apothecary, and receive a most hospitable, true, northern welcome. We
meet several French officers and see the usual quantum of French prints
on the walls. But he is the French consul or agent. Coffee, cakes, and
wine, are handed round to us _by the ladies_, this being the custom of
the country, and in drinking to us, the form is always, “Welcome to
Iceland.” Mr. Randröp speaks a little English, and the two young ladies,
his step-daughters, are acquiring it. Here, as in Germany, the class
book in common use is “The Vicar of Wakefield.” Madame Randröp, who
speaks French and German and plays on the piano-forte, shewed us several
beautiful silver trinkets, bracelets, pins, &c., of Icelandic
manufacture; the style an open mediaeval looking fretwork, that might
satisfy the most fastidious artistic taste.
The Governor’s house and Mr. Randröp’s are the two centres of Reykjavik
society, and at one or other of them, of an evening, any stranger
visiting these parts is almost certain to be found. One is expected to
make quite a round of visits if he be authenticated, or have any sort of
introduction to any one of the circle; an omission would even be
regarded as a slight. Hence Dr. Mackinlay took us to call for a
considerable number of people, all of whom were cordial and glad to see
us.
Our next visit was to the Rev. Olaf Pálsson, Dean and Rector of the
Cathedral. Learned, intelligent, communicative and obliging, he at once,
in the kindest manner possible, placed himself at our service and
offered us every assistance in his power. In his library I observed many
standard works of reference in various languages, and opened several
volumes that seemed to recognize me as a friend whom they had met
before: “Lord Dufferin’s Letters from High Latitudes”—a presentation
copy—“Caird’s Sermons;” “Life of the Rev. Ebenezer Henderson”—the
Icelandic traveller; “Stanley’s Sinai and Palestine,” &c. The worthy
pastor both speaks and writes English fluently, and has translated a
number of Icelandic stories and fairy tales.[4]
The Pastor’s honest ruddy face, light flaxen hair, and unassuming
manner; his rosy cheeked children, the monthly roses in the window-sill,
and the library—all go to form a pleasing picture in the Walhalla of
memory. He afterwards accompanied us to call for Rector Jonson. The
Rector is a good specimen of the genus homo; tall and burly, while his
active mind is vigorous, inquisitive, and accomplished. He showed us
over various rooms, where the different branches are taught, some of
them containing cabinets of geological and zoological specimens. The
school is supported by government; and about sixty select young men
intended for the church and other learned professions here receive a
free education; a few of them only go to Copenhagen yet further to
complete their studies.
Although the island contains 64,603 inhabitants, this, as we have said,
is the only Academy or College; and there is not a single juvenile
school.
The population is so widely scattered that schools would be quite
impracticable; for the six thousand farms which the island contains, on
the habitable coast belt which surrounds the central deserts, are often
separated from each other by many dreary miles of lava wastes and rapid
rivers dangerous to ford.
Parents, however, all teach their children to read and write by the
fireside on the long winter evenings, as they themselves were taught;
and the people are thus home educated from generation to generation, and
trained to habits of intellectual activity from their youth. Thus, as a
mass, the Icelanders are without doubt the best educated people in the
world.
For six centuries the Icelanders have evidenced their love of literature
by writing and preserving old Sagas and Eddas;—by producing original
works on mythology, law, topography, archaeology, &c.—several of these
at once the earliest and best of their kind in Europe; and by executing
many admirable translations from the classics.
Such literary labours have often been carried on by priests in remote
districts, who subsist on a miserable pittance, and dwell in what we
would consider mere hovels,—men who are obliged to work, at outdoor
manual labour, the same as any of their neighbour peasants and
parishoners, in order to keep the wolf from the door. Henderson found
Thorláksson, the translator of “Paradise Lost,” busy making hay. His
living only yielded him £7 per annum, and the one room in which he slept
and wrote was only eight feet long by six broad. This translation was
not printed till after his death. Verily good work lovingly done is its
own reward. These men had little else to cheer them on.
We next visited the Cathedral, which stands in the back part of the
town, with an open square space in front of it, and a little fresh water
lake—inland—to the left. It is a modern edifice, built of brick,
plastered. At the entrance we were joined by our friend Professor
Chadbourne. The interior is very neatly fitted up with pews, has
galleries, organ, &c.; and can accommodate three or four hundred people.
An oil painting above the communion table represents the resurrection;
but the only object of artistic interest is a white marble baptismal
font, carved and presented to the Cathedral by Thorwaldsen, whose father
was an Icelander. It is a low square obelisk. The basin on the top is
surrounded with a symbolical wreath of passion-flowers and roses,
delicately carved in high relief out of the white marble. On the front
is represented, also in relief, the baptism of our Saviour by St. John;
on the left side, the Madonna and Child, with John the Baptist as an
infant standing at her knee; on the right, Christ blessing little
children; while at the back, next the altar, are three cherubs, and
underneath them is inscribed the following legend: “Opus haec Romae
fecit, et Islandiae, terrae sibi gentiliacae, pietatis causâ, donavit
Albertus Thorvaldsen, anno MDCCCXXVII.” It is a chaste and beautiful
work of art.
In the vestry the Rev. Olaf Pálsson opened several large chests, and
shewed us numerous vestments belonging to the bishop and priests; one of
these with gorgeous embroideries had been sent here to the bishop by
Pope Julius II. in the beginning of the sixteenth century. The cloth was
purple velvet, embroidered and stiff with brocade of gold.
Above the church, immediately under the sloping roof, an apartment runs
the whole length of the building. In it is deposited the free public
library of Reykjavik, which consists of more than 6000 volumes in
Icelandic, Danish, Latin, French, English, German, and various other
languages. A copy of every book published at Copenhagen is sent here by
government, and from time to time it receives numerous presentations
from foreigners. The ancient original Icelandic MSS. have all been
removed to Denmark, so that here there is now nothing very old to be
seen, except what has been reprinted. With great interest we turned over
the leaves of a copy of Snorre Sturleson’s “Heimskringla,” and the
“Landnáma Bok,” shewn us by the librarian and learned scholar Mr. Jón
Arnason.
The hotel at Reykjavik is merely a kind of tavern, with a billiard room
for the French sailors to play, lounge, and smoke in; a large adjoining
room, seated round, for the Reykjavik fashionable assemblies; a smaller
room up stairs, and some two or three bedrooms. On reaching it we were
received by the landlord and shewn up stairs, where we found Mr. Bushby,
who gave us a most courteous English welcome, notwithstanding our
unintentional intrusion. He had, that morning, when the steamer came in
sight, set out and ridden along the coast from the sulphur mines at
Krisuvik—perhaps one of the wildest continuous rides in the world—to
meet Captain Forbes.
Knowing the scant accommodation at the landlord’s disposal, he at once
placed the suite of rooms he had engaged at our service, to dress and
dine in, thus proving himself a friend in need. A good substantial
dinner was soon under weigh, and rendered quite a success by the many
good things with which Mr. Bushby kindly supplemented it, contributing
them from his own private stores.
Mr. Gísli Brynjúlfsson, the young Icelandic poet—employed in antiquarian
researches by the Danish Government chiefly at Copenhagen, but at
present here because he is a member of the Althing or Parliament now
sitting—joined us at table, having been invited by Dr. Mackinlay. He
speaks English fluently, and gave us much interesting information. He
kindly presented me with a volume “Nordurfari,” edited by himself and a
friend, and containing amongst other articles in prose and verse,
“Bruce’s Address at Bannockburn,” translated into Icelandic, in the
metre of the original. This northern version of Burns’ poem may interest
the reader.[5]
BANNOCK-BURN
ÁVARP ROBERT BRUCE TIL HERLITHS SINS.
EPTIR BURNS.
Skotar, er Wallace vördust med
Vig med Bruce opt hafid sjed;
Velkomnir ad blódgum bed,
Bjartri eda sigurfraegd!
Stund og dagur dýr nú er;
Daudinn ógnar hvar sem sjer;
Jatvards ad oss aedir her—
Ok og hlekkja naegd!
Hverr vill bera nidings nafn?
Ná hver bleydu sedja hrafn?
Falla thrael ófrjálsum jafn?
Flýti hann burtu sjer!
Hverr vill hlinur Hildar báls
Hjör nu draga hins góda máls,
Standa bædi og falla frjáls?
Fari hann eptir mjer!
Ánaudar vid eymd og grönd!
Ydar sona thrældóms bönd!
Vjer viljum láta lif og önd,
En leysa úr hlekkjum thá!
Fellid grimma fjendur thví!
Frelsi er hverju höggi í!
Sjái oss hrósa sigri ný
Sól, eda ordna ad ná!
After finally arranging with Zöga to start for the Geysers at 8 o’clock
next morning, Dr. Mackinlay, Mr. Haycock, Professor Chadbourne and I
took a walk through the town, called for Dr. Hjaltalin, who
unfortunately was not at home, and strolled along to the churchyard. It
is surrounded by a low stone and turf wall. We gathered forget-me-nots,
catch-flies, saxifrage and butter-cups among the grass; observed
artificial flowers, rudely made of muslin and worsted, stuck upon a
grave, but do not know if this is an Icelandic custom or the work of the
stranger over the last resting place of a comrade.
Looking down upon Reykjavik from the elevation on which we stand all is
bright in the mellow glare of evening; the windows of the houses gleam
in the sun like the great jewel of Ghiamsheed; the near Essian mountains
have a ruddy glow, and the bay, intensely blue, is gay with vessels and
flags.
Gazing inland all is one wild dreary black lava waste—miles upon miles
of bog, stones and blocks of rock. Botanized for an hour with the
Professor.
On returning saw several heaps of large cod-fish heads, piled up near
the sod-roofed houses of the fishermen in the outskirts of the town. On
enquiry we were told that the heads of fish dried for exportation are
thus retained; the people here eat them, and one head is said to be a
good breakfast for a man.
Most of the houses in and around Reykjavik have little plots of
garden-ground surrounded with low turf walls. In these we generally
observed common vegetables such as parsley, turnips, potatoes, cresses,
a few plants for salads, &c.; here and there a currant bush, and
sometimes a few annuals or other flowers. These, however, seldom come to
any great degree of perfection, and are often altogether destroyed; for
the climate is severe and very changeable, especially in the southern
portion of the island.
[Illustration: REYKJAVIK.]
The Governor called at the hotel for Mr. Haycock and me, insisted on us
taking the loan of his tent, and kindly invited us to come along and
spend the evening with him. As we had to start in the morning for the
Geysers for the present we declined the proferred hospitality, but
promised to call on our return.
[Illustration: ICELANDIC LADY IN FULL DRESS.]
As there was not accommodation for us at the hotel, we were rowed off to
the “Arcturus” by the indefatigable Zöga at half-past 10 o’clock at
night, and slept on board.
-----
Footnote 4:
For a selection of these, see Appendix.
Footnote 5:
Where the two Icelandic letters occur which are wanting in the English
alphabet, they are here represented, respectively, by d and th.
[Illustration: ROUTE TO THINGVALLA.]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
RIDE TO THE GEYSERS.
_Friday morning, July 29._ Landed from the steamer between 7 and 8
o’clock, and found the baggage and riding horses with the relays,
twenty-four in all, assembled at the hotel court; Zöga the guide, with
his brother and a boy who were also to accompany us, busy adjusting
saddles, stirrup straps, &c. For four days we shall be thrown entirely
upon our own resources, so that provisions, tent, plaids and everything
we are likely to need during a wilderness journey, must be taken with
us. Our traps had been sent on shore late on the previous evening. The
mode of loading the sumpter ponies is peculiar; a square piece of dried
sod is placed on the horses back, then a wooden saddle with several
projecting pins is girded on with rough woollen ropes; to either side of
the saddle, is hooked on, a strong oblong wooden box generally painted
red; while on the pins are hung bags, bundles, and all sorts of gipsy
looking gear. These need frequent re-adjustment from time to time as the
ponies trot along, one side will weigh up the other, or the animals get
jammed together and knock their loads out of equilibrium, the saddles
then perhaps turn round and articles fall rattling to the ground. The
strong little boxes are constructed and other arrangements made with a
view to such contingencies, and however primitive, rude, or outlandish
they may at first seem to the stranger, he will soon come to see the why
and the wherefore, and confess their singular adaptation to the strange
and unique exigences of Icelandic travel.
The baggage train at length moved off, accompanied by the relief ponies,
which were tied together in a row, the head of the one to the tail of
the other before it.
Dr. Mackinlay, Mr. Bushby, Mr. Sievertsen, and other acquaintances came
to see us start. Equipped with waterproofs and wearing caps or
wide-awakes, no two of us alike, at half-past eight o’clock, a long
straggling line of non-descript banditti-looking cavaliers, all in
excellent spirits and laughing at each other’s odd appearance, we rode
at a good pace out of Reykjavik.
“Rarely it occurs that any of us makes this journey on which I go,”[6]
words spoken to Dante by his guide, in the ninth Canto of the _Inferno_,
forcibly suggested themselves to me as I “entered on the arduous and
savage way,” and gazed around on the “desert strand.”
The road terminated when we reached the outskirts of the town, and the
track lay over a wild black stony waste with little or no vegetation;
everything seemed scorched. The relay ponies were now loosed from each
other, and, perfectly free, driven before us like
“A wild and wanton herd,
Or race of youthful and unhandled colts,
Fetching mad bounds, bellowing and neighing loud,
Which is the hot condition of their blood.”
They were apt to scatter in quest of herbage, but Zöga, when his call
was not enough or the dogs negligent, quickly out-flanked the
stragglers, upon which, they, possessed by a salutary fear of his whip,
speedily rejoined their fellows.
We soon lost sight of the sea, and in a short time came to the
Lax-elv—or salmon river—which we forded.
Enormous quantities of fish are taken at the wears a little higher up
where there are two channels and an arrangement for running the water
off, first from the one and then from the other, leaving the throng of
fishes nearly dry in a little pool from which they are readily taken by
the hand. The fishermen wear rough woollen mittens to prevent the smooth
lithe fish from slipping through their fingers when seizing them by head
and tail, to throw them on shore. From five hundred to a thousand fishes
are sometimes taken in a day. The fishery is managed by an intelligent
Scotchman sent here by a merchant in Peterhead who leases the stream and
has an establishment of some fifteen tin-smiths constantly at work
making cans for “preserved salmon.” The fish are cut into pieces,
slightly boiled—then soldered and hermetically sealed up in these tin
cases containing say 2 or 4 lbs. each, and sent south packed in large
hogsheads to be distributed thence over the whole world.
The few grass-farms we saw were like hovels; many separate erections,
stone next the ground, the gable wood, and the roof covered with green
sod. The rafters are generally made of drift wood or whale’s ribs. Turf
is used as fuel; but in common Icelandic houses there is only one
fire—that in the kitchen—all the year round. The beds are often mere
boxes ranged around the room, or, where there is such accommodation,
underneath the roof round the upper apartment, which is approached by a
trap-stair. They are filled with sea-weed or feathers and a cloth spread
over them. In the farm houses we entered there was a sad want of light
and fresh air; in fact, these sleeping rooms were so close and stifling
that we were glad to descend and rush out to the open air for breath.
The little bit of pet pasture land, round each farm, enclosed by a low
turf wall, is called “tun,” a word still used in rural districts of
Scotland—spelt toon, or town—with the same sound and similar
signification.
Rode many miles through wild black desolate dreary volcanic wastes—no
near sounds but the metallic bicker of our ponies’ hoofs over the dry
rocks and stones, or fearless splashing through mud puddles—and no
distant sounds save the _eerie_ cries, tremulous whistlings and
plaintive wails of the curlew, plover, and snipe. Observed the abrasions
of the ice-drift very distinctly traced on the rocks, these all running
nearly south-west. The slightly elevated rock-surface was frequently
polished quite smooth, scratches here and there showing the direction of
the friction by which this appearance had been produced. In some
instances the rock was left bare, in others detached stone blocks of a
different formation rested on the surface.
Wild geranium, saxifrage, sedum, and tufts of sea-pink are very common,
when we come to anything green. The wild geranium, from the almost
nightless summer of the north, is six times larger than in Britain, and
about the size of a half-penny.
[Illustration: RAVINE.]
Came to a deep ravine, wild, horrid, and frightful; rode along the edge
of it, and then through dreadfully rough places, with nothing to mark
the track; amidst great and little blocks of stone—trap, basalt, and
lava—mud-puddles—up-hill, down-hill, fording rivers, and through
seemingly impassible places; yet the Icelandic horse goes unflinchingly
at it. Mr. Haycock says it would be sheer madness to attempt such
break-neck places in England; there, no horse would look at it;
steeple-chasing nothing to it. His horse was repeatedly up to the girths
in clayey mud, and recovered itself notwithstanding its load as if it
were nothing to pause about. Truly these are wonderful animals, they
know their work and do it well.
Came to a grassy plot, in a hollow by a river’s side, where we halted,
changed the saddles and bridles to the relief ponies, and, clad in
mackintosh, thankfully sat down on the wet grass to rest, while we ate a
biscuit and drank of the stream. In the course of the day, we had come
to several green spots, like oasis in the black desert, where the horses
rested for a short time to have a feed of grass.
After starting, ascended for about an hour through a ravine, where we
saw some lovely little glades full of _blae-berries_—sloe,—low
brushwood, chiefly of willows and birch, and a profusion of flowers,
such as wild geranium, thyme, dog-daisy, saxifrage, sea-pink, catch-fly,
butter-cup, a little white starry flower, and _diapensia_; the latter is
found, here and there, in round detached patches of fresh green like a
pincushion, gaily patterned with little pink flowers. I am indebted to
Professor Chadbourne for the name of it. Obtained a root of this plant
for home, and gathered flowers of the others to preserve.
We now came to an elevated plateau which stretched away—a dreary stony
moor—bounded in one direction by the horizon-line and in another by
hills of a dark brown colour. Here there was not a patch of verdure to
be seen; all one black desert lava-waste strewn with large boulders and
angular slabs, lying about in all conceivable positions. In riding, one
required to keep the feet in constant motion, to avoid contact with
projecting stones, as the ponies picked their way among them. Our feet
consequently were as often out of the stirrups as in them. Shakspere
says “Wisely and slow, they stumble that run fast;” not so, however,
with the sure footed Icelandic ponies; for, even over such ground, they
trotted at a good pace and no accident befell us.
I generally rode first with Zöga the guide, or last with Professor
Chadbourne. The driving of the relief horses before us, like a stampedo,
and the keeping of them together afforded some of us much amusement as
we rode along. Here no sheep or cattle could live. It was literally “a
waste and howling wilderness.” We saw several snow-birds and terns
flying about, and often heard the _eerie_ plaintive whistle of the
golden plover. These birds were very tame and examined us with evident
curiosity. They would perch on a large lava block before us, quite close
to our track, and sit till we came up and passed—then fly on before, to
another block, and sit there gazing in wonder; and so on for miles. They
had evidently never been fired at. Mr. Murray humanely remarked that it
would be murder to shoot them! In this black stony plateau there was
often not the least vestige of a track discernible; but we were kept in
the right direction by cairns of black stones placed here and there on
slight elevations. These guiding marks—“varder” as they are called—are
yet more needed when all the surface is covered with snow; then, “vexed
with tempest loud,” Iceland must resemble Milton’s description of Chaos.
“Far off,
Dark, waste and wild under the frown of night,
Starless exposed and ever threatening storms
Of Chaos blustering round.”
We saw one rude house of refuge, without any roof, built of lava blocks,
in the midst of this black desert where everything seemed blasted. Came
now on spots where a few tufts of sea-pinks, and many bright coloured
wild-flowers were springing up among the stones. Saw flat rock-surfaces
shrivelled up and wrinkled like pitch, an effect which had evidently
been produced when the lava was cooling; others were ground down and
polished smooth in grooves by the ice-drift. As near as I can calculate,
some fourteen or fifteen miles of our journey lay over this one long
long dreary stony waste, henceforth, ever to be associated in memory
with the plover’s wild lone plaintive tremulous whistle.
At 3 P.M. we came in sight of the blue lake of Thingvalla,[7] lying
peacefully in the valley before us; while the range of the hills beyond
it, bare, bold and striking in their outline, was mostly of a deep
violet colour.
During the day, arrowy showers of drenching rain “cold and heavy,” like
that described by Dante in the third circle of the _Inferno_, or wet
drizzling mists had alternated with gleams of bright clear sunshine.
Towards the afternoon the weather had become more settled and the effect
of the prospect now before us, although truly lovely in itself, was
heightened by our previous monotonous though rough ride over the dreary
stony plateau. The lake far below us, with its two little volcanic
islands Sandey and Nesey, lay gleaming in the sun like a silver mirror;
while the wild scenery around forcibly reminded us of Switzerland or
Italy.
Thingvalla was to be our resting place for the night, and seeing our
destination so near at hand in the valley below us, some one purposed a
rapid scamper, that we might the sooner rest, eat, and afterwards have
more leisure to explore the wondrous features of the place. Forthwith we
set off at a good pace, but the Professor was too tired to keep up with
us, so I at once fell behind to bear him company. The others were
speedily out of sight. Knowing that dinner preparations would occupy
Zöga for some time after his arrival, we rode leisurely along, admiring
the green level plain far below us. When wondering how we were to get
down to it, we suddenly and unexpectedly came to a yawning chasm or rent
running down through the edge of the plateau. It seemed about 100 feet
deep, 100 feet wide, and was partially filled with enormous blocks of
basalt which had toppled down from either side; where more, cracked and
dissevered, still impended, as if they might fall with a crash at the
slightest noise or touch. This was the celebrated Almanna Gjá or Chasm,
of which we had read so much but of which we had been able to form no
adequate idea from descriptions.