty öre (8d) in exchange for goods; and nothing more clearly

indicates the viciousness of the truck system and its restraining

influence on trade, than the fact that the Danish exporter not only pays

freight to Copenhagen, and thence again on reshipment to Leith, but

actually sells the wool to the English consumer, at considerably less

than the price which he professes to pay to the grower.

During the afternoon Mr Kristjan Jonasarsson, of Narfastodum, Reykjadal,

near Akureyri, comes on board and asks for the gentleman from the West

Riding of Yorkshire. I at once acknowledge my identity, and on going

upstairs have a pleasant chat with Mr Jonasarsson, who has been sent to

me by Dr Hjaltalin. I find that it is under the consideration of the

farmers of Akureyri to send him to England to make enquiries as to the

best modes of wool-washing, &c., and to compare notes generally with the

Yorkshire consumers with a view of subsequently bringing about a direct

trade in wool between Iceland and England, and this is his apology for

waiting upon me.

He tells me that thirteen years ago—in 1872—Iceland wool was selling for

137 öre (about 18½d) per Danish pound—(one hundred and one and a half

Danish pounds are equal to one hundred and twelve English pounds)—and

scarcely seems able to realise the enormous decline in values since

then, and the depreciation of bright wools in consequence of change of

fashion.

Under present conditions of purchase there is only one price for wool,

whether good or bad, and the farmer has therefore no inducement to

bestow extra care upon his flocks with a view of improving the quality

of the fleece, in order to increase his profits.

In his recent admirable work on “The Structure of the Wool Fibre,” Dr F.

H. Bowman, than whom there is probably no greater authority in England,

says that he is of opinion “that our perfection in spinning is in excess

of our perfection in preparing the fibres for spinning, and”—(the remark

is worth noting)—“decidedly in advance of the present state of

perfection of the raw material we have to use.” “Nothing,” he adds,

“will more improve our manufacture than improvement in the growth of the

wool itself, which will reduce the irregularities in the component

fibres, and thus render them better fitted for making a comparatively

good yarn.”

In the face of these statements it seems imperatively necessary that the

Icelander, if he wishes to develope the wool trade and to increase his

exports, should bestir himself to bring about an exchange of commodities

on business principles, direct with the English consumer, and without

the intervention of a foreign and far-away middleman. The proposal to

send an agent to England to make enquiries is a proof that the people

are beginning to be alive to the fact that they have lived in a Sleepy

Hollow long enough; and is one which, if carried out, will no doubt

eventually lead to advantageous results.

Dr. Bowman mentions that the Iceland sheep—of which there are two

breeds—have this peculiarity that they have seldom fewer than four, and

sometimes as many as eight, horns. “When the horns are not more than

five they are placed in one row, and all spring from the frontal bone,

as in the case of the native sheep of Cyprus, but when there are more

than five they are placed in rows one behind the other.” This curious

freak of nature is, I am assured, exceptional, most of the Iceland sheep

having not more than two horns.

Mr Jonasarsson tells me that a year-old sheep will yield an average of

from one and a half pounds to two pounds, and those from two years old

and upwards of about three pounds, of washed wool per annum. The total

export of wool is estimated at upwards of one million pounds weight. In

1871, according to official statistics, there were about 370,000 sheep

of all kinds in Iceland; but my informant puts the present total down on

a rough estimate at 500,000. There is no doubt whatever in my own mind,

and I am confirmed in the belief by Mr Jonasarsson, that with an

increasing demand, and better facilities for disposing of the supply on

cash terms, the quantity of wool might be considerably increased, and

its quality greatly improved. The skins, which are exported to Denmark,

also fetch nominally fictitious prices.

At Akureyri the local agent of Messrs. R. & D. Slimon, has arranged for

a shipment of ponies, and there being deep water close in-shore the

Camoens is presently berthed alongside a little pier, and at once

commences to discharge cargo.

A number of us, prior to this, manage to land in a boat which we find

tied to the gangway. The owner, as he rushes frantically to the bulwarks

in an excited state of mind, seems to fear that we are going to run away

with it, for being perilously overladen, we actually refuse to permit

him to enter his own boat, a piece of impudence which we subsequently

explain, and for which we apologise.

On reaching the shore we find ourselves in the midst of a crowd of men

and ponies, congregated in the vicinity of several small wooden stores

or sheds, which form the trading station. A little further on, a large

weather-board many-windowed building, which seems to be the principal

place of business on the coast, is flaunting the Danish flag in honour

of our arrival, and in the adjoining fields, and along the shore, we see

hundreds of ponies, and numerous groups of men, women, and children.

Passing through these we make our way to Akureyri along a road which

skirts the beach, stopping for a few minutes to inspect a shark oil

manufactory where nothing is to be seen, however, but a number of large

iron cauldrons in which a thick dirty-looking brown liquid is bubbling

lazily. This is an important industry in Iceland, the oil being exported

to Denmark, and largely used in the manufacture of soap.

The following extract, which I have condensed from an English newspaper,

is rather interesting: “The shark caught is known as the ‘Squabus

Borealis.’ The liver only is used, the flesh, however, being sometimes

preserved for food. The fish vary in size up to from eighteen to twenty

feet in length, and from four to five feet in diameter at the thickest

part. The yield of oil runs from five to fifty gallons per fish. The

schooners employed in the trade are from thirty to fifty tons burden,

and are manned by from eight to ten men. The usual fishing season is

from January or February until August. In winter the sharks are found in

shallow water, twenty miles from land, at a depth of fifty fathoms or

thereabouts. In summer they make for deeper water and go further out to

sea, being found about one hundred miles from the coast, and at a depth

of about two hundred fathoms. The hooks used are from twelve to eighteen

inches long and are baited with horseflesh or seal blubber, the quantity

required for each hook weighing about eight pounds. To the end of the

line—which measures one and a half inches in diameter—two yards of chain

are attached and the bait is drawn up to a height of about two fathoms

from the bottom. On being brought to the surface the shark is attacked

with harpoons and lances and when dead is cut open to remove the liver.

The crew get about 55s per month and a bonus of 6d per barrel each. The

captain receives two kroner (2s 3d) on each of the first hundred barrels

of the season’s catch, and three kroner (3s 4½d) on the remainder.”

We spend an hour or two at Akureyri, and having previously heard that

there are actually three trees in Iceland, and that these are to be seen

at Akureyri, one of the main objects of our visit is to see them. I am

glad to be able to report that I counted no fewer than five mountain

ash, or rowan trees, which are a source of great pride to the

inhabitants.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Illustration:

PLATE VIII.

1 Landing place at Akureyri.

2 One of the five trees at Akureyri.—3 Principal store.

4 Fishing in the Glera.—5 Waterfall of the Glera.

6 Shipping ponies.

]

It is said that an Icelander who, for the first time in his life, looks

upon “a spreading chestnut tree,” or “a brave old oak,” regards it with

even more interest and curiosity than he does a locomotive.

We lunch at the new weatherboard hotel on the hill side, and there meet

two English gentlemen—sportsmen and naturalists—who are packing up in

order to join us on the return voyage to Granton.

Hearing that there is a “Foss” or waterfall a mile or two distant which

is worth seeing, a few of us make our way thither, and after an easy

climb obtain a good view of the tumbling stream, the Glera—(clear

stream)—which leaps from a plateau into a rocky chasm or rift, whence,

on emerging, it makes its way, by half a dozen channels, across the

pebbly beach to the fiord.

The sky is gradually becoming clouded, and as rain is threatening we

make our way back to the ship, where we find the crew busily engaged in

shipping ponies, at which they exhibit considerable expertness, the

result of frequent practice. The little animals, having been driven on

to an enclosed pier, or pen, are passed on, one by one, to a sloping

platform that touches the sides of the vessel. A broad girth having been

placed under the belly of the foremost, a signal is given to the man at

the winch, and in a few seconds the poor little frightened animal may be

seen swinging high in the air over the open hatch, into which it is

speedily lowered. On reaching the lower deck it is placed with several

companions in one or other of a series of stalls built for the purpose.

I timed the men and found that it took an average of just one minute to

transfer each pony from pier to hold.

Messrs Slimon and Co. have greatly developed this important trade, and

on one voyage the Camoens conveyed to Scotland no fewer than 975 ponies.

Experience has resulted in considerable improvements in the mode of

transporting them. Formerly, in rough weather, it was not uncommon to

lose a large number, accidents being frequent and deaths numerous. Now,

however, the deck is covered with sand and gravel to a depth of from six

to eight inches, and the patient animals are thus provided with a safe

foothold which enables them to keep their legs even in the stormiest

weather.

Everybody credits “Jack” with the possession of a kind heart, and I have

often noticed on shipboard how fond the crew are of some dumb creature

which has made its “home on the rolling deep.” Personally I am strongly

of opinion that a dog ought to be the first and constant companion of a

child from its cradle.

“Dogs are honest creatures,

Ne’er fawn on any that they love not;

And I’m a friend to dogs,—

They ne’er betray their masters.”

I feel assured that were children accustomed from infancy to regard some

dumb brute with affectionate kindness, there would be much more

likelihood of their turning out humane and tender-hearted men and women,

for there is no greater truth than that expressed in these beautiful and

well-known lines of Coleridge:—

“He prayeth best who loveth most

All things both great and small,

For the good God who loveth them

Hath made and loved us all.”

These thoughts suggest themselves to my mind because I observe that the

sailors, one and all, are exceedingly kind in their treatment of the

little trembling creatures, and that everybody on board who speaks of

them does so in terms which are almost affectionate. Every precaution is

taken to ensure that during the voyage they shall be carefully and

regularly supplied with water and excellent hay, and the hatches are

well ventilated. Indeed I should imagine that if a pony could speak it

would express its regret at being obliged to leave the Camoens,

especially if it knew that its probable destination in England or

Scotland was the bottom of a coal pit.

The market value of the ponies varies of course, according to quality,

prices for ordinary animals when we were at Akureyri being about fifty

shillings per head; but we saw several which were valued at as much as

£20 each.

I have heard it stated that at one time they were actually killed for

bait by the shark fishers, and I almost wonder that in a country where

cereals are imported and food is so scarce hippophagy is not prevalent

under the circumstances.

It is to the fact that in heathen times horseflesh was eaten at the

sacrificial feasts, that its disuse in Christian countries is mainly

attributable, Christians rejecting it because of its former use in the

idolatrous worship of their heathen brethren, I suppose on the same

principle as those, of whom we read in the New Testament, who refused

meat which had been offered to idols.

But every holiday comes to an end.

“The world must turn upon its axis

And all mankind turn with it heads or tails,

And live or die, make love, and pay our taxes,

And as the veering wind shifts, shift our sails.”

Between 9.0 p.m. and 10 p.m., the last of the ponies having been safely

slung aboard, we weigh anchor, “shift our sails,” and steam up the fiord

homeward bound.

As we glide along, the tops and higher slopes of the mountains on each

side of us seem to be playing at hide and seek with the rolling clouds

of mist that enshroud them from base to summit, and the result is a

scenic effect whose weird picturesqueness is altogether different from

anything we have previously observed.

The midnight sun is resting just below the horizon, preparatory to

starting on another round of beneficence, and the sky is streaked with

the hues and colours of early morning, which, along with the clouds and

dark mountain slopes, are reflected upon the shimmering surface of a sea

that resembles a sheet of glass.

The French man-of-war,—which left the harbour an hour or two before

us,—and a few sailing vessels are seen like black specks in the distance

ahead; but there is no sound to break the stillness of the night air

except that throbbing of the engine amidships, and the rippling of the

ocean at our bows.

About 8 a.m., on reaching deck after a sound sleep, we find ourselves

steaming past a dark hilly rockbound coast, under a clouded sky, and

learn that we are several miles within the Arctic Circle, which is the

name given to “that portion of the earth’s surface that lies north of 66

degrees and 24 minutes north latitude, where during summer the days are

continuous.”

Though we are many hundreds of miles from the Pole, or even from the

regions of perpetual ice, we gaze upon the dark expanse of ocean around

us with an interest which arises chiefly from the pathetic tragedies

with which its mysteries are associated.

At the breakfast table conversation turns upon the subject of Arctic

discoveries, and one of the two naturalists who joined us yesterday—a

parson in mufti and a thoroughly good fellow—remarks, after mention has

been made of the hardships endured by Arctic explorers, that he once

heard of a ship-wrecked mariner who had been reduced to the necessity of

eating his boots, which were full of holes, and who on being asked how

he liked them, replied that “on the whole the holes tasted better than

the boots!”

The same gentleman mentions that when in Akureyri he paid a morning call

to arrange the amount of the fine to be inflicted upon him by the

Sheriff for having, in violation of the law, shot birds out of season.

The Sheriff very courteously invited him to his house to settle the

matter, where having compounded the offence, much to his satisfaction,

by payment of a fine of three kroner (3s 4½d), our companion spent a

pleasant hour in friendly conversation with his hospitable judge.

I ought to remark here that the birds were shot purely in the interest

of science, our informant being a well-known collector and a member of

several scientific societies. Until recently the tourist was at liberty

to shoot birds or animals whenever and wherever he found them; but this

has been wisely altered, and although the law is no doubt constantly

evaded, it is well that steps have been taken to prevent indiscriminate

slaughter.

The gentleman above referred to informed me that there are four species

of indigenous birds in Iceland, viz.:—The Iceland Falcon, the Iceland

Golden-eyed Duck, the Rock Ptarmigan, and the Harlequin Duck. There used

to be another species called the Great Auk, which is now extinct. It was

found principally on the islands south of Reykjavik, and is supposed to

have been destroyed during a volcanic eruption. I have been told that a

French naturalist who visited Iceland some time ago offered a reward of

£500 for a living specimen, but has hitherto been unable to obtain one.

During the afternoon we round Langenes, the north-east extremity of

Iceland, and steam south, keeping the coast constantly in view. On the

third day out from Akureyri we pass the Faroe Islands during the night,

but on the following morning are enveloped in a fog from an early hour,

and have to stop the engines several times to take soundings in order to

ascertain from the character of the bottom what is our probable

position.

We find that we are in sixty-three fathoms of water, and over a bank of

shells and gravel, and on going down with the captain to his room he is

able to point out our approximate latitude and longitude by comparing

the evidence thus obtained with the soundings indicated on the Admiralty

Chart. No one who has not had experience of the difficulties of

navigation can form any idea of the inestimable boon which has been

conferred upon mankind by the patient researches of those naval officers

who have, from time to time, surveyed the oceans of the world, and

recorded their observations for the guidance of their brother sailors.

Early on the morning of Friday (July 24th) we arrive off Thurso, where

we land in a fishing boat in order—after a visit to the Orkney and

Shetland Islands—to make our way home by way of Wick, Strathpeffer,

Inverness, and the Caledonian Canal to Oban, Glasgow, and the West

Riding of Yorkshire.

We bid good-bye regretfully to captain and crew, as well as to our

fellow-passengers, most of whom turn out in dishabille to shake hands

and wave farewell. The last sound borne to our ears on the morning

breeze, as the vessel, which we are just beginning to regard as a home,

steams on her way to Leith, is the refrain of the “Stoodent Sawng,”

contributed by our American friend at Reykjavik, but neither the

singers, nor the pleasant days spent in their company, will readily fade

from my recollection, for “I think of them now when afar.”

It is an invaluable educational experience no doubt for a man to see the

world, to gaze with admiration upon its beauties, and with wonder upon

its mysteries and marvels; but there are no memories of travels—at least

such is my own experience—so grateful and so abiding as those which

centre round the kind hearts that one finds everywhere. If the man who

denounces humanity, as I have heard men do, and complains of having

received incivility, neglect, and discourtesy, from strangers in strange

lands, will but be honest with himself he will probably find the true

explanation of the treatment he has met with, in his own churlishness,

or unwillingness to be friendly.

For my own part I have often had to thank strangers for having, at great

personal inconvenience, made my path smooth, and for having greatly

contributed to my comfort and enjoyment, and there is not a country, in

any part of the world that I have visited, in which I have not received

some unexpected attention, or had reason to be grateful for some

disinterested kindness.

From those Icelanders with whom I came into personal contact I received

only courtesy and civility, and I shall ever look back upon my trip to

the Arctic Circle, and my wanderings in the great Wonderland of Europe,

as amongst the most enjoyable of all my experiences as a traveller.

Though apparently almost overwhelmed by natural disadvantages, and

hindered by his own lethargy and want of enterprise the Icelander has

many excellent qualities, and has earned the good opinion of those who

know him best; and I cannot help hoping and believing that a bright

future lies before him which will to some extent compensate for the

miseries and calamities of the past. Let me add in conclusion that no

Briton, fagged with hard work, whether physical or mental, who seeks

restoration to health and energy in the invigorating atmosphere of

Iceland, or who spends a holiday amongst its geysirs and volcanoes, or

in the pursuit of sport on the banks of its trout and salmon streams,

will ever have reason to regret having been brought into social

intercourse with the poor, but kindly and well-disposed people he will

find there in town or country. Though

“They their stormy mansion tread,

And force the churlish soil for bread,”

they have a true love for their native land, and having now achieved

political liberty, and secured the inestimable right of self-government,

I for one do not doubt that actuated by that patriotism which

Chateaubriand calls “L’instinct le plus noble du genre humain,” they

will yet redeem their island-home from its present barrenness and

crushing poverty, and in spite of snow and winter “make the wilderness

to smile and blossom like the rose,” even in Ultima Thule.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

TOURISTS & SPORTSMEN

ABOUT TO

VISIT ICELAND

MAY OBTAIN INFORMATION

AS TO THE SAILINGS OF

[Illustration: Picture of the S.S. Camoens at dock in Leith]

THE S.S. “CAMOENS,”

BY APPLYING TO

Messrs. R. & D. SLIMON,

Leith and Iceland Steam Shipping Co.,

LEITH

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Transcriber’s Notes

▪ Note: Various archaic spellings have been retained. Printer’s errors

and apparent misspellings have been changed and are noted below

▪ Note: Hyphenation has been standardized in cases noted below, where

there is a predominant form in the text

▪ Note: The author’s spelling of Icelandic is quite variable. No

attempt has been made to standardize spelling except to maintain

internal consistency in usage within this book.

▪ Pg. Front matter: Missing or worn away period added: ‘F.R.G S.’ to

‘F.R.G.S.’

▪ Pg. viii: Corrected typo: ‘Heimaeyklett and Istaklett’ to

‘Ystaklett’—Ystaklett elsewhere

▪ Pg. ix: œ/æ mixup resolved: ‘prœsturs’ to ‘præsturs’—æ elsewhere

▪ Pg. ix: œ/æ mixup resolved: ‘church endowments—the Prœstur’ to

‘Præstur’—æ elsewhere

▪ Pg. xi: Removed period: ‘... drawn by Mr. Alexander’ to ‘Mr’—Without

period elsewhere

▪ Pg. 7: Removed extra open quote: ‘“As we pace along “Upon’ to ‘“As we

pace along Upon’

▪ Pg. 8: Hyphenation regularised: ‘Orœfa-jökull’ to

‘Orœfajökull’—Elsewhere without hyphen

▪ Pg. 14: Corrected typo: ‘summmer’ to ‘summer’

▪ Pg. 17: Added comma: ‘The latter which would make very comfortable

slippers’ to ‘The latter, which’

▪ Pg. 18: Corrected typo: ‘Dr Ion A. Hjaltalin’ to ‘Jon’—Jon elsewhere

▪ Pg. 37: œ/æ mixup resolved: ‘peaks of Oræfa’ to ‘Orœfa’—œ elsewhere

▪ Pg. 38: Accents regularized: ‘Gljár söl á’ hlith.’ to ‘Gljár sól á

hlíth’

▪ Pg. 51: Corrected typo: ‘ommitted’ to ‘omitted’

▪ Pg. 61: Corrected typo: ‘Titantic’ to ‘Titanic’

▪ Pg. 69: Spelling variants harmonized: ‘Shaptaryökull’ to

‘Shaptarjökull’—j elsewhere

▪ Pg. 70: Corrected typo: ‘occurences’ to ‘occurrences’

▪ Pg. 70: Corrected typo: ‘Shakspeare’ to ‘Shakespeare’—Shakespeare

elsewhere

▪ Pg. 73: Corrected typo: ‘distitch’ to ‘distich’

▪ Pg. 81: Missing period added: ‘... in diameter’ to ‘... in diameter.’

▪ Pg. 88: Comma moved: ‘skonrug, (rusk)’ to ‘skonrug (rusk),’—Changed

in accordance with other items in list

▪ Pg. 90: Corrected typo: ‘divides the Alanannagja’ to ‘Almannagja’

▪ Pg. 94: Corrected typo: ‘Estaydalr, and Laugerdal’ to ‘Efstaydalr’

▪ Pg. 97: Added comma: ‘While we are refreshing ourselves the youth’ to

‘refreshing ourselves, the youth’

▪ Pg. 104: Added diacritic: ‘... sardines a l’huille’ to ‘à l’huille’

▪ Pg. 110: Removed period: ‘Mr. Jonasarsson tells me’ to ‘Mr’—Without

period elsewhere

▪ Pg. 110: Removed period: ‘... in the belief by Mr. Jonasarsson’ to

‘Mr’—Without period elsewhere

▪ Pg. 112: Changed double quote to single: ‘the “Squabus Borealis.’ ’

to ‘the ‘Squabus Borealis.’ ’

▪ Pg. 121: Corrected typo: ‘... the patriot to those untiring efforts’

to ‘to whose’