Ask where’s the North: at York ’tis on the Tweed,
In Scotland at the Orcades; and there
At Greenland, Zembla, or the Lord knows where.
Essay on Man.
——— Hvar er norður ytst?
Sagt er i Jork, það sé við Tveit;
Segir Skottinn: við Orkneyjar;
En þar: við Grænland, Zemblu, sveit
Sett meinar það—og guð veit hvar.
_Pope’s Essay_; _Icelandic version_.
WE landed at Reykjavik at six o’clock in the morning. Though the sun
was near five hours high, scarce a person was up. At this season the
sun evidently rises too early for them. Sleep must be had, though,
whether darkness comes or not. Reykjavik with its 1,200 people, for a
capital city, does not make an extensive show. The main street runs
parallel with the low gravelly beach, with but few houses on the side
next the water. In one respect this is a singular-looking place. Nearly
all the houses are black. They are principally wooden buildings, one
story high, and covered with a coat of tar instead of paint. Sometimes
they use tar mixed with clay. The tar at first is dark red, but in a
little time it becomes black. They lay it on thick, and it preserves
the wood wonderfully. I walked through the lonely streets, and was
struck with the appearance of taste and comfort in the modest-looking
dwellings. Lace curtains, and frequently crimson ones in addition, and
pots of flowers—geraniums, roses, fuchsias, &c.—were in nearly every
window. The white painted sash contrasted strongly with the dark,
tar-colored wood. After hearing a good deal of the poverty of the
Icelanders, and their few resources, I am surprised to find the place
look so comfortable and pleasant. The merchant usually has his store
and house under one roof. The cathedral is a neat, substantial church
edifice, built of brick, and surmounted by a steeple. This, with the
college, three stories high, the hotel, a two-story building with a
square roof running up to a peak, and the governor’s house, a long,
low, white-washed edifice built of lava, are the largest buildings
in Reykjavik. Directly back of the town is a small fresh-water lake,
about a mile in length. What surprises me most is the luxuriance
of the vegetation. Potatoes several feet high, and in blossom, and
fine-looking turnips, and beds of lettuce, appear in most all the
gardens. In the governor’s garden I see a very flourishing-looking
tree, trained against the south side of a wall. This is not quite
large enough for a main-mast to a man-of-war, but still it might make
a tolerable cane, that is, provided it was straight. It is about five
feet high, and is, perhaps, the largest tree in Iceland. Certainly it
is the largest I have yet seen. The temperature, now, in midsummer, is
completely delicious. The people I am highly pleased with, so far as
I have seen them. There is an agreeable frankness about them, and a
hearty hospitality, not to be mistaken.
I have just had a ride of six or seven miles into the country, to
Hafnarfiorth. Professor Johnson, the President of the College,
accompanied me. We rode the small pony horses of the country, and they
took us over the ground at a rapid rate. The country is rough, and a
great part of it hereabouts covered with rocks of lava. We passed one
farm and farm-house where the meadows were beautifully green, strongly
contrasting with the black, desolate appearance of the lava-covered
hills. One tract was all rocks, without a particle of earth or
vegetation in sight. The lava had once flowed over the ground, then it
cooled and broke up into large masses, often leaving deep seams or
cracks, some of them so wide that it took a pretty smart leap of the
pony to plant himself safe on the other side. At one place where the
seam in the lava was some twenty feet across, there was an arch of rock
forming a complete natural bridge over the chasm. The road led directly
across this. We passed near Bessasstath, for many years the seat of the
Iceland college. Near this, Prof. Johnson showed me his birth-place. The
house where he was born was a hut of lava, covered with turf, and
probably about as splendid a mansion as those where Jackson and Clay
first saw the light. Suddenly, almost directly under us, as we were
among the lava rocks, the village of Hafnarfiorth appeared. This is a
little sea-port town of some twenty or thirty houses, extending in a
single street nearly round the harbor. We called on a Mr. Johnson, a
namesake of my companion, and were very hospitably entertained. The
table was soon covered with luxuries, and after partaking of some of the
good things, and an hour’s conversation, we had our horses brought to
the door. Our host was a Dane, a resident merchant of the place, and he
had a very pretty and intelligent wife. They gave me a pressing
invitation to call on them again, the which I promised to do—whenever I
should go that way again! I returned the compliment, and I believe with
sincerity on my part. That is, I told them I should be very happy to
have them call at my house when they could make it convenient. Now, some
of the uncharitable may be disposed to say that all this ceremony on my
part was quite useless. True, I lived thousands of miles from the
residence of my entertainers, that is, if I may be said to “live”
anywhere; and, being a bachelor, I had no house of my own, nor never
had; but if I had a house, and Mr. and Mrs. Johnson would call on me, I
should be very glad to see them!
I should mention that Prof. Johnson speaks English fluently; mine host,
not a word; neither could I speak much Danish; but with the learned
professor between us, as interpreter, we got along very well. A violent
rain had fallen, while we were coming; but it cleared up, and we had a
pleasant ride back to Reykjavik, arriving about eleven o’clock, a little
after sunset.
After a few days at the capital, I prepared for a journey to the
interior. A traveler can take “the first train” for the Geysers, if he
chooses; but that train will hardly go forty miles an hour. It is only
seventy miles; but if he gets over that ground in two days, he will do
well. There’s plenty of steam and hot water here, and “high pressure”
enough; but you may look a long while for locomotives; or—if I may
perpetrate a bad pun—any motives but local ones, in the whole country.
Roads—except mere bridle paths—or vehicles of any kind, as I have
mentioned, are unknown in Iceland. All travel is on horseback. Immense
numbers of horses are raised in the country, and they are exceedingly
cheap. As for traveling on foot, even short journeys, no one ever thinks
of it. The roads are so bad for walking and generally so good for
riding, that shoe-leather, to say nothing of fatigue, would cost nearly
as much as horseflesh. Their horses are certainly elegant, hardy little
animals. A stranger in traveling must always have “a guide;” and if he
goes equipped for a journey, and wishes to make good speed, he must have
six or eight horses; one each for himself and the guide, and one or two
for the baggage; and then as many relay horses. When one set of horses
are tired, the saddles are taken off and changed to the others. The
relay horses are tied together, and either led or driven; and this is
the time they rest. A tent is carried, unless a traveler chooses to take
his chance for lodgings. Such a thing as a hotel is not found in
Iceland, out of the capital. He must take his provisions with him, as he
will be able to get little on his route except milk; sometimes a piece
of beef, or a saddle of mutton or venison, and some fresh-water fish.
The luggage is carried in packing trunks that are made for the purpose,
and fastened to a rude sort of frame that serves as a pack-saddle. Under
this, broad pieces of turf are placed to prevent galling the horse’s
back. I prepared for a journey of some weeks in the interior, and
ordered my stores accordingly. I had packed up bread, cheese, a boiled
ham, Bologna sausages, some tea and sugar, a few bottles of wine, and
something a little stronger! I had company on my first day’s journey,
going as far as Thingvalla. There was a regular caravan; about a dozen
gentlemen, two guides, and some twenty horses. My “suite” consisted of
guide, four horses, and a big dog, Nero by name, but by the way a far
more respectable fellow, in his sphere, than was his namesake the old
emperor. Our cavalcade was not quite as large as the one that annually
makes a pilgrimage to Mecca, but a pretty good one for Iceland. We had
with us, Captain Laborde, commander of the French war frigate now lying
in the harbor, and several of his officers; Mr. Johnson, president of
the college, and some of the Reykjavik merchants. Nationally speaking,
we had a rather motley assemblage, albeit they were all of one color.
There were French, Danes, and natives; and—towering above the crowd (all
but one confounded long Icelander)—mounted on a milk-white charger
eleven hands high, was one live Yankee! We were to rendezvous in the
morning on the public square, and be ready to start at seven o’clock.
Notwithstanding great complaints that travelers sometimes make of the
slowness of Iceland servants, we were ready and off at half past seven.
On we went, at a high speed, for Thingvalla is a long day’s journey from
Reykjavik. The Iceland ponies are up to most any weight. There was one
“whopper” of a fellow in our company, mounted on a snug-built little
gray that seemed to make very light of him. Indeed ’twas fun to see them
go. The animal for speed and strength was a rare one; the rider, not
quite a Daniel Lambert:—
“But, for fat on the ribs, no Leicestershire bullock was rounder;
He galloped, he walloped, and he flew like a sixty-four pounder.”
No etiquette touching precedence on the road. You can go ahead and run
by them all, provided your pony is swift enough, but if not, you can go
behind.
To all appearance, an Iceland landscape does not come up, in point of
fertility, to the Genesee country or the Carse of Gowrie. “Magnificent
forests,” “fields of waving grain,” and all that, may exist in western
New York, in old Virginia, or in California; but not in Iceland. We
passed, during the first five miles, one or two farms with their green
meadows; then, mile after mile of lava and rock-covered fields. Was the
reader ever in the town of De Kalb, St. Lawrence county, New York? That
fertile and beautiful grazing country, where the sheep have their noses
filed off to a point, so that they can get them between the rocks, to
crop the grass! That paradise of the birds, where the crows carry a sack
of corn with them while journeying over the country, lest they starve on
the way, and tumble headlong on the plain! That delightful region will
give a little, a very slight idea of some part of Iceland. By the way,
that old town in New York, methinks, is quite rightly named. The name
was given it in honor of that Polish nobleman who poured out his blood
and yielded up his life on the field of Camden, in the sacred cause of
American liberty. Brave Baron De Kalb! Green waves the pine—I once trod
the turf—where thou did’st fall. We treasure thy name and title, and
endeavor to remember thy virtues, by calling a town after thee—_barren
De Kalb_!
In speaking of rocks in Iceland, it will be borne in mind that every
mineral substance here is volcanic—lava, pumice, trap, basalt, jasper,
obsidian, &c. The whole island is undoubtedly one entire volcanic
creation, produced by a submarine eruption. In the whole country there
has never been seen a particle of granite, limestone, mineral coal, iron
or precious metal, or any of the primitive formation of rocks. The lava
is most all of a dark color, usually brown; some of the very old is
quite red, and the new very black. It is scattered about, piled up in
heaps, regular and irregular, and of every imaginable shape and form.
About a mile and a half from Reykjavik is a large pleasant valley of
green grass. This is a common pasture for all the cows and some of the
horses that are owned in the town. A few miles brought us to the valley
of the Laxá or Salmon river; and here is a very good farm, the owner of
it hiring the salmon fishery, which is the property of the crown.
Several thousand salmon are taken here every year. The mode of catching
them is somewhat peculiar. The river has two separate channels, and when
the fishing season arrives, by means of two dams, they shut all the
current off of one, and, as the water drains away, there they are, like
whales at ebb tide; and all the fishermen have to do is to go into the
bed of the stream, and pick them up. Then the water is turned from the
other channel into the empty one, and there the unlucky fish are again
caught. The period of the salmon fishing is one of interest to the whole
community. They are sold very cheap throughout the country, and those
not wanted for immediate consumption are dried and smoked, and many of
them exported. These smoked salmon are often purchased here as low as a
penny sterling a pound, and taken to England and sold from sixpence to a
shilling.
In traveling over the country our “road” was seldom visible for more
than a few rods before us, and sometimes it was rather difficult to
trace. On stony ground the ponies had to scramble along the best way
they could. On the grass lands there were paths, such as animals
traveling always make. Sometimes these were worn deep through the turf;
and a long man on a short pony, when the paths are crooked and the speed
high, has to keep his feet going pretty lively, or get his toe-nails
knocked off! I got one fall, and rather an ignominious one. My pony
threw me full length on the grass, but I had not far to fall and soon
picked myself up again. On assessing the damage, I found it consisted of
one button off my coat, a little of the soil of Iceland on both knees,
and a trifle on my face. The pony kicked up his heels and ran off; but
one of the gentlemen soon caught him, and on I mounted and rode off
again. About half way to Thingvalla, we stopped where there was some
grass for our horses, and had breakfast. Starting at seven gave a good
relish to a _dejeuner_ at eleven o’clock. An hour’s rest, and we were
again in the saddle. In the morning it rained hard, but towards noon it
cleared up, and we had pleasant weather.
Our road led through one of the most desolate regions I ever saw on the
face of the earth. But, however rocky and forbidding in appearance the
country may be, there is always one relief to an Iceland landscape. A
fine background of mountains fills up the picture. Then, too, there is a
magical effect to the atmosphere here that I have never seen anywhere
else. The atmosphere is so pure, the strong contrasts of black, brown,
and red lavas, and the green fields and snowy mountains, make splendid
pictures of landscape and mountain scenery, even at twenty miles
distance. Captain Laborde said, in all the countries where he had
traveled, he never saw any thing at all like it, except in Greece. As we
approached lake Thingvalla, he said the mountains opposite formed a
perfect Grecian picture. I have thought myself a pretty good judge of
distances, and have been very much accustomed to measure distances with
my eye, but here all my cunning fails me. At Reykjavik I looked across
the bay at the fine range of the Esjan mountains, and thought I would
like a ramble there. So I asked a boatman to set me across, and wait
till I went up the mountain and had a view from the top. He looked a
little queer, and asked me how far I thought it was across the bay.
“Well,” I replied, “a couple of miles, probably.” As the Kentuckian
would say, I felt a little “chawed up” when I was told that it was
thirteen or fourteen English miles, that the mountain was near 3,000
feet high, and I should require a large boat, several men, a guide, and
provisions, and that it would be a long day’s work to begin early in the
morning! I left, I did.
There are few measured distances in inland travel here. They go by time,
and will tell you it is so many hours’ ride, or so many days’ journey to
such a place. We were seven hours to-day in going from Reykjavik to
Thingvalla, and I think we averaged five miles an hour. It is probably
thirty-five or thirty-six miles. Much of the way the roads were bad, and
we walked our horses; and when they were good we put them through at the
top of their speed. Our fat friend with his pony, did not steeple-chase
it much;
“But, those who’ve seen him will confess it, he
Marched well for one of such obesity.”
About ten miles from Thingvalla we came to a house, a solitary
caravansera in the desert. We concluded to patronize it, and
halted; and while the ponies were contemplating the beauties of
the mineralogical specimens that covered the ground, we took some
refreshment. That is, those who indulge in the use of the weed that
adorns the valleys of the land of Pocahontas, took a slight fumigation;
but having some ham in my provision-chest, I did not wish to make
smoked meat of myself then. So I pulled from my poke—look the other
way, Father Mathew!—a “pocket-pistol,” and extracted a small charge!
It was not loaded with any thing stronger than the products of the
vineyards of France. The “hotel” was one story high; and, without
trying to make much of a story about it, it had but one room, walls of
lava, and minus the roof. It is needless to say, the hotel-keeper had
stepped out. It had one piece of furniture, a wooden bench, and on the
slight timbers that supported what had been a roof, were the names of
sundry travelers. I took out my pencil, and in my boldest chirography
wrote the illustrious name of—“JOHN SMITH!”
A few miles from our caravansera we came to the banks of the lake of
Thingvalla, or, in Icelandic, “Thingvalla vatn.” This lake is about ten
miles long, and the largest body of water in Iceland. It is of great
depth, in some places over 1,000 feet deep. The town, or place, or what
had been a place, is at the north end of the lake. Just before arriving
there, while jogging along on the level ground, we came suddenly upon
the brink of an immense chasm, 150 feet deep, and about the same in
breadth. This was one of those seams or rents in the earth, common in
Iceland; originally a crack in a bed of lava. Its precipitous sides
and immense depth seemed at once a bar to our progress; and without
a bridge over it, or ropes or wings, we saw no way of getting along
without going round it. Without seeing either end, and wondering how we
were to get round it, we were told we must go _through it_. And sure
enough, and the animals, as well as the guides, seemed to understand
it; and if we had kept in our saddles I actually believe they would
have found their way down this almost perpendicular precipice. We,
however, dismounted, and in a steep defile were shown a passage that
much resembled the “Devil’s Staircase,” at the Pass of Glencoe, in the
Highlands of Scotland. By picking and clambering our way down some
pretty regular stairs—and our horses followed without our holding their
bridles—we made our way to the bottom. There we found grass growing;
and, while our ponies were feeding, we lay on the turf and admired
this singular freak of nature. We were in the bottom of a deep chasm
or defile, the wall on the west side being over a hundred feet high
and on a level with the country back of it. The wall on the east side
was lower, and beyond this wall the country was on a level with the
bottom where we were. By walking a short distance to the north, in
this singular defile, we found the wall on the east side broken down
by a river that poured down the precipice from the west, and being
thus imprisoned between two walls, it had thrown down the lowest one,
and found its way into the Thingvalla lake. This chasm is called the
_Almannagjá_ (pronounced Al-man-a-gow), or “all men’s cave.” In former
days, when the Althing, or Icelandic Congress, met at the place, all
men of consequence, or nearly all, used to assemble here; and no doubt
they admired this singular freak of nature. The river here, the Oxerá,
in pouring over the precipice forms a most splendid cataract. Here
is Thingvalla, a once important place, and, as I have mentioned, for
nearly a thousand years the capital of the nation. It is now a mere
farm, and contains two huts and a very small church. This church is
on about the same scale of most of the churches in Iceland. It is
a wooden building, about eighteen feet long by twelve wide, with a
door less than five feet high. It is customary for the clergyman or
farmer—and the owner of the land is often both—to store his provisions,
boxes of clothing, dried fish, &c., in the church; and strangers in
the country often sleep in the churches. Some travelers have made a
great outcry about the desecration of turning a church into a hotel,
but with all their squeamishness have usually fallen into the general
custom. Surely if their tender consciences went against it, they had
“all out doors” for a lodging place. I have not yet arrived at the
honor of sleeping in a church, though I have slept out of doors; and
when I have tried both, I will tell which I like best. A tent has been
presented to the important “town” of Thingvalla, by the liberality
of the French officers who visit the coast; and this was pitched for
our use. The clergyman here—who is also farmer and fisherman—a pale,
spare, intellectual-looking young man, received us very kindly. It was
the haying season, and the ground was covered with the new-mown hay.
Two of the working-men of the farm had that day been out on the lake,
fishing in a small boat. They came to the shore as we rode up, and I
had the curiosity to go and see what they had caught. And what had
they? Who can guess? No one. Over two hundred and fifty fresh-water
trout, all alive “and kicking.” They were large, handsome fellows, and
would weigh from one to three pounds each. Not a fish that wouldn’t
weigh over a pound. But didn’t I scream? “Oh, Captain Laborde! Rector
Johnson! I say; come and see the fish. Speckled trout, more than two
barrels-full.” Well, hang up my fish-hooks; I’ll never troll another
line in Sandy Creek. The tent pitched, some trout dressed, and a fire
built in the smithy, and we soon had a dinner cooking. And such a
dinner! Well, say French naval officers on shore, Icelanders, Yankees,
and Cosmopolites, can not enjoy life “in the tented field”! But this
chapter is long enough, and I’ll tell about the dinner in my next.