skerries of the Westmanna group and the south-west coast of Iceland and
silently watch the gorgeous hues of sunset. Strangely at such times
“hope and memory sweep the chords by turns,” till the past, fused down
into the present, becomes a magic mirror for the future.
The air is mild and warm; time by Greenwich twenty-minutes to eleven.
The sun is not yet quite down, and—by the ship’s compass, without making
any allowance for deviation—is setting due north. At a quarter-past 12
A.M. when we leave the deck, it is still quite light.
[Illustration: CAPE REYKJANES LOOKING SOUTH.]
[Illustration: COAST NEAR REYKJAVIK.]
_Thursday Morning, July 28._ Rose early—we are sailing along the
Krisuvik coast in the direction of Cape Reykjanes—smoky cape—which runs
out from the south-west of Iceland. The low lying coast is of black
lava; behind it rise serrated hill-ranges, and isolated conical
mountains; some of a deep violet colour, others covered with snow and
ice, the dazzling whiteness of which is heightened by contrast with the
low dark fire-scathed foreground. White fleecy clouds are rolling among
the peaks, now dense and clearly defined against the bright blue sunny
sky—now hazy, ethereal, and evanescent. We observe steam rising from a
hot sulphur spring on the coast. These are numerous in this
neighbourhood, which contains the principal sulphur mines of the island.
Here, where we sail, volcanic islands have at different times arisen and
disappeared; flames too have sometimes been seen to issue from submarine
craters; this latter phenomenon the natives describe as “the sea” being
“on fire.”
[Illustration: ELDEY.]
On our left we pass Eldey—or the Fire Isle—a curious isolated basaltic
rock resembling the Bass, but much smaller. It rose from the deep in
historic times. The top slopes somewhat, and is white; this latter
appearance has originated its Danish name “Maelsek,” which is pronounced
precisely in the same way as “meal-sack” would be in the Scottish
dialect;—in fact the words are the same. Many solan geese flying about;
whales gamboling and spouting close to the vessel.
Nine A.M., Greenwich time. Got first glimpse of Snæfells Jökul—the fifth
highest mountain in Iceland—height 4577 feet—lying nearly in a
north-west direction, far away across the blue waters of the Faxa Fiord.
A pyramid covered with perpetual snow and ice, gleaming in the sun, its
outline is now traced against a sky of deeper blue than any of us ever
beheld in Switzerland or Italy.
The Faxa Fiord, situated on the south-west, is the largest in the
island, and might be described as a magnificent bay, forming a
semicircle which extends fifty-six miles from horn to horn; while its
shores are deeply and irregularly indented by arms of the sea, or Fiords
proper, which have names of their own, such as Hafnafiord, Hvalfiord, or
Borgarfiord. Snæfell, on the north side of it, rises from the extremity
of the long narrow strip of steep mountain promontory that runs out into
the sea, separating the Faxa from the Breida Fiord—another large
bay;—while on the south the Guldbringu Syssel, terminating with Cape
Reykjanes, is a bare low-lying black contorted lava field.
The Faxa Fiord, then, sweeping in a semicircle from Snæfell to
Reykjanes, contains several minor Fiords, and is crowded with lofty
mountain-peaks, sharp, steep, and bare. The intense clearness of the
northern atmosphere through which these appear, together with the fine
contrast of their colours—reds, purples, golden hues, and pale lilacs;
rosy-tinted snow or silvery-glittering ice—all sharply relieved against
the blue sky, as if by magic confound southern ideas of distance, so
that a mountain which at first glance appears to be only ten or fifteen
miles distant, may in reality be forty or fifty, and perhaps
considerably more.
The capital of Iceland lies in the south-east of this great bay. We have
been sailing due north from Cape Reykjanes to the point of Skagi, and,
rounding it, we sail east by north right into the Faxa Fiord, cutting
off the southern segment of the bay, and are making straight for
Reykjavik.
Several low-lying islands shelter the port and make the anchorage
secure; one of these is Videy on which some of the government offices
formerly stood, but it is now noted as a favourite resort of eider ducks
which are here protected by law in order to obtain the down with which
their nests are lined.
Solitary fishermen are making for the shore in their skiff-like boats. A
French frigate and brig, a Danish war schooner and several merchant
sloops are seen lying at anchor, shut in by the islands and a low lava
promontory. All are gaily decked with colours. On rounding the point,
Reykjavik the capital of Iceland lies fairly before us. It is situated
on a gentle greenish slope rising from the black volcanic sand of that
“Plutonian shore.” There are grassy heights at either side of the town
and a fresh water lake like a large pond behind it. The cathedral in the
centre, built of brick plastered brown stone colour, and the windmill on
the height to the left, are the two most prominent objects. The front
street consists of a single row of dark-coloured Danish looking wooden
houses facing the sea. These we are told are mostly merchants’ stores.
Several of them have flag-staffs from which the Danish colours now
flutter. All our glasses are in requisition. Numerous wooden jetties
lead from the sea up to the road in front of the warehouses, and, on
these, females like the fish-women of Calais, “withered, grotesque,
wrinkled,” and seeming “immeasurably old,” with others younger and
better looking, are busily engaged in carrying dried fish between the
boats and the stores. Young and old alike wear the graceful Icelandic
female head-dress—viz. a little black cloth scull-cap, jauntily fastened
with a hair pin on the back part of the head. From the crown of this cap
hangs a silver tube ornament, out of which flows a long thick black silk
tassel falling on the shoulder.
Two streets run inland from the front street, and at right angles to it.
That on the left contains the Governor’s house, and the residences of
several officials. It leads to the house where the Althing or Icelandic
Parliament now assembles, and where, in another part of the same
building, Rector Jonson teaches in the one academy of the island. The
other street on the right contains several shops, merchants’ dwelling
houses, the residence of Jón Gudmundsson, president of the Althing,
advocate, and editor of a newspaper. It leads to the hotel, and to the
residence of Dr. Hjaltalin, a distinguished antiquarian and the chief
physician of the island. In the same direction, a little higher up, is
the lonely churchyard.
Between these two streets, houses stand at irregular intervals, and
nearly all have little garden-plots attached to them.
On the outskirts, flanking the town, which in appearance is more Danish
than Icelandic, are a few fishermen’s huts, roofed over with green sod;
and these, we afterwards found, were more like the style of buildings
commonly to be met with throughout the island.
As we cast anchor, the morning sunshine is gloriously bright and clear,
sea and sky intensely blue, and the atmosphere more transparent than
that of Switzerland or Italy. Beyond Reykjavik, wild bare heights rise
all round the bay; here—mountains of a ruddy brown colour, deeply
scarred and distinctly showing every crevice; there—snow-patches
gleaming on dark purple hills; here—lofty pyramids of glittering ice;
there—cones of black volcanic rock; while white fleecy clouds in
horizontal layers streak the distant peaks, and keep rolling down the
shoulders of the nearer Essian range.
The arrival of the steamer is quite an event to the Icelanders. A boat
came off from the shore, and another from the French brig, to get the
mail-bags. We brought tidings of the peace of Villafranca, and heard the
cheering of the French sailors when the news was announced to them. Dr.
Mackinlay, who had remained, exploring various parts of the island,
since the previous voyage of the Arcturus, and for whom we had letters
and papers, kindly volunteered to give us information about the Geyser
expedition. From his habits of keen observation, patient research, and
kind-heartedness, he was well qualified to do so.
He recommended Geir Zöga, who had accompanied him on board, as a good
trustworthy guide. We wished to start at once, so as to make the most of
our time, but the undertaking was a more serious affair than we had
anticipated. Ultimately, before landing, we arranged to start next
morning at eight o’clock, as the very best we could do.
The distance to be got over is 72 miles, literally without roads or
shelter; and mostly over wild rough stony wastes, in comparison with
which the bed of a mountain water-course would be a good macadamized
road. Provisions, traps, and everything we require have to be taken
along with us.
We are a party of six; the guide has two assistants; nine riders in all,
each requires a relay horse, so that eighteen ponies for the riders, and
six for the baggage are requisite for our expedition. These have to be
bargained for and collected together by Zöga from the farms around
Reykjavik; and as the ponies now run almost wild over the wastes in
pursuit of scant herbage, and neither receive grooming, stabling, nor
feeding, this is a work of time, and will occupy, Dr. Mackinlay tells
us, not only the whole afternoon but the greater part of the night.
No one had brought provisions north but myself, so arrangements are made
with the steward of the steamer for supplying them, and mine thrown in
with the rest pro bono publico. Having fixed that Zöga should call in
the evening at the hotel and report progress, at half-past 11 o’clock
A.M. we got into the Captain’s boat to land, where, long ago, Ingolf the
first colonist had drawn his ship on shore. As the remainder of the day
is at our disposal, curiosity is on edge to explore Reykjavik, the
general plan and appearance of which has already been described—partly
by anticipation.
The sun-glare is oppressively hot. As we approach the jetty we observe
groups of men and women standing on the beach to see the passengers
land. Some of the younger women are good-looking, and become the
picturesque costume of the country;—those curious little black caps with
silver ornaments and long black silk tassels already described; jackets
faced with silver lace or rows of metal buttons; belts similarly
ornamented; long flowing dark wadmal skirts of home manufacture; and
primitive shoes made of one bit of cow-skin or any kind of hide,
prepared so as in colour to resemble parchment or the skin one sometimes
sees stretched like a drum-head over the mouth of a jar of honey.
A few other ladies are in morning dress, with shawls or handkerchiefs
thrown gracefully over their heads, and nothing peculiar or different in
their costume from what we are accustomed to see at home.
Mr. Haycock had received a letter of introduction to Mr. Simson, and I
had one to Mr. Sievertsen; the latter is a retired merchant, and the
former carries on a large business of a very miscellaneous kind—such
being the character of all the stores or factories here. As the houses
of these gentlemen both lay in the same direction, we set out together
in order to obtain advice as to what was to be seen in Reykjavik and its
neighbourhood. In passing along the front street, the stores—mostly
belonging to Danish merchants—presented quite a bustling business
aspect; while the dwelling houses, with lattice windows, white curtains
and flower-pots of blooming roses and geraniums, exhibited an air of
cleanliness, comfort and refinement. From the absence of roads, carts
are useless; one wheel barrow which we saw, belonging to an enterprising
storekeeper, we were told, was the only wheeled vehicle in the island.
Mr. Sigurdur Sievertsen received us most cordially. This intelligent old
gentleman conducted Sir George Mackenzie, who was his father’s guest, to
the Geysers; and he is alluded to by Sir George, in his travels, as
“young Mr. Sievertsen.” Time works changes! or, as Archbishop Whately
would more accurately put it, changes are wrought, not by, but “_in_
time.” However, Mr. Sievertsen is hale and hearty, and many summers may
he yet see! On the wall we saw the portrait of his gifted and much
lamented son, who several years ago died in Paris. He had been taken
there by Louis Philip to receive a free education, as a graceful
acknowledgment to the Icelanders for kindness shewn to the crew of a
French vessel wrecked on their coast.
[Illustration: L Men’s shoes. G Girls’ shoes. S Snuffbox made of
walrus tusk. H Female-head-dress with flowing silk tassel (see p.
49). D Distaff. M Two-thumbed mits.]]
Our host has visited Britain, and both speaks and writes English
fluently. Neither he nor his amiable wife spared any pains in trying to
be of service to us. They gave us all manner of information, and kindly
assisted us in procuring specimens of native manufacture, such as—silver
trinkets of beautiful workmanship; fine knitted gloves soft as Angola
wool; fishermen’s mits with no divisions for the fingers but each made
with two thumbs, so that when the fishing line wears through one side
the other can be turned; caps; men and women’s shoes; quaint snuff boxes
made of walrus tusk, or horn; and sundry other souvenirs which we wished
to take south with us.
In Mr. Simson’s store we saw everything from a needle to an anchor; from
the coarsest packsheet to French ribbons. At Mr. Smith’s, whose son had
come north with us on his way from Copenhagen, we invested in seal-skins
and eider-down—the latter for pillows and coverlets. This down, the
eider-duck plucks from its breast to line its nest; it and the eggs are
taken away. Again the nest is lined, and again robbed. The third time,
the drake repairs it, supplying the down; and if this be also taken away
the nest is altogether deserted by the ill-used pair. One nest yields
about two and a half ounces of the finest clean down, or about half a
pound in all if removed three times. What is plucked from the dead bird,
it is said, possesses none of that wonderful elasticity which
constitutes the value of the other. We should think, however, that this
would depend on the state of the plumage at the time. Many thousand
pounds weight of it are annually exported for quilts, pillows, cushions,
&c. It sells in Iceland at from 10/6 to 17/6 per lb. From three to four
lbs. are sufficient for a coverlet, which, to be enjoyed in perfection,
ought to be used unquilted and loose like a feather bed. Quilting is
only useful where a small quantity of down is required to go a long way;
but, with three or four pounds at command, there is no comparison in
point of comfort between loose and quilted—we have tried both. The eider
coverlet combines lightness and warmth in a degree which cannot be
otherwise obtained. With a single sheet and blanket, it is sufficient
for the coldest wintry night. Its elasticity is proverbial; hence the
Icelandic conundrum we had propounded to us by our good friend Mr.
Jacobson, “What is it that is higher when the head is taken off it?”
_Answer_—“An eider-down pillow!”
In walking along we saw some young ladies, in elegant Parisian costume,
out sunning themselves like butterflies. The thermometer stood at 72°,
so, light coloured fancy parasols were in requisition and enjoyed no
sinecure to-day, even in Iceland. Single days here are sometimes very
bright and warm, though rarely without showers; for the weather is very
changeable, and summer short at best. Less rain falls in the northern
part of the island than in the southern; because the mountains in the
south first catch and empty the rain clouds floating from the south-west
over the course of the gulf-stream. For this reason there is more
sunshine in the north, crops too are heavier and earlier; for,
notwithstanding the 3° higher latitude, the summer temperature is nearly
the same as that of the south. In winter, however, it is colder, from
the presence of Spitzbergen icebergs and Greenland ice-floes stranded on
the shore, while the sea to the north and east is filled with them. Last
winter was very severe: the south and west were also filled. My friend
Dr. Mackinlay has treated this subject—the climate of Iceland—so
admirably, that I cannot refrain from quoting his MS. notes:
“The number and size of the rivers” says he, “cannot fail to strike the
attention of every visitor who sees much of the country especially along
the coasts. The main cause of this is, of course, the abundant rain-fall
which is out of all proportion to the latitude of Iceland.
“This excess is owing to two causes—The mountainous nature of the
country; and its geographical position. Iceland lies in the direct
course of one of the branches of the gulf-stream. No land intervenes
between it and the Bermudas. The rain-charged clouds from the south-west
are therefore ready to part with their moisture as soon as they touch
the shores of Iceland. As they move northwards, to the back-bone of the
island, their temperature diminishes so rapidly that the whole of their
moisture becomes precipitated. Winds from the S.W., S., and S.E., drench
the southern part of the Island, but bring fair weather to the north.
“As the southernly winds are the most frequent, the north side enjoys
the greatest number of sunny days in summer; and hence vegetation is
more luxuriant there, even though the latitude is 3° higher, and the
southernly winds are chilled in passing over the great mountain chain.
The mean summer temperature of the north is almost as high as that of
the south; but the mean temperature of the year is 14° lower. In the
south this is 47°, but in the north it is 33°. The climate of the south
is insular in its character, while that of the north is continental.
Severe continuous frosts are rare about Reykjavik; while along the north
coast the winters are very severe. The severity of the winters is mainly
caused by the presence of ice in the adjoining seas. The cold Arctic
current from Spitzbergen, which impinges on the north coast, comes
freighted in winter with an occasional iceberg; while the westerly winds
and the west Icelandic branch of the gulf-stream combine to fill the
seas to the north and east of the island with ice floes from Greenland.
In ordinary winters, the seas to the south and east are open; but in
extraordinary winters they also are filled. Such a winter was that of
1858-9. The corresponding winter in Britain was very mild, and owed its
mildness to the same cause which produced the hard winter of Iceland—the
unusual prevalence of westerly winds.
“In the first months of 1859, the sea between Greenland and Iceland—200
miles wide—was packed with ice floes; and upon these several bears made
their way across to Iceland. Floating ice surrounded the island; but
along the north coast the sea itself was frozen so far out that the
people of Grimsey, twenty miles or so from the nearest point of Iceland,
actually rode across to the mainland. At Akur Eyri in the beginning of
April, Reaumur’s thermometer registered 26° of cold—a temperature equal
to 26½° of Fahrenheit. So late as June, seven French fishing boats were
lost in the ice on the north coast, and a French ship of war nearly met
with the same fate. Speaking of northern ice, Captain Launay, of the
French man-of-war referred to, told me that its approach could be
foreseen at the distance of twenty-five to thirty miles by a peculiar
reflection of the sky. As the distance diminishes, the sky gets
overcast, the temperature falls rapidly, and fish and sea-fowl
disappear. The Greenland ice is much more dangerous than the
Spitzbergen. The latter is 120 to 150 feet high, massive and wall-sided,
but of no great extent. The former is in immense floes, often forming
bays in which ships are caught as in a snare. It seldom exceeds 40 feet
in height; but is jagged and peaked. Sometimes drift-timber gets nipped
between the floes, and is set fire to by the violent friction it
sustains. The sound of the crushing ice was described by Captain Launay
as most horrible.”
Thus much of the climate.
Dr. Mackinlay took Mr. Haycock and me to call for the Governor, the
Count Von Trampe, who is a Dane, and well known for his urbanity to
strangers. He kindly introduced us to his family. The house itself
resembles, and at once suggests pictures we have seen of missionaries’
houses in Madagascar. Within doors, however, all is tasteful and
elegant. One peculiarity is worth noting, viz.: that the walls of his
suite of apartments are covered with _French_ portraits, paintings,
engravings, and lithographs, nearly all presentations. In the public
room, I only observed one that was not French. Judging from the walls,
we might have been in the residence of a French Consul. French frigates
are put on this station, year after year, ostensibly to look after the
fisheries. Great court is paid to the leading islanders, and France
would fain be in the ascendant here as elsewhere. Iceland, meanwhile,
costs Denmark an outlay of several thousands a year; because, say some
of the Icelanders, more is not invested in improvements of various kinds
in order to make it pay. This state of matters would render negotiations
easy on the part of Denmark, were the acquisition of the island an
object to France. It would be an easy method of paying for assistance
rendered in any Holstein difficulty or other cunningly laid European
mine that may yet explode; when the cause of justice and right, as it
ever is, being declared all on the side of France, she will
disinterestedly go forward with her eagles for freedom and glory.
Such contingencies may arise, although the Danes are our natural allies
and our Scandinavian brethren. It may be asked, what would the French do
with the island? It would be chiefly useful to them for forming and
training hardy seamen for the navy, as they already do to some extent
both here and on the Newfoundland coast where the fisheries are
maintained and subsidized for that very purpose. It would furnish a
station in the North Sea, from which to descend and menace our North
American traffic; and it contains extensive sulphur mines, which, in the
event of Sicily being shut against us, are available for munitions of
war in our gunpowder manufactories; in another point of view, it is
invaluable, as the great salmon-preserve of Europe.
Intelligent Icelanders who cherish the memory of their ancient freedom,
to my certain knowledge, regard all such French tendencies and
contingencies with decided aversion. But in the event of a transfer
being mooted, would the Icelanders be consulted in the matter? I fear
not, and that it would only be announced to them in the French fashion,
as _fait accompli_: may such however, never be the fate of this
interesting island!
These remarks, although suggested here by the pictures in the Governor’s
drawing-room, have no reference, it is right to state, to the Count Von
Trampe’s views on this subject, which I do not happen to know; nor on
the other hand, to the officers’ of the vessels stationed here, who all
seem to be gentlemanly kind-hearted fellows. A variety of facts and
observations, however, all tended to confirm me in this impression;
besides, it is the policy which the French are pursuing elsewhere.