REYKJAVIK, THE CAPITAL OF ICELAND.
My first view of the capital of Iceland was through a chilling rain. A
more desolate-looking place I had rarely if ever seen, though, like
Don Quixote's market-woman on the ass, it was susceptible of
improvement under the influence of an ardent imagination. As a subject
for the pencil of an artist, it was at least peculiar, if not
picturesque. A tourist whose glowing fancies had not been nipped in
the bud by the vigors of an extended experience might have been able
to invest it with certain weird charms, but to me it was only the
fag-end of civilization, abounding in horrible odors of decayed polypi
and dried fish. A cutting wind from the distant Jokuls and a searching
rain did not tend to soften the natural asperities of its features. In
no point of view did it impress me as a cheerful place of residence
except for wild ducks and sea-gulls. The whole country for miles
around is a black desert of bogs and lava. Scarcely an arable spot is
to be seen save on the tops of the fishermen's huts, where the sod
produces an abundance of grass and weeds. A dark gravelly slope in
front of the town, dotted with boats, oars, nets, and piles of fish; a
long row of shambling old store-houses built of wood, and painted a
dismal black, varied by patches of dirty yellow; a general
hodge-podge of frame shanties behind, constructed of old boards and
patched up with drift-wood; a few straggling streets, paved with
broken lava and reeking with offal from the doors of the houses; some
dozens of idle citizens and drunken boatmen lounging around the
grog-shops; a gang of women, brawny and weather-beaten, carrying loads
of codfish down to the landing; a drove of shaggy little ponies, each
tied to the tail of the pony in front; a pack of mangy dogs prowling
about in dirty places looking for something to eat, and fighting when
they got it--this was all I could see of Reykjavik, the famous
Icelandic capital.
[Illustration: REYKJAVIK, THE CAPITAL OF ICELAND.]
The town lies on a strip of land between the harbor and a lagoon in
the rear. It is said to contain a population of two thousand, and if
the dogs and fleas be taken into consideration, I have no doubt it
does. Where two thousand human beings can stow themselves in a place
containing but one hotel, and that a very poor one, is a matter of
wonder to the stranger. The houses generally are but one story high,
and seldom contain more than two or three rooms. Some half a dozen
stores, it is true, of better appearance than the average, have been
built by the Danish merchants within the past few years; and the
residence of the governor and the public University are not without
some pretensions to style.
The only stone building in Reykjavik of any importance is the
"Cathedral;" so called, perhaps, more in honor of its great antiquity
than any thing imposing about its style or dimensions. At present it
shows no indications of age, having been patched, plastered, and
painted into quite a neat little church of modern appearance.
[Illustration: GOVERNOR'S RESIDENCE, REYKJAVIK.]
[Illustration: ICELANDIC HOUSES.]
At each end of the town is a small gathering of sod-covered huts,
where the fishermen and their families live like rabbits in a burrow.
That these poor people are not all devoured by snails or crippled with
rheumatism is a marvel to any stranger who takes a peep into their
filthy and cheerless little cabins. The oozy slime of fish and smoke
mingles with the green mould of the rocks; barnacles cover the walls,
and puddles make a soft carpeting for the floors. The earth is
overhead, and their heads are under the earth, and the light of day
has no light job of it to get in edgewise, through the windows. The
beaver-huts and badger-holes of California, taking into consideration
the difference of climate, are palatial residences compared with the
dismal hovels of these Icelandic fishermen. At a short distance they
look for all the world like mounds in a grave-yard. The inhabitants,
worse off than the dead, are buried alive. No gardens, no cultivated
patches, no attempt at any thing ornamental relieves the dreary
monotony of the premises. Dark patches of lava, all littered with the
heads and entrails of fish; a pile of turf from some neighboring bog;
a rickety shed in which the fish are hung up to dry; a gang of
wolfish-looking curs, horribly lean and voracious; a few prowling
cats, and possibly a chicken deeply depressed in spirits--these are
the most prominent objects visible in the vicinity. Sloth and filth go
hand in hand.
[Illustration: CHURCH AT REYKJAVIK.]
The women are really the only class of inhabitants, except the fleas,
who possess any vitality. Rude, slatternly, and ignorant as they are,
they still evince some sign of life and energy compared with the men.
Overtaxed by domestic cares, they go down upon the wharves when a
vessel comes in, and by hard labor earn enough to purchase a few rags
of clothing for their children. The men are too lazy even to carry the
fish out of their own boats. At home they lie about the doors, smoking
and gossiping, and too often drunk. Some are too lazy to get drunk,
and go to sleep over the effort. In truth, the prevailing indolence
among all classes is so striking that one can almost imagine himself
in a Southern clime. There is much about Reykjavik to remind a
Californian traveler of San Diego. The drunken fellows about the
stores, and the racing of horses up and down the streets, under the
stimulus of liquor rather than natural energy, sometimes made me feel
quite at home.
[Illustration: ICELANDERS AT WORK.]
On the morning after my arrival I called to see my young friend
Jonasen, the governor's son, and was most hospitably entertained by
the family. I had a letter of introduction to the governor from the
Minister of the Judiciary at Copenhagen, but thought it unnecessary to
present it. His excellency is a good specimen of the better class of
Icelanders--simple, kind-hearted, and polite. My casual acquaintance
with his son was sufficient to enlist his warmest sympathies. I
thought he would destroy his equilibrium as well as my own by
repeatedly drinking my health and wishing me a hearty welcome to
Iceland. He said he had never seen a Californian before, and seemed
astonished to find that they had noses, mouths, ears, and skins like
other people. In one respect he paid me a practical compliment that I
have rarely enjoyed in the course of my travels--he spoke nearly as
bad French as I did. Now I take it that a man who speaks bad French,
after years of travel on the Continent of Europe, is worthy of some
consideration. He is at least entitled to the distinction of having
well preserved his nationality; and when any foreigner tries to speak
it worse, but doesn't succeed, I can not but regard it as a tribute of
respect.
Young Jonasen, I was glad to see, had gotten over his struggle with
the sardines, and was now in a fair way to enjoy life. His sister,
Miss Jonasen, is a very charming young lady, well educated and
intelligent. She speaks English quite fluently, and does the honors of
the executive mansion with an easy grace scarcely to be expected in
this remote part of the world. Both are natives of Iceland.
I should be sorry to be understood as intimating, in my brief sketch
of Reykjavik, that it is destitute of refined society. There are
families of as cultivated manners here as in any other part of the
world; and on the occasion of a ball or party, a stranger would be
surprised at the display of beauty and style. The University and
public library attract students from all parts of the island, and
several of the professors and literary men have obtained a European
reputation. Two semi-monthly newspapers are published at Reykjavik, in
the Icelandic language. They are well printed, and said to be edited
with ability. I looked over them very carefully from beginning to end,
and could see nothing to object to in any portion of the contents.