From England to Iceland

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

The following illustrations, drawn by Mr Alexander Shepherd, A.M., of Bradford, have been prepared—with a few exceptions—from original photographs taken by the author:—

Note.—The route followed is indicated upon the front cover, which has been specially designed by the writer.

xiv

PLATE I.

1 John o’ Groat’s House.—2 Duncansby Head.
3 The S. S. Camoens in dock, Leith.—4 Saloon of S. S. Camoens.
5 Amateur Photographers on board of S. S. Camoens.

FROM ENGLAND TO ICELAND.

Far away on the very verge of the Arctic Circle, where the dark waters of the North Atlantic sweep on to meet the ice-floes of the Polar Sea, lies the Ultima Thule of the ancients—the Iceland of to-day.

To poets and historians who wrote before and immediately after the dawning of the Christian era it was a land of mystery, “an island hid by snow and winter,” as one of them has well expressed it, and even to us, whose lot has been cast in more enlightened days, it is to some extent a land of mystery still. Modern science has unlocked many of its secrets, and explained many of its marvels, but there are, in this great wonderland of Europe to-day, problems yet unsolved, and regions yet untraversed, which await the scientific enquirer and the adventurous explorer.

2It is not, however, in either of these capacities that I invite the reader to accompany me on a trip to Iceland. I make no pretension to be either the one or the other. It is rather as a companion bent on enjoying to the full a summer holiday on one of the least-frequented bye-paths of the Northern Hemisphere; as an admirer of Nature amid her strangest phenomena, and in her sternest, as well as in her kindliest moods; as a wanderer familiar with much of the world and with many of its ways; as an interested observer who has noted the conditions of life among savage and civilised, in many a foreign clime; as a business man, keenly alive to the increasing necessity for new markets for our products and manufactures; and as an advanced political student, to whom there is much that is both instructive and attractive in the story of the little community, which for more than a thousand years, in loneliness and isolation, and amid alternate seasons of deepest winter-gloom and midnight summer-sunshine, has “lived and moved and had its being,” heedless of the social revolutions which have broadened the foundations of human liberty, and comparatively unaffected by the dynastic changes that have drenched Europe with blood, wasted its resources, hindered its progress, and turned it, even in this nineteenth century, into an armed camp of professional cut-throats.

Colonised in 874 by some of the bravest and boldest blood of Scandinavia, Iceland for four hundred years remained an independent commonwealth. In 1262 she passed under the yoke of Norway, and subsequently in 1380 under that of Denmark, 3whose suzerainty she acknowledges to-day.

Famed in early times for the power and prowess of her vikings, and for the genius of her skalds or song writers, she has not only created a language, of which it has been said that “no one who has not read the masterpieces written in Icelandic can judge fairly of the capacity, force, and sweetness of this most classic tongue,” but has made it the medium of bequeathing to the world, in her historical “sagas”—or prose epics—a wealth of information regarding the deeds and heroes of the Teutonic race, which has been of priceless value to the historians of Europe.

With the loss of her independence, however, she gradually declined in self-respect, and speedily sank into a state of apathy and lethargic hopelessness from which, thank Heaven, she is at last beginning to arouse herself. Rip-van-Winkle-like she has recently risen from a sleep of centuries, and having, by peaceful agitation, succeeded in obtaining the right of Parliamentary self-government, there seems to be every prospect that—in spite of their poverty, and the natural disadvantages under which they labour—her sons will yet prove themselves worthy of their high ancestry, and redeem their country from the decadence into which they have unhappily permitted her to sink.

It is in a spirit of hopefulness for her future, that I take up my pen to record my impressions of both country and people, as well as with a sincere desire that I may succeed in creating an interest in, and furnishing some useful information regarding, a land about which Englishmen generally know little and perhaps care less.

So much by way of preface. Let me now ask the reader to suppose that we have started together 4from a busy manufacturing town in the West Riding of Yorkshire, and are hurrying on to Edinburgh by Midland Express to catch the S.S. Camoens, advertised to sail from Leith, at noon on the 8th of July, 1885. We pass Settle, that most charming of Yorkshire country towns, nestling at the foot of its fine background of encircling hills, stop for a few minutes for refreshments at Carlisle, where in the days of the old Border feuds many a Scottish reiver met with a short shrift and a sudden death, and an hour later cross the Tweed, loved and immortalised by “The Great Unknown.”

We look with all a Yorkshireman’s interest upon the shed roofs and smoking chimneys of Hawick and Galashiels, which remind us that we are travelling through the great textile manufacturing district of Scotland.

We see Melrose, not indeed “by moonlight and alone,” but in the “summer gloaming” and over the heads of a small crowd of canny Scots who are thronging the station, and thinking not of “the brave days of old,” not of princes and prelates, of abbeys and abbots, of monks and monasteries, but of the state of the wool market, of the prospects of trade, of “hanks,” “pirns,” and “shots,” and of “warp” and “weft” and “web,” and of the hundred and one other prosaic matters which demand the attention of the industrious weaver, who has supplanted the red-handed warrior; and whose shuttle, as it clicks from morn till night, tells of better times for mankind than those when the sound most frequently heard in these same streets was the clash of swords, and the clang of armed men.

We are on our way to a land whose poverty is great and whose progress has been slow, but as we 5recall the fact that, according to Macaulay, Scotland from “having been one of the most turbulent countries in Europe, has become one of the most highly civilised, one of the most flourishing, one of the most tranquil;” that according to Froude “she has scored a deeper mark upon the world’s history than any nation either ancient or modern, perhaps the Athenians and Jews excepted,” we feel that the Icelander need never despair, if he will but try to bring about the regeneration of his country by pursuing, and seeking to perfect himself in, the peaceful arts of industry.

Night has banished twilight when we reach Edinburgh, and after a trip to Leith by tram to see the vessel that is to be our home “on the ocean wave” for the next two or three weeks, we retire to rest, “perchance to dream” of the discomforts inseparable from “a life on the rolling deep.”

On the following morning we sail from Leith punctually at the appointed hour, and within five minutes after leaving the quay are face to face with what seems likely to prove a catastrophe. We are gliding down between the massive sea walls that line the channel of entrance to the docks, when a battered old tug, having several mud-barges in tow, steers right across our course. There is no room in which to turn, and a collision seems inevitable. Just, however, at the instant when we are expecting to see the little boat cut in two she manages, somehow or other, to swing clear of our bows as we forge past. A sound of crashing timber is heard as her stern is forced against one of the barges behind her. A solitary seaman, who appears to be both captain and crew, rushes to the bulwarks, and in a dancing rage shakes his clenched fist at us in impotent fury, at the same time pouring 6forth a torrent of vituperation of which fortunately only a few words reach our ears, though if judged by the little we hear, his language is certainly strong enough to have travelled further.

The sun is shining pleasantly from a bright blue sky, and the landmarks of “Auld Reekie” stand out grandly on the horizon behind the intervening wilderness of roofs and chimneys that slope upwards from port to capital. Arthur’s Seat, Salisbury Crags, the Calton Hill, the Castle, the Scott Monument, and other picturesque features which combine to make Edinburgh, what it undoubtedly is, the most beautiful city in the world, are all clearly discernible by the naked eye.

On the shores of the Firth, as we steam towards Granton, before heading for the ocean, lie the lovely seaside resorts which add so much to the pleasures of life in the Scottish metropolis. Having transferred the managing agent to a gaily painted tug, we circle round and steer north-east, passing on our left the cultivated slopes and quiet little coast-towns of the kingdom of Fife, while away ahead, over our starboard bow, rises the shadowy form of the famous Bass Rock, whose name is associated with some of the grimmest tragedies of Scottish history, and in whose dungeons, in the dark days of ecclesiastical tyranny and persecution, so many of those “of whom the world was not worthy,” were left to perish miserably.

Keeping well in towards the land we make steady progress at the rate of about nine knots per hour, and have sighted and passed the lights of Aberdeen before bed-time. Early on the following morning we find ourselves off Duncansby Head, the extreme north-east point of Scotland, a bold and dangerous promontory. Not a tree nor a human 7habitation is to be seen on the landscape till we round the point, when we all rush to the bridge, glass in hand, to take a look at John o’ Groat’s House, a rather pretentious-looking new hotel built in the Scottish baronial style of architecture, and situated near the beach, within a stone’s throw of the Pentland Firth, whose powerful tide, so dreaded in stormy weather, is breaking heavily upon the rocks.

A flag-staff in the centre of a mound on the left of the hotel, is pointed out as marking the original site of Mr John de Grout’s residence. In some old maps, however, this is indicated upon the summit of Duncansby Head. A small cairn of stones erected there seems to support the theory of those antiquarians who are inclined to accept these maps as correct, and who contend that in the old piratical days it was much more usual for a man to build his house, as the eagle builds its eyrie, upon some bold cliff or headland whence he could watch for danger, and prepare to meet it; than upon a flat, or in a hollow, where he would be liable to be surprised. Be this as it may, it is a satisfaction to all of us to see a spot which geographical circumstances have rendered so interesting.

Passing through the channel, between Stroma and South Ronaldsha, two of the Orkney Islands, and leaving the Skerries with their two lighthouses behind us, we shape our course for the north-west.

the outlines of Dunnet Head the most northerly, and Cape Wrath the most significantly named, 8point on the wild and rockbound coast of Scotland, gradually fade from view, and long before nightfall we are out in the open sea, and experiencing the unpleasant effects of a heavy swell in the North Atlantic. Towards evening the breeze freshens though the passengers do not. Seats at table began to be vacant early yesterday, and these increase in number “as” the ship and “the moments roll.” Even I, who have hitherto defied Neptune on many a stormy ocean in both hemispheres succumb at last, and begin to study the waves with a pathetic interest, and to find myself saying, in the words of the old song, “Oh, dear, what can the matter be?”

On the morning of the third day out, (Saturday, July 11th), the breeze increases to a strength of about nine windforce, equivalent to what is known among seamen as “a fresh gale,” ten being “a strong gale,” eleven “a storm,” and twelve “a hurricane.” The waves are tolerably high, being estimated by our captain at from ten to fifteen feet above sea-level or from twenty to twenty-five feet from hollow to crest, and the Camoens, which rolls fearfully, is a mere plaything under such conditions. It is needless to say that the number of invalids does not decrease.

During the afternoon the wind moderates, and shortly before dinner we sight the coast of Iceland, whose highest mountain, Orœfajökull (6,426 feet), with its snow-clad crest and slopes, and extensive glaciers is distinctly visible through the clear bright air at a distance of more than seventy miles. A very considerable portion of the surface of Iceland is covered with glaciers, which feed the mountain torrents, and the gradual subsidence of which 9forms not one of the least of the terrible dangers that constantly threaten immense tracts of country with destruction. Orœfa is the apex, or coast extremity, of Vatnajökull, the largest of these, an icefield, which covers an area of between 3,000 and 4,000 square miles, or about one-twelfth of the total area of the island. The word “jökull,”—meaning ice hill—is attached as a terminal to the names of all mountains on which glaciers are known to exist.

As we gradually near the land Orœfa rises grandly beyond the low level plain that lies like a long black line between its base and the ocean. This plain, of the extent of which we can form no conception from the sea, stretches away back to the coast range for a distance of about thirty miles, and is at least about twice that length from east to west. The fogs which are continually, and often very unexpectedly, encountered in these latitudes render it a source of anxiety to navigators, who not unfrequently find themselves aground before they are conscious of danger, there being neither lights nor landmarks to guide them. Though but sparsely peopled, it is covered with nutritious grass, and has become the great pony-breeding district of Iceland.

Ever since we began to steer north the days have been growing longer, and night having now quite disappeared, we are able to read small print by the light of the sun at what the chronometer indicates as midnight, and can distinguish the coast quite clearly at an hour when in more southern latitudes it would be shrouded in darkness.

It is not till after 1 a.m., as we are passing Portland Point, and its wonderful water-worn arch 10and fantastic group of basaltic needle-rocks, that we go down to our berths, comforted by the captain’s assurance that if we do not find ourselves high and dry upon the summit of some volcanic cone which may suddenly rise under us “from the bottom of the deep blue sea,” we may expect to be lying safely at anchor off the Westmann’s Islands long before it is time to get up. In 1783, a month previous to the outbreak of the Shaptarjökull—the most terrible eruption that has ever occurred in Iceland—a submarine volcano near what are called the Fire Rocks, forty miles south-west of Cape Reykjanes, burst forth and covered the sea with pumice stone to such a depth and extent that ships were impeded by it. Within a few months the volcano disappeared, but now forms a dangerous reef.

Having been in Java six months after the catastrophe at Krakatoa, which in August, 1883, destroyed thirty thousand human beings; having seen the vast fields of pumice stone then floating in the Indian Ocean and in the Java Sea; and sailed in a steamer which, while lying in the Straits of Sunda, two days subsequent to the dreadful disaster above referred to, had a marvellous escape, only succeeding with the greatest difficulty in forcing her way through the immense mass of volcanic scum that covered the ocean for hundreds of miles round about to a depth of several feet; having seen evidences of the fearful nature of a submarine outburst in the huge breaches, in the massive sea wall at Batavia, made by the spent force of the great wave which—more than a hundred miles away—had absolutely swept two thriving cities—Anjers and Telokbetong—out of existence; and having slept at the 11foot of Gedeh, a burning mountain at Scindanlaija, which only a few years ago caused great destruction of life and property at Tjandoer, the captain’s grim joke has a significance for me that it might not otherwise have possessed. It does not, however, disturb my rest.

On awaking, the absence of motion, and a strange stillness unbroken by the horrid grinding of the propeller—that greatest of all the bêtes noires of the ocean traveller—satisfy me that we have safely reached port at last. Hurrying on deck I find myself gazing upon a scene of wild grandeur and picturesque beauty, which charms and impresses me, and whose attractiveness increases as I become familiar with its details.

We are lying at anchor, in smooth water, in a pretty little bay situated on the north shore of Heimaey—(Home Isle)—the largest of the group known as the Vestmanneyjar or Westmann’s Islands. About a mile ahead of us, on the left shore, and partly hidden behind a rampart of black weed-covered rocks, lies the collection of wooden sheds, and huts, and turf-and-rubble dwellings, in which a total population of five hundred and ten souls lives, and carries on its chief occupation of fish-curing. The town extends from the sea inland towards Helgafell, a volcanic cone about 750 feet high, whose shelving stone-strewn slopes, and jagged cairn-crowned crest, standing out clearly against the bright blue cloudless sky, form a fine background to the view in that direction.

Turning our eyes away from Helgafell and Heimaey, and with a passing glance at the pretty little Danish sloops moored opposite the wharf, we face to the right about, where a gigantic rocky mountain promontory, with two huge humps known respectively 12as Heimaeyklett and Ystaklett, stretches itself, like a protecting arm, between us and the western sea. Its precipitous inaccessible overhanging cliffs tower hundreds of feet above the deep blue waters that kiss its feet, and every ledge and nook, and cranny of the bold brown beetling crags that frown down upon us is crowded with sea-fowl, whose screams as they watch us from their places of vantage on the rock, or fly in tens of thousands above our heads, fill the air with a continuous clamour. From the verge of the precipice grass-grown slopes incline steeply upwards to the summits of both humps, and on these a few sheep can be seen grazing in places where, to all appearance, there is scarcely foothold, even for a goat.

The clearness and purity of the atmosphere in this part of the world, when the weather is fine,—which is not very often,—has been remarked by many travellers. It would be impossible for us to view the scene around us under more favourable conditions in this respect. On the coast of the mainland, distant ten or twelve miles across the intervening Strait, Myrdalsjökull, another well-known and beautiful volcano, asserts itself magnificently amid the lower cones by which it is surrounded. Its white peak, pure as an angel’s robe, its glaciers, and its slopes on which purple and silver meet at the snow-line, gleam in glorious loveliness under the morning sunshine.

In mid-channel Elirey and Bjarnarey, two brown-faced weather-worn basaltic island-rocks, with crowns of brightest emerald, rise almost perpendicularly out of the shimmering sea, not only heightening the effect of the scene by 13affording a resting-place for the eye, but forming a striking and picturesque addition to one of the most beautiful panoramas I have seen. We are loth to leave the deck even for breakfast, but console ourselves with the reflection that we shall be able to see a good deal during the twelve hours at our disposal before the time fixed for sailing.

Though it is Sunday morning, the cargo is meanwhile being rapidly transferred to the large whale boats, which began to fetch it soon after our arrival, and from the number of men employed, and the evident bustle and excitement on shore, I conclude that the little white church, which forms the most conspicuous object on the outskirts of the town, will have plenty of room for the accommodation of strangers, and that the poor præstur will not improbably have to preach to a “beggarly array of empty benches.”

The coming of the Camoens is a great event in the lonely Westmann’s Islands. It not only breaks the monotony of what must be a dull and dreary existence, but is a source of general rejoicing amongst all classes of the community, for her freight is precious in the eyes of a people who are compelled to depend upon an outside, and to them far-away world, not only for the very means of life, but for many of the comforts, and all the luxuries, which their limited means will permit them to enjoy. I come to the conclusion, therefore, that the recording angel who with a tear blotted out Uncle Toby’s oath will bend a pardoning eye upon what to some would appear to be Sabbath desecration, but what is really and in the truest sense a work of necessity.

CHAPTER II.

“Who’s for shore?” cries the captain immediately after breakfast. “I am,” “and I,” “and I,” respond about a dozen of us, and in a few minutes we are afloat in the gig, and steering towards Heimaey. We soon find ourselves in very shallow water, and passing over, and between, a number of black reefs, which must not only be dangerous to the fishing craft in stormy weather, but present a grand sight

The weather is rarely such that the Camoens can lie at her present anchorage, for during the north and north-east gales the bay is “a hell of waters” which it is impossible to enter.

I am reminded very strongly of another lovely summer Sunday morning nearly two years ago, when my companion and myself landed, under exactly similar circumstances, on the very spot where Captain Cook first put foot on the shores of New Zealand. In the pier at Heimaey, crowded with men and women, and in the wooden huts beyond it on the hill side, and along the beach, I seem to see Gisborne once more.

15But how different the social conditions and prospects of the two communities,—of the Danish and the British colonist! Iceland with an area of 40,000 square miles—little less than that of the North Island of New Zealand, which contains 44,000,—was colonised a thousand years ago; New Zealand a hundred years ago. Yet the population of the one, which in the year 1100 was estimated at 50,000 has, after a lapse of nearly eight centuries, only increased to 72,000, while the other is inhabited to-day by half a million of people of European descent. Both countries are of volcanic origin, both are subject to earthquakes, both boast of their burning mountains and geysers. One, however, to use an expression more forcible than elegant which fell from the lips of a sailor on the Camoens, is “naething but a dawmed cinder,” the other is, comparatively speaking, a Paradise.

As I stand on the pier a few minutes later and watch the busy gangs of women and girls engaged in carrying sacks of flour on handbarrows to the neighbouring stores; or stroll among the hardy fishermen who are loafing about in groups, eagerly discussing the news brought by our good ship; or exchange smiles with the neatly-dressed, bright-looking, good-featured little lads and lassies, who are looking on with childish curiosity; I cannot help wishing that I could spirit them all away to the “Brighter Britain” in the Southern Seas, where Nature has bestowed her blessings upon man with bounteous profusion. I suppose, however, that were I to tell the people round me what is passing through my mind there is scarcely a man among them who would not turn his eyes all the more fondly towards the little cot where he 16was born and bred, and where he no doubt hopes “to die at home at last.”

Meanwhile, the women, who are working in couples, toil like ponies, and the crews of the whale boats are of course actively employed; but it seems to me that some of the strong men who are looking on, with their hands in their pockets, and their pipes in their mouths, ought to be between the shafts of the handbarrows instead of “their sisters and their cousins and their aunts.” It would be unfair to forget that they take their share of work, as well as of danger and hardship, during the fishing season; but I am afraid that the condition of woman in Iceland is no better than in the fishing and agricultural districts of England and Scotland, though probably scarcely so bad as that of the girls whom I have seen slaving round the coal pits of Lancashire.

PLATE II.

1 Heimaey and Heimaeyklett, from the Cemetery.
2 Lava Cairn on Helgafell.—3 An Icelandic Whaleboat.
4 The Church at Heimaey.—5 Altar and Candelabrum of Church.

Let me describe the appearance of the people near me. “Place aux dames;” of course, if only as a compliment to their industry. They are strong fresh-faced fair-haired maids and matrons, who regard us modestly, but curiously, out of cold pale-blue long-lashed eyes, as they trot backwards and forwards with an energy and an alertness which speak volumes for their physical powers. As a rule they are by no means pretty, but there are, of course, exceptions, and here and there we see a face which would attract notice, even in an English ball-room, where, I have no hesitation in saying, one may look 17for—and find—the loveliest women in the world. Their figures are not good, as is to be expected from their mode of life, and owe nothing to their dress, which is exceedingly plain and unbecoming, though, no doubt, warm and comfortable. Their gowns, made of linsey-woolsey, or similar heavy material, are sombre in colour, unrelieved by a single bit of bright ribbon, or a yard of trimming, tight-sleeved, and just short enough in the skirt to afford every opportunity of admiring a shapely foot, a neat ankle, or a well-turned leg, were there any or either of these to admire, which unfortunately there is not. A loose cotton jacket, a coloured apron, thick grey worsted stockings, and peculiar sheepskin shoes, pointed at the toes, without soles, and sewn into shape by cross-stitching, complete their costume. The latter, which would make very comfortable slippers, seem to be ill-adapted for a country whose roads,—where there are any,—are so rough and stone-strewn, but are nevertheless generally worn, imported boots and shoes being rarely seen among the poorer classes. The hair, which is generally fair, is smoothed down neatly on each side of the brow, and plaited at the back into two long queues which are looped up, and fastened to the crown of the head, in such a fashion as to form cross-festoons.

Every woman, however, has on one distinctive article of attire, the “hufa,” or national head-dress, a small knitted cap, in shape resembling a night-cap, worn jauntily on either side of the head—generally on the left—like the forage cap of a British hussar. It is invariably black, no other colour being used, is made of either silk or wool, and is ornamented with a heavy black silk tassel which hangs down as far as the shoulder from a brass, silver-gilt, or solid 18silver ferrule about two inches long, and half an inch in diameter, that adds greatly to its smartness.

The men, bronzed and bearded, are dressed in rough woollen jackets and trousers, wear caps, billycocks or sou-westers, and bear a strong family likeness to “oor fisher folk at hame,” the only thing which strikes us as peculiar being the sheepskin shoes to which I have already referred.

Our worthy captain—one of the kindest-hearted and most genial men I have ever met, and certainly the most obliging skipper I have ever sailed with,—informs me that the Westmann’s Islands were originally so called because they were discovered, and occupied, by emigrants from Ireland, who are said to have been the first Icelandic colonists. On this point let me quote Dr Jon A. Hjaltalin, one of the best informed and most reliable authorities in Iceland, a gentleman who has lectured in many towns in England, and to whom I had the pleasure of being introduced at Akureyri. In a little historical pamphlet which he wrote on the occasion of the “Thousandth Anniversary of the Norwegian Settlement in Iceland,” and which he has been kind enough to send me since my return, Dr Hjaltalin says “If we can believe the Irish monk Dicuil the Irish were the first discoverers of Iceland. Dicuil, who wrote his book ‘De mensura orbis terrarum’ about the year 825, states that, some thirty years before, clerics had told him that they had been to an island far to the north, where there had been daylight throughout the night at the summer solstice, and where they were able to do whatever they wanted by night as well as by day. 19Local names, preserved to this day, as well as the records of the old Icelanders, prove the fact that Irish monks had visited the island before the Norwegians.”

Subsequently the Scandinavian settlement took place, and emigrants arrived from the Orkneys, the North of Scotland, and Ireland. It is not surprising, therefore, that I should remark to my companion, as we leave the pier, that if the children of Heimaey were at a port in my own country, instead of where they are I should pass them without notice; it is so evident they spring from the same stock as ourselves. It is worthy of note before I leave this subject, “that the Irish do not seem to have met with any human being, or aborigines, when they discovered Iceland, nor have any traces of such been found in later times.”

Passing between the two lines of female porters, who are ascending and descending like the angels on Jacob’s ladder, we turn to the right into a narrow macadamised path, or street, containing several little dwelling-houses, two or three sheds or stores crammed with imported produce, and a number of rough wooden huts filled with fish either cured or in process of being cured. Outside each of the latter stands a deal table on which the fish are prepared, the heads being cut off and dried for home consumption, and the remainder set aside for export.

These dried cods’ heads tied up in bundles, and ready for conveyance into the interior on pony-back, may be seen everywhere, and you will probably not meet a single train of ponies, on any track in the whole country, whose load does not include some of these necessary articles of diet. I am told on enquiry that they are worth 20about a penny each, which I consider a high price, and that, in times of scarcity, after all the flesh has been carefully picked off, the very bones are often eaten, having first been softened in buttermilk. The offal is thrown to the dogs and ponies, which sometimes also get the powdered fish bones when these can be spared by the family. In rear of some of the houses in the outskirts we observe large square platforms built of round undressed lava stones, and raised about a foot from the ground. On these the fish are exposed to dry in the sun.

The stench in this neighbourhood exceeds the combined odours of the nine and forty distinct smells for which Cologne is said to be remarkable, and is such that, with our noses in the air, and taking care to sniff as seldom as possible, we hurry on towards Helgafell, which we have made up our minds to ascend before returning to the Camoens for lunch. We stop for a moment at the house of the Syslumann or Sheriff to say au revoir to our friend the captain who has some business to transact with this official. Then we strike across a few fields so thickly covered with stones of every shape and size that it seems as if Heaven must have rained them from the skies; jump one or two low stone fences; stumble over some of the thousands of green frost-made hummocks that form such a curious feature of the landscape; tramp along the bottom of several of the foot-deep winding rain-channels that are commonly used as paths; and then boldly attack the precipitous mountain slope. Up, up, up we go, now slipping upon black shifting volcanic sand; now tramping upon sharp-edged fragments of lava; now clambering up very steep places on 21hands and knees; and not unfrequently pausing to take breath, and to wipe the perspiration from our brows at some friendly boulder, which affords us secure foothold, or the opportunity of sitting down.

We arrive at the edge of the crater at last, and descend into its grassy hollow, where a few sheep are quietly grazing. Making a final rush towards the cairns which some of our companions have already reached, we see a panorama on every side of us to which no other name than magnificent can possibly be applied. In front on the distant mainland both Hekla and Myrdalsjökull rise in all their snowy beauty; and the islands of Elirey and Bjarnarey, the harbour with its shipping, and guardian promontory, the little straggling town stretching along the beach and inland towards the farmhouses on its outskirts that stand within their small stone-fenced enclosures or crofts under grass or potatoes,—green spots which look like so many oases in a waste of treeless barrenness—are all spread out before us. On our right and on our left, and behind us, washing the shores of the low encircling line of hills that beats back its surges, is the Atlantic Ocean, studded with huge island-rocks of various shapes and sizes,—(including one which we specially note on account of its extraordinary resemblance to a haystack)—and so calm and peaceful under the flood of sunshine that pours down upon its glassy surface from the blue heavens above, that one can scarce believe that it is so often a source of dread and danger and death to the poor fishermen of Heimaey.

We spend half an hour in gazing admiringly upon the scene before us, and then reluctantly, but rapidly, make our way down the hillside towards the little white-washed church, at 22which we arrive shortly before the hour of service. The præstur, or pastor, and a few of his flock are standing outside in serious conversation, and we take advantage of the opportunity to enter. There is only one door, which is under the hexagonal belfry, whose clock with three dials is a hopeful sign in a place where one sees so many evidences of poverty and so few of progress. There are six windows with diamond panes, and the interior has a clean and comfortable appearance. A chastely decorated altar, railed off in front, occupies the end opposite the porchway. A handsome candelabrum, a well-executed painting of a sacred subject, and two smaller pictures, one on either side of the latter, greatly add to the general effect, which is altogether rather pretty.

It is near the hour of prayer, and men, women, and children may be seen approaching from different directions. The sobriety and seriousness of their demeanour, the neatness and cleanliness of their dress, and the general air of well-being and well-doing which characterises them, impress me favourably, and I cannot help recalling the fact that in many of our crowded cities at home, there are at the same moment, thousands, aye tens of thousands of people, who though rich in comparison with the members of this little Icelandic congregation would be unable, even if they were willing, to go to church so comfortably and so respectably clad. It occurs to me that there may be advantages even in a life of poverty and isolation. I remember that Cæsar, in his commentaries, over which I used to pore in my school days, records the fact that of the three great tribes among whom Gaul was divided in his time the Belgæ were the 23bravest, “because,” as he puts it, “merchants had least access to them to import those things which tended to effeminate their minds.” As I remember the passage it occurs to me that the Icelander ought perhaps to be grateful to Heaven for the poverty which protects him from “luxury’s contagion weak and vile,” and leaves him in possession of virtues which under other circumstances he might have been unable to retain.

The established form of religion in Iceland is that of the Lutheran Church, which superseded Roman Catholicism between 1540 and 1551, as the latter had superseded Paganism in the year 1000, at which time the worship of Thor and Odin and the other deities of Scandinavia prevailed. The story of the manner in which Christianity was introduced is an interesting one. At a meeting of the Althing, or Parliament, it was proposed to abolish heathenism, but the proposition was strongly opposed, and there appeared to be danger of a war of religions, which was, however, happily averted by the judgment of the Speaker, or President of the Althing, who influenced by the bribes,—perhaps even more than by the arguments,—of the Christians accepted the task of proposing such legislation as would satisfy both parties. The curious manner in which he prepared himself for, and effected this undertaking is thus referred to by Dr Hjaltalin, who says “He (the President) went to bed, and covered himself up for twenty-four hours. Then he rose, and called all the assembled multitude to follow him to the Lögberg or Law Rock. On arriving there he explained the serious consequences to which the disruption of the Commonwealth was likely to lead. ‘If we have not laws and religion in 24common,’ said he, ‘our peace is gone.’ Such was the persuasive power of his words that both parties promised to keep the laws propounded by him. He then proposed that all Icelanders should become Christians by being baptised, but to pacify the heathen party, suggested that they should be permitted to worship the old gods and to eat horseflesh in secret. If the latter, however, was done in the presence of witnesses, it was to be punished with outlawry. These propositions were accepted by both parties, and thus Christianity was established in the land.” Would that all religious differences could be as happily settled now-a-days by the exercise of a little mutual forbearance, and in reliance upon the old adage, “magna est veritas et prævalebit.”

From God’s house we proceed to God’s acre, a small rectangular area in two divisions enclosed within four walls of turf and rubble, and covered with a number of green mounds, from two to three feet high, each marking a grave. One or two of these are railed round, and iron crosses have been placed on others—(in one instance a quaint and artistically-carved headstone)—but in nineteen cases out of twenty the Westmann’s Islanders seem to share, not the ostentatious pride and vainglory of the great emperor Shah Jehan, who built for himself and a favourite wife the grandest and most costly sepulchre in the world, the famous Tag Mahal at Agra; but rather the touching humility of his daughter, whose pious wish engraved on the simple stone that marks her last resting place amid the ruined tombs of Delhi, is beautifully expressed in these words, which I remember listening to with a feeling of reverence as our guide translated them: “Let no rich canopy cover my head; grass alone 25is the only covering for the poor in spirit.”

On our way from the city of the dead to the pier we have once more to pass through the city of the living, and the first shanty that there attracts our attention is the “Thing Hus,” or Parliament house, which is really the Town Hall, although dignified with a higher title. It is a shabby little wooden shed, to extend or reconstruct which on the same scale would not cost many pence in the pound on even the rateable value of Heimaey.

Near it are several curious-looking dwellings, one of which we stop to examine. I will attempt to describe it. Imagine a low one-storied building, irregular in shape, and looking as if it had been built by instalments to provide room for a crib for every separate addition to the owner’s family. The roof is made of shingle, but the walls, built principally of rough undressed lava stones, imbedded in layers of turf which bind them together and fill up the chinks, are thick and substantial. Entrance is effected through a low wooden porchway leading into a long narrow dark passage, with turf-and-rubble walls, and a mud floor. This passage admits to another which crosses it at right angles, and is if possible dingier still. Into this second passage the doors of several stuffy, inconvenient, badly-ventilated, smoke-filled dens—(it would be a libel on the English language to call them rooms)—open. The cooking is carried on in the “Eld hus” (Fire House) or kitchen, and the smoke escapes into the chimney through a hole in the roof. The whole of the exterior, except parts of the shingle roof, is covered with green sods, which convert it into an inhabited tumulus, on which the grass flourishes so luxuriantly that it seems a pity the half-starved 26ponies cannot walk on the perpendicular like the house fly, for if they could they might find excellent pasture on the walls and roof of the mansion before us.

There are a number of more modern houses built of wood, roofed with shingle, and painted drab. We enter one of these on the courteous invitation of the doctor, who has just been good enough to explain to us in very broken English that the ghastly-looking, mutilated, long-billed, dark-feathered objects which are hanging from a sort of miniature goalpost in an adjoining croft are the bodies of sea-fowl which have been killed, and are being dried for—“For what! Sir?” we ask in surprise? “For fuel,” is the reply. “The breast having been removed for food the remainder of the bird will probably be used to cook it.” I have eaten meals in South Africa prepared over a fire made of cakes of dried cow-dung; I have warmed myself in New Zealand and in the American backwoods at a log fire; I have been half-stifled in a Highland shieling by the smoke of a peat fire; I have drunk many a cup of tea in Japan infused with water boiled on a smouldering fire of charcoal ashes, but this is the first time among savage or uncivilised that I have come across fuel for a dried-bird fire. “Necessity,” I remark, “is said to be the ‘mother of invention.’ If so the life of a Patent Office official in Iceland ought to be no sinecure, for ‘necessity’ stares one in the face everywhere.”

The doctor’s residence,—a humble one for the only consulting physician and surgeon in the Westmann’s Islands,—seems to consist of little more than what the Scotch call a “but” and a “ben.” It is scantily and plainly furnished, and 27contrasts somewhat ludicrously with the gilded salons of some of his professional brethren in the chief city of the adjacent island of Great Britain who, with perhaps little more skill and knowledge but greater opportunities than those of our kindly host, pocket fees, in the course of a single forenoon, which exceed the total annual income received by the Icelandic Esculapius for looking after the health of an entire community. From this reference to the social surroundings of a leading citizen,—one of an élite which scarcely includes more than the Syslumann (Sheriff), the præstur (parson), the doctor, and a vice-consul or two,—it will be inferred that the Westmann’s Islands cannot boast many people of fashion or “culchaw,” and that the population generally is a very humble one.

After lunch, having obtained permission to take one of the ship’s boats, we row ourselves to the caves of Heimaklett and Ystaklett, and spend an hour in sailing into these, in awakening the echoes, and in ineffectual attempts, at the risk of broken bones and worn-out unmentionables, to scale the cliffs, and get among the screaming puffins that literally darken the air above us as they dart or circle over our heads. Then we go ashore again and take another saunter through the streets, and then dinner-hour arrives, and our experiences of the Westmann’s Islands for the present come to an end.

About 9.0 p.m. we sail for Reykjavik, and as we are slowly steaming out of the bay, a whale boat, manned by six rowers, rounds Ystaklett and makes for Heimaey. An Icelander from America, who has just joined us, says that the occupants of the boat having sighted the Camoens on the previous 28evening have come over from the mainland to buy provisions. He tells me that his countrymen are miserably poor, and that this year they are even worse off than usual, the fishing having proved a failure for the third year in succession, and the grass being late and scarce in consequence of the inclemency of the weather. Fancy a state of being in which an entire community literally depends for existence upon the fish it catches in a stormy sea, and the grass yielded by its untilled pastures! He adds that on the mainland people are even poorer than on the islands, and mentions the case of a woman who recently made her way on foot along the coast, and crossed the Straits in an open boat, to beg bread for her starving children. She was so emaciated and so weak and worn out from famine and exhaustion that she had to be carried from the pier to a place of shelter.

The charity of the poor towards the poor is proverbial.

The poverty-stricken Icelander is no exception to a rule that happily applies to all mankind. Out of their scanty and insufficient store the people of Heimaey supplied the poor creature with food for herself and family, and sent her on her way rejoicing.

In the course of conversation with my informant, who was once a clerk in a store in the Westmann’s Islands, but has for some years been earning 65 dols. a month as a foreman platelayer on the Denver and Rio Grande Railway, I learn that a 29number of his countrymen have emigrated to America during recent years, not a few of whom have joined the Mormons. One almost regrets that the whole population cannot be deported en masse, but with local self-government, increasing knowledge, and the stimulus of unrestricted trade, it is not improbable that the Icelander,—who has hitherto been “contentit wi’ little” and “canty wi’ mair,”—may yet succeed in making something out of his inhospitable country, whose progress has been so hindered and handicapped by the ravages of fire, frost, flood and famine.

It is not with Nature alone that he has to contend. He has but few sources of wealth, and even these until comparatively recently have been prevented from development by iniquitous laws imposed upon him by the Danish Government whose subject he is. Did I say sources of wealth? I withdraw the words. Let me rather say means of existence. Until a few years ago—when the Leith firm to whom our good ship belongs began to open up a trade with his country on the basis of ready-money, which they imported from Denmark for the purpose,—he scarcely knew what money was like, except in the petty transactions of daily life.

Between 1600 and 1788 he was shut out by the most tyrannous restrictive legislation, from direct commercial intercourse with the world, being compelled to do all his business with a few Danish Trading Companies, who had, by heavy payments, secured from Government the privilege of absolute monopoly. These companies took from the Icelander his dried fish, his shark oil, his wool, and his skins, and gave him in exchange the barest necessaries, 30and such articles as were absolutely indispensable in his simple mode of life. On all imports the importer, being master of the situation, naturally put enormous profits.

The consequence of a business thus conducted on the basis of what is known as “the tick and truck system” was that not only the commercial prosperity, but the improvement of the social and intellectual well-being of the population were grievously retarded. And as if to render the condition of the Icelander more hopeless and intolerable still the Danish Government by law prohibited him from building or purchasing a decked vessel; a high-handed and one-sided policy the object of which was to make the monopoly of the trading companies more secure, and by the establishment of protection in its worst form to enrich the mother country at the expense of its great island-colony.

It is unnecessary to dwell too strongly upon the iniquity of the past policy pursued by Denmark, and it would ill become a Briton to do so in the face of the fact that a similar line of action adopted by the British Parliament years ago led to the almost total extinction of the Irish woollen trade. When we behold the mote that is in our brother’s eye it is well to consider the beam that is in our own.

In 1788 there was a break in the cloud of misrule which had so long over-shadowed Iceland. The law relating to decked vessels was repealed, and the power of the monopolists broken to a certain extent, inasmuch as not only Danes, but all Danish subjects,—(which of course included the Icelanders)—were permitted to engage in foreign trade. On the 25th of April, 1854, the last vestige 31of monopoly was swept away, and from that date until the present hour, the ports of the country have been open to the traders of the whole world. Let us hope that the present policy which has happily inaugurated a better state of things, both politically and commercially, may result in an improved condition of the people, and in the development of the resources of the country; and that the sun of prosperity may rise and shine upon a land which has enjoyed few natural advantages, and which has hitherto been prevented, by the unwisdom of its rulers, from turning even these to the best account.

The Icelander is accused by his detractors of being lethargic, indolent, and wanting in ambition and enterprise. If he be so, and I am not disposed to deny it, the reason is, in my opinion, not far to seek. No man will work under conditions similar to those imposed upon the galley-slave, and to enrich either trader or landed proprietor who has him at his mercy, and who, whether by a hateful system of monopoly, or by unjust and oppressive laws, can prevent him from enjoying the fruits of his labour. Take away from a man or from a nation the incentive to exertion, by denying him or them the legitimate rewards of toil, and there must be moral and material deterioration. It has been so in Iceland, as it has been in that unhappy country whose sons were its first discoverers, and for much of whose misery and discontent and crime we, as a nation, are seriously responsible. Happily in both cases rulers have become alive to a higher sense of their duties, and now see that it is only by drastic reforms and just laws that they can bring about political regeneration.

32More happily still the people recognising the force and truth of the Laureate’s words:—

have taken their future, to a great extent, into their own hands, and are looking forward to better times in the immediate future. May the results in both countries be shown by their marked improvement in social and moral well-being, and by their progress in all those things which tend to exalt nations, and which alone can make them great!

PLATE III.

1 Turf and rubble-cottage, Heimaey.
2 The Althingis Hus, Heimaey.—3 Woman riding man-fashion.
4 Drying birds for fuel.

CHAPTER III.

Last night after leaving the Westmann’s Islands we lingered on deck till the weird rocks that stud the ocean on the west of Heimaey had become mere black specks on the silver sea, and the Midnight Sun, which had just set, was filling the heavens with a halo of crimson and gold as he rose once more on the distant horizon where sea and sky met.

But nevertheless we were up early this morning to gaze curiously on the capital of Iceland which we find ourselves rapidly nearing about breakfast time. On our left a huge whale-backed mountain-island rises magnificently from the calm blue sea, almost within a stone’s throw of the extreme point of the barren treeless promontory that stretches away for a mile or two in the direction of the town. An iron beacon near the shore, and a few wooden out-buildings and a farm house on the ridge, are the only objects in the immediate foreground; and there is not a sign of cultivation of any kind to be seen anywhere. A round tower—the Observatory—crowns the summit of the promontory and overlooks the strange collection of dingy painted weather-board houses, huts, and sheds, which form the city of Reykjavik, and which extend down the slope to the black, weed-strewn, rock-bound shore, where two or three shelving wooden piers, several barn-like stores, a number of small boats, a few fishing smacks, and a group of men engaged in mending their nets, can be distinguished without the aid of a glass. A church,—whose ugly little tower, or 34belfry, thrusts itself pretentiously above the roofs of the buildings that cluster round it,—and several public institutions, not one of which possesses the shadow of a claim to architectural beauty, are prominent simply because of the humility of the houses that surround them. But neither these nor any of the other objects over which our restless eyes wander within a radius of half-a-dozen miles at all prepossess us in favour of Reykjavik and its suburbs, which do not indeed bear comparison even with a small colonial settlement in the earliest days of its existence. It is difficult to believe that the city we are approaching was founded by a band of adventurous Norsemen more than a thousand years ago, and in the primitive appearance of the capital of his country we see another evidence of the poverty and indolence of the Icelander. From a flagstaff in a prominent position the Danish ensign flutters in the breeze, and a good deal of bunting is also displayed on several of the Consulates and stores in honour of our arrival.

As we slowly creep on towards our anchorage, past several dangerous reefs, bare at low water, an extensive panorama lies spread out before us. The sterile water-worn snow-streaked slopes of a very common-place mountain chain on our left, and an extensive wilderness of barren heath which touches the grey-clouded sky on the horizon on our right, contrast strangely with the black irregular fantastic peaks of the volcanic range that rises picturesquely behind—though at a great distance beyond—the city, and form an interesting picture in which nothing is so striking as the want of life and warmth and colour.

A three-masted sailing ship, three schooners, one yacht, a few fishing boats, and a battered old coal 35hulk, are riding at anchor in the roadstead, each and all of them

Not a sound indicative of human existence is carried to our ears from ship or shore to break the silence which settles down upon us as our engines suddenly stop, and leave us to drift slowly on to our anchorage. The deep stillness on land and sea and in the streets of the apparently deserted city remind me of Campbell’s famous lines—

and I am just beginning to wonder what manner of people they are who can exist without noise, when the clarion cry of a rooster rings through the air and re-assures me. It recalls a good story which I heard at the dinner-table the other day of a cock in Iceland which, deceived by the absence of night, crowed itself to death during the summer solstice, under a mistaken sense of duty. Lord Dufferin, whose “Letters from High Latitudes” are well worth reading, is credited with the authorship of this amusing exaggeration.

Presently, however, we observe two or three boats put off from one of the piers, and in a few minutes are boarded by guides and hotel-proprietors. We arrange with one of the former, by name Thorgrimur Gudmundsen,—a big, strapping, intelligent-looking fellow, who stands over six feet high in his stocking soles,—to accompany us to Thingvellir, the Geysirs, and Hengill, and to have ponies ready for an early start to-morrow.

36On landing at the pier a little later we are met with the inevitable stench from the fish-stores, and after securing rooms at the Island Hotel—(Island is the Icelandic word for Iceland not for island)—we stroll out to see the city. Being desirous of a breath of fresh air we flee from the horrors of the many stenches and from the dirty dusty uneven uncausewayed streets, and bend our steps almost instinctively in the direction of the Observatory, preferring rather to look down upon the city from a purer atmosphere, and to command a view of it and its surroundings from a respectful distance, than to stand gaping at its one-and-two-storied, black-roofed, drab-painted, weather-board huts, which form an aggregation of impressive ugliness that has a tendency to induce melancholia. Thick mists are settling down upon the summits and slopes of the distant hills, and there are signs of a change for the worse in the weather which make us rather anxious, for to-morrow we are to commence a ride of at least a hundred and fifty miles through a country where there is little or no accommodation for the storm-bound traveller.

But the sun is shining out pleasantly, though not too powerfully, and the air is clear, bracing, and invigorating, so we dismiss our fears, and turn our attention to the scene before us. There is not a single tree, nor even a bush a foot high, nor one square yard of cultivated land anywhere. The hilly plateau on which we stand is traversed, for a few miles, by a brown dusty macadamised road—almost the only one in the island we are informed—on each side of which, for miles around, nothing is to be seen but vast fields of lava, hundreds of acres of undulating country covered with stones and boulders, so thickly 37strewn that, there is scarcely room for a blade of grass to grow between any two of them, were a blade of grass so unwise as to attempt such a feat.

We miss the rustling leaves, the green springy turf, the yellow waving corn, the rippling streams, and the song of lark, or thrush, or blackbird, or even the chirping of the despised sparrow, as we look upon the panorama before us with an interest which arises chiefly from its absolute want of these or any other features which render a landscape attractive.

As we sit and chat about our experiences in many a foreign land, and institute comparisons between the view before us and others that we have travelled much further to see, our minds naturally go back to the time more than ten centuries ago, when Ingolfr and his companions—fleeing from Norway to Iceland—because as the sagas quaintly say, “it was the only place within their reach at the time where they could live undisturbed by kings and evil-doers,”—first sighted the snow-capped peaks of Orœfa, and prepared to land on the silent shore.

As they approach nearer to the coast they throw overboard the pillars of the chief’s high seat which they have brought with them, in the belief that, directed by the gods, these will be carried by the tide to a spot divinely selected for the new settlement. But alas! during the night they lose sight of the floating pillars that were to guide them, and on landing look for them in vain. Three years pass away, and still the search is fruitless. At length the long-lost pillars are found on the present site of the capital, and there, in reliance upon the directing providence of the gods, Ingolfr and his little company settle.

38Their new town must of course receive a name, so it is called Reykjavik, or Smoking Village, because on approaching the bay the wondering Norsemen saw steam—which they not unnaturally mistook for smoke—issuing from the earth in various parts of the coast.

Such is an outline of the founding of the city before us. Its progress has been slow, and its population to-day, set down at about 2,500, is probably not much greater than it was seven or eight hundred years ago.

But we live in stirring times, and may, therefore, be allowed to hope that under present conditions, which are much more favourable than at any previous period of its history, Reykjavik may yet become the thriving capital of a country redeemed from desolation by the patriotic enterprise and energy of a free and enlightened nation.

Then will these words of their national anthem

acquire a deeper meaning as they fall from the lips of a grateful people, who see their fatherland gradually becoming great and happy as it steadily triumphs over the difficulties and obstacles with which Nature, in an angry mood, seems to have tried her best to retard its progress and hinder its prosperity.

The words above quoted are interesting as an example of Icelandic. Dr Hjaltalin having kindly furnished me with the following literal translation: 39“Iceland old as fire, beloved native land, fair mountain bride, thou wilt be dear to thy sons, while the sea surrounds the land, and men’s desire is to maidens, and the sun shines on the hillside,” I have endeavoured to turn it into English verse without materially deviating from the original words and metre.

The tune to which the anthem is sung—God Save the Queen—is claimed by the Icelander.

As we are on the point of returning to the ship for lunch we espy a couple of neatly dressed maidens, one of whom is rather pretty. We succeed in making the latter understand by signs that we are exceedingly anxious to take her portrait that we may carry it with us across the seas, and flattered by the attention, and willing to oblige, she consents with a modest blush which we are able particularly to observe, because her face is clean, which is more than can be said for the Icelanders generally, who, if report be true, dislike cold water when applied to the skin, or unless mixed with corn brandy.

This objection would seem to be inherited, and as Mark Twain says, “to run in the blood like wooden legs,” if we are to believe the traditions of early history, for it is recorded that the greatest objection of the Pagans to Christianity arose from the necessity of being baptised. This difficulty was only overcome by an agreement that the ceremony should be performed by immersion in one of the “Laugs” or hot-springs.

40We are fortunate in getting into conversation with a Dane, who is mixing mortar for the walls of a stone dwelling-house in course of erection in a side street, and at the same time superintending two labourers who are busily engaged in carrying stones on a handbarrow.

The first thing we note is that the rough blocks are actually being quarried out of some large boulders which lie embedded in the middle of the street in which we are standing, and must therefore have seriously obstructed traffic had there been any to obstruct. Our friend the builder, who speaks very good English, having lived in Scotland for some time, tells us that he came to the country three years ago, and that, though a sailor by profession, he has the distinguished honour of being the first man to build a stone house in Iceland. When he proposed to make the attempt he was greeted with derision, it being considered impossible to work lava stone. “But,” says he, emphatically, “I knowed better, and I done it.” He has now erected several substantial buildings in Reykjavik which he points out with modest pride.

We learn from him that he pays his labourers 2 kroner and 75 öre per day of eleven hours, being at the rate of 25 öre per hour. Let me remark here that the kroner is a Danish silver coin value thirteen pence half-penny sterling, and that it contains 100 öre; the labourer’s daily wage therefore reckoned in English money amounts to about 3s 1d. Skilled workmen earn from 3 kroner (3s 4½d) to 3 kroner and 50 öre (3s 11d) per day. The hours of labour are from 6.0 a.m. till 7.0 p.m., one hour each being allowed for breakfast and dinner. There is no half holiday, but Sunday is strictly observed as a day of rest and devotion. Flour at present costs about 4118 kroner (20s 3d) per bag of 200lb, about the same as in England, and beef—seldom eaten—from 25 to 40 öre (3½d to 5½d) per lb, or from 45 to 50 öre (6d to 6¾d) when scarce, or very fat and good.

There is no such thing as a butcher’s shop in Reykjavik, but as the Scotsman said “every one kills himself,” taking care to apportion the animal before he does so. The people generally, however, live upon dried-fish, flour-cakes, rye-bread, butter, and curds. Female servants are paid about 40 kroner (45s) per annum, men receiving from 60 to 70. They are, of course, boarded and lodged, and one of the items of their allowance of food is 2lbs of butter per week.

Every woman must be able to milk, and every man must know how to shoe a horse, as I understand every Icelander does from the Bishop—who is the greatest and richest man in the country—downwards. Sugar-candy is commonly used instead of sugar to sweeten tea or coffee, the reason given by the captain of the Camoens being that it is not so apt to melt in damp weather. Our informant’s explanation is as follows: “Sugar-candy don’t run away in their mouths.” The Icelander evidently prefers, if I may use a common expression, to roll the candy like a sweet morsel under his tongue.

We enquire the cost of rent, and, pointing to the house of a tailor close by, he informs us that it is let for 20 kroner (22s 6d) per month, and contained three rooms and a kitchen.

The cowskin shoes, so universally worn, cost from 2 kroner upwards. It is a custom of the women in Iceland when they are “donned,” as we say in Yorkshire, to wear a bright coloured apron, a white front to the bodice, and a bow at the back, like that of the Japanese girls, made of a length of stuff one fathom (6 feet) long.

42A marriage license costs 36 kroner (40s 6d), and people can be married either in church or in their own homes if they prefer it, and at any hour, according to the sensible custom which also prevails in Scotland. The præsturs or parsons, who exercise great influence in the country, are especially careful that the women shall be educated, and I was reliably assured that no woman has much chance of securing a husband who is not able to teach her children at least the elements of education. There used to be a law forbidding a man to marry unless he owned “one hundred of land”—land worth 120 ells of Vathmál or homespun—or “a six-oared boat in trim.”

We subsequently learnt that our informant unfortunately introduced the measles into Reykjavik on his arrival three years ago, and that the dreadful disease spreading like wildfire, carried off no fewer than 37 persons in the thousand of the entire population of the island. Iceland has always been subject to plague, pestilence and famine, as well as to the havoc and desolation wrought by volcanic outbursts. In the seventeenth century many of its unfortunate inhabitants were carried into slavery by Algerine pirates; in 1707 from 16,000 to 18,000 people died of small-pox out of a total population of 50,000; in 1759 famine swept off 10,000 persons, and between the years 1781 and 1785 other 9,000 perished from the same cause. Starvation again made fearful ravages amongst them in 1824 and 1825; in 1827 an epidemic decimated the survivors, and there have been frequent minor calamities since. One finds it difficult to understand how it is that, in the course of a thousand years, the population has never exceeded the 72,000 which is its total to-day; 43but the continued recurrence of such disasters as those just mentioned, and the ravages of fire, frost, flood, and famine help to explain the matter. It is impossible to think without a shudder of the horrors and miseries which must have been endured by a people so circumstanced.

I have, however, been digressing, and must return to our friend, the builder, who proves to be quite a mine of information. We question him about the climate, and learn that it is by no means so severe as foreigners generally suppose, the registered mean temperature at Reykjavik of the whole year being 39deg., of summer 53deg., and of winter 29deg. At Akureyri, which is further north, these figures are respectively 32deg., 45deg., and 20deg. Rain falls heavily night and day at frequent intervals during the months of August and September, but from September till November the weather is fairly good. During winter the days are necessarily short, there being, at Reykjavik, only 3 hours and 58 min. of sunlight on the shortest day, and 20 hours, 54 min. on the longest. A great deal depends, however, upon what people call daylight. There are some men who would argue that in England we have daylight in November. At midsummer in the north the sun never sets for a whole week, and at mid-winter it never rises for a corresponding period. Summer is so short and variable as to remind one of the Scotsman’s advice to a friend who was about to visit North Britain: “When you get there,” said he, “don’t take off your overcoat till midsummer day, and put it on again the day after.”

When summer comes it is customary for people at its commencement to wish one another “a 44good summer,” just as we wish one another “A Happy New Year.” The words used by our informant in communicating this fact are rather amusing. They are as follows: “A man will say to you, ‘I wish you a good summer,’ and perhaps it will be snewin’ like blazes.” The expression “snewin’ like blazes” is worthy of the great Irish Parliamentary orator who “smelt a rat and saw it floating in the air,” but who nevertheless determined “to nip it in the bud.” Bidding our friend “Good day,” with many thanks for his courtesy, and being still as inquisitive as a Yankee interviewer, we stroll down to the Althing or Parliament House in search of another victim who is willing to be cross-examined. We find one in a pleasant-mannered young Clerk of the House, who shows us over the building, the largest and finest in Iceland, substantially built of dressed stone, and situated on one side of a small public park or garden, which contains a statue of Thorwaldsen, the great sculptor, whose father was a native of Iceland.

We are conducted by our guide first to the Lower, and next to the Upper Chamber: both of which are plain square rooms of moderate size, containing seats and desks for the members and a rostrum for the president. They are simply furnished, unrelieved by elaborate decoration, and quite large enough for those who occupy them when Parliament is sitting.

The Lower House consists of twenty-four members, except immediately after a general election, when thirty members take their seats as the representatives of the people. Of these thirty, however, six are at once transferred to the Upper House by the vote of a majority of their colleagues, where 45with six others nominated by the Crown,—making twelve in all,—they form the Senate or House of Lords. Each of these assemblies is presided over by a President, who receives an official salary. Members of both chambers are paid 6 kroner (6s 9d) per day, while Parliament is sitting, and receive in addition their travelling expenses to and from Reykjavik.

No man is eligible or qualified for a seat in either house unless he is a Danish subject, not less than thirty years of age, and has resided in Danish dominions for at least five years. The franchise is possessed by “all officials, ecclesiastics, university graduates, students who sign themselves ‘Candidat,’” holders of farms on lease, those who pay a minimum of eight kroner per annum in government taxes, and country people who pay cess, or parish rates, provided they are of unblemished character, at least twenty-five years of age, and have resided not less than twelve months in an electoral district. Women are excluded from the franchise as in all other civilised (?) countries; so are minors, paupers and criminals.

The total revenue of the country in 1884 was 863,932 kroner, in round numbers about £48,000, and was derived, according to the official year book which our informant kindly turns up for us, from the following sources:—(a) Land tax levied on farmers only, (b) cattle tax, (c) house tax, (d) income tax, (e) sale of property tax, (f) tax on incomes from other sources, (g) tax on tithes, (h) tax on exports, (i) tax on imports, (j) tax on tobacco, (k) post office revenue, (l) light and harbour dues.

Deferring any further notes with reference to the history of government till we reach the 46famous spot at Thingvellir where, a thousand years ago, the ancient Althing was wont to assemble, we return to the ship to tiffin, to find that a few seats at table will be vacant when we start for Akureyri on Saturday, as several of our little company have already secured quarters ashore with the intention of remaining in the country till the next voyage of the Camoens. These are an enthusiastic angler who has visited Iceland several times, and who has taken an excellent trout-stream on lease; a young city merchant,—also a disciple of Isaak Walton—a very nice fellow, the up-turned ends of whose attenuated moustache, however, are so wonderfully waxed that one almost longs to try to hang a hat and coat upon them; an officer of a crack regiment of dragoons who was at Majuba, and who knows South Africa well; a kind-hearted sociable old clergyman who put himself to great trouble to arrange a whist party at an early stage of the voyage,—not on his own account, but with a view of making some of us happier,—and who hopes to return to his parish in Suffolk with recruited energies after having made the ascent of Hekla, and bumped his poor bones over the lava-fields of South-Western Iceland; and last—but by no means least in his own estimation—a pawkie talkative self-opinionated exceedingly well-informed old Scotsman, who is burning with ardour to make a weary journey across the Sprengisandr (bursting sands) desert, and to ascend to the very crater of a famous volcano called Askja; a feat which on a previous visit he was unfortunately prevented from doing. He is perhaps not so much animated by a desire to increase the world’s knowledge as to “smash” another traveller who, having had the 47coveted honour of reading a paper before the Royal Geographical Society, inconsiderately omitted to mention his indebtedness for a good deal of information to notes supplied to him by our injured friend.

The remainder of our compagnons de voyage—who are “jolly companions every one”—are going on with us to Akureyri and will stay by the ship like ourselves till we get back to Scotland. They include two brothers of Scotch parentage but born in England, who like myself are constantly engaged in amateur photography; two young sparks from a Midland town famous for the loveliness of its ladies and the beauty of its lace, and who are familiarly known in the smoke-room as “Me and Arthur;” a tall, dark, agreeable philologist from the Cumberland fells who reads but does not speak Icelandic; and three gentlemen from London, viz:—an embryo barrister, nephew of one of the greatest living novelists; a budding shipbroker who, though a genuine Cockney, greatly admires Burns’ poems which he has read from beginning to end, including the glossary (!); and a fine-looking, handsome young fellow who would make splendid food for powder should he choose the army as a profession, as his father and grandfathers and great-grandfathers have done before him.

Everybody has been good-tempered, our worthy skipper setting the example, and granting us a degree of freedom in little things which many a less genial man would have refused. The stewards and stewardess have been most attentive to our wants, and exceedingly obliging; our table has been well supplied with necessaries and luxuries, and the voyage has hitherto been a pleasant one. It is astonishing how men thrown together on 48board an ocean-going steamer fraternise with one another, and it is always a real regret to me when a little community, formed under such circumstances, begins to break up. Partings, however, are constantly experienced in this world.

All we can do therefore is to bid our friends “Good-bye,” and to hope that they may each and all have “a good time,” as a Yankee would say, not only during their stay in Iceland, but on the voyage of life.

PLATE IV.

1 View of Reykjavik.—2 Woman wearing holiday head-dress.
3 Woman wearing “Hufa.”—4 Snaefellsjökull.—5 Building stone
houses, Reykjavik.—6 Cathedral and Parliament House, Reykjavik.
7 Lava plain, near the Observatory, Reykjavik.

CHAPTER IV. — AMERICAN STUDENT SONG.

There are no pleasanter memories of an ocean voyage than those that cluster round what is known afloat as “a Sing Song,” when a little group of fellows, whom fate has thrown together for a week or two, gather together on deck, under the bright blue starlit sky, and to the accompaniment of banjo or guitar, make the night-air melodious—or otherwise—with song and chorus.

Fletcher of Saltoun, a famous Scottish patriot, is credited with the oft-quoted saying “Let me make the songs of a nation and I care not who shall make its laws.” I have often felt how natural is the aspiration thus expressed, and never more than when the monotony of life at sea has been relieved by the willing efforts of a few sweet singers. But if the man who writes the words of a stirring song be such a benefactor what shall we say of the professionally-despised musician whose rattling choruses, full of melody, and easily learnt, make the strangers who sing them feel like old friends? My own opinion is that, had he any choice in the matter, he could desire no greater reward than the appreciation with which his music is sung by a grateful little company, such as I have just referred to.

50Last night a few of us held “a Sing Song” in the large room of the Island Hotel, and spent our first evening ashore most enjoyably. The captain had brought his violin with him, by invitation, and as we drew our chairs round a little table near the piano, we were presently joined in a cup of café noir by a pleasant and highly-intelligent Icelander, who was introduced as editor or proprietor of a newspaper; by our guide, Thorgrimur Gudmundsen, who came to report progress in his arrangements for the morrow; and by a fellow-Yorkshireman, who has been enjoying a few weeks’ sport on some of the trout streams, and who returns to England with us on Saturday. Giving our melodious instincts full play, we treated the company in the adjoining bar to a little vocal and instrumental music, which made up for its occasional want of tune and precision by its unmistakeable heartiness.

It also unearthed a young Yankee “masher,” whose get-up and general appearance, as he suddenly appeared in the doorway and approached our merry circle, caused us to pause in the midst of a chorus to gaze at him with undisguised astonishment and open-mouthed admiration. It was his costume rather than his personal beauty—though he was a good-looking young fellow—that provoked us to the unpardonable rudeness of staring. Let me try to describe it. He was attired in a short loose velveteen coatee, elaborately braided, and cut away in front in such a fashion as to expose a maximum of white shirt front admirably displayed by a minimum of velvet waistcoat. On his head he wore a little round tweed billycock in shape like a milk-bowl, and he had managed by a supreme effort to thrust his shapely legs into knee-breeches, tight as the skin of a kettledrum, and 51fastened at the knees with buckles; while his calves, evidently a source of reverential pride from the care taken to show them off to advantage, stretched a pair of superfine stockings to such an extent as to make one tremble for the stitches. His feet were encased in a natty pair of patent leather shoes ornamented, on each instep, with a large bunch of black ribbon, and a pair of silver buckles which if melted down into United States currency would probably have yielded dollars enough to pay his hotel bill for a week; and his tout ensemble suggested alternate thoughts of a London flunkey, a tailor’s block, and Apollo Belvidere.

His accent was just sufficiently nasal to leave no doubt on our minds as to his nationality, even if he had omitted—as he did not—to inform us that he hailed from

He proved himself a good fellow, and a pleasant companion, however; was troubled with little or none of the bashfulness which is such a distinguishing characteristic of his countrymen; and soon contributed to the harmony of the evening by singing several songs, one of which,—described by him as an “Amurican Stoodent Sawng,”—exercised such a fascination over us on account of its “catching” melody, and the ease with which we picked up the chorus, that we made the rafters ring with it at least a dozen times before we broke up. I wrote it down from memory as soon as I got the piano to myself, and here are the words of the first verse, and also the air which I have transposed into the tonic sol-fa notation for the convenience of the printer.

Stimulated by the applause with which his efforts were received our friend the captain astonished us with the pathos he managed to put into “The flowers o’ the forest,” “Auld Robin Gray,” and “Robin Adair,” while his bowing and “double stopping” suggested thoughts (we were in an imaginative humour be it remembered) of a combination of Paganini, Sivori, Vieuxtemps, and Carrodus.

At a late hour the would-be explorer of the mysteries of Askja stirred to the depths of his contentious soul by the competition of rival performers, produced an accordion on which he proved himself to be no mean performer.

“A sound of revelry was heard by night” in 53Reykjavik to which its peaceful inhabitants were probably unaccustomed, and the “Nicht drave on wi’ sangs and clatter.” The Icelandic editor, delighted with our efforts, invited us to take wine with him, and a bottle of sherry was accordingly brought in and duly emptied with mutual good wishes and much clinking of glasses. Then an Englishman present insisted upon returning the compliment, and the mirth and fun were growing fast and furious when the gentleman with the accordion—who was a staunch teetotaller—thrilled us with the inspiriting strains of a Scotch reel. Instantly half a dozen of us sprang to our feet and

For the next quarter of an hour I verily believe that the little knot of Danish sea-captains, who had by this time established themselves in a distant corner of the room, and the studious boy who was poring over a book by the light of the midnight sun that streamed in through the unblinded windows, looked upon us as a party of lunatics who had escaped from an English asylum.

So to bed we went, with the generally expressed wish that we might all meet again under similar circumstances on our return from our trip into the interior.

At ten o’clock this morning (July 14th) our guide arrived with the ponies, and on looking out of the hotel window we saw seven sturdy little animals of various colours standing in the lane outside. There 54are no carriages or wheeled conveyances of any kind in Iceland; at any rate none that I have as yet seen, with the exception of a solitary handcart of American manufacture, which does not appear to have been much longer in the country than ourselves. All travelling is done on pony-back, and every man, woman and child is accustomed to the saddle from infancy. Two ponies have been provided for each of us, including the guide, and one for our baggage, making seven in all. A brief reference to the arrangements made with our guide yesterday may be interesting and useful to intending tourists. We are to pay two kroner (2s 3d) per day for each of the seven ponies which form our cavalcade; and the guide’s fee is five kroner (5s 7½d) per day with food, or six kroner (6s 9d) without. In addition to these items there will be a charge of twenty öre (2¾d) per diem for pasturage for each of the ponies, so that our daily expenses for ponies and guide, reckoning the fee of the latter at 6s 9d, will amount to 24s in all, or 12s each person. In addition, however, we have had to provide a supply of bread and tinned provisions for four days, and shall have to pay for bed and breakfast at the parsonage or farmhouse where we may stay for the night; the usual charge for such accommodation being about three kroner. The daily total, including the cost of the food we have purchased, will therefore be not much less than a pound a day, which is what the tourist may expect it to cost him.

We are disappointed to find that our valises must be unpacked, and the few necessary articles of clothing which we have decided to take with us transferred to the two strong wooden boxes 55which already contain our stock of provisions, and which have been slung across the back of our pack-pony, where they rest upon a pad of dry turf to prevent chafing. There is no help for it, however, for our guide assures us that we are about to ride over a country so rough that no ordinary straps or buckles can stand the jolting, and that it is also absolutely necessary to equalise the burden of the patient little creature that is to carry our baggage. We accordingly submit, and while the transfer is being arranged my companion disappears and presently returns wearing a pair of huge wading boots, and a yellow oilskin sou’wester. The former we subsequently find to be quite indispensable in the case of anyone who objects to wet feet, for there are fords innumerable to cross between the capital and the Geysirs.

At length, our preparations being completed, we mount, and driving the three spare ponies and our baggage-carrier—(which are allowed to run perfectly free)—before us we ride off up the hill towards the Observatory. We have scarcely proceeded more than half-a-mile on our journey when we hear a wild shout behind us, and are presently joined by the captain of the Camoens, who comes tearing along on a sturdy little brute, and begins to enliven the proceedings by sending us all off at full gallop, which he does by a free use of one of the short-handled flat-thonged whips common in Iceland.

He rides like a “centaur,” not like a “sailor,” but not having served an apprenticeship to the circus business myself, and being as yet rather strange to the saddle, I am not altogether sorry when he reins up to return to town. It would afford me much pleasure to have his company 56all the way, but I am afraid I should only enjoy it at the risk of a broken neck, for the road over which we are trotting is one of the roughest of which I have ever had experience, and having a lively recollection of colonial roads that is saying a good deal. At the first important ford we halt for a few minutes along with seven of our shipmates who have formed an expedition of their own under the care of one of Zoega’s men. Zoega, I may observe, is a well-known man in Reykjavik, and has long been recognised as the chief of the fraternity of guides.

From this point the road gradually ascends, now crossing some wild mountain stream, cold as the snow and ice that feed it, and clear as the blue sky that it reflects; now winding, in and out, round the bases of ranges of barren stone-strewn treeless hills, heart-breaking in their monotony of unloveliness; and now traversing the dreary uncultivated unfenced plain, on which, at rare intervals, a little turf-covered farm house, with its adjoining folds and outbuildings, may occasionally be seen standing in the midst of the “tun,” or “home-field,” whose luxuriant grass tinged by the yellow butter-cup, refreshes the wearied eye, and forms a pleasant contrast, to the desolation that reigns everywhere around.

The melancholy cry of the curlew as it flies above our heads is the only sound—except the clatter of our ponies’ hoofs—that breaks the deep stillness, and the pretty wild flowers that—like the seed spoken of in the parable of “The Sower”—have “sprung up in stony places,” are the only other living things that seem to whisper a word of hopefulness to the despairing landscape. If people were but willing to look for it, there is always something to beautify the dreariest desert, just as there is always some tender spot 57even in the hardest heart, some good thought in the most selfish mind, and some good deed even in the vilest life. How many men travel only to indulge in constant carping and captious criticism; to find fault with everything they see, and to abuse everybody they meet. How many seem even to turn away their eyes lest they should observe anything which they might be tempted to admire. Iceland is no place for such men, for they would find too much occupation, and make themselves and their companions miserable by their continual growling. Happily there are none such in our party.

But the sky begins to grow grey and clouded. Not a streak of blue is to be seen either before or behind us, and the deep shadows that fill the fissures and ravines of the distant hills are clearly defined against the brown weather-beaten water-worn slopes. As we plod along we are at pains to examine the nature and depth of the soil where opportunity occurs, and soon come to the conclusion that there must be tens of thousands of acres of land in Iceland which might be brought under the plough. From the bright appearance of the “tun” to which I have already referred, as well as from the fact that potatoes and turnips are grown in small patches, here and there, as food for man and beast, we are forced to conclude that the absence of cultivation must be due quite as much to the want of energy and enterprise of the farmer, as to want of capital, or the recurrence of unfavourable seasons. On this point, however, I shall be able to speak more authoritatively after we have seen more of the country and learnt more of its natural conditions.

About 2.0 p.m. we halt for dinner, and to 58give the ponies a rest and a feed. By this time a Scotch mist has begun to fall and the air has grown much colder; but as we recline on a damp grassy bank with a chunk of dry bread in one hand and a portion of stringy Australian beef in the other, the weather does not materially interfere with our enjoyment. After a stoppage of about an hour we on-saddle and resume our journey, but soon pull up for a minute or two on the edge of a stretch of flat country literally covered, as far as the eye can see, with stones and boulders large and small.

There is no path through this lava-desert, but the route is indicated by the scratches and marks made upon the rocks by the shoes of the trains of ponies that daily travel to and fro between the capital and the interior; and at points where the ground is higher than the general level, large heaps of stones, or cairns, have been erected to guide the traveller when the country is under snow. As my pony steps cautiously, but confidently, upon this lava field, I begin to wish that I had insured my life in the Accidental. I also recognise the wisdom of the wily old Scotsman who played the accordion last night, who not having a single tooth in his head has prudently prepared himself for his journey over the Sprengisandr by bringing with him a small case in which to place and pocket his false teeth, that he may not inadvertently swallow them, or gash his poor gums, when stumbling over a tract of country like that before us.

After a long and fatiguing march across this stone-strewn waste we once more get on to turf, only, however, to find ourselves riding along a succession of the deep narrow rain channels, 59which form almost the only paths throughout Iceland. These wind in and out among the millions of grave-like frost-made mounds that give the landscape for many miles round the appearance of a huge cemetery, and remind me somewhat of the ant-hills so common in parts of South Africa, save that they are green instead of brown. Indeed the resemblance between the scenery of Iceland and that of many parts of Cape Colony is very striking, the chief points of difference being the numerous streams of clear running water and the prevalence of snow on the mountain peaks and slopes.

It is no easy matter, even for an accomplished horseman, to ride across country in Iceland, for when the pony is not picking its way painfully over a wilderness of stones, it is probably ambling between two rows of these frost-mounds, which are often so near each other on account of the narrowness of the track, and so high, that if the rider be not careful to keep a sharp look-out ahead and to tuck in his toes he is liable to come into contact, with them, and to find himself pitched out of the saddle, especially as the girths are never properly tightened.

If, however, he should come to grief, as he may expect to do occasionally, he has the satisfaction of knowing that, if he do not break his neck in the fall, he need fear nothing from his pony, for more docile hardy willing and good-tempered little creatures than the Iceland ponies do not exist. During the summer the grass of the home-field is reserved exclusively for the cattle, whose lot in winter even under the most favourable conditions is often one of semi-starvation. But the poor pony, after a summer of hard work and no 60corn, is turned out in winter to try to find wild-grass enough to keep him alive till the melting snows give him another chance of putting some flesh on his emaciated frame.

About 7 p.m. we sight Lake Thingvellavatn, the second largest lake in Iceland, a fine sheet of fresh water about twenty-five miles in circumference, in the middle of which rise two or three small islands black as night, and absolutely destitute of vegetation. These and the surrounding ranges of barren hills, deeply shaded in tones of dark brown and black, are reflected upon the glassy surface of the dull blue-gray waters, and serve but to intensify the gloomy grandeur of a picture which is only relieved from its oppressive blackness by the white peaks and snow-streaked slopes of the distant mountains, prominent among which, away to the south, towers the rugged form of Hengill. The scene is one that would inspire a Dante or a Doré by its wild and weird magnificence.

An hour later, we stand upon the summit of the Almannagja—(“‘all men’ or ‘great’ rift,”)—so called because in ancient times “all the people” met upon its eastern flank during the sitting of the Althing or Parliament. It is one of the great sights of Iceland, so we pause to observe and describe it, before descending the steep and rugged path which leads to the valley below. The Almannagja is the result of a rupture or gigantic crack caused by the subsidence of the lava-field, which stretches away for many a mile beyond it, though at a considerably lower level. Two huge walls, from two to three miles in length, have thus been formed one on each side of a narrow defile. That on the left, said to be about 180 feet in height, is absolutely perpendicular; 61is cracked in ten thousand times ten thousand places; and looks like an immense barrier built by Titanic hands. That on the right, which is about 80 feet lower, has evidently fallen away from the precipitous rock opposite; but the two together as they frown down upon the ravine below, give the scene such an appearance of gloom and desolation that it seems a fitting entrance to the Infernal regions.

The summits of both cliffs are covered, all along the sky-line, with rocks of various shapes and sizes, some of which overhang in a manner which seems to threaten destruction to the train of men and ponies below that sink into insignificance in comparison with the majesty of their surroundings.

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 62the 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 63fifty 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 64to 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, 65writing, arithmetic, orthography, geography, history, mathematics, Danish, and English, but no branch of either art or science.

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

soon seals my heavy eyelids, and ends my first day’s experiences of travel in the interior of Iceland.

CHAPTER V.

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 67places 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, 68where 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.”

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.

69About 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 70the 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.

71No 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 72the 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 73made 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:—

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 74round 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 75watch 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.

76Before 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:—

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. 77After 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 78a 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.

79Having 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 80women. 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 81the 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.

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 82spouted 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 83remarked “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.

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, 85shews 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 86almost 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.

87A 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 88from 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, 89John 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 90that 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.

91The 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 92cannot 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 93and 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 94hour 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 95for 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 96fishing-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!

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 97both 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.

98The 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 99were 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 100pilots. “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.

101Fortunately, 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.

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) 103the 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 104tells 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 105woman, 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 106order 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 107thus 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 108I 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 109to 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 110wishes 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 111might 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.

112The 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 113be 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.

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 114it 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.

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:—

115These 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.

116Between 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 117pathetic 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 118Duck. 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, 119as 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 120Wonderland 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 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.

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