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Title: Pen and pencil sketches of Faröe and Iceland : With an appendix containing translations from the Icelandic and 51 illustrations engraved on wood by W. J. Linton
Author: Symington, Andrew James
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Pen and pencil sketches of Faröe and Iceland : With an appendix containing translations from the Icelandic and 51 illustrations engraved on wood by W. J. Linton" ***
PEN AND PENCIL SKETCHES
OF
FARÖE AND ICELAND.
-------
“To the ocean now I fly,
And those _northern_ climes that lie
Where Day never shuts his eye.”
_Comus._
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: THE GREAT GEYSER IN ERUPTION.—_See page 117._]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PEN AND PENCIL SKETCHES
OF
FARÖE AND ICELAND
WITH AN APPENDIX
CONTAINING TRANSLATIONS FROM THE ICELANDIC
AND 51 ILLUSTRATIONS ENGRAVED ON WOOD BY W. J. LINTON
BY
ANDREW JAMES SYMINGTON
Author of “Harebell Chimes,” “The Beautiful in Nature, Art, and Life,”
&c.
LONDON
LONGMAN, GREEN, LONGMAN, AND ROBERTS
1862
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TO
LAURENCE EDMONDSTON, ESQ., M.D.,
OF SHETLAND,
CORRESPONDING MEMBER OF THE ROYAL PHYSICAL AND WERNERIAN SOCIETIES,
EDINBURGH;
HONORARY MEMBER OF THE YORKSHIRE PHILOSOPHICAL AND MANCHESTER
NATURAL HISTORY SOCIETIES, ETC.,
THIS VOLUME
IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED BY HIS SON-IN-LAW
A.J.S.
MAY 1862.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PREFACE.
-------
The greater part of this volume consists of a diary jotted down in
presence of the scenes described, so as to preserve for the reader, as
far as possible, the freshness of first impressions, and invest the
whole with an atmosphere of human interest.
The route taken may be thus shortly indicated: Thorshavn; Portland Huk;
the Westmanna Islands; Reykjavik; the Geysers; then, by sea, round the
south coast of the island, with its magnificent Jökul-range of
volcanoes; along the east coast, with its picturesque Fiords, as far
north as Seydisfiord; and thence home again, by the Faröe Isles.
The aim, throughout, has been both to present pictures and condense
information on matters relating to Faröe and Iceland. In obtaining the
latter I have had the advantages of frequent intercourse with
Icelanders, both personal and by letter, since my visit to the North in
the summer of 1859, and would here mention, in particular, the Rev. Olaf
Pálsson, Dean and Rector of Reykjavik Cathedral; Mr. Jón Arnason,
Secretary to the Bishop, and Librarian; Mr. Gísli Brynjúlfsson, the
Icelandic poet and M.P.; Mr. Sigurdur Sivertsen, a retired merchant, and
Mr. Jacobson.
And so too with the Faröese.
I acknowledge obligations to Dr. David Mackinlay of Glasgow, Dr. Lauder
Lindsay of Perth, and several other friends who have visited Iceland and
rendered me assistance of various kinds. Thanks are also due to Mr. P.
L. Henderson, for transmitting, by the _Arcturus_, letters, books and
newspapers to and from the north.
The APPENDIX comprises thirteen Icelandic stories and fairy tales
translated by the Rev. Olaf Pálsson; specimens of old Icelandic poetry;
poems on northern subjects in English and Icelandic; information for
intending tourists; a glossary; and lastly, a chapter on our
Scandinavian ancestors—treating of race, history, characteristics,
language and tendencies. This paper, originally intended for an
introduction, may be perused either first or last, at the option of the
reader. There is also a copious INDEX to the volume.
The illustrations, engraved by Mr. W. J. Linton, are all from original
drawings by the writer, with the exception of half a dozen,[1] taken
from plates in the large French folio which contains the account of
Gaimard’s Expedition.
Should these pages induce photographers and other artists to visit this
strange trahytic island resting on an ocean of fire in the lone North
Sea, or students to become familiar with its stirring history and grand
old literature, I shall feel solaced, under a feeling almost akin to
regret, that this self-imposed task—which, in spite of sundry vexatious
delays and interruptions, has afforded me much true enjoyment—should at
length have come to an end.
A.J.S.
MAY 1862.
-----
Footnote 1:
Nos. 19, 20, 21, 23, 24, and 31.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS.
-------
PAGE
PREFACE v
LEITH TO THORSHAVN 1
WESTMANNA ISLANDS—REYKJAVIK 35
RIDE TO THE GEYSERS 69
REYKJAVIK 143
JÖKUL-RANGES AND VOLCANOES ON THE SOUTH COAST 160
KÖTLUGJÁ’S ERUPTIONS 163
ICELANDIC STATISTICS 180
ERUPTION OF SKAPTÁR JÖKUL 187
VOLCANIC HISTORY OF ICELAND 193
THE EAST COAST. BREIDAMERKR—SEYDISFIORD 197
SEYDISFIORD, BY FARÖE, TO LEITH 208
APPENDIX.
I. ICELANDIC STORIES AND FAIRY TALES
STORIES OF SÆMUNDUR FRODI CALLED THE LEARNED.
I. The dark School 219
II. Sæmund gets the living of Oddi 221
III. The Goblin and the Cowherd 222
IV. Old Nick made himself as little as he was able 224
V. The Fly 224
VI. The Goblin’s Whistle 225
FAIRY TALES
Biarni Sveinsson and his sister Salvör 226
Una the Fairy 235
Gilitrutt 240
Hildur the Fairy Queen 244
A Clergyman’s daughter married to a Fairy Man 253
The Clergyman’s daughter in Prestsbakki 256
The Changeling 257
II. SPECIMENS OF OLD ICELANDIC POETRY
From the “Völuspá” 260
From the “Sólar Ljód” or “Sun Song” 262
From the Poems relating to Sigurd & Brynhild 265
“The Hávamál” or “High Song of Odin” 265
III. POEMS ON NORTHERN SUBJECTS
The Lay of the Vikings, by M.S.E.S. 278
Do. Translated into Icelandic by the Rev. Olaf Pálsson 279
The Viking’s Raven, by M.S.E.S. 281
Death of the Old Norse King, by A.J.S. 286
Do. Translated into Icelandic by the Rev. Olaf Pálsson 287
IV. INFORMATION FOR INTENDING TOURISTS 289
V. GLOSSARY 292
VI. CHAPTER ON OUR SCANDINAVIAN ANCESTORS 293
INDEX 309
------------------------------------------------------------------------
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
-------
PAGE
1. The Great Geyser in Eruption Frontispiece.
2. Little Dimon—Faröe 1
3. Foola 10
4. Naalsöe 15
5. Thorshavn, the capital of Faröe 20
6. Fort, at Thorshavn 23
7. From Thorshavn—showing Faröese Boats 27
8. Hans Petersen; a Faröese boatman 28
9. Basalt Caves—South point of Stromoe 32
10. Portland Huk—looking south 35
11. Needle Rocks or Drongs—off Portland Huk 38
12. Bjarnarey 43
13. Westmanna Skerries 43
14. Cape Reykjanes—showing Karl’s Klip (cliff) 45
15. Coast near Reykjavik 45
16. Eldey 46
17. Icelandic shoes, snuff-box, distaff, head-dress, & 53
fishermen’s two-thumbed mits
18. Reykjavik, from behind the town 67
19. Icelandic Lady in full dress, from a Photograph 68
20. View on the Route to Thingvalla 69
21. Ravine 73
22. Descent into the Almannagjá 81
23. Almannagjá 82
24. Fording the Oxerá 83
25. Priest’s House at Thingvalla 84
26. Althing and Lögberg from behind the church 87
27. Lake of Thingvalla from the Lögberg 89
28. Waterfall of the Oxerá as seen from the Lögberg 90
29. Vent of Tintron 94
30. Cinder-range of Vari-coloured Hills 95
31. Crossing the Bruará 104
32. The Great Geyser 129
33. Skaptár Jökul 134
34. Mount Hekla 135
35. Lake of Thingvalla from the north-west 139
36. Icelandic Farm, two hours’ ride from Reykjavik 142
37. Music in an Icelandic home (playing the langspiel) 145
38. Common Gull (_Larus canus_) 159
39. Oræfa Jökul, the highest mountain in Iceland 160
40. Snæfell Jökul, from fifty miles at sea 161
41. Part of Myrdals Jökul and Kötlugjá range 184
42. Oræfa Jökul, from the sea 185
43. Entrance to Reydarfiord—east coast 197
44. Near the entrance to Hornafiord 198
45. Mr. Henderson’s Factory at the head of Seydisfiord 202
46. Farm House, Seydisfiord 206
47. Seydisfiord, looking east towards the sea 207
48. Brimnæs Fjall 208
49. Naalsöe—Faröe 212
50. Entrance to the Sound leading to Thorshavn 213
51. Stromoe—Faröe, looking north-east from below the Fort at 216
Thorshavn
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: LITTLE DIMON—FARÖE.]
PEN AND PENCIL SKETCHES
OF
FARÖE AND ICELAND.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
LEITH TO THORSHAVN.
Can Iceland—that distant island of the North Sea, that land of Eddas and
Sagas, of lava-wastes, snow-jökuls, volcanoes, and boiling geysers—be
visited during a summer’s holiday? This was the question which for years
I had vaguely proposed to myself. Now I wished definitely to ascertain
particulars, and, if at all practicable, to accomplish such a journey
during the present season.
Three ways presented themselves—the chance of getting north in a private
yacht—to charter a sloop from Lerwick—or to take the mail-steamer from
Copenhagen. The first way seemed very doubtful; I was dissuaded from the
second by the great uncertainty as to when one might get back, and the
earnest entreaties of friends, who, with long faces, insinuated that
these wild northern seas were not to be trifled with. However, the
uncertainty as to time, and the expense, which for one person would have
been considerable, weighed more with me than any idea of danger. Of the
mail-steamer it was difficult to obtain any information.
One morning, when in this dilemma, my eye fell on an advertisement in
the _Times_, headed “Steam to Iceland,” informing all whom it might
concern that the Danish mail-steamer “Arcturus,” would, about the 20th
of July, touch at Leith on its way north, affording passengers a week to
visit the interior of the island, and would return to Leith within a
month. I subsequently ascertained that it was to call at the Faröe and
Westmanna Isles, and that it would also sail from Reykjavik round to
Seydisfiord, on the east of Iceland, so that one might obtain a view of
the magnificent range of jökuls and numerous glaciers along the south
coast.
The day of sailing was a fortnight earlier than I could have desired,
but such an opportunity was not to be missed. Providing myself with a
long waterproof overcoat, overboots of the same material—both absolutely
essential for riding with any degree of comfort in Iceland, to protect
from lashing rains, and when splashing through mud-puddles or deep river
fordings—getting together a supply of preserved meats, soups, &c. in tin
cans, a mariner’s compass, thermometer, one of De La Rue’s solid
sketch-books, files of newspapers, a few articles for presents, and
other needful things, my traps were speedily put up; and, on Wednesday
the 20th of July, I found myself on board the “Arcturus” in Leith dock.
It was a Clyde-built screw-steamer, of 400 tons burden. Captain
Andriessen, a Dane, received me kindly; the crew, with the exception of
the engineer, a Scotchman, were all foreigners. In the first cabin were
eight fellow-passengers, strangers to each other; but, as is usual at
sea, acquaintanceships were soon formed; by degrees we came to know each
other, and all got along very pleasantly together.
There was only one lady passenger, to whom I was introduced, Miss
Löbner, daughter of the late governor of Faröe, who had been south,
visiting friends in Edinburgh. Afraid of being ill, she speedily
disappeared, and did not leave her cabin till we reached Thorshavn. Of
our number were Professor Chadbourne, of William’s College,
Massachusetts, and Bowdoin College, Maine, U.S.; Capt. Forbes, R.N.; Mr.
Haycock, a gentleman from Norfolk, who had recently visited Norway in
his yacht; Mr. Cleghorn, lately an officer in the Indian army; Mr.
Douglas Murray, an intelligent Scottish farmer, from the neighbourhood
of Haddington, taking his annual holiday; Dr. Livingston, an American
M.D.; and Capt. B——, a Danish artillery officer, _en route_ from
Copenhagen to Reykjavik.
There were also several passengers in the second cabin, some of whom
were students returning home from their studies in the Danish
universities.
There was a large boat to be got on board, for discharging the steamer’s
cargo at Iceland, which took several hours to get fastened aloft on the
right side of the hurricane deck—with the comfortable prospect of its
top-heaviness acting like a pendulum, and adding considerably to the
roll of the ship, should the weather prove rough.
Shortly after seven P.M. we got fairly clear of the dock. Strange to
think, as the last hawser was being cast off, that, till our return, we
should hear no postman’s ring, receive no letters with either good
tidings or annoyances—for we carry the mail,—and see no later newspapers
than those we take with us! Friends may be well or ill. The stirring
events of the Continent, too, leave us to speculate on changes that may
suddenly occur in the aspect of European affairs, with the chances of
peace, or declarations of war.
However, allowing such thoughts to disturb me as little as possible, and
trusting that, under a kind Providence, all would be well with those
dear to me, hopefully, and not without a deep feeling of inward
satisfaction that a long cherished dream of boyhood was now about to be
realised, I turned my face to the North.
A dense mist having settled on the Frith of Forth, the captain deemed it
prudent to anchor in the roads. During the night it cleared off, and at
five o’clock on Thursday morning, 21st July, our star was in the
ascendant, and the “Arcturus” got fairly under way.
The morning, bright and clear, was truly splendid; the day sunny and
warm; many sails in sight, and numerous sea-birds kept following the
ship.
Breakfast, dinner, and tea follow each other in regular succession,
making, with their pleasant reunions and friendly intercourse, a
threefold division of the day. On shipboard the steward’s bell becomes
an important institution, a sort of repeating gastronomical chronometer,
and is not an unpleasant sound when the fresh sea-air has sharpened
one’s appetite into expectancy.
The commissariat supplies were liberal, and the department well attended
to by a worthy Dane, who spoke no English, and who was only observed to
smile once during the voyage. Captain Andriessen’s fluent English, and
the obliging Danish stewardess’ German, enabled us all to get along in a
sort of way; although the conversation at times assumed a polyglot
aspect, the ludicrous _olla-podrida_ nature of which afforded us many a
good hearty laugh.
The chief peculiarities in our bill of fare were _lax_ or red-smoked
salmon; the sweet soups of Denmark, with raisins floating in them; black
stale rye-bread; and a substantial dish, generally produced thrice a
day, which, in forgetfulness of the technical nomenclature, we shall
venture to call beef-steak fried with onions or garlic—that bulb which
Don Quixote denounced as pertaining to scullions and low fellows,
entreating Sancho to eschew it above all things when he came to his
Island. At sea, however, we found it not unpalatable. There must ever be
some drawbacks on shipboard. One of these was the water produced at
table, of which Captain Forbes funnily remarked, that it “tasted badly
of bung cloth—and dirty cloth, too!” But, such as it was, the Professor
and I preferred it to wine.
Thus much of culinary matters, for, with the exception of a few
surprises, which, according to all our previous ideas, confused the
chronology of the dishes—making a literal mess of it—and sundry minor
variations in the cycle of desserts proper, the service of one day
resembled that of another.
There was only wind enough to fill the mainsail, and in it, on the lea
side of the boom, as if in a hammock, sheltered from the broiling sun, I
lay resting for hours. Off Peterhead, we saw innumerable fishing
boats—counted 205 in one fleet. Off Inverness, far out at sea, we
counted as many, ere we gave in and stopped. Their sails were mostly
down, and we, passing quite near, could observe the process of the
fishermen shooting their nets; the sea to the north-east all thickly
dotted with boats, which appeared like black specks. A steamer was
sailing among them, probably to receive and convey the fish ashore.
Perilous is the calling of the fisherman! Calm to-day, squalls may
overtake him on the morrow—
“But men must work, and women must weep,
Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,
And the harbour bar be moaning.”
As the sun went down, from the forecastle we watched a dense bank of
cloud resting on the sea; its dark purple ranges here and there shewing
openings, with hopeful silver linings intensely bright—glimpses, as it
were, into the land of Beulah. Then the lights and shadows grandly
massed themselves, gradually assuming a sombre hue; while starry
thoughts of dear ones at home rose, welling up within us, as the
daylight ebbed slowly away over the horizon’s rim.
_Friday morning, July 22._—Rose at seven; weather dull; neither land,
sky, nor sail, visible; our position not very accurately known. At four
in the morning the engine had been stopped, the look-out having seen
breakers a-head—no observation to be had. Our course to the North Sea
lay between the Orkney and Shetland Islands. After breakfast it cleared,
and on the starboard bow, we saw Fair Isle, so that our course was
right, although we had not known in what part of it we were.
There was cause for thankfulness that the Orkneys had been passed in
safety. Where the navigation is intricate and requires care at best, our
chances of danger during the uncertainty of the night had doubtless been
great. The south of the Shetland Isles also appeared to rise from the
sea, dim and blue, resting on the horizon, like clouds ethereal and
dreamlike.
At 11 o’clock A.M., sailing past Fair Isle, made several sketches of its
varied aspects, as seen from different points. Green and fair, this
lonely island lies about thirty miles south-west of the Shetland group,
and in the very track of vessels going north.
It has no light-house, and is dreaded by sailors; for many are the
shipwrecks which it occasions. Before now, we had heard captains, in
their anxiety, wish it were at the bottom of the sea. Could not a light
be placed upon it by the Admiralty, and a fearful loss of life thus be
averted?
The island contains about a hundred inhabitants, who live chiefly by
fishing and knitting. They are both skilful and industrious. During the
winter months, the men, as well as the women, knit caps, gloves, and
waistcoats; and for dyeing the wool, procure a variety of colours from
native herbs and lichens.
True happiness, springing as it ever does from above and from within,
may have its peaceful abode here among those lonely islanders quite
apart from the noise and bustle of what is called the great world,
although the stranger sailing past is apt to think such places “remote,
unfriended, melancholy, slow.”[2]
Ere long we could distinguish the bold headland of Sumburgh, which is
the southern extremity of Shetland; and a little to the north-west of
it, by the aid of an opera-glass, Fitful Head,[3] rendered famous by Sir
Walter Scott as the dwelling place of Norna, in “The Pirate.”
Last summer I visited this the most northern group of British islands,
famed alike for skilful seamen, fearless fishermen, and fairy-fingered
knitters; for its hardy ponies, and for that soft, warm, fleecy wool
which is peculiar to its sheep.
Gazing on the blue outline of the islands, I now involuntarily recalled
their many voes, wild caves, and splintered skerries, alive with sea
gulls and kittiwakes. The magnificent land-locked sound of Bressay too,
where her Majesty’s fleet might ride in safety, and where Lerwick—the
capital of the islands, and the most northerly town in the British
dominions—with its quaint, foreign, gabled aspect, rises, crowning the
heights, from the very water’s edge, so that sillacks might be fished
from the windows of those houses next the sea. Boating excursions and
pony scamperings are also recalled; the Noss Head, with its mural
precipice rising sheer from the sea to a height of 700 feet, vividly
reminding one of Edgar’s description of Dover Cliff, in “Lear,” or of
that which Horatio pictured to Hamlet—
“The dreadful summit of the cliff,
That beetles o’er his base into the sea....
The very place puts toys of desperation,
Without more motive, into every brain
That looks so many fathoms to the sea,
And hears it roar beneath.”
Nor is the much talked of _cradle_ forgotten, slung on ropes, for
crossing the chasm between a lower cliff and the Holm of Noss;—a
detached rocky islet, the top of which only affords pasture, during the
summer months, for some half dozen sheep.
The curious and singularly-perfect ancient Pictish or Scandinavian
Burgh, in the Island of Moosa, rises again before me; Scalloway Bay,
with its old Castle in ruins, its fishermen’s cots, and fish-drying
sheds. A high, long, out-jutting rocky promontory too, on which I had
stood watching the “yeasty waves” far below, as they rolled thundering
into an irregular cave, which, in the course of ages, they had scooped
out among the basaltic crags, and, leaping up, scattered drenching
showers of diamond spray. Every succeeding dash of the billows produced
a loud report like the discharge of artillery, the reverberations
echoing along the shore. In the black creek below, the brine seething
like a caldron was literally churned into white foam-flakes, which,
rising into the air on sudden gusts of wind, sailed away inland, high
overhead, like a flock of sea-birds. These flakes were of all sizes,
large masses of froth at times floating down, and alighting at our very
feet, from so great a height that they had merely shewed as black specks
against the bright sunlight. In lulls one could actually lift them
bodily from the ground, upwards of two cubic feet in size; but when the
wind rose, such masses of whipped sea-cream were again seized upon,
swept aloft, divided into smaller portions, and carried away across the
island. These and other pleasing memories presented themselves as we now
gazed on the distant, dim-blue Shetland Isles.
Saw a large vessel disabled and being towed southwards from Shetland,
where she appears to have come to grief. Topmasts gone, sides battered
and patched with boards. She is high out of the water, so that the cargo
must have been discharged. All our opera-glasses and telescopes are in
requisition.
[Illustration: FOOLA.]
Sat on the boom for hours, the vessel rolling heavily over the great
smooth Atlantic billows. In the afternoon passed the island of Foola,
which has been called the St. Kilda of Shetland. It lies about sixteen
miles west of Mainland, and is high and precipitous. The cliffs are
tenanted by innumerable sea-fowls, which are caught in thousands by the
cragsmen, and afford a considerable source of revenue to the
inhabitants.
Blue and cloudlike the detached and isolated heights of Mainland, Yell,
and Unst—the promontory of Hermanness, on the latter, being the most
northerly point of the British islands—are fast sinking beneath the
horizon. Ere long Foola, left astern, follows the others. No land in
sight, not a sail on the horizon; all round is now one smooth heaving
circular plain of blue water—the ever changing level producing a most
singular optical effect.
In the evening walked the deck with Mr. Haycock, discoursing of
Norwegian scenery, and of yacht excursions thither. The evening clear
and pleasant, although the ground-swell continued to increase. Turned
in, at half-past ten o’clock. The vessel rolled much during the night.
Professor Chadbourne, Mr. Murray, and Mr. Cleghorn’s berths were in the
same state-room as mine. The quarter-deck being elevated, one of our
windows opened towards the deck, and _could_ at all times afford good
and safe ventilation; but the stewards always _would_ shut it, watching
their opportunity of doing so when we were asleep. We always opened it
again, when on waking we found the deed had been done; and all of us
made a point of shouting out ferociously when we caught them stealthily
at it. This shutting and opening occurred several times every night, and
seemed destined to go on, spite of all our remonstrances; a nuisance
only relieved by a slight dash of the ludicrous. Danes don’t seem to
like fresh air.
_Saturday morning, July 23._—No land in sight, open sea from Norway to
America; heavy swell on the Atlantic, and wind changing from N.E. to
N.W.; numerous whales blowing, quite close to the vessel; gulls and
kittiwakes flying about.
At mid-day came in sight of the Faröe Islands rising above the horizon;
fixed the first glimpse of them, and continued sketching their outline
from time to time, as on nearing them it developed itself—watching with
great interest the seeming clouds slowly becoming crags. Little Dimon, a
lofty rock-island, somewhat resembling Ailsa, and purple in the
distance, was, from the first, the most prominent and singular object on
the horizon line.
The waves rolling so heavily that not only the hull, but the mast of a
sloop, not very far off, is quite hid by each long swell. The Professor,
Dr. Livingston, and Mr. Murray all agree in saying that they never had
such heavy seas in crossing the Atlantic.
The Faröe group consists of twenty-two islands, seventeen of which are
inhabited. A bird’s-eye view of them would exhibit a series of bare,
steep, oblong hills, in parallel ranges; with either valleys or narrow
arms of the sea between them, and all lying north-west and south-east.
The name Faröe is said to be derived from _faar_ or _foer_, the old word
for a sheep; that animal having probably been introduced by the Norse
sea-rovers long before these islands were permanently colonised in the
time of Harold. However, _fier_—the Danish word for feathers—is more
likely to be the correct etymology; for these islands are the native
habitat of innumerable sea-birds.
They lie 185 miles north-west of the Shetland Isles, 400 west of Norway,
and 320 south-east of Iceland; population upwards of 3000, and subject
to Denmark.
We are now approaching Suderoe, the most southerly of the islands. On
our left lie several curious detached rocks, near one of which, called
the Monk, is a whirlpool, dangerous in some states of the tide; although
its perils, like those of Corrivreckan between Jura and Scarba in the
Hebrides, have been greatly exaggerated. On one occasion I sailed over
the latter unharmed by Sirens, Mermaids, or Kelpies; only observing an
irregular fresh on the water, where the tide-ways met, and hearing
nothing save a dripping, plashing noise in the cross-cut ripple, as if
many fish were leaping around the boat.
In storms, however, such places had better receive a wide berth.
The approach to the Faröe group is very fine, presenting to our view a
magnificent panorama of fantastically-shaped islands—peaked sharp
angular bare precipitous rocks, rising sheer from the sea; the
larger-sized islands being regularly terraced in two or more successive
grades of columnar trap-rock. Some of these singular hill-islets are
sharp along the top, like the ridge of a house, and slope down on either
side to the sea, at an angle of fifty degrees. Others of them are
isolated stacks.
The hard trap-rock, nearly everywhere alternating with soft tufa, or
claystone, sufficiently accounts for the regular, stair-like terraces
which form a striking and characteristic feature of these picturesque
islands. The whole have evidently, in remote epochs, been subjected to
violent physical abrasion, probably glacial, during the period of the
ice-drift; and, subsequently, to the disintegrating crumbling influences
of moisture, and of the atmosphere itself. Frost converts each particle
of moisture into a crystal expanding wedge of ice, which does its work
silently but surely and to an extent which few people would imagine.
We now pass that singular rock-island, Little Dimon, which supports
a few wild sheep; and Store Dimon, on which only one family resides.
The cliffs here, as also on others of the islands, are so steep that
boats are lowered with ropes into the sea; and people landing are
either pulled up by ropes, or are obliged to clamber up by fixing
their toes and fingers in holes cut on the face of the rock.
Sea-fowls and eggs are every year collected in thousands from these
islets by the bold cragsmen. These men climb from below; or, like
the samphire-gatherer—“dreadful trade”—are let down to the nests by
means of a rope, and there they pursue their perilous calling while
hanging in “midway air” over the sea. They also sometimes approach
the cliffs at night, in boats, carrying lighted torches, which lure
and dazzle the birds that come flying around them, so that they are
easily knocked down with sticks, and the boat is thus speedily
filled. As many as five thousand birds have been taken in one year
from Store Dimon alone, and in former times they were much more
numerous.
We watch clouds like white fleecy wool rolling past, and apparently
being raked by the violet-coloured peaks; whilst others lower down are
pierced and rest peacefully among them.
Having passed Sandoe, through the Skaapen Fiord, we see Hestoe, Kolter,
Vaagoe, and other distant blue island heights in the direction of
Myggenaes, the most western island of the group. We now sail between
Stromoe on the west, and Naalsöe on the east. Stromoe is the central and
largest island of the group, being twenty-seven miles long and seven
broad. It contains Thorshavn, the capital of Faröe. Naalsöe, the needle
island, is so called from a curious cave at the south end which
penetrates the island from side to side like the eye of a needle—larger,
by a long way, than Cleopatra’s. Daylight shews through it, and, in calm
weather, boats can sail from the one side to the other. We observe a
succession of sea-caves in the rocks as we sail along, the action of the
waves having evidently scooped out the softer strata, and left the
columnar trap-rock hanging like a pent-house over each entrance. These
caves are tenanted by innumerable sea-birds. On the brink of the water
stand restless glossy cormorants; along the horizontal rock-ledges above
them, sit skua-gulls, kittiwakes, auks, guillemots, and puffins, in
rows; and generally ranged in the order we have indicated, beginning
with the cormorant on the lower stones or rocks next the sea, and ending
with the puffin, which takes the highest station in this bird congress.
If disturbed, they raise a harsh, confused, deafening noise; screaming
and fluttering about in myriads. Their numbers are so frequently
thinned, and in such a variety of ways, that old birds may, on these
occasions, be excused for exhibiting signs of alarm.
[Illustration: NAALSÖE.]
The Faröese eat every kind of sea-fowl, with the exception of gulls,
skuas, and cormorants; but are partial to auks, guillemots, and puffins.
They use them either fresh, salted or dried. The rancid fishy taste of
sea-birds resides, for the most part, in the skin only—that removed, the
rest is generally palatable. In the month of May the inhabitants of many
of the islands subsist chiefly on eggs. Feathers form an important
article of export.
We watched several gulls confidingly following the steamer; one in
particular, now flying over the deck as far as the funnel, now falling
astern to pick up bits of biscuit that were thrown overboard to it. Long
I stood admiring its beautiful soft downy plumage, its easy graceful
motions, the great distance to which a few strokes of its powerful
pinions urged it forward, or, spread bow-like and motionless, allowed it
simply to float and at times remain poised in the air right over the
deck, now peering down with its keen yet mild eyes, and leaving us to
surmise what embryo ideas of wonder might now be passing through its
little bird-brain.
The Danish officer raised, levelled his piece, and fired; the poor thing
screamed like a child, threw up its wings, turned round, and fell upon
the sea like a stone; its companions came flying confusedly in crowds to
see what was wrong with it, and received another shower of lead for
their pains.
Holding no peace-society, vegetarian, homeopathic &c. views, I do not
object to the _bona fide_ clearing of a country from dangerous animals;
or to shooting, when rendered necessary for supplying our wants;
but—from the higher, healthier platform of Christian manliness, reason
and common sense—would most emphatically protest against thoughtless or
wanton cruelty. Such barbarism could not be indulged in, much less be
regarded as sport, but from sheer thoughtlessness in the best; while,
under almost any circumstances, the destruction of animal life will, by
the true gentleman, be regarded as a painful necessity.
Those who love sport for its own sake may be divided into three
classes—the majority of sportsmen it is to be hoped belonging to the
first of these divisions;—viz., the thoughtless, who have never
considered the subject at all, or looked at any of its bearings; those
whose blunted feelings are, in one direction, estranged from the beauty
and joy of existence; and the third and last class, where civilization
makes so near an approach to the depravity of savage natures, that a
tiger-like eagerness to destroy life takes possession of a man and
becomes a passion. He then only reckons the number of braces bagged, and
considers not desolate nests, broken-winged pining birds, and the many
dire tragedies wrought on the moor by his murderous gun.
A study of the habits of birds, taking cognizance of all the interesting
ongoings of their daily lives, of their wonderful instincts and labours
of love, would, we should think, make a man of rightly-constituted mind
feel the necessity of destroying them to be painful; and he certainly
would not choose to engage in it as sport. The fable of the boys and the
frogs is in point, and the term “sport,” thus applied, is surely a
cruel, and certainly a one-sided word. In low natures, sympathy becomes
totally eclipsed and obscured by selfishness; and all selfishness is
sin.
Although shocked at witnessing the needless destruction of the poor
gull, for the sake of the officer, who was of a gentle kindly nature,
doubtless belonging to the “first division,” we tried hard to palliate
the deed; but that pitiful cry of agony haunts us yet!
“Farewell, farewell! but this I tell
To thee, thou Wedding guest!
He prayeth well, who loveth well
Both man, and bird, and beast.
“He prayeth best, who loveth best
All things both great and small;
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.”
Whales rising to the surface and spouting around the vessel; also shoals
of porpoises tumbling and gambolling about; sometimes swimming in line
so as closely to resemble the coils of a snake moving along; such an
appearance has probably originated the mythic sea-serpent.
There are still many caves in the rocks close on the sea; innumerable
birds flying out of them and settling on the surface of the heaving
water close under the cliffs.
We now approach a little bay, surrounded by an amphitheatre of bare
hills; the hollow, for a wonder, slopes down to the shore; we observe
patches of green among the rocks, and a flag flying. Several fishing
sloops lie at anchor, but there is no appearance of a town. Here we are
told is Thorshavn, the capital of Faröe—the haven of Thor. As we
approach, we discover that it is a town, the chief part of it built upon
a rocky promontory which divides the bay; we can also distinguish the
church and fort. The green tint we had observed is grassy turf—but it
happens to be growing on the roofs of the wooden houses; and the houses
are scattered irregularly among the brown rocks. On the promontory,
house rises above house from the water’s edge; and the black, wooden
church tower rising behind appears to crown them all. On an eminence, to
the right of the town, is the battery or fort, with a flagstaff in
front. All glasses in requisition, we curiously examine the place and
discover several wooden jetties—landing places for fishing boats.
Beneath the fort and all round, split fish are spread on the rocks to
dry; many square fish-heaps also are being pressed under boards, with
heavy stones placed above them.
The scenery around is not unlike that of Loch Long in Scotland, while
the general aspect of Thorshavn itself resembles the pictures of old
towns given in the corners of maps of the fifteenth century.
As we enter the bay with colours flying, the Danish flag is run up at
the fort, displayed by the sloops, and flutters from the flagstaff at
Mr. Müller’s house. This gentleman is one of the local authorities and
also agent for the steamer. A cold wind blows down the ravine, boats are
coming off, the steam-whistle rejoices on hearing itself echoed among
the hills, and the anchor is let go. Now, that we are near it, the town
appears really picturesque and carries one several hundred years back,
with its veritable old-world, higgledy-piggledy quaintness.
[Illustration: THORSHAVN.]
_Saturday night_, 6 P.M.—Went on shore in the captain’s boat, called at
Mr. Müller’s office—a comfortable new erection—and then separated into
parties to explore the place. Crowds of men, women, and children,
standing at every door, stare at us with undisguised child-like wonder;
the men—middle-sized stalwart fellows with light hair and weathered
faces—taking off their caps to us as we pass along returning their
salutes.
“An ancient fishy smell,” together with a strong flavour of turf-smoke,
decidedly predominate over sundry other nondescript odours in this
strange out-landish town. The results of our exploration are embodied in
the following jottings, which, at all events, participate so far in the
spirit of the place as to resemble its ground-plan.
Houses, stone for a few feet next the ground, then wood, tarred or
painted black, and generally two stories in height; small windows, the
sashes of which are painted white; green turf on the roofs. The
interiors of the poorer sort of houses are very dark; an utter absence
of _voluntary_ ventilation; one fire, and that in the kitchen, the
chimney often only a hole in the roof. Yet even in these hovels there is
generally a guest-room, comfortably boarded and furnished. In such
apartments we observed chairs, tables, chests of drawers, feather-beds,
down coverlets, a few books, engravings on the walls, specimens of
ingenious native handiwork, curiosities, &c. This juxtaposition under
the same roof was new to us, and struck every one as something quite
peculiar and contrary to all our previous experiences. The streets of
Thorshavn are only narrow dirty irregular passages, often not more than
two or three feet wide; one walks upon bare rock or mud. These passages
wind up steep places, and run in all manner of zigzag directions, so
that the most direct line from one point to another generally leads
“straight down crooked lane and all round the square.” Observed a man on
the top of a house cutting grass with a sickle. Here the approach of
spring is first indicated by the turf roofs of the houses becoming
green. Being invited, we entered several fishermen’s houses; they seemed
dark, smoky, and dirty; and, in all, the air was close and stifling. In
one, observed a savoury pot of puffin broth, suspended from the ceiling
and boiling on a turf fire built open like a smith’s forge, the smoke
finding only a very partial egress by the hole overhead; on the wall
hung a number of plucked puffins and guillemots; several hens seen
through the smoke sitting contentedly perched on a spar evidently
intended for their accommodation in the corner of the apartment; a stone
hand-mill for grinding barley, such as Sarah may have used, lay on the
floor; reminding one of the East, from whence the Scandinavians came in
the days of Odin.
In passing along the street we saw strips of whale-flesh, black and
reddish-coloured, hanging outside the gable of almost every house to
dry, just as we have seen herrings in fishing-villages on our own
coasts. When a shoal of whales is driven ashore by the boatmen, there
are great rejoicings among the islanders, whose faces, we were told,
actually shine for weeks after this their season of feasting. What
cannot be eaten at the time is dried for future use. Boiled or roasted
it is nutritious, and not very unpalatable. The dried flesh which I
tasted resembled tough beef, with a flavour of venison. Being
“blood-meat,” I would not have known it to be from the sea; and have
been told that, when fresh and properly cooked, tender steaks from a
young whale can scarcely be distinguished from beef-steak.
The costume of the men is curious, and somewhat like that of the
Neapolitans;—a woollen cap, like the Phrygian, generally dark-blue or
reddish; a long jacket and knee-breeches, both of coarse home-made
cloth, blue or brown; long stockings; and thin, soft, buff-coloured
lamb-skin shoes, made of one piece of leather, and without hard soles,
so that they can find sure footing with them on the rocks, or use their
toes when climbing crags almost as well as if they had their bare feet.
There is less peculiarity in the female costume. The men and women
generally have light hair and blue eyes. Honest and industrious, crime
is scarcely known amongst them.
Visited the Fort, which is very primitive; simply a little space on a
hill-side, enclosed with a low rough stone wall; four small useless
cannon lying on the grass, enjoying a sinecure—literally lying in
clover; a wooden sentry-box in the corner; a flagstaff in front of it,
and two little cottages behind, to accommodate several of the garrison,
who prefer living there to lodging in the town, as their comrades do.
There are only some eight or ten soldiers altogether; and these, with
the commander, constitute the sole military establishment in Faröe. They
appear to occupy themselves with fishing, &c., very much like the other
inhabitants of the place.
[Illustration: FORT.]
Visited the library, which was established by a former Amptman or
Governor. It occupies two rooms, which are shelved all round and
comfortably heated with a stove. We observed many standard Danish,
German, French and English books, several valuable folio works of
reference, and many trashy modern novels. The Faröese are inquisitive
and intelligent, show a taste for reading, but possess no native
literature like the Icelanders.
Visited the church, which is built of wood. The service performed in it
is the Lutheran, as in Denmark. It contains an altar-piece intended to
represent “Joseph of Arimathea with the dead body of Christ,” two large
candles, and a silver and ebony crucifix. The galleries, of plain
unvarnished wood, are arranged like opera stalls, one above the other
from the floor, and with green curtains to each. At the right side of
the pulpit were three large sand-glasses, an old custom once common in
all our churches; fronting the altar was the organ-loft. Everything
about the church was neat, clean, and primitive. Flower-beds were
planted so as to form wreaths or crosses on the graves in the
churchyard; and all appeared to be carefully tended and kept in order by
loving hands.
Went by invitation of Fraulein Löbner to drink tea at her mother’s, the
Danish officer with me. We were ushered into a charming old-fashioned
room with low panelled roof; everything in it was neat, scrupulously
clean, and primitive. A valance of white Nottingham lace-curtain ran
along the top of the diamond-paned lattice windows; while a row of
flower-pots, with blooming roses and geraniums, stood in the
window-sill. There were cabinets with rich old china-ware; several
paintings on the wall, two of which were really excellent—one, a
portrait in oil of her late father who had been Governor of Faröe; the
other a portrait of her brother, also deceased. Her father was a Dane of
German extraction; and her mother—a kindly old lady to whom we were now
introduced—a native of Faröe.
At tea we had preserves, made from rhubarb grown in their own garden; a
silver ewer of delicious cream highly creditable to Faröese dairyship;
and buns, tarts, almond-cakes, &c., baked by the one baker of Thorshavn,
and quite as good as could be had in London.
While the officer was sketching from the window, our kind hostess wound
up a musical box, at the same time expressing her regret that the
piano-forte, which I had observed standing in the room, was under
repair. She also showed us a folio of her own drawings, and many
engravings. Here a lady of cultivated mind, and who has mingled in good
society, is happy and content to dwell in this remote isle; for to her
it possesses the magic of that endearing word—home!
She tells us that wool, fish, feathers, and skins form the chief
articles of export; that barley is the only grain raised in Faröe, but
the summer is so short that it has not time to ripen. The ears are
plucked by the hand and dried in a kiln. The rye, of which their black
bread is made, is imported chiefly from Denmark. The hay-harvest is of
great importance to the inhabitants. There are numerous sheep in the
islands—some individuals possessing flocks of from four to five hundred,
besides a few ponies and cows. Dried, the mutton is serviceable for food
during winter, when frequent storms interfere with fishing operations.
As in Shetland, the wool is collected from the sheep by the hand, at the
season of the year when they are casting their fleeces; for shearing,
besides being a more painful process, would deprive them of the long
hair so necessary for their protection in an uncertain climate, and
leave them to shiver exposed to the untempered fury of the northern
blast. The sheep thus enables the islanders to supply their own home
wants, and also annually to export many thousand pairs of knitted
stockings and gloves, together with the overplus raw material.
Miss L. informs us that Thorshavn contains about eight hundred
inhabitants. Of these, most of the men are fishers when the weather will
admit of their going off. The people are very ingenious, and make knives
of all sizes, with curiously inlaid wooden handles and sheaths. The wood
for such purposes is obtained from logs of mahogany, which are
frequently found as drift-wood among these islands. We were shewn a
home-made fancy work-table, neatly put together in a very ingenious and
workman-like manner.
Each man here is a sort of Jack-of-all-trades, from the mending of boats
or nets, to the killing of sheep and drying them in sheds for the winter
store of provisions; from the making of lamb-skin shoes to the building
of houses, or the manufacture of implements.
Miss Löbner has kindly and obligingly undertaken to procure some
specimens of these manufactures and local curiosities against my return
from Iceland.
Gazing round, as we take leave of our kind entertainers, I fix in my
mind’s eye the lady-like air and quaint point-devise costume of the
elder lady, who, with silvery hair combed back from her brow, had moved
about most assiduously performing all the sacred rites of hospitality to
her guests; the mediæval aspect of everything in the room,—from the
stove to the timepiece, from the polished wooden floor to the panelled
ceiling; the diamond-paned lattice windows, with their old-world outlook
on the town and the flat wooden bridge, close by, which crosses a
brawling stream rushing impetuously over rocks from the gully behind;
the absolute cleanness and polish of everything; and the monthly roses
blooming freshly as of old;—all so vividly impress themselves upon my
mind that the whole becomes a waking dream of other days; and it would
not seem much out of keeping, or at all surprising, were the Emperor
Charles V. himself to open the door and walk into the quaint old
apartment we are now about to leave.
[Illustration: FROM THORSHAVN—SHOWING FARÖESE BOATS.]
Nine P.M.—Wandered alone by the shore, and sketched the view, looking
north, from beneath the fort; also made a drawing of the bay from the
wooden jetty; while engaged on the latter, crowds of fishermen gathered
around me making odd remarks of wonder, the general scope of which I
could gather, as they recognised the steamer, boats, hills, &c., coming
up on the paper; sketched one of the onlookers, an intelligent looking
fellow, and here he is.
[Illustration: FARÖESE BOATMAN.]
The fishing boats or skiffs, have all the high bow and stern of the
Norwegian yawl; square lug-sails very broad and carried low are the most
common. The weather is so very uncertain, the gusts so sudden and
violent, that, preceded by a lull during which a lighted candle may be
carried in the open air, they come roaring down the valleys or between
the islands, bellowing with a noise like thunder, and sometimes strip
the turf from the hill side, roll it up like a sheet of lead and carry
it away into the sea, while the air is darkened by clouds of dust and
stones.
Felt comfortably warm when sketching in the open air between ten and
eleven P.M., for, though the climate is moist, the mean temperature is
warmer than that of Denmark, and, on account of the gulf stream, not
much below our own. Forchhammer states that at Thorshavn in mild years,
it is 49·2°; in cold years, 42·3°; the average temperature being 45·4°.
The greatest height of the thermometer during his observations was
72·5°, and the lowest 18·5°.
Shortly before eleven o’clock the soldiers of the fort manned their
boat, and rowed us off to the steamer.
After narrating our various experiences on shore, had a pleasant quiet
home-talk with Professor Chadbourne, read a few verses of the New
Testament, and as the week was drawing to a close we retired to our
berths, wishing each other a good night’s rest after all the novel
excitement, wonder, and fatigues of the day.
_Sabbath, July 24._—Wind high, and the lashing rain pouring down in
torrents. Went ashore at ten o’clock to attend church; heard the
pleasing sound of psalm-singing in various of the fishermen’s dwellings
as we passed along. Called for Mr. Müller, who had invited me to his
pew. The service was Lutheran, and began at eleven o’clock. The pastor
was absent, but the assistant, M. Lützen, who is also schoolmaster and
organist, officiated. All the people, singing lowly, joined in several
fine old German chorales, led by the organist, who also played some of
Sebastian Bach’s music with much taste and feeling—although little
indebted to the instrument, which was old and infirm, piping feebly and
tremulously in its second childhood.
The area of the church was entirely occupied by women, many of them with
their bare heads, but most of them with a quaint little covering on the
back part of the head for hair and comb; only saw two bonnets in the
whole congregation. One old lady—with her hair combed back, a black silk
covering on the back part of her head, and, from where it terminated
behind her ears, a stiff white frill sticking right out—looked as if she
had just stepped out from one of Holbein’s pictures; others resembled
Gerard Dow’s old women. The men “were drest, in their Sunday’s
best;”—long jackets and knee-breeches of coarse blue or brown cloth,
frequently ornamented with rows of metal buttons; stockings of the same
colours; and the never-varying buff-coloured lamb-skin shoes.
It was pleasing to see these stalwart descendants of the brave old
Vikings “the heathen of the Northern sea,”—these men whose daily
avocations exposed them to constant perils by sea and land, here, in the
very haven of Thor, walking reverently into a Christian church, with
their caps and Bibles in their hands, and quietly entering their pews to
worship God.
Although the day was very wet, and the regular minister absent, there
was present a congregation of about two hundred; and all seemed truly
devotional during the service.
From the roof, between two old-fashioned brass chandeliers, was
suspended a brig, probably the gift of some sailor preserved from
shipwreck. The service began at eleven o’clock, and ended at half-past
twelve. When it was over, I spoke with Skolare Lützen, who had
officiated. He is a native of Copenhagen, speaks little English, but
good German. He took me over the building, and into the pulpit.
Altogether, the quaint appearance of the church, the organ, the singing
of the people, the devout reading and simplicity of the service, and the
curious old costumes carried one back to the time of the Reformation,
and to me all was singularly interesting. One could fancy that here, if
anywhere, the European world had stood still, and that Luther himself
would not have detected the lapse of centuries, if permitted once more
to gaze on such a scene as was here presented.
Two of us accompanied Mr. Müller to his house before going on board the
steamer. His wife and daughter were hospitable and kind; and, as usual
on a visit here, tarts, cakes, and wine were produced. His home
resembles a museum, containing many stuffed birds, eggs, geological
specimens and other natural curiosities collected in these islands. His
little son’s name is Erasmus.
Captain Andriessen had wished to sail to-day, but could not get men to
work on Sabbath discharging the cargo; at which I was well pleased, both
for the right feeling it indicated on the part of the Faröese, and for
our own sakes. Here we lie peacefully anchored in the bay, enjoying the
Sabbath quiet, while the tempest is now howling wildly outside the
islands, and the lashing pelting rain is pouring down on the deck
overhead like a shower-bath.
“Such groans of roaring wind and rain I never
Remember to have heard.”
The rain having abated, ere retiring for the night, walked the deck for
half an hour. Thorshavn, as seen in the strong light and shade of
evening from the steamer’s deck, has truly a most quaint old-world
look—all the more so now that we know it from exploration—so very
primitive that one can scarcely imagine anything like it. It is unique.
[Illustration: BASALT CAVES—SOUTH POINT OF STROMOE.]
_Monday morning, July 25._—From an early hour, all hands busily occupied
discharging the cargo, heavily-laden boats following each other to the
shore. At half-past one o’clock, the last boat pushes off, the
steam-whistle is blown, and we sail away round the south point of
Stromoe, shaping our course north-west through Hestoe Fiord. The coast
of the islands is abrupt, mostly rising sheer from the sea; many
basaltic columns, and a succession of wave-worn caves, in front of which
countless sea-birds are flying, swimming and diving. The trap hills are
regularly terraced like stairs. Clouds drifting among the hills, and
from every gully cataracts leaping down in white foam to the sea. The
general colour of the rocks is gray and brown, slightly touched here and
there with green. These islands might be characterized as several groups
or chains of hills, lying nearly parallel to each other and separated by
narrow arms of the sea, which run in straight lines north-west and
south-east. The summits of the larger islands reach an elevation of from
one to two thousand feet; while the highest hill—Slattaretind, near Eide
in Oesteroe—is two thousand nine hundred feet high.
The hills around still exhibit a succession of grassy declivities,
alternating with naked walls of black or brown rock. The flat heights of
these islands, we are told, are either bare rock or marshy hollows.
There are also several small lakes, the largest of which, in Vaagoe, is
only two miles in circumference, and lies surrounded by wild rugged
mountain masses.
We count a dozen foaming cataracts, all in sight at once, and falling
down over precipitous rocks around us into the sea. The wind perceptibly
sways them hither and thither, and then dispersing the lower portion of
the water raises it in silvery clouds of vapour on which rainbows play.
They resemble the Staubach in Switzerland; and remind us of the wild
mist-veil apparition of Kühleborn, in the charming story of Undine.
The tidal currents, in the long narrow straits which divide the northern
islands from each other, are strong but regular; running six hours the
one way and six hours the other. Boatmen must calculate and wait for the
stream, as the oar is powerless against it.
The atmospheric effects are beautiful;—a bold headland, ten miles to the
south, appears in the bright sunshine to be of the deepest violet
colour; no magic of the pencil could approach such a tint. It is
heightened too by the white gleaming sail of a fishing smack relieved
against it.
When we got clear of the islands, the ground-swell became much heavier;
for the storm of the preceding day had been terrific. Great heavy waves
of smooth unbroken water, worse than Spanish rollers; boat tumbling and
plunging about, with sail set to steady her; walked the deck for an hour
and found use for my sea-legs.
Several gulls follow the ship; I never tire of watching their graceful
motions, as, with white downy plumage and wings tipt with black, they
fly forward round the mast, remain poised over the deck, or fall astern
keeping in the steamer’s wake. Two of our companions have discovered a
capital sheltered nook and sit smoking, perched up inside the large
inverted boat which we are taking north with us.
An Icelander and a Dane are among the second-class passengers; got them
to read aloud to me Icelandic and Danish, also Greek and Latin. In
pronouncing the latter two, they follow the classic mode and give the
broad vowel sounds, as taught in the German and Scottish universities
but not at Oxford or Cambridge.
The dim Faröes are fast falling astern—
“Far-off mountains turnéd into clouds.”
The vessel by the log makes eight knots—course, N. by W. and sails set.
The day lengthens as we go north, and at midnight I can now see to read
large print, although the sky is very cloudy.
No land—no sail in sight; we heave over the billows of the lonely
Northern Sea, and now all is clear before us for Iceland!
-----
Footnote 2:
Reduced to extreme destitution, by the failure of crops, subscriptions
are at present (1862) being collected to enable the inhabitants of
Fair Isle to emigrate.
Footnote 3:
The original name is Fitfiel—probably the white mountain—_fit_
signifying white, and _fiel_, fell or mountain. In the same way
England was called _Albion_, from its white cliffs.
[Illustration: PORTLAND HUK.]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE WESTMANNA ISLANDS—REYKJAVIK.
_Tuesday morning, July 26._ Open sea and not a sail visible, although we
carefully scan “the round ocean.”
Tremendous rolling all night; everything turning topsy-turvy and being
knocked about—my portmanteau, which was standing on the cabin floor,
capsized. Only by dint of careful adjustment and jambing in the form of
the letter z could we prevent ourselves from being shot out of our
berths.
To-day we have the heaviest rolling I ever experienced. It is impossible
even to sit on the hurricane deck without holding on by a rope, and not
easy even with such assistance. Deck at an angle of 40 to 45°. The boat
fastened aloft aggravates matters. A very little more, or the slightest
shifting of the cargo, would throw us on our beam ends. The boat getting
loose from its fastenings when we are on the larboard roll would break
off the funnel. The Captain has hatchets ready, at once to send it
overboard or break it up if requisite for our safety. The bell tolling
with the roll of the ship, first on the one side, and then on the other;
generally four or five times in succession. A series of large rollers
alternate with lesser waves; the bell indicates the former. Waves
without wind roll in from the N. and N.W., both on the starboard and
port bow.
In the afternoon saw a piece of wreck—mast and cordage—floating past,
most likely a record of woe; involving waiting weary hearts that will
not die.
Not a speck on the whole horizon line; a feeling of intense loneliness
would at times momentarily creep over us. Birds overhead flying south
brought to mind Bryant’s beautiful poem addressed to “The Waterfowl,”
which he describes as floating along darkly painted on the crimson sky:
“There is a Power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,—
The desert and illimitable air
Lone wandering but not lost.
Thou’rt gone, the abyss of heaven
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart,
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,
And shall not soon depart.
He, who from zone to zone
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone
Will lead my steps aright.”
The heavy rolling still continues. Hope the cargo will keep right, or we
shall come to grief. Thought of the virtues of my friends. However,
maugre a dash of danger, a group of us on the hurricane deck really
enjoyed the scene as if we had been veritable Mother Carey’s chickens.
One sang Barry Cornwall’s song “The Sea;” another by way of contrast
gave us “Annie Laurie” and “Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace bled;” and towards
evening we all joined in singing “York;” that grand old psalm tune
harmonizing well with the place and time—
“The setting sun, and music at the close!”
The gulf-stream and the rollers meeting make a wild jumble. Barometer
very low—28^{10}; low enough for a hurricane in the tropics. Stormy
rocking in our sea-cradle all day and all night.
_Wednesday, July 27._—Vessel still rolling as much as ever. Saw a skua—a
black active rapacious bird, a sort of winged pirate—chasing a gull
which tried hard to evade it by flying, wavering backwards and forwards,
zig-zagging, doubling, now rising and now falling, till at last, wearied
out and finding escape impossible, it disgorged and dropt a fish which
the skua pounced upon, picking it up before it could reach the surface
of the sea. The fish alone had been the object of the skua’s pursuit.
The skua is at best but a poor fisher and takes this method of supplying
its wants at second hand. Subsequently we often observed skuas following
this their nefarious calling; unrelentingly chasing and attacking the
gulls until they gave up their newly caught fish, when they were at once
left unmolested and allowed to go in peace; but whether the sense of
wrong or joy at escape predominated, or with what sort of feelings and
in what light the poor gulls viewed the transaction, a man would require
to be a bird in order to form an adequate idea.
We cannot now be far from Iceland, but clouds above and low thick mists
around preclude the possibility of taking observations or seeing far
before us. In clear weather we are told that the high mountains are
visible from a distance of 100 or 150 miles at sea.
At half-past Three o’clock P.M., peering hard through the mist, we
discover, less than a mile ahead, a white fringe of surf breaking on a
low sandy shore for which we are running right stem on. It is the south
of Iceland; dim heights loom through the haze; the vessel’s head is
turned more to the west and we make for sailing, in a westerly direction
with a little north in it, along the shore up the western side of the
island which in shape somewhat resembles a heart.
[Illustration: NEEDLE ROCKS—OFF PORTLAND HUK.]
The mist partially clears off and on our right we sight Portland Huk,
the most southern point of Iceland. Here rocks of a reddish brown colour
run out into the sea rising in singular isolated forms like castellated
buildings; one mass from a particular point of view exactly resembles
the ruins of Iona, even to the square tower; other peaks are like
spires. Strange fantastic needle-like rocks or drongs shoot up into the
air—the Witches’ fingers (Trollkonefinger) of the Northmen. The headland
exhibits a great arched opening through which, we were told, at certain
states of the tide, the steamer could sail if her masts were lowered. It
is called Dyrhólaey—the hill door—and from it the farm or village close
by is named Dyrhólar. Behind these curious rocks appeared a range of
greenish hills mottled with snow-patches, their white summits hid in the
rolling clouds.
There are numerous waterfalls; glaciers—the ice of a pale whity-green
colour—fill the ravines and creep down the valleys from the Jökuls to
the very edge of the water. Their progressive motion here is the same as
in Switzerland, and large blocks of lava are brought down imbedded in
their moraine. I perceived what I thought to be curved lines on the
surface like the markings on mother-of-pearl, indicating that the
downward motion of a glacier is greater in the centre than where impeded
by friction at the sides.
On the shoulders of the range of heights along the coast, snow,
brown-coloured patches and green-spots were all intermingled; while the
upper mountain regions of perpetual snow were meanwhile for the most
part hid in clouds which turban-like swathed their brows in fleecy
“folds voluminous and vast.”
The steamer is running, at nine knots, straight for the Westmanna
Islands, where a mail is to be landed. They lie off the coast nearly
half way between Portland Huk, the south point, and Cape Reykjanes the
south-west point of Iceland.
How gracefully the sea-birds skim the brine, taking the long
wave-valleys, disappearing and reappearing amongst the great heaving
billows. We note many waterfalls leaping from the mountain sides to the
shore, and at times right into the sea itself, from heights apparently
varying from two to four hundred feet.
We now approach the Westmanna Islands, so called from ten Irish
slaves—westmen—who in the year A.D. 875 took refuge here after killing
Thorleif their master. They are a group of strange fantastically shaped
islets of brown lava-rock; only three or four however have any
appearance of grass upon them, and but one island, Heimaey—the home
isle, is inhabited. The precipitous rock-cliffs are honeycombed with
holes and caves which are haunted by millions of birds. These thickly
dot the crevices with masses of living white; hover like clouds in the
air, and swarm the waters around like a fringe—resting, fluttering, or
diving, by turns.
Westmannshavn, the harbour of the islands, is a bay on the north-west of
Heimaey where a green vale slopes down to the sea. It is sheltered by
the islands of Heimaklettur on the North, and Bjarnarey on the East. We
observed a flag flying, and a few huts scattered irregularly and
sparsely on the slope. This place is called Kaupstadr—or head town—but
there is no other town in the group. The roofs of the huts were covered
with green sod and scarcely to be distinguished from the grass of the
slope on which they stood save by the light blue smoke which rose
curling above them from turf fires.
A row-boat came off for the mail, which, we were told, had never before
been landed here from a steamer; the usual mode is to get it from
Reykjavik in a sailing vessel. For those accustomed to at least half a
dozen deliveries of letters every day, it was strange to think that here
there were fewer posts in a whole year. These Islands have, on account
of their excellent fisheries, from very remote periods been much
frequented by foreign vessels. Before the discovery of Newfoundland,
British merchants resorted hither, and also to ports on the west coast
of Iceland, to exchange commodities and procure dried stock-fish.
Icelandic ships also visited English ports. This intercommunication can
be distinctly traced back to the time of Henry III.; but by the
beginning of the fifteenth century it had become regular and had risen
to importance. It was matter of treaty between Norway and England; but,
with or without special licenses, or in spite of prohibitions—sometimes
with the connivance and permission of the local authorities, and at
other times notwithstanding the active opposition of one or both
governments—the trade being mutually profitable to those engaged in it
continued to be prosecuted. English tapestry and linen are mentioned in
old Icelandic writings, and subsequently we learn that English strong
ale was held in high estimation by the Northmen.
Edward III. granted certain privileges and exemptions to the fishermen
of Blacknie and Lyne in Norfolk on account of their Icelandic commerce.
In favourable weather the distance could be run in about a fortnight.
From Icelandic records we learn that in the year A.D. 1412, “30 ships
engaged in fishing were seen off the coast at one time.” “In A.D. 1415
there were no fewer than 6 English merchant ships in the harbour of
Hafna Fiord alone.”
Notwithstanding the proclamations and prohibitions both of Eric and
Henry V. the traffic still continued to increase; and we incidentally
learn that in the year A.D. 1419 “Twenty-five English ships were wrecked
on this coast in a dreadful snow-storm.” Goods supplied to the natives
then, as in later times, were both cheaper and better than could be
obtained from the Danish monopolists. It will be remembered by the
reader that when Columbus visited Iceland he sailed in a bark from the
port of Bristol.
Gazing on this singular group of rocky Islands, on the coast of Iceland,
so lone and quiet, and reverting to the early part of the thirteenth
century, it was strange to realize that into this very bay had then
sailed and cast anchor the ships of our enterprising countrymen—quaint
old-fashioned ships, such as we may still see represented in illuminated
MSS. of the period; and that their latest news to such English merchants
or fishermen as had wintered or perhaps been stationed for some time at
Westmannshavn—supposing modern facilities for the transmission of
news—would not have been the peace of Villafranca but the confirmation
of Magna Charta;—instead of the formation of volunteer corps, nobles
hastening to join the fifth Crusade;—not the treading out of a Sepoy
revolt, but Mongolian hordes overrunning the Steppes of Russia;—and
instead of some important law-decision, celebrated trial, or case in
Chancery, they might hear of an acquaintance who had perished in single
combat, or who had indignantly and satisfactorily proved his or her
innocence by submitting to trial by ordeal. These were the old times of
Friar Bacon—the days of alchemy and witchcraft. Haco had not yet been
crowned King of Norway; Snorre Sturleson was yet a young man meditating
the “Heimskringla.” The chisel of Nicolo Pisano and the pencil of
Cimabue were at work in Italy. Neither Dante nor Beatrice as yet
existed; nor had the factions of Guelph and Ghibeline sprung into being.
Chaucer was not born till the following century. Aladdin reigned;
Alphonzo the Wise, King of Leon and Castile, had not promulgated his
code of laws. Not a single Lombard moneylender had arrived to settle in
London; and the present structure of Westminster Abbey had not then been
reared.
[Illustration: BJARNAREY.]
On leaving Westmannshavn, sailing north between the islands of
Heimaklettur and Bjarnarey, we saw two men rowing a boat deeply laden to
the gunwale with sea-fowls, probably the result of their day’s work. The
cliffs everywhere alive with birds, and the smooth sea beneath them, in
the glorious light of the evening sun, dotted black as if peppered with
puffins and eider-ducks.
Nine P.M. Sketched various aspects of the islands and several of the
strange outlying skerries.
[Illustration: WESTMANNA SKERRIES.]
When the Westmanna Islands are reckoned at fourteen, that number does
not include innumerable little rocky stacks and islets of all fantastic
shapes alone or in groups; some like Druidical stones or old ruins,
others of them far out and exactly like ships in full sail, producing a
strange effect on the horizon.
The island nearest the coast of Iceland on the east of Heimaey is called
Erlendsey; that furthest north-west is Drángr; and the furthest west
Einarsdrángr. On the south-west is an islet called Alsey; we have also
an Ailsa in the frith of Clyde: both names probably signifying
fire-isle. The islet furthest south is called Geirfuglasker. These names
are necessarily altogether omitted on common small maps.
We witness a glorious sunset on the sea,—the horizon streaked with
burning gold:
“Now ’gan the golden Phœbus for to steepe
His fiery face in billows of the west,
And his faint steedes watered in ocean deepe
Whiles from his journall labours he did rest.”
Although the surface of the sea is quite smooth, a heavy ground swell
keeps rolling along. A bank of violet cloud lies to the left of the sun,
while dense masses of leaden and purple-coloured clouds are piled above
it. An opening glows like a furnace seven times heated, darting rays
from its central fire athwart the sky, and opening up a burning
cone-shaped pathway of light on the smooth heaving billows, the apex of
which reaches our prow.
Such the scene, as we sail north-west between the northernmost out-lying
skerries of the Westmanna group and the south-west coast of Iceland and
silently watch the gorgeous hues of sunset. Strangely at such times
“hope and memory sweep the chords by turns,” till the past, fused down
into the present, becomes a magic mirror for the future.
The air is mild and warm; time by Greenwich twenty-minutes to eleven.
The sun is not yet quite down, and—by the ship’s compass, without making
any allowance for deviation—is setting due north. At a quarter-past 12
A.M. when we leave the deck, it is still quite light.
[Illustration: CAPE REYKJANES LOOKING SOUTH.]
[Illustration: COAST NEAR REYKJAVIK.]
_Thursday Morning, July 28._ Rose early—we are sailing along the
Krisuvik coast in the direction of Cape Reykjanes—smoky cape—which runs
out from the south-west of Iceland. The low lying coast is of black
lava; behind it rise serrated hill-ranges, and isolated conical
mountains; some of a deep violet colour, others covered with snow and
ice, the dazzling whiteness of which is heightened by contrast with the
low dark fire-scathed foreground. White fleecy clouds are rolling among
the peaks, now dense and clearly defined against the bright blue sunny
sky—now hazy, ethereal, and evanescent. We observe steam rising from a
hot sulphur spring on the coast. These are numerous in this
neighbourhood, which contains the principal sulphur mines of the island.
Here, where we sail, volcanic islands have at different times arisen and
disappeared; flames too have sometimes been seen to issue from submarine
craters; this latter phenomenon the natives describe as “the sea” being
“on fire.”
[Illustration: ELDEY.]
On our left we pass Eldey—or the Fire Isle—a curious isolated basaltic
rock resembling the Bass, but much smaller. It rose from the deep in
historic times. The top slopes somewhat, and is white; this latter
appearance has originated its Danish name “Maelsek,” which is pronounced
precisely in the same way as “meal-sack” would be in the Scottish
dialect;—in fact the words are the same. Many solan geese flying about;
whales gamboling and spouting close to the vessel.
Nine A.M., Greenwich time. Got first glimpse of Snæfells Jökul—the fifth
highest mountain in Iceland—height 4577 feet—lying nearly in a
north-west direction, far away across the blue waters of the Faxa Fiord.
A pyramid covered with perpetual snow and ice, gleaming in the sun, its
outline is now traced against a sky of deeper blue than any of us ever
beheld in Switzerland or Italy.
The Faxa Fiord, situated on the south-west, is the largest in the
island, and might be described as a magnificent bay, forming a
semicircle which extends fifty-six miles from horn to horn; while its
shores are deeply and irregularly indented by arms of the sea, or Fiords
proper, which have names of their own, such as Hafnafiord, Hvalfiord, or
Borgarfiord. Snæfell, on the north side of it, rises from the extremity
of the long narrow strip of steep mountain promontory that runs out into
the sea, separating the Faxa from the Breida Fiord—another large
bay;—while on the south the Guldbringu Syssel, terminating with Cape
Reykjanes, is a bare low-lying black contorted lava field.
The Faxa Fiord, then, sweeping in a semicircle from Snæfell to
Reykjanes, contains several minor Fiords, and is crowded with lofty
mountain-peaks, sharp, steep, and bare. The intense clearness of the
northern atmosphere through which these appear, together with the fine
contrast of their colours—reds, purples, golden hues, and pale lilacs;
rosy-tinted snow or silvery-glittering ice—all sharply relieved against
the blue sky, as if by magic confound southern ideas of distance, so
that a mountain which at first glance appears to be only ten or fifteen
miles distant, may in reality be forty or fifty, and perhaps
considerably more.
The capital of Iceland lies in the south-east of this great bay. We have
been sailing due north from Cape Reykjanes to the point of Skagi, and,
rounding it, we sail east by north right into the Faxa Fiord, cutting
off the southern segment of the bay, and are making straight for
Reykjavik.
Several low-lying islands shelter the port and make the anchorage
secure; one of these is Videy on which some of the government offices
formerly stood, but it is now noted as a favourite resort of eider ducks
which are here protected by law in order to obtain the down with which
their nests are lined.
Solitary fishermen are making for the shore in their skiff-like boats. A
French frigate and brig, a Danish war schooner and several merchant
sloops are seen lying at anchor, shut in by the islands and a low lava
promontory. All are gaily decked with colours. On rounding the point,
Reykjavik the capital of Iceland lies fairly before us. It is situated
on a gentle greenish slope rising from the black volcanic sand of that
“Plutonian shore.” There are grassy heights at either side of the town
and a fresh water lake like a large pond behind it. The cathedral in the
centre, built of brick plastered brown stone colour, and the windmill on
the height to the left, are the two most prominent objects. The front
street consists of a single row of dark-coloured Danish looking wooden
houses facing the sea. These we are told are mostly merchants’ stores.
Several of them have flag-staffs from which the Danish colours now
flutter. All our glasses are in requisition. Numerous wooden jetties
lead from the sea up to the road in front of the warehouses, and, on
these, females like the fish-women of Calais, “withered, grotesque,
wrinkled,” and seeming “immeasurably old,” with others younger and
better looking, are busily engaged in carrying dried fish between the
boats and the stores. Young and old alike wear the graceful Icelandic
female head-dress—viz. a little black cloth scull-cap, jauntily fastened
with a hair pin on the back part of the head. From the crown of this cap
hangs a silver tube ornament, out of which flows a long thick black silk
tassel falling on the shoulder.
Two streets run inland from the front street, and at right angles to it.
That on the left contains the Governor’s house, and the residences of
several officials. It leads to the house where the Althing or Icelandic
Parliament now assembles, and where, in another part of the same
building, Rector Jonson teaches in the one academy of the island. The
other street on the right contains several shops, merchants’ dwelling
houses, the residence of Jón Gudmundsson, president of the Althing,
advocate, and editor of a newspaper. It leads to the hotel, and to the
residence of Dr. Hjaltalin, a distinguished antiquarian and the chief
physician of the island. In the same direction, a little higher up, is
the lonely churchyard.
Between these two streets, houses stand at irregular intervals, and
nearly all have little garden-plots attached to them.
On the outskirts, flanking the town, which in appearance is more Danish
than Icelandic, are a few fishermen’s huts, roofed over with green sod;
and these, we afterwards found, were more like the style of buildings
commonly to be met with throughout the island.
As we cast anchor, the morning sunshine is gloriously bright and clear,
sea and sky intensely blue, and the atmosphere more transparent than
that of Switzerland or Italy. Beyond Reykjavik, wild bare heights rise
all round the bay; here—mountains of a ruddy brown colour, deeply
scarred and distinctly showing every crevice; there—snow-patches
gleaming on dark purple hills; here—lofty pyramids of glittering ice;
there—cones of black volcanic rock; while white fleecy clouds in
horizontal layers streak the distant peaks, and keep rolling down the
shoulders of the nearer Essian range.
The arrival of the steamer is quite an event to the Icelanders. A boat
came off from the shore, and another from the French brig, to get the
mail-bags. We brought tidings of the peace of Villafranca, and heard the
cheering of the French sailors when the news was announced to them. Dr.
Mackinlay, who had remained, exploring various parts of the island,
since the previous voyage of the Arcturus, and for whom we had letters
and papers, kindly volunteered to give us information about the Geyser
expedition. From his habits of keen observation, patient research, and
kind-heartedness, he was well qualified to do so.
He recommended Geir Zöga, who had accompanied him on board, as a good
trustworthy guide. We wished to start at once, so as to make the most of
our time, but the undertaking was a more serious affair than we had
anticipated. Ultimately, before landing, we arranged to start next
morning at eight o’clock, as the very best we could do.
The distance to be got over is 72 miles, literally without roads or
shelter; and mostly over wild rough stony wastes, in comparison with
which the bed of a mountain water-course would be a good macadamized
road. Provisions, traps, and everything we require have to be taken
along with us.
We are a party of six; the guide has two assistants; nine riders in all,
each requires a relay horse, so that eighteen ponies for the riders, and
six for the baggage are requisite for our expedition. These have to be
bargained for and collected together by Zöga from the farms around
Reykjavik; and as the ponies now run almost wild over the wastes in
pursuit of scant herbage, and neither receive grooming, stabling, nor
feeding, this is a work of time, and will occupy, Dr. Mackinlay tells
us, not only the whole afternoon but the greater part of the night.
No one had brought provisions north but myself, so arrangements are made
with the steward of the steamer for supplying them, and mine thrown in
with the rest pro bono publico. Having fixed that Zöga should call in
the evening at the hotel and report progress, at half-past 11 o’clock
A.M. we got into the Captain’s boat to land, where, long ago, Ingolf the
first colonist had drawn his ship on shore. As the remainder of the day
is at our disposal, curiosity is on edge to explore Reykjavik, the
general plan and appearance of which has already been described—partly
by anticipation.
The sun-glare is oppressively hot. As we approach the jetty we observe
groups of men and women standing on the beach to see the passengers
land. Some of the younger women are good-looking, and become the
picturesque costume of the country;—those curious little black caps with
silver ornaments and long black silk tassels already described; jackets
faced with silver lace or rows of metal buttons; belts similarly
ornamented; long flowing dark wadmal skirts of home manufacture; and
primitive shoes made of one bit of cow-skin or any kind of hide,
prepared so as in colour to resemble parchment or the skin one sometimes
sees stretched like a drum-head over the mouth of a jar of honey.
A few other ladies are in morning dress, with shawls or handkerchiefs
thrown gracefully over their heads, and nothing peculiar or different in
their costume from what we are accustomed to see at home.
Mr. Haycock had received a letter of introduction to Mr. Simson, and I
had one to Mr. Sievertsen; the latter is a retired merchant, and the
former carries on a large business of a very miscellaneous kind—such
being the character of all the stores or factories here. As the houses
of these gentlemen both lay in the same direction, we set out together
in order to obtain advice as to what was to be seen in Reykjavik and its
neighbourhood. In passing along the front street, the stores—mostly
belonging to Danish merchants—presented quite a bustling business
aspect; while the dwelling houses, with lattice windows, white curtains
and flower-pots of blooming roses and geraniums, exhibited an air of
cleanliness, comfort and refinement. From the absence of roads, carts
are useless; one wheel barrow which we saw, belonging to an enterprising
storekeeper, we were told, was the only wheeled vehicle in the island.
Mr. Sigurdur Sievertsen received us most cordially. This intelligent old
gentleman conducted Sir George Mackenzie, who was his father’s guest, to
the Geysers; and he is alluded to by Sir George, in his travels, as
“young Mr. Sievertsen.” Time works changes! or, as Archbishop Whately
would more accurately put it, changes are wrought, not by, but “_in_
time.” However, Mr. Sievertsen is hale and hearty, and many summers may
he yet see! On the wall we saw the portrait of his gifted and much
lamented son, who several years ago died in Paris. He had been taken
there by Louis Philip to receive a free education, as a graceful
acknowledgment to the Icelanders for kindness shewn to the crew of a
French vessel wrecked on their coast.
[Illustration: L Men’s shoes. G Girls’ shoes. S Snuffbox made of
walrus tusk. H Female-head-dress with flowing silk tassel (see p.
49). D Distaff. M Two-thumbed mits.]]
Our host has visited Britain, and both speaks and writes English
fluently. Neither he nor his amiable wife spared any pains in trying to
be of service to us. They gave us all manner of information, and kindly
assisted us in procuring specimens of native manufacture, such as—silver
trinkets of beautiful workmanship; fine knitted gloves soft as Angola
wool; fishermen’s mits with no divisions for the fingers but each made
with two thumbs, so that when the fishing line wears through one side
the other can be turned; caps; men and women’s shoes; quaint snuff boxes
made of walrus tusk, or horn; and sundry other souvenirs which we wished
to take south with us.
In Mr. Simson’s store we saw everything from a needle to an anchor; from
the coarsest packsheet to French ribbons. At Mr. Smith’s, whose son had
come north with us on his way from Copenhagen, we invested in seal-skins
and eider-down—the latter for pillows and coverlets. This down, the
eider-duck plucks from its breast to line its nest; it and the eggs are
taken away. Again the nest is lined, and again robbed. The third time,
the drake repairs it, supplying the down; and if this be also taken away
the nest is altogether deserted by the ill-used pair. One nest yields
about two and a half ounces of the finest clean down, or about half a
pound in all if removed three times. What is plucked from the dead bird,
it is said, possesses none of that wonderful elasticity which
constitutes the value of the other. We should think, however, that this
would depend on the state of the plumage at the time. Many thousand
pounds weight of it are annually exported for quilts, pillows, cushions,
&c. It sells in Iceland at from 10/6 to 17/6 per lb. From three to four
lbs. are sufficient for a coverlet, which, to be enjoyed in perfection,
ought to be used unquilted and loose like a feather bed. Quilting is
only useful where a small quantity of down is required to go a long way;
but, with three or four pounds at command, there is no comparison in
point of comfort between loose and quilted—we have tried both. The eider
coverlet combines lightness and warmth in a degree which cannot be
otherwise obtained. With a single sheet and blanket, it is sufficient
for the coldest wintry night. Its elasticity is proverbial; hence the
Icelandic conundrum we had propounded to us by our good friend Mr.
Jacobson, “What is it that is higher when the head is taken off it?”
_Answer_—“An eider-down pillow!”
In walking along we saw some young ladies, in elegant Parisian costume,
out sunning themselves like butterflies. The thermometer stood at 72°,
so, light coloured fancy parasols were in requisition and enjoyed no
sinecure to-day, even in Iceland. Single days here are sometimes very
bright and warm, though rarely without showers; for the weather is very
changeable, and summer short at best. Less rain falls in the northern
part of the island than in the southern; because the mountains in the
south first catch and empty the rain clouds floating from the south-west
over the course of the gulf-stream. For this reason there is more
sunshine in the north, crops too are heavier and earlier; for,
notwithstanding the 3° higher latitude, the summer temperature is nearly
the same as that of the south. In winter, however, it is colder, from
the presence of Spitzbergen icebergs and Greenland ice-floes stranded on
the shore, while the sea to the north and east is filled with them. Last
winter was very severe: the south and west were also filled. My friend
Dr. Mackinlay has treated this subject—the climate of Iceland—so
admirably, that I cannot refrain from quoting his MS. notes:
“The number and size of the rivers” says he, “cannot fail to strike the
attention of every visitor who sees much of the country especially along
the coasts. The main cause of this is, of course, the abundant rain-fall
which is out of all proportion to the latitude of Iceland.
“This excess is owing to two causes—The mountainous nature of the
country; and its geographical position. Iceland lies in the direct
course of one of the branches of the gulf-stream. No land intervenes
between it and the Bermudas. The rain-charged clouds from the south-west
are therefore ready to part with their moisture as soon as they touch
the shores of Iceland. As they move northwards, to the back-bone of the
island, their temperature diminishes so rapidly that the whole of their
moisture becomes precipitated. Winds from the S.W., S., and S.E., drench
the southern part of the Island, but bring fair weather to the north.
“As the southernly winds are the most frequent, the north side enjoys
the greatest number of sunny days in summer; and hence vegetation is
more luxuriant there, even though the latitude is 3° higher, and the
southernly winds are chilled in passing over the great mountain chain.
The mean summer temperature of the north is almost as high as that of
the south; but the mean temperature of the year is 14° lower. In the
south this is 47°, but in the north it is 33°. The climate of the south
is insular in its character, while that of the north is continental.
Severe continuous frosts are rare about Reykjavik; while along the north
coast the winters are very severe. The severity of the winters is mainly
caused by the presence of ice in the adjoining seas. The cold Arctic
current from Spitzbergen, which impinges on the north coast, comes
freighted in winter with an occasional iceberg; while the westerly winds
and the west Icelandic branch of the gulf-stream combine to fill the
seas to the north and east of the island with ice floes from Greenland.
In ordinary winters, the seas to the south and east are open; but in
extraordinary winters they also are filled. Such a winter was that of
1858-9. The corresponding winter in Britain was very mild, and owed its
mildness to the same cause which produced the hard winter of Iceland—the
unusual prevalence of westerly winds.
“In the first months of 1859, the sea between Greenland and Iceland—200
miles wide—was packed with ice floes; and upon these several bears made
their way across to Iceland. Floating ice surrounded the island; but
along the north coast the sea itself was frozen so far out that the
people of Grimsey, twenty miles or so from the nearest point of Iceland,
actually rode across to the mainland. At Akur Eyri in the beginning of
April, Reaumur’s thermometer registered 26° of cold—a temperature equal
to 26½° of Fahrenheit. So late as June, seven French fishing boats were
lost in the ice on the north coast, and a French ship of war nearly met
with the same fate. Speaking of northern ice, Captain Launay, of the
French man-of-war referred to, told me that its approach could be
foreseen at the distance of twenty-five to thirty miles by a peculiar
reflection of the sky. As the distance diminishes, the sky gets
overcast, the temperature falls rapidly, and fish and sea-fowl
disappear. The Greenland ice is much more dangerous than the
Spitzbergen. The latter is 120 to 150 feet high, massive and wall-sided,
but of no great extent. The former is in immense floes, often forming
bays in which ships are caught as in a snare. It seldom exceeds 40 feet
in height; but is jagged and peaked. Sometimes drift-timber gets nipped
between the floes, and is set fire to by the violent friction it
sustains. The sound of the crushing ice was described by Captain Launay
as most horrible.”
Thus much of the climate.
Dr. Mackinlay took Mr. Haycock and me to call for the Governor, the
Count Von Trampe, who is a Dane, and well known for his urbanity to
strangers. He kindly introduced us to his family. The house itself
resembles, and at once suggests pictures we have seen of missionaries’
houses in Madagascar. Within doors, however, all is tasteful and
elegant. One peculiarity is worth noting, viz.: that the walls of his
suite of apartments are covered with _French_ portraits, paintings,
engravings, and lithographs, nearly all presentations. In the public
room, I only observed one that was not French. Judging from the walls,
we might have been in the residence of a French Consul. French frigates
are put on this station, year after year, ostensibly to look after the
fisheries. Great court is paid to the leading islanders, and France
would fain be in the ascendant here as elsewhere. Iceland, meanwhile,
costs Denmark an outlay of several thousands a year; because, say some
of the Icelanders, more is not invested in improvements of various kinds
in order to make it pay. This state of matters would render negotiations
easy on the part of Denmark, were the acquisition of the island an
object to France. It would be an easy method of paying for assistance
rendered in any Holstein difficulty or other cunningly laid European
mine that may yet explode; when the cause of justice and right, as it
ever is, being declared all on the side of France, she will
disinterestedly go forward with her eagles for freedom and glory.
Such contingencies may arise, although the Danes are our natural allies
and our Scandinavian brethren. It may be asked, what would the French do
with the island? It would be chiefly useful to them for forming and
training hardy seamen for the navy, as they already do to some extent
both here and on the Newfoundland coast where the fisheries are
maintained and subsidized for that very purpose. It would furnish a
station in the North Sea, from which to descend and menace our North
American traffic; and it contains extensive sulphur mines, which, in the
event of Sicily being shut against us, are available for munitions of
war in our gunpowder manufactories; in another point of view, it is
invaluable, as the great salmon-preserve of Europe.
Intelligent Icelanders who cherish the memory of their ancient freedom,
to my certain knowledge, regard all such French tendencies and
contingencies with decided aversion. But in the event of a transfer
being mooted, would the Icelanders be consulted in the matter? I fear
not, and that it would only be announced to them in the French fashion,
as _fait accompli_: may such however, never be the fate of this
interesting island!
These remarks, although suggested here by the pictures in the Governor’s
drawing-room, have no reference, it is right to state, to the Count Von
Trampe’s views on this subject, which I do not happen to know; nor on
the other hand, to the officers’ of the vessels stationed here, who all
seem to be gentlemanly kind-hearted fellows. A variety of facts and
observations, however, all tended to confirm me in this impression;
besides, it is the policy which the French are pursuing elsewhere.
From the Governor’s, we proceed to call for Mr. Randröp, the states
apothecary, and receive a most hospitable, true, northern welcome. We
meet several French officers and see the usual quantum of French prints
on the walls. But he is the French consul or agent. Coffee, cakes, and
wine, are handed round to us _by the ladies_, this being the custom of
the country, and in drinking to us, the form is always, “Welcome to
Iceland.” Mr. Randröp speaks a little English, and the two young ladies,
his step-daughters, are acquiring it. Here, as in Germany, the class
book in common use is “The Vicar of Wakefield.” Madame Randröp, who
speaks French and German and plays on the piano-forte, shewed us several
beautiful silver trinkets, bracelets, pins, &c., of Icelandic
manufacture; the style an open mediaeval looking fretwork, that might
satisfy the most fastidious artistic taste.
The Governor’s house and Mr. Randröp’s are the two centres of Reykjavik
society, and at one or other of them, of an evening, any stranger
visiting these parts is almost certain to be found. One is expected to
make quite a round of visits if he be authenticated, or have any sort of
introduction to any one of the circle; an omission would even be
regarded as a slight. Hence Dr. Mackinlay took us to call for a
considerable number of people, all of whom were cordial and glad to see
us.
Our next visit was to the Rev. Olaf Pálsson, Dean and Rector of the
Cathedral. Learned, intelligent, communicative and obliging, he at once,
in the kindest manner possible, placed himself at our service and
offered us every assistance in his power. In his library I observed many
standard works of reference in various languages, and opened several
volumes that seemed to recognize me as a friend whom they had met
before: “Lord Dufferin’s Letters from High Latitudes”—a presentation
copy—“Caird’s Sermons;” “Life of the Rev. Ebenezer Henderson”—the
Icelandic traveller; “Stanley’s Sinai and Palestine,” &c. The worthy
pastor both speaks and writes English fluently, and has translated a
number of Icelandic stories and fairy tales.[4]
The Pastor’s honest ruddy face, light flaxen hair, and unassuming
manner; his rosy cheeked children, the monthly roses in the window-sill,
and the library—all go to form a pleasing picture in the Walhalla of
memory. He afterwards accompanied us to call for Rector Jonson. The
Rector is a good specimen of the genus homo; tall and burly, while his
active mind is vigorous, inquisitive, and accomplished. He showed us
over various rooms, where the different branches are taught, some of
them containing cabinets of geological and zoological specimens. The
school is supported by government; and about sixty select young men
intended for the church and other learned professions here receive a
free education; a few of them only go to Copenhagen yet further to
complete their studies.
Although the island contains 64,603 inhabitants, this, as we have said,
is the only Academy or College; and there is not a single juvenile
school.
The population is so widely scattered that schools would be quite
impracticable; for the six thousand farms which the island contains, on
the habitable coast belt which surrounds the central deserts, are often
separated from each other by many dreary miles of lava wastes and rapid
rivers dangerous to ford.
Parents, however, all teach their children to read and write by the
fireside on the long winter evenings, as they themselves were taught;
and the people are thus home educated from generation to generation, and
trained to habits of intellectual activity from their youth. Thus, as a
mass, the Icelanders are without doubt the best educated people in the
world.
For six centuries the Icelanders have evidenced their love of literature
by writing and preserving old Sagas and Eddas;—by producing original
works on mythology, law, topography, archaeology, &c.—several of these
at once the earliest and best of their kind in Europe; and by executing
many admirable translations from the classics.
Such literary labours have often been carried on by priests in remote
districts, who subsist on a miserable pittance, and dwell in what we
would consider mere hovels,—men who are obliged to work, at outdoor
manual labour, the same as any of their neighbour peasants and
parishoners, in order to keep the wolf from the door. Henderson found
Thorláksson, the translator of “Paradise Lost,” busy making hay. His
living only yielded him £7 per annum, and the one room in which he slept
and wrote was only eight feet long by six broad. This translation was
not printed till after his death. Verily good work lovingly done is its
own reward. These men had little else to cheer them on.
We next visited the Cathedral, which stands in the back part of the
town, with an open square space in front of it, and a little fresh water
lake—inland—to the left. It is a modern edifice, built of brick,
plastered. At the entrance we were joined by our friend Professor
Chadbourne. The interior is very neatly fitted up with pews, has
galleries, organ, &c.; and can accommodate three or four hundred people.
An oil painting above the communion table represents the resurrection;
but the only object of artistic interest is a white marble baptismal
font, carved and presented to the Cathedral by Thorwaldsen, whose father
was an Icelander. It is a low square obelisk. The basin on the top is
surrounded with a symbolical wreath of passion-flowers and roses,
delicately carved in high relief out of the white marble. On the front
is represented, also in relief, the baptism of our Saviour by St. John;
on the left side, the Madonna and Child, with John the Baptist as an
infant standing at her knee; on the right, Christ blessing little
children; while at the back, next the altar, are three cherubs, and
underneath them is inscribed the following legend: “Opus haec Romae
fecit, et Islandiae, terrae sibi gentiliacae, pietatis causâ, donavit
Albertus Thorvaldsen, anno MDCCCXXVII.” It is a chaste and beautiful
work of art.
In the vestry the Rev. Olaf Pálsson opened several large chests, and
shewed us numerous vestments belonging to the bishop and priests; one of
these with gorgeous embroideries had been sent here to the bishop by
Pope Julius II. in the beginning of the sixteenth century. The cloth was
purple velvet, embroidered and stiff with brocade of gold.
Above the church, immediately under the sloping roof, an apartment runs
the whole length of the building. In it is deposited the free public
library of Reykjavik, which consists of more than 6000 volumes in
Icelandic, Danish, Latin, French, English, German, and various other
languages. A copy of every book published at Copenhagen is sent here by
government, and from time to time it receives numerous presentations
from foreigners. The ancient original Icelandic MSS. have all been
removed to Denmark, so that here there is now nothing very old to be
seen, except what has been reprinted. With great interest we turned over
the leaves of a copy of Snorre Sturleson’s “Heimskringla,” and the
“Landnáma Bok,” shewn us by the librarian and learned scholar Mr. Jón
Arnason.
The hotel at Reykjavik is merely a kind of tavern, with a billiard room
for the French sailors to play, lounge, and smoke in; a large adjoining
room, seated round, for the Reykjavik fashionable assemblies; a smaller
room up stairs, and some two or three bedrooms. On reaching it we were
received by the landlord and shewn up stairs, where we found Mr. Bushby,
who gave us a most courteous English welcome, notwithstanding our
unintentional intrusion. He had, that morning, when the steamer came in
sight, set out and ridden along the coast from the sulphur mines at
Krisuvik—perhaps one of the wildest continuous rides in the world—to
meet Captain Forbes.
Knowing the scant accommodation at the landlord’s disposal, he at once
placed the suite of rooms he had engaged at our service, to dress and
dine in, thus proving himself a friend in need. A good substantial
dinner was soon under weigh, and rendered quite a success by the many
good things with which Mr. Bushby kindly supplemented it, contributing
them from his own private stores.
Mr. Gísli Brynjúlfsson, the young Icelandic poet—employed in antiquarian
researches by the Danish Government chiefly at Copenhagen, but at
present here because he is a member of the Althing or Parliament now
sitting—joined us at table, having been invited by Dr. Mackinlay. He
speaks English fluently, and gave us much interesting information. He
kindly presented me with a volume “Nordurfari,” edited by himself and a
friend, and containing amongst other articles in prose and verse,
“Bruce’s Address at Bannockburn,” translated into Icelandic, in the
metre of the original. This northern version of Burns’ poem may interest
the reader.[5]
BANNOCK-BURN
ÁVARP ROBERT BRUCE TIL HERLITHS SINS.
EPTIR BURNS.
Skotar, er Wallace vördust med
Vig med Bruce opt hafid sjed;
Velkomnir ad blódgum bed,
Bjartri eda sigurfraegd!
Stund og dagur dýr nú er;
Daudinn ógnar hvar sem sjer;
Jatvards ad oss aedir her—
Ok og hlekkja naegd!
Hverr vill bera nidings nafn?
Ná hver bleydu sedja hrafn?
Falla thrael ófrjálsum jafn?
Flýti hann burtu sjer!
Hverr vill hlinur Hildar báls
Hjör nu draga hins góda máls,
Standa bædi og falla frjáls?
Fari hann eptir mjer!
Ánaudar vid eymd og grönd!
Ydar sona thrældóms bönd!
Vjer viljum láta lif og önd,
En leysa úr hlekkjum thá!
Fellid grimma fjendur thví!
Frelsi er hverju höggi í!
Sjái oss hrósa sigri ný
Sól, eda ordna ad ná!
After finally arranging with Zöga to start for the Geysers at 8 o’clock
next morning, Dr. Mackinlay, Mr. Haycock, Professor Chadbourne and I
took a walk through the town, called for Dr. Hjaltalin, who
unfortunately was not at home, and strolled along to the churchyard. It
is surrounded by a low stone and turf wall. We gathered forget-me-nots,
catch-flies, saxifrage and butter-cups among the grass; observed
artificial flowers, rudely made of muslin and worsted, stuck upon a
grave, but do not know if this is an Icelandic custom or the work of the
stranger over the last resting place of a comrade.
Looking down upon Reykjavik from the elevation on which we stand all is
bright in the mellow glare of evening; the windows of the houses gleam
in the sun like the great jewel of Ghiamsheed; the near Essian mountains
have a ruddy glow, and the bay, intensely blue, is gay with vessels and
flags.
Gazing inland all is one wild dreary black lava waste—miles upon miles
of bog, stones and blocks of rock. Botanized for an hour with the
Professor.
On returning saw several heaps of large cod-fish heads, piled up near
the sod-roofed houses of the fishermen in the outskirts of the town. On
enquiry we were told that the heads of fish dried for exportation are
thus retained; the people here eat them, and one head is said to be a
good breakfast for a man.
Most of the houses in and around Reykjavik have little plots of
garden-ground surrounded with low turf walls. In these we generally
observed common vegetables such as parsley, turnips, potatoes, cresses,
a few plants for salads, &c.; here and there a currant bush, and
sometimes a few annuals or other flowers. These, however, seldom come to
any great degree of perfection, and are often altogether destroyed; for
the climate is severe and very changeable, especially in the southern
portion of the island.
[Illustration: REYKJAVIK.]
The Governor called at the hotel for Mr. Haycock and me, insisted on us
taking the loan of his tent, and kindly invited us to come along and
spend the evening with him. As we had to start in the morning for the
Geysers for the present we declined the proferred hospitality, but
promised to call on our return.
[Illustration: ICELANDIC LADY IN FULL DRESS.]
As there was not accommodation for us at the hotel, we were rowed off to
the “Arcturus” by the indefatigable Zöga at half-past 10 o’clock at
night, and slept on board.
-----
Footnote 4:
For a selection of these, see Appendix.
Footnote 5:
Where the two Icelandic letters occur which are wanting in the English
alphabet, they are here represented, respectively, by d and th.
[Illustration: ROUTE TO THINGVALLA.]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
RIDE TO THE GEYSERS.
_Friday morning, July 29._ Landed from the steamer between 7 and 8
o’clock, and found the baggage and riding horses with the relays,
twenty-four in all, assembled at the hotel court; Zöga the guide, with
his brother and a boy who were also to accompany us, busy adjusting
saddles, stirrup straps, &c. For four days we shall be thrown entirely
upon our own resources, so that provisions, tent, plaids and everything
we are likely to need during a wilderness journey, must be taken with
us. Our traps had been sent on shore late on the previous evening. The
mode of loading the sumpter ponies is peculiar; a square piece of dried
sod is placed on the horses back, then a wooden saddle with several
projecting pins is girded on with rough woollen ropes; to either side of
the saddle, is hooked on, a strong oblong wooden box generally painted
red; while on the pins are hung bags, bundles, and all sorts of gipsy
looking gear. These need frequent re-adjustment from time to time as the
ponies trot along, one side will weigh up the other, or the animals get
jammed together and knock their loads out of equilibrium, the saddles
then perhaps turn round and articles fall rattling to the ground. The
strong little boxes are constructed and other arrangements made with a
view to such contingencies, and however primitive, rude, or outlandish
they may at first seem to the stranger, he will soon come to see the why
and the wherefore, and confess their singular adaptation to the strange
and unique exigences of Icelandic travel.
The baggage train at length moved off, accompanied by the relief ponies,
which were tied together in a row, the head of the one to the tail of
the other before it.
Dr. Mackinlay, Mr. Bushby, Mr. Sievertsen, and other acquaintances came
to see us start. Equipped with waterproofs and wearing caps or
wide-awakes, no two of us alike, at half-past eight o’clock, a long
straggling line of non-descript banditti-looking cavaliers, all in
excellent spirits and laughing at each other’s odd appearance, we rode
at a good pace out of Reykjavik.
“Rarely it occurs that any of us makes this journey on which I go,”[6]
words spoken to Dante by his guide, in the ninth Canto of the _Inferno_,
forcibly suggested themselves to me as I “entered on the arduous and
savage way,” and gazed around on the “desert strand.”
The road terminated when we reached the outskirts of the town, and the
track lay over a wild black stony waste with little or no vegetation;
everything seemed scorched. The relay ponies were now loosed from each
other, and, perfectly free, driven before us like
“A wild and wanton herd,
Or race of youthful and unhandled colts,
Fetching mad bounds, bellowing and neighing loud,
Which is the hot condition of their blood.”
They were apt to scatter in quest of herbage, but Zöga, when his call
was not enough or the dogs negligent, quickly out-flanked the
stragglers, upon which, they, possessed by a salutary fear of his whip,
speedily rejoined their fellows.
We soon lost sight of the sea, and in a short time came to the
Lax-elv—or salmon river—which we forded.
Enormous quantities of fish are taken at the wears a little higher up
where there are two channels and an arrangement for running the water
off, first from the one and then from the other, leaving the throng of
fishes nearly dry in a little pool from which they are readily taken by
the hand. The fishermen wear rough woollen mittens to prevent the smooth
lithe fish from slipping through their fingers when seizing them by head
and tail, to throw them on shore. From five hundred to a thousand fishes
are sometimes taken in a day. The fishery is managed by an intelligent
Scotchman sent here by a merchant in Peterhead who leases the stream and
has an establishment of some fifteen tin-smiths constantly at work
making cans for “preserved salmon.” The fish are cut into pieces,
slightly boiled—then soldered and hermetically sealed up in these tin
cases containing say 2 or 4 lbs. each, and sent south packed in large
hogsheads to be distributed thence over the whole world.
The few grass-farms we saw were like hovels; many separate erections,
stone next the ground, the gable wood, and the roof covered with green
sod. The rafters are generally made of drift wood or whale’s ribs. Turf
is used as fuel; but in common Icelandic houses there is only one
fire—that in the kitchen—all the year round. The beds are often mere
boxes ranged around the room, or, where there is such accommodation,
underneath the roof round the upper apartment, which is approached by a
trap-stair. They are filled with sea-weed or feathers and a cloth spread
over them. In the farm houses we entered there was a sad want of light
and fresh air; in fact, these sleeping rooms were so close and stifling
that we were glad to descend and rush out to the open air for breath.
The little bit of pet pasture land, round each farm, enclosed by a low
turf wall, is called “tun,” a word still used in rural districts of
Scotland—spelt toon, or town—with the same sound and similar
signification.
Rode many miles through wild black desolate dreary volcanic wastes—no
near sounds but the metallic bicker of our ponies’ hoofs over the dry
rocks and stones, or fearless splashing through mud puddles—and no
distant sounds save the _eerie_ cries, tremulous whistlings and
plaintive wails of the curlew, plover, and snipe. Observed the abrasions
of the ice-drift very distinctly traced on the rocks, these all running
nearly south-west. The slightly elevated rock-surface was frequently
polished quite smooth, scratches here and there showing the direction of
the friction by which this appearance had been produced. In some
instances the rock was left bare, in others detached stone blocks of a
different formation rested on the surface.
Wild geranium, saxifrage, sedum, and tufts of sea-pink are very common,
when we come to anything green. The wild geranium, from the almost
nightless summer of the north, is six times larger than in Britain, and
about the size of a half-penny.
[Illustration: RAVINE.]
Came to a deep ravine, wild, horrid, and frightful; rode along the edge
of it, and then through dreadfully rough places, with nothing to mark
the track; amidst great and little blocks of stone—trap, basalt, and
lava—mud-puddles—up-hill, down-hill, fording rivers, and through
seemingly impassible places; yet the Icelandic horse goes unflinchingly
at it. Mr. Haycock says it would be sheer madness to attempt such
break-neck places in England; there, no horse would look at it;
steeple-chasing nothing to it. His horse was repeatedly up to the girths
in clayey mud, and recovered itself notwithstanding its load as if it
were nothing to pause about. Truly these are wonderful animals, they
know their work and do it well.
Came to a grassy plot, in a hollow by a river’s side, where we halted,
changed the saddles and bridles to the relief ponies, and, clad in
mackintosh, thankfully sat down on the wet grass to rest, while we ate a
biscuit and drank of the stream. In the course of the day, we had come
to several green spots, like oasis in the black desert, where the horses
rested for a short time to have a feed of grass.
After starting, ascended for about an hour through a ravine, where we
saw some lovely little glades full of _blae-berries_—sloe,—low
brushwood, chiefly of willows and birch, and a profusion of flowers,
such as wild geranium, thyme, dog-daisy, saxifrage, sea-pink, catch-fly,
butter-cup, a little white starry flower, and _diapensia_; the latter is
found, here and there, in round detached patches of fresh green like a
pincushion, gaily patterned with little pink flowers. I am indebted to
Professor Chadbourne for the name of it. Obtained a root of this plant
for home, and gathered flowers of the others to preserve.
We now came to an elevated plateau which stretched away—a dreary stony
moor—bounded in one direction by the horizon-line and in another by
hills of a dark brown colour. Here there was not a patch of verdure to
be seen; all one black desert lava-waste strewn with large boulders and
angular slabs, lying about in all conceivable positions. In riding, one
required to keep the feet in constant motion, to avoid contact with
projecting stones, as the ponies picked their way among them. Our feet
consequently were as often out of the stirrups as in them. Shakspere
says “Wisely and slow, they stumble that run fast;” not so, however,
with the sure footed Icelandic ponies; for, even over such ground, they
trotted at a good pace and no accident befell us.
I generally rode first with Zöga the guide, or last with Professor
Chadbourne. The driving of the relief horses before us, like a stampedo,
and the keeping of them together afforded some of us much amusement as
we rode along. Here no sheep or cattle could live. It was literally “a
waste and howling wilderness.” We saw several snow-birds and terns
flying about, and often heard the _eerie_ plaintive whistle of the
golden plover. These birds were very tame and examined us with evident
curiosity. They would perch on a large lava block before us, quite close
to our track, and sit till we came up and passed—then fly on before, to
another block, and sit there gazing in wonder; and so on for miles. They
had evidently never been fired at. Mr. Murray humanely remarked that it
would be murder to shoot them! In this black stony plateau there was
often not the least vestige of a track discernible; but we were kept in
the right direction by cairns of black stones placed here and there on
slight elevations. These guiding marks—“varder” as they are called—are
yet more needed when all the surface is covered with snow; then, “vexed
with tempest loud,” Iceland must resemble Milton’s description of Chaos.
“Far off,
Dark, waste and wild under the frown of night,
Starless exposed and ever threatening storms
Of Chaos blustering round.”
We saw one rude house of refuge, without any roof, built of lava blocks,
in the midst of this black desert where everything seemed blasted. Came
now on spots where a few tufts of sea-pinks, and many bright coloured
wild-flowers were springing up among the stones. Saw flat rock-surfaces
shrivelled up and wrinkled like pitch, an effect which had evidently
been produced when the lava was cooling; others were ground down and
polished smooth in grooves by the ice-drift. As near as I can calculate,
some fourteen or fifteen miles of our journey lay over this one long
long dreary stony waste, henceforth, ever to be associated in memory
with the plover’s wild lone plaintive tremulous whistle.
At 3 P.M. we came in sight of the blue lake of Thingvalla,[7] lying
peacefully in the valley before us; while the range of the hills beyond
it, bare, bold and striking in their outline, was mostly of a deep
violet colour.
During the day, arrowy showers of drenching rain “cold and heavy,” like
that described by Dante in the third circle of the _Inferno_, or wet
drizzling mists had alternated with gleams of bright clear sunshine.
Towards the afternoon the weather had become more settled and the effect
of the prospect now before us, although truly lovely in itself, was
heightened by our previous monotonous though rough ride over the dreary
stony plateau. The lake far below us, with its two little volcanic
islands Sandey and Nesey, lay gleaming in the sun like a silver mirror;
while the wild scenery around forcibly reminded us of Switzerland or
Italy.
Thingvalla was to be our resting place for the night, and seeing our
destination so near at hand in the valley below us, some one purposed a
rapid scamper, that we might the sooner rest, eat, and afterwards have
more leisure to explore the wondrous features of the place. Forthwith we
set off at a good pace, but the Professor was too tired to keep up with
us, so I at once fell behind to bear him company. The others were
speedily out of sight. Knowing that dinner preparations would occupy
Zöga for some time after his arrival, we rode leisurely along, admiring
the green level plain far below us. When wondering how we were to get
down to it, we suddenly and unexpectedly came to a yawning chasm or rent
running down through the edge of the plateau. It seemed about 100 feet
deep, 100 feet wide, and was partially filled with enormous blocks of
basalt which had toppled down from either side; where more, cracked and
dissevered, still impended, as if they might fall with a crash at the
slightest noise or touch. This was the celebrated Almanna Gjá or Chasm,
of which we had read so much but of which we had been able to form no
adequate idea from descriptions.
Of a scene so extraordinary, indeed unique, I can only attempt
faithfully to convey my own impressions, without hoping to succeed
better than others who have gone before me.
Let the reader imagine himself, standing on the stony plateau; below him
stretches a beautiful verdant valley, say about five miles broad, and
about 100 feet below the level on which he is standing; to the right
before him also lies the lake which we have been skirting for some miles
in riding along. It is in size about ten miles each way, and is bounded
by picturesque ranges of bare volcanic hills. This whole valley has
evidently sunk down in one mass to its present level, leaving exposed a
section of the rent rocks on either side of the vale. These exposed
edges of the stony plateau running in irregular basaltic strata, and
with fantastic shapes on the top like chimneys and ruined towers,
stretch away like black ramparts for miles, nearly parallel to each
other, with the whole valley between them, and are precipitous as walls,
especially that on the left.
The top of the mural precipice, overlooking the gorge at our feet, is
the original uniform level of the ground before the sinking of the
valley. It forms the edge of the plateau which stretches away behind and
also before us to the left of the precipice; for we look down the chasm
lengthways, along the front of the rock-wall, and not at right angles
from it. A mere slice of the rock has been severed and is piled up on
our right, like a Cyclopian wall. It runs parallel with the face of the
rent rock to which it formerly belonged, for, say, about the eighth of a
mile N.E. from where we stand, and then terminates abruptly there in
irregular crumbling blocks like a heap of ruins; while the trench or gjá
itself also runs back in a straight line S.W. for about two miles, and
terminates at the brink of the lake.
The N.E. side of the valley is the highest, and the S.W. the
lowest—shelving beneath the blue water, and forming the bottom of the
lake. The river Oxerá, which thunders over the rock-wall on the right,
forms a magnificent waterfall, and then flows peacefully across the
south-west corner of the valley to the lake.
Between these two rock-walls—the left forming the real boundary of the
valley on that side, but the right wall being only a slice severed from
the left, and not the other boundary of the valley, which is situated
about five miles distant—a long narrow passage descends, leading to the
plain below. The flat bottom of this passage 100 feet deep is strewn
with debris, but otherwise covered with tender green sward. The bottom
is reached from the elevated waste where we stand by a very rough
irregular winding incline plane—for although the descent is full of
great blocks of stones, dreadfully steep, and liker a deranged staircase
than anything else, we still call it a steep incline plane from the
level of the plateau to the passage beneath which leads into the
valley—high rock-walls rising on either side as we descend. Entering the
defile and moving along on level ground, the wall on the right,
evidently rent from the other side as if sliced down with some giant’s
sword from the edge of the plateau, soon terminates in the valley; but
that on the left runs on for many miles like a fire-scathed rampart. The
stony plateau stretches back from the edge or level of the summit of
this rock-wall, and the lovely green valley of Thingvalla extends from
its base to the Hrafna Gjá or Raven’s Chasm—the corresponding wall and
fissure, like rampart and fosse—which bounds the other side of the
valley.
I am thus particular, because certain descriptions led me to suppose
that here we would encounter a precipice at right angles to our path,
and have to descend the face of it, instead of descending an incline
_parallel to its face_, from where the _stair_ begins on the old level.
As it is, however, it seemed quite steep enough, with the rock-walled
incline reaching from the valley to our feet. This wild chasm is called
the Almanna Gjá—all men’s or main chasm; while the one on the other side
of the vale of Thingvalla is called the Hrafna Gjá or Raven’s Chasm. The
whole character of the scene, whether viewed by the mere tourist, or
dwelt upon by the man of science, is intensely interesting, and in
several respects quite unique; hence I have tried to describe it so
minutely.
When Professor Chadbourne and I came up to it, we gazed down in awe and
wonder. We knew that our companions must have descended somehow, for
there was no other way: but how, we could not tell. Were we to dismount
and let the horses go first, they might escape and leave us; if we
attempted to lead them down they might fall on the top of us; to descend
on foot would be extremely difficult at any time, and dismounting and
mounting again at this stage of our proceedings, was rather a formidable
undertaking. “How shall we set about it?” I asked my friend. “You may do
as you please,” said he, “but I must keep my seat if I can.” “So shall
I, for the horse is surer footed than I can hope to be to-day.” “Lead on
then” said the Professor, “and I’ll follow!”
So leaving my pony to choose its steps, it slowly picked its way down
the steep gorge; zig-zagging from point to point and crag to crag, or
stepping from one great block of stone to another. I was repeatedly
compelled to lean back, touching the pony’s tail with the back of my
head, in order to maintain the perpendicular, and avoid being shot
forward, feet first, over its head, among the rocks. Sometimes at steep
places it drew up its hind legs and slid down on its hams, many loose
stones rattling down along with us as the pony kicked out right and left
to keep its balance, and made the sparks fly from its heels. Descending
in silence, at last we reached the bottom in safety, thinking it rather
a wild adventure in the way of riding, and one not to be attempted
elsewhere.
[Illustration: DESCENT INTO THE ALMANNA GJÁ.]
Looking back with awe and increasing wonder at the gorge we had
descended, for it certainly was terrifically steep, we both remarked the
cool indifference and utter absence of fear with which we had ridden
down such a break-neck place. The fresh air and excitement prevent one
from thinking anything about such adventures till they are over.
[Illustration: ALMANNA GJÁ.]
The high rock-walls, now hemming us in on either side, bore a
considerable resemblance to the pictures of Petra—Wady Mousa—in Arabia,
and here we could fancy mounted Bedouins riding up with their long
matchlocks. All was silent as the grave. The ground was green with
tender herbage; great blocks of stone lay about, and others seemed ready
to topple over and fall down upon us. Riding along, the rocks on the
right soon terminated like a gigantic heap of burned ruins, and allowed
us to gaze across the vale of Thingvalla, with the river Oxerá in the
foreground. Here we overtook our friends who told us that they had all
dismounted and led their horses down the chasm, and would scarcely
believe that we had ridden down. All of us were lost in wonder and
struck with awe at the scenes we had witnessed. We forded the river in a
row, following Zöga’s guidance; and at 5 o’clock in the afternoon rode
up to the priest’s house on the other side. It was simply a farm, like
others we had seen, consisting of a group of separate erections with
wooden gables, green sod on the roof and the whole surrounded with a low
stone wall coped with turf. Beside it was the silent churchyard with its
simple grassy graves of all sizes. Immediately behind the house were
piles of sawn timber, and several carpenters at work rebuilding the
little church, which having become old and frail had been taken down.
Its site was only about 25 feet by 10.
[Illustration: FORDING THE OXERÁ.]
Zöga went in to tell the pastor of our arrival, leaving us to dismount
in a deep miry lane between two rough stone walls leading to the house.
He had been busy with his hay, but speedily appeared and hospitably
offered us what shelter he could afford.
Zöga arranged for the grazing of the ponies; we were to dine in the
largest room of the house, and he was to have the use of the kitchen
fire to cook our dinner—the preserved meats, soups, &c.—which of course
we had brought with us. The pastor provided a splendid trout from the
river, to the great delectation of half a dozen travellers all as hungry
as hawks.
[Illustration: PRIEST’S HOUSE AT THINGVALLA.]
Now commenced the unstrapping and unpacking, presided over by the
indefatigable Zöga; boxes, bags, and packages, bespattered with mud, lay
about singly and in piles. Everybody seemed to want something or other
which was stowed away somewhere, and forthwith the patient obliging
Zöga, in a most miraculous manner, never failed to produce the
desiderated articles. Taking a rough towel and soap, I performed my
ablutions in the river close by, while dinner was getting ready and felt
quite refreshed. “Time and the hour runs through the roughest day,” and
this was certainly one to be marked in our calender. Shortly after 6
o’clock we dined and attempted some conversation in Latin with the
priest, Mr. S. D. Beck. He is a pastor literally and metaphorically,
farming and fishing as well as preaching. Hay, however, is the only crop
which is raised here; and the Icelanders are consequently very dependent
upon the hay-harvest. With their short summer they might not
inappropriately quote Shakspere’s lines,
“The sun shines hot; and if we use delay
Cold biting winter mars our hoped for hay.”
The scythe used by the Icelanders is quite straight and not half the
length of ours. The numerous little hummocks, with which pasture land is
covered, necessitate the use of a short implement, so that it may mow
between and around them; the hillocks are from one to two feet high, and
from one to four feet across. In some places the ground presents quite
the appearance of a churchyard or an old battle-field. These elevations
are occasioned by the winter’s frost acting on the wet subsoil. If
levelled they would rise again to the same height in about 7 or 8 years;
but the farmers let them alone, because they fancy they get a larger
crop from the greater superficial area of the field, and this old
let-alone custom certainly saves them much labour. The primitive state
of their agriculture, as well as the peculiar nature of the Icelandic
soil, may be inferred from the fact, that there are only two ploughs in
the whole island and no carts. A spade, a scythe two feet long, a small
rake with teeth about an inch and a half deep, and ropes made of grass
or hair to bind the hay, which is carried on men’s backs or conveyed by
horses to be stacked, are all that the farmer requires for his simple
operations. The hay, especially that which grows in the túns, is of fine
quality, tender and nutritive; and, with even any ordinary attention to
drainage, many a fertile vale could be made to yield much more than is
now obtained from it. Latin was our only mode of communicating directly
with the priest; but having had little colloquial practice of that kind,
we blundered on, feeling that, in appropriating the stately language of
Cicero and Virgil to creature comforts and the vulgar ongoings of daily
life, we were almost committing a species of desecration: yet the
ludicrous combinations and circumlocutions, grasped at in desperation to
express modern things in a dead language, afforded us no little
amusement. Professor Chadbourne, Mr. Murray, and myself got most of the
work to do, and were often greeted with the pastor’s goodnatured “Ita,”
or “Intelligo,” when our propositions could not have been particularly
remarkable for perspicacity. Amongst foreigners, charity covers a
multitude of sins of this kind. We cannot however apply the same remark
to our own countrymen, who are often more inclined to laugh at a
foreigner’s mistakes than to help him.
The fragrant tedded hay and the green vale of Thingvalla stretching
before us were peculiarly refreshing to the eye, after the dreary rugged
lava-wastes through which we had passed—where tracks of flat rocks were
corrugated and shrivelled up like pitch, having been left so when the
lava set; and where other rock-surfaces appeared ground and polished in
grooves by the ice-drift; or where all was covered with a pack of lava
blocks and slabs, of all sizes and lying in every conceivable direction.
After tea I walked out alone a little way north-west of the church to
examine the Althing, on the upper part of which stands the Lögberg or
sacred law hill, where, when the Parliament or Althing was assembled,
the judges sat; and where justice was administered to the Icelanders for
nearly 900 years; thus rendering Thingvalla, with its numerous
associations and stirring memories, to speak historically, by far the
most interesting spot in the island.
[Illustration: ALTHING AND LÖGBERG FROM BEHIND THE CHURCH.]
The Althing is a long sloping ridge of lava, about 200 feet long and
from 30 to 50 broad, covered on the top with the most tender herbage and
flowers. At the end next the church it is low and approachable, by
climbing over a few stones among and below which one can see water, but
it is entirely separated from the surrounding plain by two deep
perpendicular rocky fissures or chasms running parallel on either side
and joining at the further end. Only at one place is the chasm so
narrow—16 feet—that, once on a time, Flosi, leader of the burners of
Njal’s house, made his escape from justice by taking a desperate leap.
These chasms contain clear water, so that the Althing is in fact a
narrow peninsula, which with the entrance guarded was as secure as a
fortress. One looks sheer down, say 20 or 30 feet, to the surface of the
water in the chasms; while the water itself is from 80 to 90 feet deep,
and in some places said to be unfathomable. These fissures run S.W. to
the lake which is about a mile distant. Through the water, one sees huge
blocks of lava of a whitish blue colour and dark masses of basalt
gleaming from the green depths. Beautiful tender fairy-like ferns grow
on the edges and in the sheltered crevices of the rocks; and I gathered
specimens of grasses, mosses, violets, butter-cups and forget-me-nots,
from the soft verdant carpet which covered the surface. Here, the
Icelandic Parliament, such as it was, continued to meet, down to the
year 1800, when the seat of government was finally removed to Reykjavik.
In the old palmy days, prior to A.D. 1261 when the island became subject
to Norway, the Althing was the scene of many a spirited debate; affairs
of the greatest import were here freely discussed, and finally disposed
of, in open assembly. Thus, in the year A.D. 1000, after a stormy
debate, it was determined that Christianity should be introduced as the
religion of the island. Here, measures of general interest were
proposed, taxes levied, law-suits conducted, the judgments of inferior
courts revised, subordinate magistrates impeached for dereliction of
duty and dismissed from their office; while criminals were tried, and if
found guilty of capital offences were summarily executed. Criminals were
beheaded on the little Island of Thorlevsholm in the Oxerá; in a pool of
the same river, female offenders, sewed in a sack, were drowned; and
those condemned for witchcraft were precipitated from the top of a high
rock on the east side of the Almannagjá.
The Althing commonly met in the middle of May and sat for 14 days. Every
freeholder had a right to attend and express his opinion on measures
under consideration: thus, at Thingvalla, friends and acquaintances from
distant parts of the island—members and friends of both sexes—annually
availed themselves of this opportunity of meeting each other. The people
pitched their tents on the banks of the Oxerá and in the plain around
the Althing; so that a wild lone scene usually silent as the grave, for
the time became quite a busy one, enlivened by the presence of nearly
all the elite of the island.
[Illustration: LAKE OF THINGVALLA FROM THE LÖGBERG.]
Gazing from the Althing, so as to take in the general aspect of the
wondrous scene around us, the whole valley seems obviously to have sunk
down en masse to its present level. The tops of the two extreme
wall-like boundaries, with chasms at their base, on either side of the
vale, respectively called the Almannagjá and the Hrafnagjá, show the
original height of the whole, and also exhibit a section of the rock.
This view of the matter is proved by the fact, that the numerous cracks,
rents, or fissures, such as those around the Althing, with which the
valley is intersected, when examined are found exactly to correspond in
their sections—trahytic trap capped by lava—with the edges left standing
as they were before the subsidence of the valley and now bounding it
like a black rampart. The pastor’s dwelling, from where I stand,
presents the appearance of a few grass hillocks or potato-pits. The site
of each erection is partly excavated from the side of a little slope, to
protect it from the storm. Grass-turf covers the roofs, and the whole
group of buildings is surrounded by a three-foot turf-wall;
consequently, like many other Icelandic farms we have seen, little more
than the roofs appear above ground. At midnight I made several sketches
of the lake of Thingvalla; the river Oxerá as it fell thundering over
the dark rock-wall in a sheet of white foam; and the bare heights to the
north-east, purple in the evening glow and mottled with snow patches.
[Illustration: WATERFALL OF THE OXERÁ, AS SEEN FROM THE LÖGBERG.]
On returning to the pastor’s, I found my companions fast asleep on the
floor. The canvas tent which had been left by the French expedition
served them for a bed, portmanteaus or packages were appropriated for
pillows, and plaids and wrappers spread over them for blankets. They lay
packed like herrings in a barrel. I stepped over them as quietly as I
could, found an unoccupied space near the open window, speedily
ensconced myself for the night, and in a few minutes sank into a
well-earned and blessed state of obliviousness.
_Saturday Morning, July 30._—Breakfasted and left Thingvalla at 9 A.M.
The first five miles or so of our journey across the valley lay through
low green brushwood, where the vegetation was fresh and luxuriant. This
in Iceland is called a forest; but the trees, chiefly birches and
willows, are all dwarfs. The birches were about 3 feet high, very few of
them attaining to the height of 4 or 5 feet; the willows were of three
kinds; one with a leaf resembling bog myrtle; the leaves of another
white, green, and flossy—both these varieties only 10 to 12 inches high;
while the third, although Professor Chadbourne assured me it was a
genuine willow, was only about one and a half inches; we observed
catkins on them all. Wild geraniums, forget-me-nots, butter-cups, the
beautiful rose-coloured sedum so common in Iceland, clover, sea-pinks,
&c., grew in profusion, and imparted to the whole the appearance of a
rich fresh green coppice. When the ponies could snatch at a stray bite
of grass as they passed along, in doing so, they would often at the same
time take up a tree by the roots and carry it off in their mouths.
We came upon yawning chasms, every little way, where the rocks had been
rent asunder; the cracks or fissures about 100 feet deep, 10 or 20 wide,
dry, and all running in the same direction from the lake. These we
either avoided, or crossed at places where blocks of stone had fallen
in, so as to fill up part with debris, or form natural bridges which
afforded as good footing as the most of the track we had ridden over.
The lake of Thingvalla lay peacefully behind us on our right, fair as a
silver mirror. Ascending a green bosky hill, where numerous hillocks
around were clothed with low brushwood to the very top, we came to the
Hrafnagjá, or Raven’s chasm, which forms the eastern boundary of
Thingvalla. It is a deep broad irregular abyss, several miles in length,
and on the further side, high like a rampart. We got across it, and up
to the level of the plateau, by picking our way over the ridge of an
avalanche of rock and stones, which had fallen in, leaving gaps, rude
arches, and frightful openings into the darkness beneath us; while,
right and left, the chasm itself stretched away like the dry fosse of a
giant’s castle which, through successive ages, had withstood the
assaults of all the rock-jötuns. Up this perilous way, steeper than a
stair, winding, zig-zagging, doubling, leaping like cats from block to
block, or standing for a second like goats with four feet on one stone
to consider their next move, our patient ponies toiled upwards and took
us safely across. Looking back, we bade adieu for a time to the lovely
green vale of Thingvalla beneath us, and were lost in wonder, both at
the wild savage grandeur of the chasm we had just crossed and at the
sure-footedness and pluck of our trusty little steeds.
The plateau now attained was of the same level as that over which we had
passed before descending into Thingvalla, but here, it did not extend
very far, being bounded by irregular heights and bare hills.
Vegetation disappeared, everything seemed blasted. Plovers again sat
quite close to us, or flitted past, uttering their shrill plaintive
whistle; passing so near that we could distinctly observe the tremulous
motion of their mandibles. The ponies stepped aside from holes in our
very track, opening into hollow darkness, where stones thrown in were
long heard striking against the sides. At one place, we came to a black
cave 20 or 30 feet in size, arched right into and under great blocks of
stone. It appeared to be a huge lava-blister which had taken its present
shape in cooling. The bottom of the cave, protected from the warm rays
of the sun, was covered with snow; and, for the same reason, white
patches of snow lay in crevices of the bare rocky hills around us. The
path now ascended flanking the sides of the hills on the left, while the
whole region seemed fire-scathed and blasted. The hills and slopes were
covered with dark volcanic sand, pulverized ashes, and slag, out of
which abruptly rose irregular masses of rock. Here, leaving our horses,
we turned aside to examine a small extinct crater or vent, called
Tintron, crowning a little eminence to the right. In ascending it, we
were up to the ancles in fine black sand or slag, which, yielding
beneath the feet at every step, made walking extremely awkward, if not
difficult. The crater itself was composed of great blocks of red and
black vitrified lava, over which we looked down into the darkness as
into Pluto’s chimney. We threw in some large stones, but could not from
their sound form an estimate of the depth. Perhaps this vent may be only
a lava-blister which has burst on the top, instead of forming a cave
like the other we lately saw. However, though small, it presented the
appearance of a regular crater. From it, we saw, on the one side, the
beautiful Lake of Thingvalla; and, on the other, the near hills
opposite, with the slope between them and us all covered with black
scoriæ.
[Illustration: VENT OF TINTRON.]
After pocketing a few specimens of the lava, I made a rough sketch of
the crater and gathered a sprig of wild thyme, and a little white flower
(_parnassia_), which was blooming all alone on its very brink. Mounting
our ponies and descending for about an hour, on clearing the hill-side
we came in sight of a level plain of green meadow land, lying below us,
shaped like a horse shoe, and occupying an area of 3 or 4 miles. It
appeared to have been submerged at no very distant period, and, like
other Icelandic valleys, was sadly in want of drainage.
The rocky hill-range, which at the same time came into view on the left
and formed the boundary of the plain, was one of the most singular I
ever beheld. It was composed of black, yellow, and red volcanic rock;
rising in fantastic cones, or receding into savage gorges, steep,
abrupt, and angular. The surface was absolutely without vegetation of
any kind, and every cleavage, rent or crevice, so fresh, bare, and
unweathered, one could fancy that the rocks had only during the last
hour been smitten, shattered, and splintered by Thor’s hammer; while the
rich effect of their vari-coloured tints was heightened by the pure
white clouds which incense-like were now muffling and rolling about
their summits, and by the verdure which extended to their base like a
carpet. Our track lay along the foot of them, and wonder only increased
as we obtained a nearer view of their Tartarian wildness.
[Illustration: VARI-COLOURED HILLS.]
Here we halted, and I made a slight sketch of a portion of the range. As
a mere study of light and shade, to say nothing of other striking
features, the scene would have made a magnificent photograph.
Starting, we rode on, till we reached the end of the cinder range,
doubled the outmost spur, and, after ascending for sometime, came in
sight of gently sloping hills. Their flowing outlines were covered with
verdure to the very top, and, from our path, opened up here and there
into little green bosky valleys “where the blae-berries grow.” Before
us, in a vast level plain which stretched away from the roots of the
hills near to the horizon, lay the Laugervatn; and further to the south,
linked by a river, the Apavatn, a lake much larger; while several other
rivers meandered in gleaming serpentine courses over the vast green
prairie-like meadow.
On the brink of the Laugervatn are several hot springs from which it
takes its name. We observed columns of white steam rising from them on
the brink next us, just below the farm of Laugervalla; and also across
on the other side of the lake. Approaching the farm, we halted, outside
the tun, to lunch, rest for an hour and let the horses graze. It
presented the usual appearance of Icelandic farms; not unlike an
irregular group of potato-pits or tumuli. The roofs were of the same
colour as the plain, and the whole shut in from the surrounding pasture
land by a rude four-foot wall, also covered on the top with green turf.
The tun, or few acres thus enclosed, receives a top-dressing of manure
and bears a luxuriant crop of hay; the rest is left in a state of
nature, and reaped without sowing. The hay, when stacked, is protected
from the rain by thin slices or strips of turf from 6 to 10 feet long.
Nearly all Icelandic farming has reference to the rearing of stock—the
summer being too short for grain to reach maturity.
* * * * *
A few words, here, while we rest, as to Icelandic Farms in general.
Most farms have a weaving room, a smithy, a milk room, a sitting
room—used also for eating and sleeping in—called stofa; a guest-chamber,
cattle-houses, which are sometimes placed immediately under the
sleeping-room but more frequently detached, and a kitchen; which last my
friend Dr. Mackinlay neatly describes as often “a dingy dark place, with
a peat fire on a lava block, and a hole in the roof to let in light and
let out smoke.” The turf is inferior; wood is too scarce and valuable to
be much used for fuel. Coal costs £5 per ton, is retailed in small
packages at about 2d. per pound, and is only used in smithies. When turf
is not available, the Icelanders, like the Arabs, burn dried cows’ dung;
and on the coast, where even that is scarce, they use the dried carcases
of sea-fowl. Why do they not burn dried sea-weed, which is extensively
used for fuel in the Channel Islands?
Their daily food is taken cold, and consists chiefly of raw dried
stock-fish and skier. The latter dish is simply milk allowed to become
acid and coagulate, and then hung up in a bag till the whey runs off. In
this form it is both nutritive and wholesome, being more easily digested
than sweet milk; while, to those who take to it, it is light, palatable
and delightfully cooling. Milk is prepared in this way by the
Shetlanders, who in the first stage call it “run milk,” and when made
into skier “hung milk.” The same preparation is made use of by the
Arabs, and it is also the chief diet of the Kaffirs and Bechuanas at the
Cape. Our idea that milk is useless or hurtful when soured is merely an
ignorant prejudice. Those who depend for their subsistence chiefly on
milk diet, and have the largest experience, prefer to use it sour, and
medical authority endorses their choice. In Icelandic farms hard black
rye bread is at times produced as a luxury; butter is always cured
without salt, and used rancid, however, after it reaches a certain mild
stage it gets no worse; meat is dried at certain seasons of the year for
occasional use, and the rivers abound in excellent fish. The chief use
to which the kitchen fire is put, is to prepare a cup of warm coffee.
Snaps, sugar candy, coffee, grain, and other foreign commodities, they
obtain at the factories.
The scarcity of fuel tempts people to crowd together for heat; sometimes
15 or 16 people in one small sleeping apartment, and that often placed
over another where cattle are kept. The state of such an atmosphere may
be imagined, while many dirty habits and the frequent recourse to
stimulants are thus accounted for. Nor will any one wonder much,
although there were no other causes, that, in one district of the south,
75 per cent of all the children born die before they complete their
twelfth month.
As for indoor occupations, the farmers, as in colonial outposts, of
necessity are Jacks-of-all-trades. They forge scythes, make saddles and
bridles, make their simple household furniture, horse-shoe nails, and
even build or repair their own houses. Females do the tailoring, but men
make their own shoes and take their turn at the spinning wheel, the
knitting needles, and the loom. All work together by lamplight, while
some one reads aloud some old-world story. The out-door occupations are
both fishing and farming. The ver-tima, or fishing season, lasts from
February till May, and is chiefly carried on, on the south-west coast,
which, from thus becoming a source of wealth, is called Guld-bringu—or
the gold bringing—Sysla. At the beginning of the season, men move down
to the fishing stations. The boats have each from 4 to 10 oars, and
crews of from 10 to 20 men.
Lines only are used, and the fish caught are chiefly cod and ling. Part
are salted and dried for exportation, part dried for home use without
salt and left at the stations to be fetched at midsummer, when many
people resort to the annual fair for the sale of produce, or rather the
exchange of commodities. The deep sea fishing is not prosecuted by the
Icelanders, but is chiefly carried on by the Norwegians, French, and
Dutch. All journeys are performed on horseback.
These statements will enable the reader to form an idea of the ongoings
of daily life in the numerous farms, which are scattered over the
habitable belt of pasture-land which nearly surrounds the island.
* * * * *
Through Zöga, we had an interview with the farmer, and arranged for the
grazing of the ponies on the farm of Laugervalla. A girl brought out a
large basin of skier, together with a plentiful supply of milk and cream
to us.
We looked wistfully to the south-east in the direction of Hekla which
lay about 35 miles distant, but at this time it was quite hid by an
impenetrable veil of clouds resting on the horizon line. As we were
about half-way from Thingvalla to the Geysers, we mounted the relay
horses, and now it was the turn of those that brought us thither to be
driven before us.
In Iceland, at whatever pace the ponies run, they are supposed to be
resting, when they carry no load.
Our course lay over some wet marshy land—from which we gathered heather,
moss, cotton-grass, and buck-bean—across a shallow river brawling over
white and slaty coloured stones on its way to the lake; and then higher
up, along the sides of the green hill-range which trends in the
direction of the Geysers. Here dwarf-birches and willows grew in
profusion; while the broken cakes of black lava, which projected from
among them, served by contrast to add freshness to the greenth of the
foliage, and yet more brilliance to the vari-coloured flowers which
bloomed in beauty on every side. We saw innumerable coveys of ptarmigan
on the hill-sides, many plovers, snipe, and a few snow-birds. All were
very tame, flitted quite near and seemed to wonder at our intruding on
their amenities. We did not abuse their confidence, but admiringly
allowed them to go, as they came, in peace.
Coming to a part where the soil was of soft earth and turf, we found it,
for miles, worn by the ponies into very narrow tracks, averaging two
feet in depth. There were from six to twelve of these tracks, with thin
grassy ledges between them, lying close together nearly parallel and
every little way running into each other; where the ground sloped, they
were dry; and, where it was level or low, they were full of mud or
water. Riding along at a hard trot, we required to be ever on the alert,
and to maintain an incessant motion of the feet, in order to avoid
collision with the irregular surface and the projecting stones on either
side of us. Tempted by a wild flower of unusual beauty, I dismounted,
but was astonished to find that the deep tracks were so narrow that I
could not walk in them, there not being width for my one foot to pass
the other: yet a horse finds no difficulty in trotting along; actually,
however paradoxical it may seem, requiring less space for its feet than
a man.
We saw numerous farms as we passed along, each consisting of a group of
irregular hillocks, with the windows hid deep in the grassy turf like
port-holes, and generally all turned inwards so as to be sheltered from
the roaring blasts of winter. We met ponies trudging along conveying
lambs from one farm to another. It was curious to see the little animals
looking out of square crate-like boxes, made of spars of wood, slung in
the manner of panniers on a donkey, and to hear them bleat: reminding
one of the old nursery rhyme “young lambs to sell!”
They could not be otherwise transported over lava tracks and across the
rivers which separate one valley from another. We saw several small
caravans or companies of Icelanders on the way. They had the same sort
of boxes as our baggage ponies, and the same quaint horse gear, down to
the rough hair cords tied and fastened by passing a sheep’s knee-bone
through a loop to prevent knots from slipping. They had tents and
provisions; one of the ponies carried a leather bottle probably filled
with skier. It was a calf’s skin sewed up, with the head and legs left
on it, so that it presented a quaint old world look; and recalled
pictures in the catacombs of Egypt. Notwithstanding the difference of
climate, when in contact with the people, one is here, at every point,
reminded of the East and carried back to patriarchal times. We touched
our hats in returning the salutations of those we met, although we did
not know the exact import of what was said to us on such occasions till
afterwards, when Dr. Mackinlay told me that an Icelander when he meets a
stranger invariably doffs his bonnet and accosts him with the phrase
“Saellar verith thér!”—“Happy may you be!” or occasionally with one
still more expressive, “Guts fride!”—“God’s peace be with you!” On
saying good-bye, he uncovers again, and repeats the first phrase with a
slight inversion, “Verith thér saellar!”—“Be ye happy!”
After the customary salutations, he accosts everybody on the road with a
series of questions, like a master hailing a ship. The first question
put, is “What is your name?” the second “Whose son are you?”—for the
general absence of surnames renders this necessary—the third “Where do
you come from?” Then follows “Whither are you going?” and “What are you
going to do there?” These questions are not regarded as impertinent, but
as exhibiting a kindly interest. Henderson says, “When you visit a
family in Iceland, you must salute them according to their age and rank,
beginning with the highest and descending according to your best
judgment to the lowest, not even excepting the servants; but, on taking
leave, this order is completely reversed; the salutation is first
tendered to the servants, then to the children, and last of all to the
mistress and master of the family.” Old friends meeting, salute each
other, in the old Icelandic way, with the kiss of peace. Clergymen are a
privileged body, for, in salutation, even strangers male or female give
them the kiss of peace and address them as “Sira,” Father. Hence our
words sire and sir. Out of Reykjavik, and away from the factories, there
is much of the oriental type about the manners and customs of the
Icelanders; the same simplicity, the same native politeness, the same
disregard of cleanliness, and the same dislike of change.
We now rode over uneven rocky ground, enriched with brushwood, till we
reached the banks of the Bruará. This broad, deep, rapid river drains
the valley of Laugervalla, receiving the waters of two lakes, Laugervatn
and Apavatn; which in turn are fed by rivers and streams from the snow
mountains beyond. A few miles south of us, near Skálholt, it receives
the joint waters of the Túngufljot from Haukadal with the overflow of
the Geysers, the magnificent river Hvitá which flows from a lake of the
same name at the foot of Lang Jökul, and the Laxá, from Grœnavatn;
further down to the south-west it also receives the Sog flowing from the
lake of Thingvalla; and after draining several hundred miles of country,
these waters, united in a little gulf called Olfusá, flow into the sea
on the west coast.
Properly speaking, the Bruará terminates when it joins the longest and
principal river of those named—the Hvitá or White-river—and below the
junction, the whole waters united in one river are simply called the
Hvitá; while the gulph, formed on the coast where it debouches into the
sea, is called Olfusá.
The place selected for fording the Bruará is immediately above a
singular waterfall shaped like a horse-shoe—the concave looks
downwards—with a volcanic fissure or rent from two to three hundred feet
long in the middle of it. This wedge-shaped gap in the bed of the river
runs back to a point, and the water rushes down into it, from either
side, falling into the chasm with a noise like thunder. Over this chasm,
near the point or part of it highest up the river, are placed some
planks with a slight hand-rail on either side, forming a rude bridge
about twenty feet long and seven or eight broad. The river was swollen
by recent rains, so that at least a foot of water lay upon or rather
rushed over the bridge itself. Some thirty feet of the river had to be
waded through ere the bridge in the middle could be reached;
and—guessing its whole width here, say at 70 feet—again other 20 feet
had to be forded after the bridge was passed, ere the steep rough bank,
up which we had to scramble on the other side, could be attained. The
water was deep, turbulent and rapid; while we could hear large stones
grating on each other as they were borne along in the current. The eye
took in all these bearings at a glance; there was no pause, Zöga led on
and we followed. Our horses were up to the girths, and seemed walking
over large movable boulders. They leant up the river so as to withstand
the current. The arrowy swiftness of the flowing water produced a
strange illusory feeling, akin to giddiness; one could not tell whether
the motion pertained to one’s self, or to the river. A little to our
right was the roaring cataract, so we kept the horses’ heads well up the
river, to avoid missing the bridge; in that case we should inevitably
have been swept over. The view, from the bridge, of the foaming mass of
water through which we moved, and of the yawning gulph into which it was
tumbling and furiously rushing along, far below our very feet, impressed
the situation on our minds as something unique.
[Illustration: CROSSING THE BRUARÁ.]
All having got over in safety, we paused for a few minutes on the top of
the high bank to gaze back on the strange spectacle; while, before us,
the river rushing along into the chasm, although on a smaller scale and
different in kind, suggested Dr. Livingstone’s description of the great
Victoria Falls on the Zambesi. The bridge has been renewed here from of
old. On this account, the river is named Bruará or Bridge-river; a
sufficient reason, when we mention that there is only one other bridge
in the whole island.[8]
In the neighbourhood of the river we saw many small butterflies—blue and
white—both fluttering and flying kinds; and were much annoyed with
mosquitoes like gnats, that bit our faces severely and would get in
about our necks, persecuting us most pertinaciously.
The Iceland ponies are truly wonderful animals. They carry one over
smooth bare rocks, over great blocks of lava, up places steeper than a
stair but with footing not half so good; through mud-puddles, water or
bogs; over tracks of volcanic sand; through coppices; up hill, down
hill; or across rivers. Patient and sure-footed, they stick at nothing.
They are guided by the feet as much as by the bridle; a gentle touch
with the heel being the Icelandic they are trained to understand. Some
riders, we saw, kept up a constant drumming on the poor beasts’ sides.
After their day’s work is done, they receive no manner of grooming or
stabling; saddle and bridle taken off, they are then left to shift for
themselves.
To our intense satisfaction, Zöga pointed out a hill about ten miles
off, on the other side of which lay the Geysers. It was detached from
the range of hills we had to skirt, rising with a gentle slope at right
angles to them, and falling abruptly on the other side; forming a sort
of bluff headland resting on a marshy plain. Part of our track lay
through a plashy bog; then we had long level tracks of beautiful velvet
turf at the foot of the hills, which both riders and horses seemed to
think were made expressly for running races upon. When the ponies could
be got into their peculiar amble, we progressed very pleasantly, and
almost as fast as at a gallop. The hills on our left were mostly green,
covered with dwarf birches, willows and blae-berries. On their slopes we
saw farms, here and there, as we passed along. The plain immediately on
our right, bounded by distant mountains and jökuls, was marshy. When it
became very spongy and impassible, generally, we had only to move a
little way higher up along the hill side, in order to obtain firmer
footing. Approaching the hill which separated us from the Geysers, we
crossed the morass, forded a river, rode up a miry lane past a farm
house, turned the flank of the hill, and beheld clouds of white steam
rising from the slope. The wished for goal now lay before us. Pushing on
rapidly, my trusty little pony soon reached and picked its way over a
gritty slope, among numerous plopping pits, steaming holes, boiling
springs and fountains, up to the side of the Great Geyser, where I
dismounted at 9 o’clock at night, having been ten and a half hours in
the saddle.
The Geysers are boiling springs, situated seventy-two miles north-east
of Reykjavik, on a gritty slope, at the foot of a trap-hill three
hundred feet high; and on the upper border of a green-marshy plain,
sloping down towards a small river which runs meandering through it in a
southern direction. They are about a hundred in number, and all located
in an area of about a quarter of a mile. Three of them are erupting—the
Great Geyser, Strokr, and the Little Geyser. These, with Blesi, the most
beautiful of the non-erupting springs, and situated a little way above
the great Geyser, are the principal attractions to a traveller; although
all the others, with everything pertaining to such phenomena, are
intensely interesting.
Geyser means gusher or rager; Strokr is derived from the verb to
agitate, and signifies a churn. Instead of an abstract summary, I shall
endeavour as far as possible to give a detailed account of what we saw,
and in the order of its occurrence. This will enable the reader, as it
were, to accompany us, and gather the distinctive and varied features of
this marvellous scene from the same points of view.
We stand at the side of the great Geyser, on the upper or north-west
corner of a slope; a low trap-hill above us, the green valley of
Haukadal below, and columns, jets, and clouds of white steam rising,
curling and waving from the numerous springs on this upper arid slope on
which we stand. The surface immediately around us—flinty and paved in
thin scaly layers—is of a gritty reddish irony colour, with streamlets
of hot steaming water trickling along from the overflow of the Geysers,
on their way to join the river below. A long continuous strip of verdant
turf runs up into this slaggy region, between the great Geyser and
Strokr; and elsewhere various little round green islet-patches about a
foot in diameter occur in it; blooming like oases, and covered with
parnassia, sea-pink, wild-thyme and butter-cups, all thriving and
seeming to enjoy the thermal heat. Here we found many bits of stick,
turf, moss, and flowers, incrusted over with the silicious deposit of
the water and converted into beautiful petrifactions.
The great Geyser basin is situated on the top of a cone shaped mound,
which, on account of the uneven nature of the surrounding ground, seems,
from every different point of view, to vary in height. As we approached,
it appeared seven feet; moving downwards from the plain, it seemed more
than twice as high; while, from the bottom of a deep gully running
immediately behind and separating it in one direction from the hill, it
seemed to attain an elevation of thirty feet.
The basin—perfectly smooth, of a whitish colour, saucer-shaped, slightly
oval instead of round, seventy-two feet at its greatest breadth, seventy
feet mean diameter, and about four feet deep—is full of water to the
brim. In the bottom or centre of this gigantic saucer, through the clear
hot fluid, is seen a round hole ten feet in diameter. This is the top of
a stony funnel or pipe which goes down perpendicularly to a depth of
eighty-three feet.
The Geyser-water,[9] like many hot springs in India and other parts of
the world, holds in solution a large proportion of silica or flint. It
is well known that this substance, when fused with potash or soda, under
certain circumstances readily dissolves in boiling water; and, under
various other conditions, it diffuses itself throughout the arcana of
nature; finding its way to varnish the stalk of corn in our fields, or
the bamboo in Indian jungles, both preserving them from damp and adding
strength to their extreme lightness. Fused masses of silica have at
times been found among the ashes of a haycock which has been
accidentally burned; and the same substance, arrested and deposited in
crystalline lumps, is at times met with, though rarely, in joints of
cane, and when so found is by the natives called Tabasheer.
This flint-depositing property, resident in the water, has enabled the
Geyser to raise its own pipe, basin and mound. The original basin or
orifice, when the spring began, must have been at the bottom of the
tube; the overflow, spreading, would then continue to go on and form
thin laminated cakes of silicious deposit around it; eruptions would
keep the hole open and smooth at the edge, ever adding layer to layer
till it became a tube.
Thus through the lapse of time—probably about a thousand years—tube,
basin and cone have, without doubt, been built up to their present
elevation; and will continue to rise till the weight of the
super-encumbent column of water becomes so great as to exceed the
eruptive forces, or these latter from any other cause cease to operate,
when the Geyser will probably remain tranquil for a time, and then
slowly continue to deposit flint on the surface edges, till at length
they meet and finally altogether seal up the cone.
This supposition is not altogether hypothetical, but is deduced from our
having observed, both here and elsewhere, mounds, plainly of Geyserine
formation, thus covered over, extinct and silent; little rocky
elevations left like warts on the surface of the ground; and even the
tracks or dry-beds of the meandering rivulets, which once carried away
their overflow, still left, distinctly traceable, down the sintery
slope.
Strokr is situated about four-hundred feet south from the great Geyser.
It has not a regularly formed basin like the other, but is surrounded to
a considerable distance by a slight elevation, of light flinty grit and
laminae, with sundry depressions in it; all being deposited after the
manner already described. In the centre, through brown coloured sinter,
is a deep hole, like a well, six feet in diameter at the surface,
contracting as it descends and attaining a depth of nearly fifty feet.
On looking down, the water is seen, ten or twelve feet from the
surface—boiling hard, plop-plopping, roaring, choking, and rumbling
continually; in fact, as its name indicates, agitated and seething like
a churn. The edge, however, must be approached with great caution, as
eruptions occur without any warning; when jets of boiling water shoot up
to the height of sixty feet, or, when choked with turf to provoke an
eruption, to the height of 150 feet.
The Little Geyser, situated upwards of 300 feet south of Strokr,
presents a similar appearance, only it is on a smaller scale; the tube
is less than forty feet deep. The eruptions, occurring every half-hour
or so, were like playing fountains; but they only attained a height of
10 to 15 feet, and lasted about five minutes.
The chief non-erupting spring, Blesi—so called from its fancied
resemblance to white marks on a horse’s face—is situated say about 250
feet to the west of the Great Geyser, and a little higher up the hill.
It is a large irregular oval opening into a cavern full of clear hot
water, up to the same level as the ground. It is about 40 or 50 feet
long, 10 to 20 broad, and spanned across the centre, so as apparently to
form two separate oval pools, by a natural rock bridge. The top of this
bridge is only about a foot broad, and raised an inch or so above the
surface of the water, while the arch is quite under it. One can thus see
through the clear water from the one pool to the other, the same as if
this curious division were not there.
Standing with our backs to the hill, we observed that the south edge of
the spring was only a shelving ledge of silicious sinter, covering in or
roofing the water; and that, 3 or 4 feet further in, the side of the
cavern, dipping abruptly and continuing to cave into fathomless
darkness, with its whitish crags, precipices, and projecting ledges,
could be distinctly followed for 40 or 50 feet far down through the
clear pure scalding water which was perfectly still. It never boils; but
its gentle overflow winds southward along the slope, steaming all the
way. The blue tint of the transparent water near the side was
exquisitely delicate, and appeared to be caused by light, modified and
reflected somehow from the craggy sides, although they were whitish in
colour, while the crystalline water near the sides was actually as
bright as lapis-lazuli, shading magically into the most tender
sea-green. Gazing down on the subaqueous jags, the yawning fissure,
spite of its stillness and heat, suggested Schiller’s poem of the Diver,
and then again Hans Christian Andersen’s brilliant word picture of the
Blue grotto of Capri; combining, as it does, elements both of terror and
beauty. We were strangely fascinated by this spring, which although now
so tranquil only ceased to be an active erupting Geyser in A.D. 1784,
the year after the terrific eruption of Skaptár, when earthquakes
disturbed and wrought sundry changes on the Geyser ground, and,
according to Henderson, opened up thirty-five new springs.
The rest of the springs are situated chiefly on the lower or south-west
corner of the slope, and also at the foot of the hill, in the deep gully
at the back of the great Geyser. They are of various kinds and close
together; little pools of hot water level with the surface; others,
boiling hard, below it; dark holes with steam rising from them; others
where, though no water could be seen, it was heard seething below, and
felt to be boiling by the vibratory motion it communicated to the ground
on which we stood; others seemed caldrons of seething clay; while, in
many places around, when a stick was thrust 12 or 18 inches into the
ground and withdrawn, steam issued from the hole so made.
Nearly all these springs have an alkaline reaction, and give out more or
less sulphurated hydrogen. My thermometer, dipt in at the edge of the
great Geyser when at rest but full to the brim, indicated 178°, and the
temperature was pretty equal all round its basin. Blesi was hotter, and
on repeated trials stood at 196°.
While Zöga was busy pitching the tent, lent us by the Count Von Trampe,
on the narrow turf plat, about 30 or 40 yards south-west of the great
Geyser, we observed, besides the white vapour which always hovers over
it, bubbles rising from the surface of the water over the hole in the
centre of the saucer-shaped basin; then the water became troubled; a
stream of hissing steam rushed up with a noise resembling the whiz of a
rocket; we heard subterranean sounds like the rumbling of distant
thunder, broken in upon at intervals by the booming of artillery; a dome
of water, like a gigantic glass shade eight or ten feet high, then rose
and burst with a loud explosion, as if a submarine blast had just been
fired. We expected a grand eruption, but this time were disappointed;
for only one other bell, smaller than the first, rose and fell,
enveloped in dense clouds of steam slightly impregnated with sulphur;
the troubling of the water speedily subsided, low muffled sounds died
away, losing themselves in distant mutterings, and the Geyser pot boiled
over; but very quietly, as there was no fire outside to be put out by
the little rills of scalding water. These ran trickling down the sides
all round, but chiefly on the south-west where there are several slight
indentations in the lip of the basin, and where at the foot of the mound
the bed of a shallow streamlet has been formed which winds through the
gritty slope, conveying the Geyser’s overflow, steaming as it runs, down
to the river. This little rivulet spreads out broad and shallow, as it
flows over the gritty surface, being only, excepting after eruptions,
one or two inches deep, with many little islet-patches of verdure in it.
These islets are sometimes formed by a single tuft of butter-cups,
sea-pinks, wild-thyme, or parnassia; quietly blooming in freshness and
beauty in this strange habitat, cared for and cherished by the same
beneficent hand that controls the under-lying and central fires, with
all their marvellous and terrific phenomena.
Our attention was now called to the Little Geyser, which exhibited great
activity, shooting up several jets of water at the same time like a
fountain, while great volumes of steam rolled away from it to the
leeward. Its eruptions did not attain, as already stated, more than a
height of from ten to fifteen feet, and lasted only for about five
minutes; but they occurred every little while during our stay.
We sketched this singular region from various points of view; wonder
ever increasing, as we wandered about and discovered one marvel after
another. For, be it confessed, that on approaching the Geysers, utterly
fagged and weary, I felt all curiosity so blunted, that, for the first
fifteen minutes, I believe I would scarcely have risen from the turf on
which I sat to walk a mile, though it had been to see the earth split
open to its very centre; and, for the moment, serious thoughts of how I
was ever to undergo the ride back occupied my mind. Such however are the
recuperative powers of nature, that, after a rest of twenty minutes, I
again felt equal to anything, and wandered about seeing what was to be
seen till 11 o’clock P.M., when Zöga announced that dinner was ready.
Tea was made with hot water from the great Geyser, because it afforded
the nearest supply; but our provisions were cooked in Blesi, because it
was of a higher temperature. The water had no unpleasant taste and was
quite fit for our temporary use.
Zöga’s mode of cooking was simple, a fine large trout, with head and
tail tied together, was fastened to one end of a string, and a big stone
to the other; the fish was plumped into the water and the stone left
outside near the edge to moor it; so with tins of preserved meats,
soups, &c. They required to be immersed for about twenty minutes. With
these, a plentiful supply of bread, biscuit and cheese, and the addition
of a pailful of milk from the farm, we fared sumptuously; dining
al-fresco, in broad daylight and the thermometer indicating 58°,
although it was near midnight.
Several loud reports, rumblings, noises, and minor troublings of the
water, again brought us to the side of the great Geyser, in expectation
of a grand eruption, but these came to nothing, and again we were
disappointed.
The tent was small; three of our companions crept in and lay down,
leaving a place for me to follow. Professor Chadbourne, fearing he might
miss an eruption, would not leave the ground, although he had been
offered quarters at the farm; but, selecting a warm ledge of rock
immediately under the Geyser, on the north side, lay down to sleep,
wrapt up in my storm-coat.
All had now retired but Mr. Murray who accompanied me to the hill
behind, from which we obtained a bird’s-eye view of the plain, with the
river meandering through it, and of the numerous springs in the corner
immediately below us.
The sun in the north did little more than dip and skim along a little
way below the horizon; so that between twelve and one o’clock A.M. it
was lighter than on a southern cloudy day at noon; while the whole
atmosphere, in the light “dim,” exhibited a northern depth,
transparency, and calm spiritual purity, surpassing the loveliest of our
summer twilights. Those who love Dante will perhaps realize the
impression it produced on our minds, when we say, that, although it was
too light for any stars to be visible, the ethereal beauty of the sky
suggested Beatrice. Returning to the tent before one o’clock, Mr. Murray
ensconced himself comfortably outside, in the lee of it; and I crept in,
spread my plaid and lay down without disturbing any one, although the
four of us inside were packed together as closely as sardines.
After Mr. Murray had bade me good night through the canvas, hearing the
harsh croak of the raven, and the eerie whistle of the plover, I, too,
quickly fell asleep, and dreamt a queer disjointed jumble of
Scandinavian myths new and old, of which I only remembered, Odin’s Raven
flapping its wings and leading me to Rabna Floki; seeing that worthy
thrash Thor, after having eaten his hammer; and Loki kindling Midgard
with fire from the Serpent’s eyes; the winds, all the while, sighing a
requiem for Baldur, through Yggdrasill the ash tree of existence. The
rocks were being hurled about by the Jötuns, who in the midst of their
conflict opened a space and respectfully stood aside, to allow Professor
Chadbourne to approach me. Hearing myself called upon by name, I
suddenly woke up, and saw my friend, in front of the tent, beckoning to
me in a state of great excitement.
Subterranean noises like thunder were waxing louder and louder; each
earth-shock accompanied by a tremor of the ground, more or less violent,
but quite unmistakeable. Bells of water in quick succession were rising
from the basin and falling again, ever increasing in size, till a large
one burst; and then jets of water, in successive spurts, rushed up in
sheafs from the tube; at first about 10 feet, then the height was 15,
20, 30, 50 feet and so on, each effort surpassing the preceding, till it
attained the height of 200 feet. The fountain did not fall down between
each jet, but, nearly holding the elevation once gained, the whole grew
up bodily by a series of jerks each higher than the last. Dense clouds
of steam enveloped the whole, and only afforded occasional glimpses of
the columns of water from the leeward side. White vapour also spread out
above the fountain, rolling away in vast curling volumes, which,
condensing in the air, came down like heavy dew. Tremendous sounds were
continuously heard, like the roaring of an angry sea, broken in upon by
the near discharge of minute guns. It is at last, what we longed to
behold, a grand eruption of the great Geyser.
Professor Chadbourne, who came running to the tent to rouse me, had been
sleeping for warmth on a ledge immediately under the basin; and, when
wakened by the loud noises, two streams of boiling water were running
down the mound in miniature cascades on either side of him.
The vast body of water from the central pipe continued jetting up, till,
as I have said, it attained the height of 200 feet, falling down again
into the basin which was brimful to overflowing. The subterranean
rumbling sounds and reports, accompanied with vibration of the ground,
were fearful. Jets of water rushed up, in sheaf, with a continuous
noise, such as would be produced by 500 rockets discharged into the air
at the same instant.
Even the beautiful clouds of steam which robed the Geyser were regarded
by us with an indescribable feeling of mysterious awe and wonder, as if
we had actually discovered the fabled magic vapour, from which the
eastern Ufret, or any other vision, might arise; while the sharp
tinkling plash of the descending water could, at times, be heard amidst
the loud hissing, roaring, booming and confused Babel of all unearthly
sounds. The eruptive forces having now expended themselves for the time,
the fountain gradually subsided in the same manner, though more speedily
than it had risen. The whole terrific spectacle lasted about twenty
minutes. We were singularly fortunate, as, from what we were told, few
eruptions of late have lasted more than four or five minutes, or
attained half the height of this which we had just witnessed.
When over, the water subsided and left the basin empty, so that one
could walk in it to the edge of the central tube-hole, and look down. As
the water thus sank, so great was the heat in the stone that the cup was
instantaneously, though bit by bit, left as dry as an oven. Smooth and
of a whitish colour, it resembled the chalice of a gigantic water-lily.
At the edges however, where silex has been deposited from the spray and
condensed steam, the surface, although of the same colour, is rough like
coral, or rather granulated like the head of a cauliflower. I broke off
specimens of this singular formation from the lip, and also obtained
bits of shingly laminæ from the mound, the latter not unlike the outside
of an oyster-shell; on several of the fragments was a deposit of
sulphur.
I now retired to the tent, but the Professor made to sleep, sitting on
the edge with his feet in the dry basin, determined to miss nothing. In
an hour or so he was warned back by the water gradually rising and again
filling the cup. There was not much hazard in his so doing, as the
premonitory symptoms are generally “loud enough,” as my friend Dr.
Mackinlay quaintly remarked, “to disturb the repose of Rip Van Winkle
himself.” However, danger may arise from these symptoms being
disregarded, as they also precede abortive attempts, in a very deceptive
and tantalizing way; getting louder and louder up to a certain point,
and then, instead of coming to a head, gradually subsiding again into
perfect stillness. The deafening detonations and rumblings are most
frequent fast and furious, immediately before, and during eruptions.
The Geyser made another grand display, early in the morning between four
and five o’clock; but it fell far short of the first in magnitude. Tired
with the fatigues of the preceding days, with broken rest and
excitement, I only mechanically sat up, thrust aside the canvas of the
tent and gazed out on the strange scene, scarcely able to keep my eyes
half open the while. My recollections of it are consequently somewhat
vague and nebulous; having reference to loud discordant noises muffled
up in white clouds, both strangely rising from the earth. In fact, to me
scarcely half awake and perfectly passive, all seemed an evanescent
dream, and I speedily sank back again to enjoy “the honey heavy dew of
slumber;” for to the way-worn and weary, nature’s soft nurse proffers
that which is best for them, viz., repose; and as the laureate sings,
“Why should a man desire in any way
To differ from the kindly race of men?”
_July 31._—Had the luxury of a hot bath at the great Geyser; dipping a
rough towel into its basin, and tempering down the heat in one of the
cooler little pools formed on its ledge by the overflow. When bathing my
feet and half dressed, the Geyser exhibited premonitory symptoms of an
eruption, the water bubbling violently over the pipe, streams of hissing
steam, noises like thunder, then like artillery, a tremor of the ground,
then a transparent dome of water heaved up about four feet and burst.
Gathering up my clothes, bare-footed, I scampered off as fast as
possible; fortunately without cutting myself on the flinty scale-like
laminæ, which on the edges are as hard and sharp as knives. It was only
a little disturbance which subsided in a few minutes, but shallow
streams of boiling water flowed down over the very part of the basin
where I had been standing. Afterwards returning with Professor
Chadbourne, we completed our toilet, giving a keen edge to our razors by
dipping them into the hot water of the great Geyser, at the same time
making use of a little pool at the side as a mirror. The matter-of-fact
oddness of the situation recalled sundry adventures of Don Quixote, when
in quest of another basin—that of the barber, which he mistook for the
enchanted golden helmet of Mambrino. The Geyser also did efficient duty
as pot and tea-kettle for breakfast.
About ten o’clock A.M. we witnessed an eruption of Strokr. All of a
sudden, we heard as it were the whiz of a rocket, and saw a jet of water
spouting up in a single column, to the height of fifty or sixty feet,
straight as the trunk of a palm tree, but spreading out at the top,
bending gracefully down all round, and falling in clouds of spray. It
lasted for about ten minutes, subsided, and began again. Some of us,
looking down, narrowly escaped being scalded by its sudden vehement and
unexpected spurts. The ascending water shewed beautifully clear and
transparent against the sky; and gleaming rainbows came and went—now
bright as the tint of flowers, now dim and evanescent—lending opaline
lustres to the falling showers of diamond spray.
After all was over, Zöga collected several heaps of turf at the side,
and then at once plumped them all in, to provoke an eruption. We
expected the dose would take effect in twenty minutes or half-an-hour;
but a whole hour having elapsed without any sign, we began to fear it
would exhibit no resentment at being made to eat dirt. Five minutes
more, however, and up it came, rushing with tremendous force, in several
jets, and attaining a height of from a hundred to a hundred and fifty
feet. The water falling back, nearly in a perpendicular line, was met by
up-rushing steam, and thus formed a glassy dome, from which jets of
water sprang up. This disturbance lasted twenty-one minutes; was
followed by a lull; then it commenced again, subsided and ended by one
or two explosions and spurts, after which the water sunk down into the
pipe, rumbling, seething, boiling hard, and plop-plopping as before. The
water this time was black and dirty with the particles of sand and turf
which had been administered to it; so that, although higher, it lacked
the fairy-like beauty of the last eruption. I had thrown in a white
cambric pocket handkerchief with some turf tied in it; but, instead of
its being washed and thrown up, suppose it must have been cooked, and
reduced to “shreds and patches” or pulp, as I saw no more of it.
Several cows were wandering near the Geysers quite unconcerned. Many
sheep and lambs browse in the valley beneath, occasionally approaching
the springs. Accidents, however, seldom occur; although we were told of
an unlucky ox having once stumbled into Blesi, where it was boiled
alive. Sea-swallows were flying overhead; and at our feet, among the
stony grit, grew isolated patches of wild-thyme, sea-pinks, dandelions,
butter-cups, sorrel and parnassia—all of them old friends, and quite
home-like. The thermometer stood at 60° in the shade. At noon, being
Sabbath, we sat down in the lee of the tent, which was fluttering in the
breeze, and Mr. Haycock read the service for the day—Professor
Chadbourne and I taking the lessons; gave an English Testament, and some
of the Religious Tract Society’s illustrated publications to Zöga, who
could both read and translate them to his brother guides.
After dinner walked down to the river. On either side of its course lies
a strip of meadow, where the herbage is rich, green, tender and
luxuriant like a velvet carpet; the valley around, though also green, is
in many places wet and spongy; covered with heather and moss-hags.
The overflow of the Geysers comes down, steaming, to the river, through
the brown shingle which is variegated here and there with little strips
and patches of verdure. After great eruptions there is some body of
water; at other times it merely trickles, spread over a wide bed.
Wandering about, I visited every one of the springs alone. In the south
corner of the Geyser ground, steaming pits occur every little bit: the
crust there is very thin, so that one requires to tread with caution.
Some of them are merely holes in this thin crust, showing steaming pools
of hot water, flush with the surface and extending under it; others are
holes in rocks, deep, dark and craggy, with the water far down boiling
furiously and seething in white foam; such is Strokr. Some are as if one
looked down the kitchen chimney of a castle in the olden time when good
cheer was preparing: you hear boiling going on but see nothing, for all
is dark. Others throw up jets of steam. At many places you hear internal
cauldrons boiling violently, at others you can also see puffs of steam
escaping at intervals from small clay holes. The Little Geyser enlivens
the scene by throwing up many jets of steaming water, at different
angles, playing like a fountain several times in the course of an hour
or so; nor does the great Geyser allow itself to be long forgotten: loud
noises, rising bells of water, and other premonitory symptoms frequently
calling us up to its side in expectation of grand eruptions; for, more
perfect in its formation and larger than any of the other springs, it is
justly regarded as the chief attraction of the place.
Sir George Mackenzie attempted to explain the mechanism of the Geyser
eruptions, by supposing that the tube was fed from hot water confined in
a neighbouring subterranean cavern. This water was forced into and up
the tube by the pressure of steam, accumulated between the surface of
the water and the roof of the hypothetical cavern, when it had attained
power sufficient to overcome the resistance of the column of water
contained in the tube.
For several reasons, this explanation is unsatisfactory; and the more
likely theory is the chemical one, propounded by Bunsen who spent eleven
days here. In few words it is as follows. The water in the lower part of
the tube gets heated far above the boiling point by the surrounding
strata; water, thus super-heated for a length of time, is known to
undergo certain changes which materially modify its composition;
particles of air are expelled, the component molecules consequently
adhere more closely together, so that it requires a much higher
temperature to make it boil. When, however, under these conditions, it
does boil, the production of steam is so great and instantaneous as
sufficiently to account for all the phenomena of a Geyser eruption.
This theory is supported by various facts. The temperature, both in the
Geyser tube and in Strokr, gradually rises towards the bottom, and
increases before eruptions. It has actually been found as high as 261°
Fahrenheit, which is 39° above the boiling point. In ordinary
circumstances it would be found equal throughout, or, if a difference
were appreciable, the hottest water, being the lightest, would rise to
the top. Stones have been suspended at the bottom and remained
undisturbed by eruptions, showing that the super-heating process went on
above them in the tube itself; and lastly, M. Donny, of Ghent, has
produced precisely the same effects in miniature; using for the
experiment a brass tube stopped with a cork, and heating it all round
with charcoal fires; one, if we remember rightly, at the bottom of the
pipe, and another half-way up.
This theory would also explain the terrific and destructive water
eruptions of Kötlugjá, provided the water actually does come from the
crater, as is said, and not rather from the great deposits of surface
snow and ice melted by the internal heat of the mountain. One of these
eruptions in 1755—the year of the earthquake at Lisbon—destroyed 50
farms in the low country, with many men and cattle. Of the two
Geyser-theories, Bunsen’s is the more likely to prove the correct one.
After exploring the plain and gazing on the farm of Haukadal, which is
situated on a height about three quarters of a mile to the north of the
Geyser and celebrated as the birth-place of Ari Frodi the earliest
historian of the north and the first compiler of the Landnámabok,
accompanied by Mr. Murray, I ascended the hill behind so as to get a
complete bird’s-eye view of the Geyser ground, and the whole valley of
Haukadal or Hawk-dale. The view of this singular region from thence, is
peculiar, and I shall try to convey an idea of it, even at the risk of
repetition.
Below, a green marshy plain runs nearly north and south; the river,
winding through it, shows here and there little serpentine reaches of
water like bits of mirror; the horizon, on the south and south-east, is
bounded by a low sloping range of purple hills, and several low detached
heights shaped like the Nineveh mounds. On the north and north-east rise
several distant mountains. One of them is a Jökul, with perpetual snow
and ice on its summit, and ribbed with white streaks down its sides. On
the west is the hill-range on which we now stand. It is considerably
higher, rougher, and wilder in character than the heights on the other
side of the valley. Near the foot of the hills, at our feet, are bluff
banks covered with reddish irony mould, not unlike old red sandstone;
these deposits however we afterwards found to be fine clay, containing
iron oxidized by exposure to the air, and very slippery to walk upon.
From these red banks there stretches a gentle slope, mostly covered with
a brown and white silicious stuff like slag, such as is seen on many
garden walks. On this little slope are the Geysers; and all the springs
occur within the small space of about fifty acres.
The great Geyser is the most northern, and lies on our extreme left.
From where we stand, it resembles an artificial mill pond with an
embankment rising all round it and slanting—to compare great things with
small—like the sides of a limpet-shell from which the top or cone has
been struck off. Clouds of white vapour hovered over it, as it lay
gleaming like a silver shield. Near it, is our tent, and a heap of
boxes, saddles, and other gear lying piled on the ground.
A little higher up and nearer us, on the right, lies the tranquil and
beautiful spring of Blesi. More to the right, but lower down, that dark
hole like a well is Strokr. Yet further, in the same direction, the
little Geyser is in full play, sending up numerous jets of water like a
fountain; while volumes of steam are rising from it, and rolling away to
the south. To the right of the little Geyser, and on the slope which
runs down eastward below it, are numerous little round pools, close
together, which reflect the sky, and look as if they were blue eyes
gazing from earth to heaven. Little jets and puffs of white vapour rise
from among them. Several farms are in sight; cattle are grazing on the
plain; tern and snipe are flying athwart the sky; wind-clouds are
gathering in the north; but the hazy veil in the south-east, which
conceals Hekla and other mountains in that direction, has not been
lifted. Instead of being sated with the scene before us, wonder
increases every time we survey it, or dwell on the striking features of
its marvellous phenomena.
It was now between ten and eleven o’clock P.M. We descended leisurely to
the brink of the Geyser, were joined by several of our party, and there
sang several fine old psalm-tunes, such as “York” and the “Old Hundred,”
in full harmony.
These, associated as they ever are in our minds with the language of
Scripture, lost none of their impressive grandeur, thus heard by waters
that are not always still, in the land of destroying mountains, burnt
mountains, earthquakes, and storms. Where we have Geysers—gushers or
pourers forth—as in the valley of Siddim; indeed, there is a valley with
the very same name, rendered in Icelandic instead of Hebrew, viz.
Geysadal, a little to the north-west of Krabla. Places with parched
ground, waste and desolate; a wilderness wherein there is no man. A land
where red-hot pumice or ashes, fire and brimstone, shot up into the air
by volcanoes, have oft-times been rained from heaven; and, on every side
the once molten lava flood—which is graphically described by Job as
overtaking and arresting mortals, carrying their substance away and
devouring their riches by fire—may be observed crossing the ancient
track.
Where, excepting for a few months in the year, hoar-frost is scattered
like ashes, and the treasures of the snow or of the hail are not hid;
and the face of the deep itself is often frozen. Again, He causeth His
wind to blow and the waters flow.
Where spring comes with the small rain on the tender herb; valleys are
watered by springs; grass grows for the cattle, and the pastures are
clothed with flocks. Where we encounter nomades pitching their tents,
and many old eastern customs that remind us of the dwellers in
Mesopotamia. Where we behold the eagle mounting on high and spreading
abroad her wings, and hear the young ravens which cry. The swan too, and
other migratory birds may be seen stretching their wings towards the
south. Around its shores leviathans play in the deep; and there too go
the ships.
Here in an especial manner we are reminded, at every step, of the
wondrous works of Him who looketh on the earth and it trembleth; He
toucheth the hills and they smoke: the mountains quake at Him and the
hills melt, and the earth is burnt at His presence. His fury is poured
out like fire, and the rocks are thrown down by Him. The earth shook and
trembled, the foundations of the hills moved and were shaken. Truly
wonderful are His works, who maketh His angels spirits, His ministers a
flaming fire!
Such were some of our thoughts as we stood, at midnight, singing these
grand old psalm tunes, by the side of the Geyser; reminded, in a
peculiar manner, that the whole surface of the globe is after all but a
thin crust, cooled down and caked over the great molten central mass of
liquid fire which constitutes our planet; and how easily, were latent
forces called forth, or even were those powers which are already
developed only roused into more energetic action, the whole might
explode[10] like a shell filled with molten iron—the myriad scattered
fragments then “spinning down the ringing grooves of change” as a shower
of asteroids—nor could the orphaned moon survive the dire catastrophe!
[Illustration: THE GREAT GEYSER.]
Although midnight is spoken of, it was quite light, and I sketched for
nearly an hour and a half, beginning at a quarter-past 12 o’clock.
Before Professor Chadbourne left for the night-quarters which Zöga had
secured for him at the neighbouring farm, we two stood together on the
brink of the Great Geyser, filled our glasses with its hot water—pure,
and, as soon as it cooled down below the scalding point, drank to absent
friends on both sides of the Atlantic; this toast having special
reference to our own distant homes. Then four separate Geyser-bumpers
were devoted respectively to Longfellow, William and Mary Howitt, Dr.
Laurence Edmondston of Shetland, and Gísli Brynjúlfsson the Icelandic
poet.
Properly speaking there was no night at all; only a slight dim towards
two o’clock in the morning, which I took as a hint to get quietly under
the canvas of our tent. The wind rose, increasing to a gale; our
tent-lining came down and the sides flapped up, fluttering in the wind
with a noise like platoon firing. For me, sleep was impossible; but as I
was very tired and things could not well be much worse, I patiently lay
still till five o’clock in the morning, when we all rose, and Zöga
struck the tent. The wind blowing from the north-coast, on which many
icebergs were at present stranded, was piercingly cold, and reminded us
of the Duke’s allusion, in the forest of Arden, to
“The icy fang
And churlish chiding of the winter’s wind;
Which when it bites and blows upon my body
Even till I shrink with cold, I smite and say,
This is no flattery.”
As breakfast would not be ready for a couple of hours, I took some
brandy and hot water at the Geyser, literally to stop my teeth from
chattering, and descended into the gully behind to examine the banks of
coloured clay. These lie, just under the Geyser, on the north-west side.
Steam may be observed escaping from many little clay holes, and the
sound of boiling may be heard inside at places where there are no holes.
This hot clay is deposited in horizontal layers, red, purple, violet,
white, light blue, and pale green. These colours occur by themselves,
and are also occasionally found mixed together, mottled and variegated
like a cake of fancy soap or a sheet of marble paper. Judging by the
taste, the clay seems impregnated with sulphuric acid; and, to the
touch, it is of a very fine consistency, having no grit whatever. I
secured specimens of the finest colours, cutting them like butter with a
table knife, and filled several empty preserved-meat cans to take home
for analysis. The colours are most beautiful, but, apparently caused by
oxydized iron, would, I fear, be useless as pigments. If this fine clay
could be put to any use in the potteries, thousands of tons might be
obtained here and also at Krisuvik.
What leads me to suppose that the colouring matter of the alumina
chiefly consists of iron, is the fact that, excepting where the layers
were evidently freshly laid bare to view by water or by some other
mechanical means, the banks, however beautifully variegated beneath,
invariably exhibited no colour but red on the surface; or, in other
words, the iron was uniformly oxydized by exposure to the air.[11]
Further down the gully, we came upon large rough slabs of whitish stone,
beautifully variegated with tints of violet, red, and yellow, dashed
with blue. These were in compact laminae, and each colour about the
fourth of an inch in thickness. In several instances however the
colours, as in the clays, were mixed. I broke up several masses, and
secured a number of the most characteristic and beautiful specimens. We
also obtained chalcedony and agate, at times approaching to opal; these
and cornelian being only varieties of silex, colour making the chief
difference.
Before filling some bottles with Geyser water, as the wind was fresh, I
set one of them afloat to be carried across the basin before it. When
the half of its venturous voyage was accomplished and it had reached the
tube in the centre, a little eruption came on, by which the bottle was
thrown up, and floated over the outer edge of the basin. I succeeded in
getting hold of it uninjured, arrested in a little pool amid the boiling
water which was flowing down the sides, and afterwards filled it,
marking it specially for Dr. R. Angus Smith;—“one whose name,” in a
different sense however from that in which Keats used the expression,
“is writ in water,” and let me add, in _air_ too; for, in connection
with sanatory matters and the supply or purification of these two
health-giving elements to towns, no man in Europe has analyzed more
water; nor was there any known index of local atmospheric insalubrity
but the mortality bills, till he made his great discovery—the Air-test.
On all such subjects there is no higher scientific authority.
Wandering, once more to bid farewell to the other springs, we could not
but remark that the whole slope is a thin crust, with innumerable
caldrons below; these each preserve their individuality, although the
central heat be common to all, for the various eruptions seem to be
quite independent of each other. Blesi was quite tranquil during the
eruption of its neighbour the great Geyser; and the other springs take
as little notice of the Little Geyser’s activity as it does of Strokr.
Wonder ever increases, although the ground has been gone over so often
as to be already quite familiar to us.
Breakfast waits and is soon despatched with keen relish. Packing done,
horses ready, and a guide left to find three that have strayed, we start
on our return journey to Thingvalla and Reykjavik at a quarter to eight
A.M. Truly, as Shakspere hath it,
“Nature oftentimes breaks forth
In strange eruptions!”
The wind was still from the north and bitterly chill. On rounding the
shoulder of the hill, we picked up the Professor, at the farm house. The
room he slept in had been all carefully washed out on purpose to receive
him, the earthen floor as well, so that it was very damp. He was
assisted to undress by the hostess, till he called a halt, and insisted
on retaining some portion of his under-clothing. Then, after he lay
down, a basin of milk was brought and placed at his bed-side. Had he
looked under the pillow, he would probably have discovered a bottle of
brandy deposited there for his own especial use; but, as the worthy
Professor would have left it precisely as he found it, no “sense of
loss” dawned upon him when the probability was hinted at.
Rector Jonson subsequently explained to me the rationale of the hostess,
or her daughter, attending to guests. Among the Icelanders, wet feet and
thorough drenchings are incident to locomotion. It is the universally
acknowledged duty of the female department to render the way-worn
traveller such assistance as he may require, taking away his wet
stockings and mud-soaked garments at night, and returning them to him,
dry and comfortable, in the morning. This simple old custom, which is
also to be met with in various parts of Norway and Sweden, will give the
key to many funny exaggerations on the subject, where the art of putting
things has been employed chiefly in the direction of the ludicrous.
We see on the way many lovely wild flowers, which confirm our previous
observation that they are larger in the petals, but smaller in the
leaves and stems than the same kinds at home; the aroma is also less.
This is caused by their receiving more light and less heat, in the short
Icelandic summer, than in more southern climes.
Graceful white sea-swallows are darting about; curlews are very tame,
flying within a few yards of us or sitting unconcerned on stones till we
ride past them, noting their beautifully speckled breasts, long bent
bills, and plaintive tremulous whistle.
[Illustration: SKAPTÁR JÖKUL.]
The atmosphere was now much clearer, and many distant snow-covered
mountains were visible on our left. Zöga pointed out one of a peculiar
shape, which he informed us was Skaptár Jökul, the most destructive
volcano in the island. Of this, however, again.
A bird, with a red breast, perched on a block of lava near us; this, the
Professor told me, was the American robin. It seemed as large as our
blackbird.
[Illustration: MOUNT HEKLA.]
Retracing our steps, we crossed the Bruará, ascended the heights, and at
length got into the green level plain, halting at the same spot where we
had rested in coming along. Here we obtained a magnificent view of
Hekla, and made a number of sketches. The prospect varies but little, as
we ride along skirting the hills and at length ascend them on the other
side of the plain. From this point, Hekla still appears dome-shaped; the
three peaks being scarcely perceptible from the distance—about thirty
miles—at which we stand, and only indicated by very slight dints in its
rounded outline. The mountain, covered with snow and mottled here and
there with black patches, rises beyond a low range of purple hills and
towers high above them, in shape and colour not unlike Mont Blanc as
seen from the banks of the Arve below Geneva, if we could only imagine
the monarch of mountains deprived of his surrounding Aiguilles, and left
standing alone over the vale of Chamouni.
The bird’s-eye view of the great flat green plain, with rivers
meandering through it, which stretches from the low range of purple
hills over which Hekla rises to the foot of the heights on which we now
ride, is both striking and picturesque.
About twenty volcanoes have been in action in Iceland for the last 1000
years. Of these the eruptions of Hekla have been the most frequent,
although by no means so destructive as many of the others. Only
attaining a height of about 5000 feet, it owes its celebrity to the
frequency of its eruptions; to its rising from a plain, being visible
from a frequented part of the island, and quite accessible; and also to
the fact of its being well seen, from the sea, by vessels sailing to
Greenland and North America. Four and twenty eruptions, of lava, sand or
pumice, are recorded; the last having occurred in 1846. The intervals
between these eruptions vary from six to seventy-six years, the average
period being thirty-five; but some of them have lasted as long as six
years at a time.
We give an account of one of these eruptions, selecting that of 1766,
which was remarkable for its violence. “Four years before it took place,
when Olafsen and Povelsen were there, some of the people were flattering
themselves with the belief, that as there had been no outbreak from the
principal crater for upwards of seventy years, its energies were
completely exhausted. Others on the contrary, thought that there was on
this account only more reason to expect that it would soon again
commence. The preceding winter was remarkably mild, so that the lakes
and rivers in the vicinity seldom froze, and were much diminished,
probably from the internal heat. On the 4th April 1766, there were some
slight shocks of an earthquake; and early next morning a pillar of sand,
mingled with fire and red hot stones, burst with a loud thundering noise
from its summit. Masses of pumice, six feet in circumference, were
thrown to the distance of ten or fifteen miles, together with heavy
magnetic stones, one of which, eight pounds weight, fell fourteen miles
off, and sank into the ground though still hardened by the frost. The
sand was carried towards the north-west, covering the land, one hundred
and fifty miles round, four inches deep; impeding the fishing boats
along the coast, and darkening the air, so that at Thingore, 140 miles
distant, it was impossible to know whether a sheet of paper was white or
black. At Holum, 155 miles to the north, some persons thought they saw
the stars shining through the sand-cloud. About mid-day, the wind
veering round to the south-east, conveyed the dust into the central
desert, and prevented it from totally destroying the pastures. On the
9th April the lava first appeared, spreading about five miles towards
the south-west, and on the 23d May, a column of water was seen shooting
up in the midst of the sand. The last violent eruption was on the 5th
July, the mountains in the interval often ceasing to eject any matter;
and the large stones thrown into the air were compared to a swarm of
bees clustering round the mountain-top; the noise was heard like loud
thunder forty miles distant, and the accompanying earthquakes were more
severe at Krisuvik, eighty miles westward, than at half the distance on
the opposite side. The eruptions are said to be in general more violent
during a north or west wind than when it blows from the south or east,
and on this occasion more matter was thrown out in mild than in stormy
weather. Where the ashes were not too thick, it was observed that they
increased the fertility of the grass fields, and some of them were
carried even to the Orkney islands, the inhabitants of which were at
first terrified by what they considered showers of “black snow.”[12]
This mountain, with its pits of burning sulphur and mud, and openings
from whence issue smoke and flames, is associated with the old
superstitions of the Icelanders as the entrance to the dark abode of
Hela, and those gloomy regions of woe where the souls of the wicked are
tormented with fire. Nor are these ideas to be wondered at in connection
with the terrible phenomena of such an Inferno.
As Hekla lay gleaming peacefully in the sunshine, with a heavier mantle
of snow, we are told, than usual, I bade adieu to it by attempting yet
another sketch from the pony’s back, pulling the rein for five minutes,
and then galloping on after my companions.
Having rounded the shoulder of the hill, we now lost sight of Hekla and
the greater part of the plain. In a region where some brushwood and a
few flowers grew among dark coloured rocks, we came upon a fine example
of ropy looking lava, curiously wrinkled in cooling, and all corrugated
in wavy lines. Soon afterwards we saw a sloping mass of rock, some sixty
feet square, inclined at an angle of 25°, polished smooth by the
ice-drift, and deeply abraded in grooves, all running southwards. The
marks were not to be mistaken, and were more distinct than those we had
observed in coming.
Here I gathered specimens of geraniums and other flowers, placing them
between the leaves of my pocket Wordsworth. Coming to a glade of dwarf
willows, we observed bees feeding on the flowers of the flossy species,
and were forthwith, even in this northern region, reminded of Mount
Hybla, recalling Virgil’s line,
“Hyblæis apibus florem depastâ salicti.”
[Illustration: LAKE OF THINGVALLA.]
The Professor, Mr. Murray, and I, riding together, now reached and
descended the Hrafnagjá or Raven’s Chasm, which has already been
described. It was steeper than a stair, full of breaks and irregular
turns. At some places, the ponies drew up their hind legs and slid down.
It seems more perilous to descend than to climb such places, but the
ponies are very sure-footed. On a bosky slope, I pulled the bridle and
made a sketch of the lake of Thingvalla, the waters of which were
intensely blue.
Crossing the plain of Thingvalla, we reached our rendezvous—the Pastor’s
house—about nine o’clock at night, after a splendid day’s ride; some of
us, much to our own surprise, being not only in excellent spirits, but
fresh and in good physical condition; rough-riding feats and prolonged
fatigues notwithstanding. We dined on trout, soup, &c.; and at 20
minutes to 11 P.M. I wandered out, alone, to the Althing to sketch and
gather flowers.
The three lost ponies, that strayed from the Geysers, have just come in.
I see them now scampering before the guide and passing the waterfall of
the Oxerá, which thunders over the black rock-wall, about half a mile
from the descent into the Almannagjá. The fall looks like a square sheet
of burnished silver from the sacred Lögberg or Hill of Laws, on which I
now sit writing, entrenched and moated round with deep volcanic chasms
about two-thirds filled with clear water.
Skialdbreid—or Broadshield—Jökul, to the north-west, is mottled towards
its base with black patches, but its summit and flanks are lit up with
pure roseate light. Armannsfell, one of a range nearer and more to the
north, is of a dark rich venetian red colour touched with bronze and
exhibits a living glow, an effect I have never elsewhere seen equalled
or even approached. Whereever the light falls, all is transfigured and
glorious beyond description; yet there is no approach to hardness,
either of line or tint, but an atmosphere of subduing softness,
transparency, and purity, magically invests everything with an etherial
spiritual beauty: such effects are peculiar to Iceland.
Having made a sketch of the lake, I retired to rest, the last of our
party. We slept, without undressing, in our old quarters—on the floor of
the pastor’s parlour.
_Tuesday morning._—Rose between five and six o’clock, and went out to
gather ferns—_aspidium_ or _crystoperis_—on the Althing. The scene
around was singularly wild, and yet strikingly picturesque in its
desolate strangeness; while the tender green of the valley itself
afforded a refreshing rest to the eye. On returning I made a sketch of
the priest’s house;[13] examined the site of the little church which was
being re-erected; strolled down by the river side, and performed my
ablutions in it—laying my clothes in the priest’s fishing coble, which
was lying hauled up on the bank.
I then paused at the simple churchyard close by, and tried to conjure up
life and heart histories for those who had entered this
“Saula-hleith”—or soul-gate, as the churchyard is beautifully
named—while hymns were being chanted over them, and who were now resting
peacefully beneath the green sod.
Conversation with the pastor was again attempted to be carried on in
Latin. His morning salutation was “bonus dies,” or other remarks about
the weather, as with ourselves. After squaring accounts, on leaving, we
gave him—as a _nimbus_ for the rix-dollars—a mediaeval “pax-vobiscum,”
in exchange for his many expressions of good-will towards us, and his
rounded classical “vale!”
The glebe hay was being tedded, but the ground here as elsewhere is
covered with little hummocks. Were it only levelled and drained, the
soil, one would think, should raise turnips in quantity, and, certainly,
larger hay crops would be obtained. During the short summer there is not
time for the grain to ripen; but food suitable for cattle might readily
be grown in the valleys; for it is chiefly by the rearing of stock, that
Iceland, when she can muster the requisite enterprise and activity,
will, in all probability, advance to commercial prosperity.
After sketching the gorge of the Almannagjá—see illustration, p. 81—we
ascended it, crossed the lava plateau, and rapidly retraced our steps to
the capital, only pausing now and again to take a sketch.
[Illustration: ICELANDIC FARM.]
Over the last part of our journey, from the river which we forded just
below the farm house on the hill, to Reykjavik, we rode like the
wind—men and horses alike eager to get to the end of their journey. Our
entry into the town was a regular scrimmage. It was a quarter to three
P.M. when we got in, having done the distance from Thingvalla in six
hours. By this time we had ceased to wonder at any feats performed by
the ponies. Seldom, if ever, disconcerted, they go at anything in a most
patient philosophical manner, and get over difficulties which elsewhere
one would think insurmountable, and sheer madness to attempt. Thanks to
mackintosh overboots—made specially for the purpose—at the end of the
journey, I was the only one of our party whose feet were dry.
-----
Footnote 6:
“Di rado
Incontra, me rispose, che di nui
Faccia il cammino alcun per quale io vado.” L 19-21.
Footnote 7:
Pronounced Tingvatla.
Footnote 8:
In the same way a river in Perthshire is called Bruar; evidently from
the natural rock-bridge by which it is spanned.
Footnote 9:
Dr. Black’s analysis of the Geyser water is—
Soda, 0.95
Dry Sulphate of Soda, 1.46
Muriate of Soda, 2.46
Silica, 5.40
Alumina, 0.48
───────────────────────────
10.75
Footnote 10:
From the specific gravity of the globe, taken in connection with the
increasing ratio of heat as we descend from the surface, it is
calculated that all metals and rocks are melted at a depth of thirty
miles below the sea level, and that the fluid mass is chiefly _melted
iron_; while the temperature would indicate somewhere about 4000°
Fahrenheit.
Footnote 11:
The specimens nearly all became red before they got home, and Dr. R.
Angus Smith, F.R.S. &c., has since fully confirmed my surmise as to
the origin of the colours.
Footnote 12:
See Olafsen’s Reise, th. ii. p. 138-140. Finnsen’s Efterretning om
Tildragelserne ved Bierget Hekla. (Copenhagen 1767). Barry’s Orkney
Islands, p. 13; quoted by the author of Iceland, Greenland, and the
Faröe Islands, pp. 30-1.
Footnote 13:
See illustration at p. 84.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
REYKJAVIK.
Mr. Bushby invited us to dine with him at the hotel, and Dr. Mackinlay
kindly gave us his room to dress in.
How oddly things sometimes turn up! We saw lying on the floor a box of
“Brown and Polson’s Patent Corn Flour,” which at once suggested two very
different, although not incongruous, trains of ideas; one, the contrast
between the hurry and bustle of railway stations in Britain, where the
corn flour is everywhere so extensively advertised, and the primitive
locomotion of Iceland, in which not a single steam engine has been
erected; and the other, associating the beautiful locality where the
flour is made—near Paisley, at the foot of “the Braes of Gleniffer”
celebrated in song by Tannahill, one of Scotland’s sweetest
minstrels—with some of the loveliest scenes we had lately witnessed. For
here, are we not in the land of Eddas and Sagas! and is not the Poet
found singing wherever there are human hearts!
A gentleman told me, that having obtained permission, he had, that
afternoon, caught seventy trout in the salmon river—three of them from
his pony’s back; he had only to throw the fish over his head on the
grass behind him, as fast as he could whip them up. He had seen a
fisherman get 130 at one haul of the net. I saw the manager of the
fishery, an active intelligent Scotchman, whom, from his appearance, one
would take to be the mate of a vessel. He told me he had been three
years in Iceland, and had some of his family here with him.
Mr. Bushby procured us several specimens of double refracting Iceland
spar, obtained from the other side of the island. It polarizes light,
and is valuable in various ways, both to science and the arts.
Mr. Murray and Mr. Cleghorn set out after dinner to visit the sulphur
mines of Krisuvik; I, on the principle of letting well alone, preferred
remaining at Reykjavik to undergoing the fresh fatigue of such a ride
immediately after the Geyser journey. Three of us spent the evening, by
invitation, at the Governor’s—the Count Von Trampe. I had a long
conversation with him in German, during which he mentioned that all the
old Saga and Edda MSS. had been removed to Copenhagen; and, in answer to
sundry enquiries, told me that the “lang spiel” is the only Icelandic
musical instrument now in use. It is something like a guitar or banjo,
has four strings, and is played with a little bow. The airs now played
are chiefly Danish dance music, and other foreign melodies.
The Icelanders, like the natives of Madagascar, have adopted the music
of our “_God save the Queen_” as their national air. The words to which
it is sung were composed in the beginning of the present century, by the
late Biarni Thorarensen, Governor of the northern province of the
island, when he was a student at the university of Copenhagen. The song
is called “Islands Minni,” or the “Remembrance of Iceland;” and finely
illustrates the intense love of country displayed by Icelanders, who,
wherever they may travel or sojourn, always sooner or later return home
though but to die; for to them, as their own proverb has it, “Iceland is
the best land on which the sun shines.” We here give the words of this
national song, which, calling up in foreign lands memories of sweet
home, is no less to the Icelander, than is the _Ranz de Vaches_ to the
Swiss when far away from the one chalet he loves best in the world,
perched, it may be, on the lofty mountain side, or lying peacefully in
some green sunny valley.
[Illustration: MUSIC IN AN ICELANDIC HOME.]
ISLANDS MINNI.
I.
Eldgamla Isafold,
Astkæra fósturmold,
Fjallkonan fríd!
Mögum thín muntu kær,
Medan lönd girdir sær
Og gumar girnast mær;
Gljár sól á hlíd.
II.
Hafnar úr gufu hér
Heim allir girnumst vér
Thig thekka ad sjá;
Glepur oss glaumurinn,
Ginnir oss sollurinn,
Hlær ad oss heimskinginn
Hafnar slód á.
III.
Leidist oss fjall-laust frón,
Fær oss opt heilsutjón
Thokulopt léd;
Svipljótt land synist mér
Sífelt ad vera hér,
Sem neflaus ásynd er
Augnalaus med.
IV.
Ödruvís er ad sjá
A thjer hvítfaldinn há
Heid-himin vid;
Eda thær krystalls ár,
A hverjar sólin gljár,
Og heidar himin-blár,
Há-jökla rid.
V.
Eldgamla Isafold,
Astkæra fósturmold,
Fjallkonan fríd!
Agætust audnan thér
Upp lypt, bidjum vér,
Medan ad uppi er
Oll heimsins tíd![14]
From the literal prose-rendering into English which follows, the reader
will be able to gather how beautiful such thoughts must be, when clothed
in the flowing rhythmic music of the original stanzas.
THE REMEMBRANCE OF ICELAND.
I.
Old land of ice,
Dearly beloved native land,
Fair maid of the mountains!
Dear thou shalt be to thy sons
As long as land is surrounded by sea;
As men love women;
Or sun-gleam falls on the hill-side.
II.
Here, from the midst of Copenhagen’s smoke,
We all yearning after home
Long, dear one, again to behold thee.
The noisy din irks us;
Revelry tempts us in vain;
And the fool jeers contemptuously at us
In the streets of Copenhagen.
III.
We are tired of a mountainless land;
We are constantly losing our health
In this smoky thick atmosphere;
I find this country everywhere
To be destitute of fine features,
A land like a face without nose,
And even without eyes.
IV.
How different it is to see
Thy high-peaked head-dress of snowy white[15]
Reaching the cloudless sky;
Or the crystal rivers
Which sparkle in the sunshine;
And the bright blue heavens
Over the jökul’s brow.
V.
Old land of ice,
Dearly beloved native land,
Fair maid of the mountains!
The best luck attend thee
Ever, we pray,
As long as shall last
All the years of the world!
One or two old Icelandic airs linger amongst the people, but are seldom
heard; and as there was—so I understood the Governor to say—no musical
notation to hand them down, little reliance can be placed on their
accurate transmission.
I was introduced to the Compte d’Ademas of the _Artemise_ frigate, an
officer who speaks English well. He is Lord Dufferin’s cousin. There
were several other French officers present. After leaving the
Governor’s, we called for M. Randröp, the state’s apothecary, who
received us in the wonted hospitable Icelandic manner. Madam Randröp
kindly played to us on the piano-forte “Robin Adair,” “Cheer Boys,” “Fin
chan dal vino,” “Hear me, Norma,” a Danish dance, and an Icelandic song.
Her two daughters, the Misses Müller, are learning English, and her son
is going south by our steamer to attend the university at Copenhagen.
The _Arcturus_ having left the bay and gone somewhere for cargo, and the
few bedrooms upstairs at the hotel being all occupied, as it was late,
we resolved to sleep down stairs on the narrow sofa-seat which runs
round the assembly room.
Through a large door, that opened into the billiard-room, came the loud
clicking of ivory balls, noisy vociferations from the French sailors,
and strong fumes of tobacco; notwithstanding which, we somehow contrived
to fall asleep, and knew no more till the morning, when we beheld
blue-eyed flaxen-haired Thea, the maid-of-all-work, standing before us.
She was clad in a close fitting dress of home-made stuff, wore the
common little jaunty black cap with its silver ornament and long silk
tassel flowing down at the side of her head, and her waist-belt was
covered with richly-wrought filigreed bossy silver ornaments.
She brought in a cup of coffee and milk and a biscuit, depositing them
on a little table which she placed beside my long narrow couch. This
good old Norse custom is called “the little breakfast;” and, from the
experience of years, I can testify that in no way does it interfere with
or spoil the regular breakfast which follows, while the benefit at the
time is undeniable.
Then followed water, soap and towels, indicating that we were expected
to get up; and as breakfast was to be served in the apartment where we
lay, Thea’s hint was speedily taken.
After breakfast I called for Mr. Sivertsen, who procured for me some
coarse mits, made with two thumbs but no finger-divisions. These are the
customary wear of the fishermen, who, when the line cuts the one side,
are thus enabled to turn them and use the other. I also obtained a
curious snuff box like a bottle,[16] made of walrus-tooth; a collection
of stuffed birds, with a large black skua, a pair of Richardson’s
skua-gulls, a pair of jer-falcons, an eider duck and drake, a puffin, an
arctic gull, and a pair of pheasant-tailed ducks among them; also silver
bracelets and brooches of exquisite workmanship. These trinkets are made
of Danish dollars by native silver-smiths, who have certainly arrived at
great proficiency in their art.
I found that the few English Testaments I had brought with me to give
away, were greatly prized by those who were acquiring our language; the
cheapest edition of the New Testament in Icelandic costs between three
and four shillings.
Last night Captain Launay, of the _Agile_ French war brig, had called at
the hotel and invited us to visit him, on board his vessel, to-day at 11
o’clock. At the appointed time we went down to the jetty and found a
ten-oared boat waiting for us. Our party consisted of Dr. Mackinlay,
Captain Forbes, Mr. Haycock, Rector Jonson and his daughter, Professor
Chadbourne, and myself. We were kindly received and shown over the brig;
everything on board was neat and clean; the sailors were, for the most
part, diminutive in size, like Maltese, and, although lithe and agile,
wanted the physical build and stamina of British sailors. The men were
at mess and seemed to be well cared for.
In the captain’s cabin, cakes, bonbons, and champagne were produced, and
we were entertained by the officers with that frank and graceful
hospitality peculiar to the French. Captain Launay showed us collections
of geological specimens from Faröe, from the east of Iceland, and also
from the neighbourhood of Reykjavik; all kept distinctly separated, and
laudably labelled as such specimens ever ought to be. He offered me what
of them I wished, and then addressing Professor Chadbourne, added, “Take
all, and leave me one, I am only an amateur”! He gave me some Faröese
sea-weeds of his own preserving, and I also accepted one or two little
geological specimens as mementos of a pleasant hour spent with one who
is deservedly a favourite with all who know him.
The sailors, he told me, called him Captain Long-life, because he has
been five years in the north without losing a man. His present crew is a
hundred, but during that period, he has, one way and another, passed a
thousand men through his hands. This happy result he attributes partly
to the regular use of lime juice, which he flavours and renders
palatable by mixing it with a little brandy or rum. The addition of the
spirits adds nothing to its virtue, probably the reverse, but the
sailors like it so, and are thus induced to take it. In many ships, he
added, the men, if not watched, throw it over their heads into the sea.
A boat came alongside with an invitation from Captain Véron for us also
to visit his frigate the _Artemise_. It has a crew of 250. The men were
at mess between-decks; and, both seats and tables being swung, the
perpendicular ropes made the whole look not unlike the floor of a great
factory. An officer took me over the ship and through the stores. What
an immense establishment is a war ship!
The French officers are well paid, and have a handsome allowance per day
for mess, over and above their pay. On this station they have double
pay, are put to little expense, consequently save money fast, and get
leave of absence now and again to go home and spend it. Here we were
again offered champagne but declined it; and, at half-past one P.M.,
were rowed ashore in a ten oared gig, much pleased with the kind frank
attentions of all the officers.
When we landed I called for Mr. Sivertsen, and afterwards visited the
library with Dr. Mackinlay. The Rev. Olaf Pálsson dean and rector of the
cathedral, and Mr. Jón Arnason, secretary to the Bishop and also
librarian, were there before us by appointment and kindly gave us every
information we required. There were no manuscripts to be seen here older
than the fifteenth century, and these were chiefly genealogies, or
translations of mediæval tales or romances such as “Charlemagne.” We saw
a fine folio edition of Snorro Sturleson’s writings, and hastily looked
over the work on Iceland got up by the French expedition under Gaimard.
It embraces views of places, natural history, manners and customs,
costumes &c. Some views of localities we had visited were very good, but
others were inaccurate and careless, being only modified compositions
instead of faithful representations of the places indicated. Ere
leaving, I received several original little works, in Icelandic, both
from the dean and the librarian; those from the former were inscribed in
English “with the author’s best respects;” and those from the latter
with a legend of similar import in Icelandic.
As the althing or parliament, which ceased to meet at Thingvalla in A.D.
1800, was now assembled here, we went to see it. The place of meeting is
an oblong hall in the same building as the college. You enter by the
side, and see, facing you, a raised platform where the president and two
or three officials sit at a table covered with papers and writing
materials. Portraits in oil of the King and Queen of Denmark hung behind
them. On two rows of seats, like school forms with simple spar backs,
sit the members, forming an oblong square around the table; visitors
find places outside this square. There are several writing desks and
other conveniencies in the room.
The most of the deputies were sturdy intelligent looking
men—peasant-farmers dressed in brass buttoned wadmal jackets, and
wearing cow-skin shoes. On rising to speak, many of them expressed
themselves in an animated manner, which seemed to us, with the aid of
Mr. Brynjúlfsson’s explanations and interpretations, to be at once
fluent, pointed, eloquent, and effective.
The population of Iceland is, as already stated, 64,603. Parliament
meets every second year, and is composed of a deputy from each of the
eighteen syssels or counties into which the island is divided, and six
deputies, generally officials, nominated by the King. The members are
elected by household suffrage, but, on account of the great distances,
and the bad roads, few people care to vote. Dr. Mackinlay mentioned one
case, at last election, where a member had only one single vote—and that
his own!! This indifference to matters political, as contrasted with the
stirring old times when the Althing was supreme—being then both
deliberative and executive, “parliament and high court of justice in
one”—may be accounted for, by the fact that it does not now possess
legislative power. The result of its deliberations is merely a petition
to the King, suggesting that certain things should be done; and only
under certain circumstances, can they levy taxes or recommend them.
The island is divided into three governments, each government being in
civil matters quite independent of the others. The governor or
stiftsamptsman who resides at Reykjavik, is at the head of the civil
administration, “conducts all public affairs, presides in the supreme
courts of justice, watches over the execution of the laws, the
collecting and expenditure of the public revenue, and, along with the
Bishop, directs the school, and appoints the clergy” throughout the
whole island. The governor is sometimes a native of the island, though
oftener a Dane. “He continues in office five years, with a salary of
about £300 per annum, and is entitled to promotion on his return to
Denmark. Under him are the amptmen, of whom there ought to be four, but
as the governor holds this office in the southern province, and the
northern and eastern are united, there are only two others. These have
the superintendence of the inferior officers, and nearly the same duties
in their province as the governor exercises in relation to the whole
island. Subordinate to them are the sysselmen or sheriffs, nineteen in
number, who are empowered to hold courts, appoint justices of the peace
and notaries, and to administer the laws concerning inheritances. They
are chosen by the crown from among the principal proprietors in the
district. Under these are the hrepp-stiorar or bailiffs, who assist the
sheriff in preserving the peace and public order, and have at the same
time, the charge of the poor.
“All causes civil and criminal, come in the first instance before the
sysselman in the Heradsthing, one of which is held regularly, once in
twelve months, though extraordinary sessions are also called. This court
consists of the sheriff as judge, with four assistants named meddomsmen.
The landfoged or steward, who is receiver-general of the island, and
police-master of Reykjavik, holds a similar court in that town. From
their decision there is an appeal to the highest tribunal, instituted in
A.D. 1800, on the suppression of the althing, and which consists of the
governor as president, who takes no part in the proceedings, a
chief-justice, two assessors, a secretary, and two public pleaders.
Cases are here decided according to the native laws, or Jonsbook,
introduced in A.D. 1280, and the latter royal ordinances; and from their
judgment the last appeal lies to the supreme court of Copenhagen. The
high moral character of the people renders the last court nearly a
sinecure,—not more than six or eight cases, public or private, occurring
annually. The crimes are mostly sheep-stealing and small thefts, and the
only punishments inflicted in the country are whipping or fines. Those
condemned to hard labour are sent to Copenhagen; and a peasant, being
capitally convicted many years ago, for murdering his wife, it was found
necessary to carry him to Norway for execution.
“The taxes collected in the island, being very inconsiderable, impose
little burthen on the inhabitants. They are principally levied on
property according to several old customs; and payment is chiefly made
in produce of various kinds, which is converted into money by the
sysselman, and transmitted, after deducting a third for his own salary,
to the landfoged or treasurer. The whole amount does not exceed 50,000
rix-dollars, and does not even suffice for the support of the civil
government of the island.”[17]
The machinery of civil government is well arranged; but the people are
peaceable, and to a large extent govern themselves; thus rendering the
duties of the officials very light. In reference to this pleasant state
of matters, Dr. Mackinlay quaintly remarked, “Each country is presided
over by a sysselman or sheriff, who, besides his judicial duties, has to
discharge the duties of lord lieutenant and revenue officer, postmaster,
poorlaw guardian and head constable. As the average population of each
syssel is only 3700, he has, after discharging all his duties, time
enough on hand to be his own clerk and message boy!”
At five o’clock, Dr. Mackinlay, Mr. Haycock, Dr. Livingston, Professor
Chadbourne, and myself, dined at the hotel, with Gísli Brynjúlfsson, Mr.
Bushby, and Captain Forbes; it was our last dinner at Reykjavik. The
_Arcturus_ is to sail with us to-night at ten o’clock for the east of
the island. All last things have a touch of sadness about them; we have
been happy together, and shall not likely all meet again.
Mr. Murray and Mr. Cleghorn have not yet returned from Krisuvik. Gísli
Brynjúlfsson the poet is an M.P., and at present here to attend the
althing. He is employed, as already mentioned, by the government at
Copenhagen in connection with Icelandic antiquities and literature, and
has a work on these subjects in preparation. He speaks English fluently,
and gave us much interesting information.
After dinner Dr. Mackinlay called with me for Mr. Jón Gudmundsson,
editor of the “Thióthólfr,” a Reykjavik newspaper—a quarto sheet of 8
pp.—in which, along with other news, the proceedings of the althing now
sitting are reported in a condensed form. No particular time is fixed
for publication, so that it appears at irregular intervals when there is
news to communicate. Mr. Gudmundsson is an advocate, and holds an
official appointment in the althing. He presented us with several
numbers of his paper. The type is clear and the paper good, so that it
and another Reykjavik newspaper the “Islendingur,” a folio of 8
pp.,—both printed at the same government office—are without exception
the most beautifully printed newspapers I ever saw anywhere.
In Mr. Gudmundsson’s house we saw medallions of Finn Magnusen, Finnsen,
and other distinguished Icelanders. He was exceedingly polite and
courteous, but, as we knew he must be much occupied at present, we made
our visit a short one.
We then saw Dr. Hjaltalin, chief physician of the island, and well known
for his antiquarian and scientific acquirements. He and Rector Jonson
are good, tall, portly specimens of humanity. The latter good-naturedly
told me that when some one called him a John Bull, although he did not
quite understand the phrase, he knew that it somehow associated him with
England, and, for that reason, felt “flattered—very much flattered!”
Our friends returned while we were making calls, and describe their
moonlight ride of thirty miles to Krisuvik as more like a wild dream of
chaos than a reality. Their path lay among lava chasms, along the tops
of narrow lava ridges, irregularly jugged like a saw; through huge lava
blocks, like ten thousand Stonehenges huddled together; over volcanic
sand and cinder heaps; over hollow lava domes, and through great burst
lava bubbles, or extinct craters. Lava everywhere, parts seemed like a
troubled sea which had been suddenly spelled into stone, and then
roasted, baked and cracked. This scene has been aptly characterized by
an old traveller as “a congealed pandemonium.” In a boggy valley were
seen several boiling mud-caldrons, which exhale sulphurious fumes. These
gases condense in the atmosphere and deposit a crust of sulphur, in
layers of various thickness, on the coloured clay banks on the side of
the hill. Many jets of steam and smoke rose around; while on their right
lay the lovely blue lake of Kleifervatn. Mr. Bushby had kindly furnished
them with a letter to his agent, which procured for them such shelter
and creature comforts as his iron house could afford.
It was now about 9 o’clock; and, not without sincere regret, on pushing
off from the shore, did we bid adieu to those kind-hearted, learned, yet
simple-minded gentlemen at Reykjavik, who had done so much to make our
visit to their island a pleasant one.
While some ponies were being taken on board from a large boat alongside,
the steam was suddenly blown off; the noise frightening them, one jumped
into the sea and swam ashore, a distance of a mile, with a boat after
it. However it was got on board again, none the worse for its adventure.
It turned out to be a pony which Mr. Murray had purchased, and was
taking south with him to Long-yester.
Mr. Brynjúlfsson had accompanied me to the steamer, and, before
starting, Mr. Arnason also came on board to bid us another adieu!
[Illustration]
-----
Footnote 14:
See note at foot of page 65.
Footnote 15:
Alluding to the old Icelandic female head-dress which is now again
being introduced—See illustration p. 68.
Footnote 16:
See illustration at p. 53.
Footnote 17:
Hassel, vol. 10. p. 231-233. Mackenzie, p. 312-323. Henderson, vol. 1.
p. xxvi. Barrow, pp. 293-305. Iceland, Greenland, and the Faröe
Islands, pp. 209-10.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: ORÆFA JÖKUL, THE HIGHEST MOUNTAIN IN ICELAND.]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
JÖKUL-RANGES AND VOLCANOES ON THE SOUTH COAST.
At ten o’clock P.M., _August 3_, the anchor was heaved and we sailed for
the east of the island.
The bay at Reykjavik is very lovely. Every crevice of the Essian
mountains is distinctly shown; while the positive colours and delicate
tints of these and other heights rising far inland, which the eye takes
in, in sweeping round the semicircle from Snæfell to Skagi, are bright,
varied, and beautiful beyond description. Deep indigoes dashed with
purple, violet peaks, pale lilac ranges; and, relieved against them,
cones of dazzling snow and ice glittering like silver, side by side with
rosy pinks and warm sunny browns, all rising over a foreground of black
lava. The sky overhead is blue; and the northern horizon lit up with a
mellow glow of golden light.
The frigate _Artemise_, the brig _Agile_, the Danish schooner _Emma_,
and several trading vessels lying at anchor, animate the scene.
Snæfell Jökul—rising to the north-west on the extreme of yonder narrow
ridge that runs out due west into the sea for nearly fifty miles,
separating the Faxa from the Breida fiord—dome-shaped, isolated and
perpetually covered with snow, is now touched with living rosy light.
At its foot lie the singular basaltic rocks of Stappen, somewhat like
the Giant’s Causeway, or the island of Staffa in the Hebrides. Indeed,
stapp is the same word as staff, and indicates the character of the
columnar formation.
[Illustration: SNÆFELL JÖKUL—FROM FIFTY MILES AT SEA.]
For the first time, since leaving home, we see the stars. One or two,
only, are shining in the quivering blue overhead, with a quiet, subdued,
pale golden light. I made a sketch of Snæfell as it appeared from the
quarter deck of the steamer at a distance of fifty miles; it seemed a
low cone rising from the sea. As the evening was calm and beautiful, ere
retiring, we walked the deck till a late hour, musing on the structure
and marvellous phenomena of this half-formed chaotic island, where Frost
and Fire still strive for the mastery before our very eyes.
_August 4._—On getting upon deck, I found we were past Cape Reykjanes,
and making for the Westmanna Islands. Eldey—the rock like a
meal-sack—lies, in the distance, far astern.
My place at table is between Dr. Mackinlay and Mr. Haycock, the latter
being next the chairman Rector Jonson who is going to Copenhagen; Mr.
Murray, Mr. Cleghorn, Professor Chadbourne and Dr. Livingston sit
opposite. The Danes are all congregated at the other end of the table
with the captain.
Half-past three P.M. Saw Eyafialla Jökul, and Godalands Jökul, Myrdals
Jökul, and Kötlugjá. These form part of the most southern range of
snow-mountains in the island, and rise distinctly over a dark greenish
and purple range of hills, away to the east on our port bow. Eyafialla
is the second highest mountain in Iceland, being next in height to Oræfa
Jökul. It has a distinct crater. Only one violent eruption, that of A.D.
1612, is recorded previous to A.D. 1821. “But on the night between the
20th and 21st December, of that year, the lofty Eyafialla Jökul, of
which the movement of A.D. 1612, was the only one formerly known, burst
its icy covering, and began to cast out ashes, stones, and dust,
accompanied with a strong flame. It continued till January throwing out
great quantities of pumice ashes, which covered all the surrounding
fields; and in February 1822, a lofty pillar of smoke still rose from
the crater. In June of the following year it again began to burn, and on
the 26th of the same month, destroyed a part of the adjacent land; but
after pouring out some streams of water, in the beginning of July, it
was once more quiet. In this month also the Kötlugjá, after sixty-eight
years repose, threw out sand and ashes, covering nearly one hundred
square miles of ground.”[18]
Kötlugjá—the gjá, fissure, or chasm of Kötlu—is not a separate mountain
with a crater, but simply a yawning rent, so large as to resemble an
extensive valley, situated on the north-west shoulder of Myrdals-Jökul,
which is a lofty ice-mountain. From its inaccessibility it has never
been explored, having been only examined from a distance. The rent is
visible from the sea.
Records of volcanic eruptions occurring throughout the island have, in
general, been carefully kept by the Icelanders from the earliest times;
but in this case, from the proximity of numerous other volcanic vents,
and the distance of the spectators, along with the long continued and
intermittent nature of single eruptions—sometimes lasting for
years—there appears to be some confusion in the various accounts, which
renders it difficult to reckon the number of
KÖTLUGJÁ’S ERUPTIONS.
The first outbreak, which, by the way, is the earliest recorded date of
an eruption in the island—being before Eldborg to which that honour is
usually assigned—occurred in the year A.D. 894, and the last in A.D.
1823.[19] The number of them during that period is reckoned by the best
authorities at fourteen, the longest interval between two eruptions
being 311 years, and the shortest 6. As its devastations have only been
less terrible than those of Skaptár, we shall now, after presenting a
concise table of dates, glance at the various eruptions of Kötlugjá,
extracting or briefly condensing from reliable sources, dwelling more
particularly on those of A.D. 1625, and 1755, two of the most fearful
and destructive.
For the table, and the collecting of many of the facts and paragraphs
which follow relating to Kötlugjá, I am indebted to my friend Dr. Lauder
Lindsay.
1st eruption A.D. 894. Interval since previous eruption.
2d ” 934. ” ” 40 years.
3d ” 1245. ” ” [20]311 ”
4th ” 1262. ” ” 17 ”
5th ” 1311. ” ” 49 ”
6th ” 1416. ” ” 105 ”
7th ” 1580. ” ” 164 ”
8th ” 1612. ” ” 32 ”
9th ” 1625. ” ” 13 ”
10th ” 1660. ” ” 35 ”
11th ” 1721. ” ” 61 ”
12th ” 1727. ” ” [21]6 ”
13th ” [22]1755. ” ” 28 ”
14th ” 1823. ” ” 68 ”
The first eruption, in A.D. 894, destroyed the pasture lands between the
hill called Hafrsey, and the Holmsá river. Eight farms were abandoned,
and the district of country in question is still almost entirely a sandy
desert.
The second, A.D. 934, was also a formidable one, and formed the
extensive sandy desert now known as the Solheima-sand, a tract about
twenty miles long; and formed altogether of volcanic sand, ashes, or
lapilli, and pumice.
The third, in A.D. 1245, covered a tract of country, though of what
extent we are not informed, with sand and ashes to the depth of six or
eight inches.
The fourth, A.D. 1262, or, according to some writers, 1263, was attended
by such an ejection of dust and ashes, that the sun could not be seen at
mid-day in serene weather. During this eruption, the large river called
Fulilækr, the Jökulsá—or Jökul river—which divides the Skoga-sand from
the Solheima-sand, suddenly made its appearance.
The fifth, in A.D. 1311 (some say 1332), appears to have been more
destructive to life than any of the previous ones. Many farms were
destroyed in the district called Myrdals-sand; several sand-hills and
other hills were formed, and several marshes sprang into existence. It
vomited ashes and sand during the greater part of the winter, and,
melting the ice about the crater, the inhabited tract in the vicinity
was inundated, and all the inhabitants except two perished in the flood.
Another account states that this eruption was known as “_Sturluhlaup_,”
from only _one man_ of the name of Sturla having been saved, of those
overwhelmed by the volcanic ejections.
The sixth, A.D. 1416. The lava or water-floods took the direction of
Hjörleifshöfdi, an isolated hill and promontory on the coast of the
Myrdals-sand, considerably to the south-east of Kötlugjá.
The seventh, A.D. 1580. During this eruption it is stated that Myrdals
Jökul was rent asunder, and as the name Kötlugjá is now first given to
the crater or fissure of eruption, it is probable that at this date the
chasm was first recognised or discovered, if not formed. This eruption
was characterized by fire, darkness, and a rain of ashes, as well as by
water-floods; one of which latter went eastward toward the monastery of
Thyckvaboe, and another southward to Myrdal. Many farms were destroyed,
but there appears to have been no loss of human life.
The eighth, in 1612, was attended, it is conjectured, by a subsidence to
some extent of the Fall-Jökul, which is situated between Eyafialla and
Myrdals Jökul, as well as of the lower lands between Langanes and
Thorsmerkr. The accompanying fire was such, that the eruption was
visible extensively in the north of Iceland.
The ninth, in A.D. 1625, was “one of the grandest and most devastating
eruptions of Kötlugjá that has ever occurred.” Its historian is
Thorsteinn Magnússon, at the time sysselman or sheriff of
Skaptafells-syssel (or district), who lived in the monastery of
Thyckvaboe. His account was published in Copenhagen in A.D. 1627.
According to him, ‘at daybreak on the second of September it began to
thunder in the Jökul; and about 8 o’clock A.M. floods of water and ice
were poured down upon the low country, and carried away upwards of 200
loads of hay[23] which lay in the fields about Thyckvaboe. These floods
continued to be poured forth like a raging sea till past one o’clock in
the afternoon, when they gradually diminished, but were succeeded by
terrible darkness, earthquakes, thunder, flames, and showers of sand.
Nor was it in the immediate vicinity of the crater alone that the fire
appeared, but down in the inhabited tract, at the distance of nearly
twenty miles from the mountain, igneous vapours were seen attaching
themselves to the clothes of the inhabitants. (?) This dreadful scene
continued, with little variation, till the 13th of the month. It was
frequently so clear at night that the mountains, with all their clefts
and divisions, were seen as distinctly at the distance of twenty miles
as they were in the clearest day. Sometimes the flames were pure as the
sun, sometimes they were red, and at others they discovered all the
colours of the rainbow. The lightenings were visible now in the air, and
now running over the surface of the ground; and _such as witnessed them
were more or less affected in such parts of their bodies as were
uncovered_. [!] These flashes were accompanied by the loudest claps of
thunder, and darted backwards and forwards; now to the ground, and now
into the air, dividing sometimes into separate bolts, each of which
appeared to be followed by a separate report; and after shooting in
different directions, they instantly collected again, when a dreadful
report was heard, and the igneous appearance fell like a waterspout to
the ground, and became invisible. While the showers of sand lasted, it
was frequently so dark in the day time that two individuals holding each
other by the hand could not discover each other’s face.’ Dr. Hjaltalin
states that the water-floods, bearing large masses of ice, ‘surrounded
the monastery of Thyckvaboe, with its adjacent farms, one of which was
overflowed by the stream; but the people saved themselves on a high
hill, where the flood could not reach them. The flood was followed by
such heavy shots and continual thunder, that the people thought the
heavens would burst to pieces, and they were surrounded with continual
flashes of lightning. The pasturages were so covered with ashes and
pumice, that cattle, horses, and sheep could not get any food, and were
seen running about in wild confusion. During the eruption such a
darkness prevailed sometimes that days were darker than nights; and it
is related that showers of ashes from this eruption reached the town of
Bergen in Norway, which is the greatest distance to which volcanic ashes
were ever thrown from Iceland.’ The account in the ‘Islendingur’ of June
16, p. 45, mentions further, that the mixed water and ice flood flowed
in cascades and waves over Myrdals-sand; that the inhabitants fled to
the heights for safety; that the depth of the water-flood, which
surrounded the monastery of Thyckvaboe, was such that a large
ocean-vessel might have sailed between the byres and the principal
building, and that there was an excessive falling of sand in the
district to the north-east of Kötlugjá, called the Skaptártunga. This
eruption thus lasted for about twelve days, wholly destroying many
farms, and partially destroying or rendering temporarily useless others.
The damage done was greatest in the low lands to east, north-east, and
south-east of Kötlugjá.
The tenth, A.D. 1660—commencing on 3d November—“appears scarcely to have
been less formidable than the preceding eruption. Water-floods
overwhelmed and destroyed the farm and church of Höfdabrekka, which
latter was cast into the sea immediately adjoining, apparently by an
earthquake-shock. Only such articles were saved from the building as
could, at the moment, be snatched away by the clergyman Jón Salamonsson.
The quantity of sand, ashes, and sulphur, thrown out and deposited on
the coast about Höfdabrekka was such, that what formerly was a depth of
twenty fathoms of sea water, became at once dry land. Such is the
account in the ‘Islendingur.’ Dr. Hjaltalin says the clouds of pumice,
ashes, and sand, rendered the atmosphere, in the vicinity of Kötlugjá,
very dark during nine days. Many farms were destroyed. Flames and ashes
were ejected during the greater part of winter. Henderson asserts, that
‘the quantity of ice, &c., carried down by the inundation, was so great,
that where it was deposited, it rose to the height of forty-nine fathoms
above the surface of the former depositions. The church of Höfdabrekka’
constructed wholly of wood, and of limited dimensions, ‘was observed to
swim among the masses of ice, to a considerable distance in the sea, ere
it fell to pieces.’ The volcano appears, with some intermission, to have
erupted sand the two following years.”
The eleventh, A.D. 1721, began at nine A.M. on the 11th May. Dr.
Hjaltalin says “the narrative of this eruption proceeds from certain of
the inhabitants of the _north of Iceland_, who observed the phenomena
from the distance of about 100 English miles! These distant witnesses,
state that the eruption was preceded by heavy shots, like shots of
artillery, lasting less or more for several days, and distinctly heard
by them in the north of the island. These sounds were followed by a
heavy fire—which expression seems translateable as _vivid flames_—also
visible at the great distance above named. The flames or fire were
followed by clouds of ashes, so dense and so extensive, as to have
produced complete darkness for some hours, at the remoteness of 80 or
100 miles.” “The ‘Islendingur’ refers to an earthquake chiefly felt in
Myrdal, but extending eastward to Lidu, and westward to Fljótshlíd.
About noon of the same day—11th May—the earth became fissured at various
points; loud sounds were heard, and lastly, flames, with steam or smoke,
were seen to issue from Kötlugjá. A water-flood now descended from the
volcano, bearing huge pieces of ice, resembling in bulk small islands;
which icebergs sailed along as rapidly as a ship in a good breeze. These
icebergs were borne by the flood from Höfdabrekka eastward to
Hjörleifshöfdi and Hafrsey. One village was destroyed in the east of the
Myrdals-sand district.” Again, Henderson states, p. 213,[24] the
“inundations lasted nearly three days, and carried along with them such
amazing quantities of ice, stones, earth, and sand, that the sea was
filled with them to the distance of three miles from the shore. The sun
was darkened by the smoke and ashes which were thrown into the air; sand
and pumice were blown over almost the whole island; and the ice and
water desolated a considerable tract of grass land, over which they
flowed.”
The twelfth, A.D. 1727, is believed to have been of little intensity or
importance.
The eruption which follows—the thirteenth, that of 1755—is the “most
celebrated of all the outbreaks of Kötlugjá, on account alike of its
grandeur, its duration, and its frightful results—an eruption which has
since caused Kötlugjá to be dreaded by the Icelanders as one of their
most dangerous volcanoes, if not their most dangerous one.” It began
about noon on the 17th of October, and “continued, with intermissions,
till 25th August 1756—its duration, therefore, being nearly a year. The
‘Islendingur’ gives a very short reference merely; but the accounts of
Dr. Hjaltalin and of Henderson are comparatively full. According to Dr.
Hjaltalin, the eruption was preceded by a series of earthquakes,
beginning in September; they were especially severe in the north-east of
Iceland, near Cape Langanes, about 150 or 180 miles distant from
Kötlugjá. In this district they overthrew several farms; and in a milder
degree they were felt over a considerable extent of country. The
eruption itself began at ten A.M. of 17th October, about a fortnight
prior to the earthquake which destroyed Lisbon. Vivid flames shot
towards the sky, accompanied by severe earthquakes, sounds like thunder,
and lightnings. The volcano was enveloped in smoke or steam; showers of
ashes and pumice fell constantly, while volcanic bombs were hurled high
into the air. The latter must have been of great size, for they were
seen bursting, and the accompanying detonating reports were heard at a
distance of upwards of a hundred miles. The days, it is said, were
darker than the nights; and the flames and bombs gave so unearthly a
character to the scene, that the poor inhabitants fancied that the day
of judgment had arrived, and that our globe was bursting into atoms.
Over large tracts of country, the soil was covered with sand and ashes
to a depth of two or three feet; cattle, horses, and sheep, consequently
died in great numbers. This devastation caused a famine and pestilence
among the inhabitants, who perished by the hundred. The eruption was
violent for fourteen days. The water-floods overflowed the district of
Myrdals-sand, which is about twenty miles long and sixteen broad. Five
parishes were more or less devastated, and fifty farms were destroyed.
These were the more local disasters; but, in addition to this, the sand
and ashes were spread over a great portion of the island, producing
fatal epidemics and epizöotics,[25] and it is said even the wild-fowl
fled from many parts of the island. The earthquakes were characterized
by distinct wave-like motions of the land, which fluctuated like an
agitated ocean, and the same earthquake-waves were propagated from the
coasts outward to sea, to the serious damage of the shipping.” Henderson
says—vol. 1. p. 314—“The inhabitants of the track about Kötlugjá were
first apprised of the impending catastrophe on the forenoon of the 17th
October, by a number of quick and irregular tremifactions, which were
followed by three immense floods, from the Jökul, that completely
overflowed Myrdals-sand, and carried before them almost incredible
quantities of ice and gravel. Masses of ice, resembling small mountains
in size, pushed one another forward, and bore vast pieces of solid rock
on their surface. After the rocking had continued some time, an
exceedingly loud report was heard, when fire and water were observed to
be emitted alternately by the volcano, which appeared to vent its rage
through three apertures situated close to each other. At times the
column of fire was carried to such a height that it illuminated the
whole of the surrounding atmosphere, and was seen at the distance of one
hundred and eighty miles; at other times the air was so filled with
smoke and ashes that the adjacent parishes were enveloped in total
darkness. Between these alternations of light and obscurity, vast
red-hot globes were thrown to a great height, and broken into a thousand
pieces. The following night presented one of the most awful and sublime
spectacles imaginable. An unremitting noise, like that produced by the
discharge of heavy artillery, was heard from the volcano. A fiery column
of variegated hues rose into the atmosphere; flames and sparks were
scattered in every direction, and blazed in the most vivid manner.”
“The eruption continued with more or less violence till the 7th of
November, during which period dreadful _exundations of hot-water_ were
poured forth on the low country; and the masses of ice, clay, and solid
rock, that they hurled into the sea, were so great that it was _filled
to the distance of more than fifteen miles_; and, in some places, where
it was formerly forty fathoms deep, the tops of the newly deposited
rocks were now seen towering above the water. A violent eruption
happened again, on the 17th of November, when the volcano remained
inactive till the following year, during which it emitted fire and water
five times—viz., on January 15, June 28 and 29, and August 12 and 25.”
“The principal damage occasioned by these eruptions, consisted in the
destruction of the pasture-grounds throughout the most part of the
syssel—or district. Numbers of the cattle were carried away by the
deluge; and the mephitic substances, with which everything was
impregnated, brought on a raging mortality in different parts of the
country. On the breaking forth of the water, a number of people fled for
refuge to an insulated mountain called Hafrsey, where they were obliged
to stay seven days without either meat or drink; and were exposed to the
showers of stones, fire, and water which fell around them. The
lightning, which was very violent during the eruption, penetrated
through solid rocks, and killed two people and eleven horses, three of
which were in a stable. One of the persons killed was a farmer, whom it
struck dead as he left the door of his house. What is remarkable, his
upper clothes, which were of wool, bore no marks of fire, but the linen
he had under them was burned; and when he was undressed, it was found
that the skin and flesh of his right side were consumed to the very
bone. [!] His maid-servant was struck with the lightning at the same
time; and though her clothes were instantly changed, it continued to
burn in the pores of her body, and singed the clothes she put on. [!]
She died a few days afterwards, having in the meantime suffered
inexpressible pain.”
This eruption, Henderson very truly remarks, becomes the more noteworthy
from “the terrible convulsions to which at the same time a great part of
the terrestrial globe was subjected. Not only were the British isles
rocked by repeated and violent shocks of an earthquake, houses thrown
down, rocks split, and the waters of the sea and lakes[26] heaved up;
but in Norway, Sweden, Germany, Holland, France, and Italy, the same
phenomena were experienced. Spain and Portugal, however, suffered most
from the shocks. Numerous villages, convents, and churches were
demolished; the largest mountains shaken from the foundations, and the
low grounds inundated by the swelling and overflowing of the rivers.
Lisbon, in particular, exhibited a scene the most tragical and
melancholy. The most ponderous edifices were heaved up and shaken;
steeples, towers, and houses thrown down; the ground and streets danced
under the feet of the inhabitants; and many thousands of them were
buried in the ruins. Nor was the earthquake confined to Europe. It
stretched over into Barbary, and destroyed upwards of a dozen of cities
on the coasts of Africa. Its concussions were also felt in Persia, in
the West Indies, and in America.”[27] Sir George S. Mackenzie and Sir
William Hooker[28] both also describe this eruption in their respective
works of travel, but the incidents do not differ from those given above.
The latter writer characterizes the sounds accompanying the eruption as
“most frightful and horrible roarings.” The illuminations at night were
so vivid, “that heaven and earth seemed to be equally in a state of
conflagration.” On the 19th of October a column of smoke issued from the
volcano, which column was black by day; but the smoke was intermixed
with balls and sparks of fire, which by night lighted up the whole of
the Myrdal district, while the country to the east thereof was in
darkness both day and night. “Ashes fell like rain” in Faröe, 300 miles
distant, and subterranean noises were heard as far as the Guldbringu and
Kiosar syssels—80 to 90 miles distant.
The fourteenth, A.D. 1823, began on the 1st and ended on the 26th July.
The phenomena were, as usual, chiefly water-floods, showers of ashes,
slight earthquakes, and vivid lightnings, which latter struck several
persons. Only one farm, Solheimar, was destroyed, and comparatively
little damage was done elsewhere; altogether the eruption was one of the
mildest and most innocuous hitherto recorded of Kötlugjá.
These glimpses of the recorded volcanic history of that one spot on
which we now gaze, will convey to the reader some idea of the terrific
visitations to which the islanders are exposed; even when there are not
lava streams licking up rivers, pastures, farms, and people in their
fiery floods, filling up whole valleys or rushing out into the sea and
forming capes, hissing, the while, louder than the Midgard Serpent,
which encompasses the whole earth.
* * * * *
White fleecy clouds come and go, at times muffling the summit of these
jökuls, which are deemed the most picturesque in Iceland, if we except
Snæfell on the west coast, and Oræfa on the south-east.
After passing the Westmanna islands and the east-most mouth of the
Markarfliót river, which sweeps round the north and west sides of
Eyafialla Jökul, the south-east mountain ranges, on which we have long
been gazing, begin; the general character of the coast, north of this
point, having been low like the Guldbringu syssel. This district has
been rendered classic ground, as the scene of Njal’s Saga,[29] and we
only wish it were permitted us to land and visit Bergthorsknoll and
Lithend, to cross the rivers, scamper over the plains, or scale the
Three-corner mountain. It is now clear, and one can take in the general
character of the whole district at a glance.
The colour of the sea now assumed a light green aspect, broken here and
there by white crested waves. Snow patches lay on the rugged purple
hills; these, again, were touched with lines of intense fiery gold,
actually excandescent. Sea-birds flitted past like white gleams; and,
altogether, the scene, flooded with golden light, presented a
magnificent study of colour. I made jottings of the outlines, tints, and
atmospheric effects, for a water colour drawing; to be painted “some
day”—that unattainable period when so many things are to be done, but
which ever recedes from us like the horizon line; luring us on and on,
and cheating us from day to day with a vague phantom shadow of
“Something evermore about to be.”
The Skogar-foss—force or waterfall—yonder, falling sheer over the rock
cliffs into the sea, gently sways to and fro in the wind. It falls
from so great a height that it appears to lose itself in vapour or
dust, like the Staubach. There is an old tradition that an early
colonist—Thrasi—before dying, buried a chest of gold and jewels in the
deep rock-basin into which this magnificent sheet of water
tumbles.[30]
Sun-gleams rest on the snow-mountains and play on the ice of the
glaciers. These are very numerous near the coast, the ice being
generally of a light whity-green colour and corrugated in wavy lines.
As the weather is clear and bright, we see the coast near Portland to
more advantage than on our first approach to the island. The wild
fantastic promontories, rock-islets, and needle shaped drongs—serrated,
peaked and hummocky—resemble the ruins of old castles and cathedrals.
The likeness of one of them to Iona, already remarked upon, is now even
still more apparent. Behind these rocks is a low range of hills, beyond
which rise the jökuls.
The summits of these mountains are white with perpetual snow. The
shoulders shade downwards into pale green ice, which terminates abruptly
at the edge of a dark rugged precipitous line of rock that descends
sheer into the valley behind the low range of hills next the sea. The
precipice looked as if the sides of the mountains had, in some way, been
sliced down, say from a third of their height, leaving the snowy summits
and icy shoulders untouched.
Glaciers were formed, wherever the nature of the slope would admit of
them. In some instances they seemed to approach the brink of the
precipice and overhang it; but more frequently they chose places where
rents, chasms, irregularities, or depressed spaces, occurring between
any two mountains in the range, broke the wall, and thus afforded an
incline plane all the way down to the valley.
Many whales continue to sport round the vessel, spouting up jets of
water, tumbling about and showing the whole of their large tails. At
times they leap nearly altogether out of the sea, and fall with a great
splash. They often remain perfectly motionless for a considerable time.
When diving down, both the rounded shape of the fish, and the peculiar
parabolic motion with which it rises and falls, make the ridge of the
back with its dorsal fins resemble the segment of a great black
revolving disk, like a monster saw-wheel. Gulls, skuas, and
pheasant-tailed ducks are flying about.
A lot of beer-drinking and meerschaum-smoking Danes are on board, going
to Copenhagen. The smell of tobacco is felt everywhere, above, below,
and at all hours. Their voices are frequently heard during the day
calling for “snaps.” They consider a glass of this spirit indispensible
for breakfast, and take it every morning to begin with. However, the
hours passed very pleasantly on shipboard. The following
ICELANDIC STATISTICS
will interest the reader. From the last census—1855—we learn that the
population of the island is 64,603; of that number 52,475 live by
farming, and 5,055 by fishing, thus accounting for nearly three-fourths
of the whole population. In exact figures the number is only 923 short
of that proportion.
There were then in the island 65 persons deaf and dumb, and 202 blind.
Curious to observe that, although there previously had been and again
may be, there was not then a single watchmaker on the island. The
extreme paucity of common tradesmen—less than 11 to the 1000—indicates a
very primitive pastoral state of society amongst the islanders; home
wants being generally supplied by home skill. The following table is
constructed, from data contained in the census, to show at a glance the
various occupations of the Icelanders, and also what relative proportion
these bear to each thousand of the population.
Total numbers in Proportion to each
the island at 1000 of the whole
census in 1855. population.
Clergymen, professors and
teachers at the college, and
employés at churches 2,365 36.61
Civil officers 454 7.03
Do. out of office 140 2.17
Farmers who live by agriculture 52,475 812.27
Farmers who depend chiefly on
the fisheries 5,055 78.25
Tradesmen as follows:
Bakers 10 0.16
Coopers 35 0.55
Gold and silversmiths 80 1.24
Carpenters 61 0.94
Blacksmiths 80 1.24
Masons 6 0.09
Millers 4 0.07
Turners 8 0.13
Boat builders 38 0.59
Shoemakers 18 0.28
Tailors 27 0.41
Joiners 174 2.69
Saddlers 46 0.71
Weavers 20 0.30
Men who live by other
industrial occupations 103 1.59
Merchants and innkeepers 730 11.30
Pensioners, and people
living on their own means 356 5.51
Day labourers 523 8.09
Miscellaneous occupations
not classed 586 9.07
Paupers 1,207 18.68
Prisoners 2 0.3
——— ———
64,603 1000
There are only sixty-three native Icelandic surnames. Few people have
got any; the custom is, after telling one’s own christian name, when
asked whose son are you? to answer in old Hebrew fashion, son of, or
daughter of so and so. There are 530 men’s christian names, and 529
women’s names in use; so that there need be no lack for choice of names
in a large family. Many of them, slightly modified in spelling, are
familiar to us, but chiefly as surnames, _e.g._ Kettle, Halle, Ormur,
Gils, Olafur, &c.
The number of individuals bearing certain names, is all duly recorded in
the last census. I note a few of them, from which the reader may infer
that Casa’s droll extravaganza, depreciating the name John under its
various forms, is as applicable to Iceland as to Italy; and that
Sigridur, Kristin, and Helga, are favourite names among the ladies.
The figures in the following list indicate the total number of persons,
in the whole island, who bear these respective names.
Andros, 136; Ausumunder, 125; Bjarni, 869; Einer, 878; Eiriken, 351;
Gísli, 681; Gunnar, 150; Halldor, 428; Johann, 494; Johannus, 498; Jón,
4827; Magnus, 1007; Odin, 169; Olafur, 992; Thordur, 445; Thorwaldsen,
106 &c.
Female names:—Anna, 869; Elin, 438; Elizabeth, 194; Gróa, 269; Halldóra,
515; Helga, 1135; Johanna, 630; Kristin, 1615; Rosa, 269; Sigridur,
2641; Lilja, 120; Soffia, 182; Thorbjörg, 436; Sessilja, 326 &c.
* * * * *
Half-past 6 P.M. Looking back to Portland Huk, over the light-green sea
with its white crested waves, the reddish brown fantastic islets, and
the singular arched opening in the rock—Dyrhólaey—show distinctly and
beautifully against the amber light of the horizon.
As we paced the deck, talking about the old Norse language—which is
still spoken in Iceland as it used to be in the eighth and ninth
centuries in Norway, Sweden, and Denmark, in the Orkney, Shetland, and
Faröe islands, in the two northern counties of Scotland, and in other
Scandinavian settlements along the British coast—Dr. Mackinlay remarked,
that “so well had the language been preserved, an Icelander of the
present day had no difficulty in understanding the most ancient writings
of his country.” This can be said of no other tongue in western Europe.
To this—the very language of the Vikings—both the old lowland Scotch,
and, at a further remove, our modern English, chiefly owe their
directness, expressiveness, and strength.
Many words, which we now use with a secondary or restricted meaning,
still retain their primitive signification in Icelandic. Thus the word
“smith”—a contraction for smiteth—which with us is restricted to a
worker in metals, in Icelandic still retains its old sense of
handcraftsman. Hence the Icelander not only talks of a goldsmith as a
guldsmidr, a silversmith as silfursmidr, but of a saddler as södlasmidr,
a cooper as a koparsmidr, a shoemaker as a skórsmidr, a joiner as a
trésmidr, a builder as a husasmidr, a printer as a prentsmidr, a
blacksmith as a jarnsmidr, a cabinet-maker as a skrinsmidr, a watchmaker
as an ursmidr, and, in a metaphorical sense, of a poet or ode-writer as
an odarsmidr; just as the Anglo-Saxons talked of a warrior as a
war-smidr.
Over a narrow strip of low sand-beach, the near snow-mountains and
icefields, like frosted silver burnished in parts, now lie gleaming with
dazzling brightness in the sun; coloured here and there with living
gem-like streaks of opal, amber, crimson, and orange which glow yet more
intensely, as if the snow and ice had been magically touched with an
unextinguishable pencil of fire.
[Illustration: PART OF MYRDALS JÖKUL AND KÖTLUGJÁ RANGE.]
Portland point is left astern, and over it, dark clouds, of a leaden hue
and ruddy edges, came down to within a short distance of the transparent
glowing horizon. The coast-range and islets, off the point, are deep
purple, relieved against a narrow golden belt of light below the leaden
cloud. In it, hang motionless a few cloud streaks—light, fleecy,
purplish gray—and, lower down, others of only a lighter amber than the
pure ether in which they float.
The sea is of a light sap green; the level sun-glare slants across the
wake of the steamer, and touches the crested waves; while a line of
light, like a silvery mist, marks the edge of the sea, by running along
the coast at the foot of the snow-capped hills. Sea-gulls flying about
are following the vessel, and screaming with delight or expectation. All
is a perfect study of colour—warm purples, glowing ambers, fiery
crimsons, and cool greens—each heightened by neutral tints in the
clouds, and crests of white foam, little more than a ripple, on the
green sea. I walked the deck for two hours with the captain, and turned
in at eleven o’clock.
[Illustration: ORÆFA JÖKUL.]
_Friday morning._ We are passing Oræfa Jökul, which, by the latest
measurement, rises 6,405 English feet above the sea level, and is the
highest mountain in the island. It is an immense mass, covered with snow
and ice, and exhibiting glaciers creeping down to the sea. Sometimes the
internal heat of this volcano melts and cracks the surface ice-mail, so
that it splinters and rushes down the sides as an avalanche of ice and
water, filling up hollows and valleys. When in action it only ejects
ashes and pumice; never lava.[31] By the side of the mountain is a
gently sloping snow-field, with several pointed black peaks rising
abruptly out of it. This field stretches away far inland. Dr. Mackinlay
tells me that, from the land-side, Oræfa appears a double-peaked broad
shouldered mountain; one of the peaks or ridges presenting a deep
scarped side like that of Salisbury Crags.[32]
With but few interruptions, a chain of snow-mountains stretches across
the island, from Snæfells Jökul in the west, to Thrandar Jökul in the
east; while the central desert or plain, running across from sea to sea
between this range and that on the south-east, is nearly 100 miles
broad, from 2000 to 2200 feet above the sea level, and only 400 or 500
feet from the snow-line. The south-east corner of the island is an
enormous unexplored snow or ice plateau, called Klofa or Vatna Jökul, of
about 2400 square miles, chiefly covered with, or at all events
surrounded by ranges of jökuls, over which Oræfa, the most southern
jökul of this unexplored region and the king of Iceland mountains, keeps
watch and ward.
Away to the north-west, bounding this icy region on the west, rises
Skaptár Jökul, by far the most destructive volcano in the island.[33]
And “in no part of the world,” remarks Dr. Lindsay, “are volcano
phenomena on so gigantic a scale as in Iceland. In it there are lava
streams fifty miles long, twelve to fifteen miles broad and six hundred
feet deep. Portions of these streams sometimes form hills as high as
Arthur’s Seat or Salisbury Crags; and such is the persistence of the
heat, that rents in the lava have been found still smoking, or filled
with hot water, so long as eleven years after an eruption. In no part of
the world of the same extent, are there so many widely separate vents or
foci—about twenty—of subterranean igneous action. The boiling springs
which are most numerous, show of themselves that such action is going on
under the whole island. The calculations of Professor Bischoff show,
that the mass of lava thrown up by the eruption of Skaptár Jökul, A.D.
1783, was greater in bulk than Mont Blanc. A larger mass of lava by far,
than was ever thrown out from a single volcano, at any time, in any part
of the world.”
As a particular example of the ravages produced by these terrible
convulsions of nature may give the reader a clearer and more vivid idea
of their action, than any general description, we shall select the
ERUPTION OF SKAPTÁR JÖKUL,
in 1783; it having been not only very violent, but the one of which we
possess the fullest and most authentic accounts.
“The preceding winter and the spring of that year had been unusually
mild, and nothing seemed to foretell the approaching danger, till
towards the end of May, when a light bluish fog was seen floating along
the ground, succeeded in the beginning of June by earthquakes, which
daily increased in violence till the 8th of that month. At nine in the
morning of that day numerous pillars of smoke were noticed rising in the
hill country towards the north, which, gradually gathering into a dark
bank, obscured the atmosphere, and proceeding in a southerly direction
against the wind, involved the whole district of Sida in darkness,
showering down sand and ashes to the thickness of an inch. This cloud
continued to increase till the 10th, when fire-spouts were observed in
the mountains, accompanied by earthquakes. Next day the large river
Skaptaá, which in the spring had discharged a vast quantity of fetid
water, mixed with gravel or dust, and had lately been much swollen,
totally disappeared. This incident was fully accounted for on the 12th,
when a huge current of lava, burst from one side of the volcano, and
rushed with a loud crashing noise down the channel of the river, which
it not only filled, but even overflowed, though in many places from four
to six hundred feet deep and two hundred broad. The fiery stream after
leaving the hills, threatened to deluge the low country of Medalland,
when a lake that lay in its way intercepted it during several days. But
at length the incessant torrents filled the basin, and proceeded in two
streams, one to the east, where its progress was for a short time
interrupted by the Skalarfiall, up which, however, the accumulating
flood soon forced its way, rolling the mossy covering over the mountain
before it like a large piece of cloth. The other current directed its
progress towards the south, through the district of Medalland, passing
over some old tracts of lava, which again began to burn, whilst the air
in its cavities escaped with a strange whistling noise, or suddenly
expanding, threw up immense masses into the air to the height of more
than 120 feet. The waters of the rivers, swollen by the melting of the
Jökuls in the interior, and intercepted in their course by the glowing
lava, were thrown into a state of violent ebullition, and destroyed many
spots spared by the fire. In this district, the liquid matter continued
to flow to the 20th of July, following principally the course of the
Skaptaá, where it poured over the lofty cataract of Stapafoss, filling
up the enormous cavity the waters had been hollowing out for ages.
During the whole of this eruption, the atmosphere was filled with
mephitic vapours, or darkened with clouds of ashes, by which the sun was
either concealed from the miserable inhabitants, or appeared like a
blood-red globe, adding to their terror and consternation.
“The molten elements had so long confined their fury to the Skaptaá,
that the inhabitants of the eastern district on the Hverfisfliot, though
much incommoded by the showers of ashes, hoped to escape its more
immediate visitations. But on the 28th of June, a cloud of sand and
smoke caused so thick a darkness, that in the houses at noon, a sheet of
white paper, held opposite the window, could not be distinguished from
the black walls, whilst red-hot stones and dust burnt up the pastures,
poisoned the waters, and threatened to set fire to the dwellings. On the
3d of August a thick vapour rising from the Hverfisfliot, the entire
disappearance of its waters, and a foaming fire-stream, which on the 9th
rushed with indescribable fury down its bed, overflowing the country in
one night to the extent of more than four miles, converted the fearful
anticipations of the natives into dreadful realities. The eruptions of
sand, ashes, pumice, and lava continued till the end of August, when the
volcano appeared completely exhausted; but flames were still seen in
February, 1784, and thick clouds of smoke, even in July of that year.
The whole catastrophe closed in August with an earthquake of such
extreme violence that men were thrown to the ground.
“The immediate source whence this enormous mass of matter issued is
entirely unknown, being situated in that great central desert of sand
and snow which none of the natives have ever penetrated; and no
traditions of any former occurrence of this kind have been preserved.
Some persons who went up into the mountains during the continuance of
the eruption were, in consequence of the thick smoke, compelled to
return, and some subsequent attempts met with no better success. It is
not even known whether the current that flowed from the Skaptaá and that
in the Hverfisfliot proceeded from the same crater; it is, however,
probable their sources were different though closely connected.
“The extent of the lava can only be accurately known in the inhabited
districts. The stream that flowed down the Skaptaá is calculated at
about fifty miles in length, by twelve or fifteen at its greatest
breadth: that in the Hverfisfliot at forty miles in length by seven in
breadth. In the narrow channel of the Skaptaá it rose to 500 or 600
feet; but in the plains its extreme height does not exceed 100, and in
many places is only eight or ten feet. From its immense thickness, it
was a long time in cooling, being so hot in July 1784, twelve months
after the eruption, that Mr. Stephenson could not cross it, and even
then sending up a thick smoke or steam. In the year 1794 it still
retained an elevated temperature, emitting vapours from various places,
and many of its crevices being filled with warm water. This long
retention of heat will appear more extraordinary, when we consider the
numerous globular cavities and fissures it contained, permitting a free
circulation of the water and atmosphere.
“The destructive effects of this volcano were not confined to its
immediate vicinity, vast quantities of sand and ashes being scattered
over the remoter parts of the country, and some were conveyed to the
Faröe islands, a distance of nearly 300 miles.[34] The noxious vapours
that for many months infected the air were equally pernicious to man and
beast, and covered the whole island with a dense fog which obscured the
sun, and was perceptible even in England and Holland. The steam rising
from the crater, or exhaled from the boiling waters, was condensed in
the cooler regions of the atmosphere, and descended in floods that
deluged the fields and consolidated the ashes into a thick black crust.
A fall of snow in the middle of June, and frequent showers of hailstones
of unusual magnitude, accompanied with tremendous thunder-storms,
tearing up huge fragments of rock, and rolling them down into the
plains, completed the scene of desolation. The grass and other plants
withered, and became so brittle that the weight of a man’s foot reduced
them to powder; and even where the pastures seemed to have recovered,
the cattle refused to touch them, dying of actual starvation in the
midst of the most luxuriant herbage. Small unknown insects covered many
of the fields, while other portions of the soil, formerly the most
fertile, were changed by the ashes into marshy wastes overgrown with
moss and equiseta. A disease resembling scurvy in its most malignant
type attacked both men and cattle, occasioned in the former no doubt by
the want of food, and the miserable, often disgusting, nature of that
which alone they could obtain. Many lived on the bodies of those animals
which had perished from hunger or disease, whilst others had recourse to
boiled skins, or substances still more nauseous and unwholesome. The
numerous earthquakes, with the ashes and other matter thrown into the
sea, caused the fish to desert many parts of the coast; whilst the
fishermen, seldom daring to leave the land enveloped in thick clouds
during most of the summer, were thus deprived of their usual stock of
winter provisions. We cannot better conclude this frightful catalogue of
evils, than by the following summary of the numbers of men and cattle
more or less immediately destroyed by it in two years. The most moderate
calculation makes these amount to 1300 human beings, 19,488 horses,
6,801 horned cattle, and 129,937 sheep.” Stephenson makes these numbers
still higher and says, “9,336 men, 28,000 horses, 11,461 cattle, and
190,488 sheep.”[35]
Fine dust and vapour from this terrific eruption overspread Asia,
Europe, and America during the whole summer. Franklin speculated on the
cause of this haze, and Dr. Mackinlay reminded me that Cowper, who
frequently refers to it in his letters, has, in the second Book of the
“Task,” a beautiful allusion to it, and also to the earthquake in
Calabria which occurred nearly at the same time as the Skaptár
eruptions:
“Fires from beneath, and meteors from above,
Portentous, unexampled, unexplained,
Have kindled beacons in the skies; and th’ old
And crazy earth has had her shaking fits
More frequent, and foregone her usual rest.
Is it a time to wrangle, when the props
And pillars of our planet seem to fail,
And Nature, with a dim and sickly eye,
To wait the close of all?”
A.D. 1784, the year after the outbreak of Skaptár, which left the whole
island in mourning, was almost as memorable for earthquakes, not only in
Iceland, but in many parts of the world widely separated from each
other, as 1755 had been in connection with the eruption of Kötlugjá.
Most of the Icelandic mountains are volcanic, and, from the native
history, we learn the frequency with which they have manifested this
character. Let us glance at the following brief sketch of their
VOLCANIC HISTORY,
chiefly compiled by the author of “Iceland, Greenland, and the Faröe
Islands.”
Of these mountains, this writer says, “most of them seem now to be in
the state of intermittent activity, in which more or less violent
paroxysms occur at intervals of longer or shorter duration; and, but for
the uncertainty of these periods, we might consider some as in a state
of complete repose. These alternations of movement and rest seem common
to the separate members and to the whole system; there being many years
in which the island remains undisturbed, whilst at other epochs it
appears as if entirely devoted to the fury of contending elements. The
most terrible of the volcanoes known in ancient times were Hekla,
Oræfa-Jökul, and the Kötlugjá; to which have recently[36] been added
Krabla, Leirhnukr, and Skaptáfells, which commenced only in the 18th
century. The earliest record of such an occurrence is that of
Eldborg,[37] in the western part of the island, said to have happened in
the 9th or 10th century. This was followed by the eruption from the
mountains in Guldbringu syssel in the year 1000, at the time when the
althing was deliberating as to the reception of the Christian religion.
In the 11th century Hekla appeared in a state of violent commotion,
which extending, in the middle of the 12th, to many others, devastated
the land from north to south, and was accompanied by destructive
earthquakes. In the beginning and at a later period of the 13th century,
the south-western quarter was particularly excited; whilst in the middle
of the succeeding one, the island was desolated by the most terrible
convulsions, concluding in 1391 with a violent earthquake, felt over the
whole country. From this date till the beginning of the 16th, the
volcanoes were comparatively quiet; but at that period, and in the end
of the century, they raged both in the south and the north. The 17th was
again an interval of repose, in which only the southern ones were
active; but the eighteenth age proved that their energies had undergone
no diminution, by eruptions even more violent than those of the
fourteenth. Between 1720 and 1730 the same mountains were in incessant
action, accompanied by earthquakes; whilst in the north, Krabla and
Leirhnukr began their devastations. In the years 1753 and 1755 the
Skeidará and Kötlugjá Jökuls poured out every variety of volcanic
matter. In 1766 Hekla again commenced, and the destructive outbreak of
the Skaptár in 1783 closed these frightful scenes. From that time till
1821, with the exception of some slight agitations, and probably a few
inconsiderable eruptions in the desert part of the country, no displays
of volcanic action occurred.”
Eyafialla Jökul continued in eruption from A.D. 1821 till 1822. In July
1823 it again began to burn. In the same month Kötlugjá, covered nearly
100 miles of ground with sand and ashes. “In July 1825, both sides of
the island were visited by earthquakes, accompanied by destructive
hurricanes and floods; whilst on the 13th of February 1827, there was an
eruption of the Skeidará Jökul.”
The subjoined list of Icelandic volcanoes, with the dates of their
eruptions, is transcribed from the same source, and presented to the
reader, not by any means as complete, but as the best to which I at
present have access. It will aid him in realizing the fearful results of
these terrific energies so frequently at work.
“Hekla, 1004, 1029, 1105, 1113, 1157, 1206, 1222, 1294, 1300,
1340, 1374, 1390, 1436, 1510, 1554, 1583, 1619, 1625, 1636,
1693, 1728, 1754, 1766.
Guldbringu Syssel, 1000.
Eyafialla Jökul, 1821.
Solheima Jökul, about 900, 1245, 1262, 1717.
Kötlugjá or Myrdals-Jökul, 894, 1311, 1416, 1580, 1625, 1661,
1721, 1727, 1755, 1823.
Skaptár-Jökul, 1783.
Sida-Jökul, in tenth century, and in 1753.
Skeidarár-Jökul, 1725, 1727, 1827.
Oræfa-Jökul, 1362, 1720, 1727, 1755.
Hnappafell’s-Jökul, 1332, 1772.
Heinaberg’s-Jökul, 1362.
Trolladynger, 1151, 1188, 1340, 1359, 1475, 1510.
Herdubreid, 1340, 1510, 1717.
Krabla, and Leirhnukr, 1725-1730.
Grimsvatn, 1716.
Eldborg, end of ninth or beginning of tenth century.
Submarine eruption, Breida fiord, 1345.
Submarine Reykjanes, 1211, 1226, 1238, 1240, 12—, 1340, 1422,
1583, 1783, 1831.”
Here are records of nineteen vents and seventy-seven
eruptions. “These have occurred in about ten centuries, or,
on an average, one in thirteen years. The most violent
paroxysms seem to have occurred in 1340, 1362, 1725-1730,
and 1754-1755. To complete this view of internal activity,
we may add, that the following years were distinguished by
violent earthquakes; 1181, 1182, 1211, 1260, 1261, 1294,
1300, 1311, 1313, 1339, 1370, 1390, 1391, 1552, 1554, 1578,
1597, 1614, 1633, 1657, 1661, 1706, 1755, 1784, 1789, 1808,
1815, 1825.”
-----
Footnote 18:
“Iceland, Greenland, and the Faröe Islands,” p. 37.
Footnote 19:
Since our visit, there has been another eruption of Kötlugjá in 1860,
the particulars of which have been collected by Lauder Lindsay, Esq.
M.D., F.L.S. &c., and published in the Edinburgh “Philosophical
Journal” for January. From his interesting and admirable scientific
paper, which treats the subject largely, we learn that this eruption,
like that of 1823, was “mild and innocuous.” It began on the 8th, and
continued to the 28th or 29th of May, and was preceded for several
days by earthquakes. On the morning of the eighth a dark cloud was
seen to rise from the mountain, which at the same moment sent forth an
enormous flood of water, with very large pieces of ice, running with
the water-stream into the sea. Some of the pieces of ice were so large
that they were stranded at a twenty fathom depth in the sea. On the
12th of May the flames could be seen from Reykjavik, although this
town is no less than about eighty English miles distant. During the
evenings flashes of lightning were seen in the same direction. On the
16th May, the smoke was about twenty-four thousand (?) feet high; it
was sometimes of a dark colour, but at other times it resembled steam.
At this time the fire was seen from several places at a distance of
about 80 English miles. The wind being northerly during the eruption,
the sand and ashes fell chiefly in Myrdals-sand, which was the
direction also taken by the water-floods. Sulphur was found floating
in the sea, and the fish disappeared from certain parts of the
neighbouring coasts. A large quantity of cinders was mixed with the
water-floods. Cinders and balls of fire, as well as smoke, were thrown
up; but the cinders and ashes, from being carried by the wind partly
into the sea and partly to the neighbouring snow-fields, did
comparatively little damage to the lowland farms; although the
well-known devastations of former eruptions, especially those of 1665
and 1755, gave rise to extreme alarm and the most serious
apprehensions among the poor inhabitants.
Footnote 20:
Longest interval.
Footnote 21:
Shortest interval.
Footnote 22:
Most important eruption.
Footnote 23:
‘In estimating the seriousness of such a loss, it is necessary to bear
in mind that the hay harvest is, so far as the vegetable kingdom is
concerned, the _only_ harvest in Iceland; and that hay is almost the
sole provender for horses, sheep, and cattle during three-fourths of
the year.’
Footnote 24:
Founding his statements on the manuscript of the Surgeon Sveinn
Pálsson, and on Horrebow’s Natural History of Iceland—p. 12: London
1758.
Footnote 25:
From the Greek επι and ζωον—a term applied to diseases among animals;
_e.g._ _murrain_, in which cattle are preyed upon by parasites.
Footnote 26:
‘The celebrated agitation of the waters of our own Loch Ness occurred
contemporaneously with the great earthquake of Lisbon, here also
referred to.’
Footnote 27:
Stukesley’s “Philosophy of Earthquakes,” 3d ed., London 1756, 8vo, pp.
9-30.
Footnote 28:
“Journal of a Tour in Iceland in the Summer of 1809,” 2d ed., 2 vols.,
London 1813, by Sir William Jackson Hooker, K.H., D.C.L., L.L.D., &c.,
the present distinguished Director of the Royal Botanic Garden at Kew.
Footnote 29:
See Dasent’s admirable translation of “Burnt Njal,” since published.
Footnote 30:
Mr. Brynjúlfsson had the following lines—intimating the hopelessness
of searching for the treasure concealed below—repeated to him, when
recently visiting the locality. They are thus literally rendered by
him into English.
“Thrasa kista audug er “Thrasi’s chest wealthy is
Under forsi Skoga Under foss of Skogar;
Hver sem thángad fyrsti fer Whosoever thither first goes
Fiflsku hefir nóga.” Foolishness has enough.”
Footnote 31:
There was a slight eruption of this mountain on March 23, 1861, which
only lasted a few days. The smoke and sulphurous gases which it
exhaled tarnished metal at 50 miles distance.
Footnote 32:
See illustration, p. 160.
Footnote 33:
See illustration p. 134, where Skaptár is represented as rising in the
distance, over a hill-range on the other side of a level plain, which
in the wood-cut resembles and might be mistaken for water.
Footnote 34:
This also happened during the eruption of Hekla in 1693.
Footnote 35:
“Greenland, Iceland, and Faröe,” pp. 38-42: chiefly abridged from
Stephenson’s “Account of the Eruption,” published at Copenhagen in
1785, which will be found translated in Hooker’s Journal, vol. ii.,
124-261. See also Henderson, vol. i., pp. 272-290; and Gliemann, pp.
107-109.
Footnote 36:
Second ed. published in 1841.
Footnote 37:
Should be Kötlugjá. A.J.S.
[Illustration: ENTRANCE TO REYDARFIORD.]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE EAST COAST. BREIDAMERKR—SEYDISFIORD.
Sailing north-east along the coast, we see the Breidamerkr ice-plains,
and the mouth of the river Jökulsá, which is only a mile or two long.
Dr. Mackinlay informs us that the most dangerous rivers in Iceland are
the shortest. They spring, full formed, from the bosom of the
thick-ribbed ice. The Jökulsá, which crosses Breidamerkr-sandr, is one
of the most dreaded of these. It springs from Breidamerkr-Jökul, which,
however, is not a snow-mountain, but only a high field of ice projected
southward into the plain from the great snow-range to the north. Some
years it is eight or ten miles from the sea, in others only one; the
length of the river varies accordingly. It is half a mile broad.
Sometimes this river gets dammed up, then bursts from caverns of ice
with a noise like thunder, carrying along with it masses of ice with
uncontrollable fury to the sea. Sunshine melting the ice swells such
rivers more rapidly than rain. The near view of this cold icy region—so
dreary, lone and still—made one almost feel cold, although the sun was
bright and the thermometer, at noon, stood at 100 degrees.[38] The
dazzling whiteness of the snow and the ice-blink, made our eyes ache. It
was literally
“A waste land where no one comes
Or hath come since the making of the world.”
[Illustration: NEAR THE ENTRANCE TO HORNAFIORD.]
As we approach Hornafiord the character of the mountains changes;
instead of great white massive ranges, many isolated, sharp-pointed,
rugged peaks, called horns, now rise. They are almost free from snow,
and of richly varied tints, chiefly lilacs and browns, glowing in the
sunshine.
The general character of the mountain-ranges at this point, and indeed
along the entrances to the fiords of the east coast, as far as
Seydisfiord, resembles Goatfell and the Holy Island in Arran—firth of
Clyde—only it is higher, wilder, even more serrated, and, in addition,
exhibits many curious fantastic pointed rocks or _drongs_. Fleecy clouds
often rested on the peaks, or rolled, incense-like, among them.
The western half of the island is diversified by a great network of
lakes, on whose lonely waters, Dr. Mackinlay remarked, “thousands of
milk white swans sport in the summer sunshine,” while the eastern half
is broken up by isolated volcanoes whose smouldering fires are capped
with snow.
The western coast is scooped out into two enormous gulfs, the Faxa and
Breida fiords; while that portion of the east coast, to which we have
referred, viz.: from Hornafiord to Seydisfiord, is all along closely
indented with little fiords or arms of the sea. These run inland for a
distance of from ten to eighteen miles, and average say about two miles
in breadth. They are separated from each other by lofty mountain ridges,
such as we have described, running far out into the sea, and ending in
sheer precipitous headlands or lofty horns. Let the reader lay his hand
flat down on this page with his fingers stretched apart, let him then
suppose each of the fingers to represent a mountain range, and the
interspaces fiords, and he will be able to form an idea of the way in
which the coast is indented. At Reydar and Berufiords, these ridges
appear to be about 2000 feet high, with many sheer precipices, half that
height, from which a stone could be pitched into the sea. It will thus
be seen, that the fiords are shut in on both sides by steep mountain
ridges like walls of rock, the summits of which are often veiled in dark
clouds, and in some places are covered with perpetual snow. These rocky
heights are as bare as if they had newly been splintered—not a tree or
shrub on their sides—and the lone stillness of the fiords is only broken
by the wild “water lapping on the crag,” the cataract roaring and
leaping down rock gulleys, or the streamlet trickling down the broad
stair-like ledges of the trap, dripping from step to step like a white
glassy fringe. These fiords appear to have been rents formed when the
island was first heaved up; and, where the arm of the sea terminates,
they are continued further into the interior as green valleys down which
rivers flow. In places where mountain-tracks are utterly impracticable,
these river-courses serve for bridle-paths in passing from one valley or
fiord to another.
The tender herbage affords delightful pasture for sheep; fish, chiefly
cod, are to be had in abundance in the fiords, and the streams abound in
trout. Vessels can sail up and find sheltered havens in which to lie,
thus affording water carriage for the exchange of commodities, and
bringing the advantages of the coast to the interior.
In the country one never meets anything approaching to a village. It is
a populous district where you see a farm in a valley, another group of
turf hovels, called a _thorpe_, a few miles further up, and perhaps, a
homestead of some kind perched on the green slope of a neighbouring
hill-side. Should there be, in addition to these, a black wood building
near the edge of the water, with a white flagstaff before it—it is a
merchant’s factory and gives to the place the importance of a
market-town.
It was now between 2 and 3 o’clock in the morning, but as the sky was
clear and lovely, and we were sailing along a coast, the striking
features of which, although singularly picturesque, we had never seen
described in books, I remained on deck most of the night, and only, from
a forced sense of duty, lay down for a short time without undressing.
These fiords on the east coast are very similar in character; most of
the features we have noted being common to them all. I shall therefore
simply enumerate, in their order, the names of those we passed between
Hornafiord and Seydisfiord, a distance of about 100 miles, for the first
75 of which the steamer’s course lay north-east, and for the remaining
25 nearly due north:—Skardsfiord, Papafiord, Lonfiord, Altafiord,
Hamarsfiord, Berufiord, Stödvarfiord, Faskrudsfiord, Reydarfiord,
Nordfiord, and Mjofifiord.
On Saturday morning, between 5 and 6 o’clock, we entered Seydisfiord,
sailed up to the head of it and dropped anchor, having now reached the
extreme point of our destination.
This lonely fiord on the north-east of Iceland, is land-locked like
Lochgoil or Teignabraich in Scotland. The valley at the head, with hills
on either side, makes a bend to the north, so that there are high hills
all round us. Those on the south—our left hand side—sweep round, forming
an amphitheatre, till they are apparently met by those of the
north-side; the fiord is thus shut in on the west, and the continuation
of the valley, beyond it, shut out.
The hill-sides are terraced with sixteen or eighteen trap-steps, which
run in regular horizontal layers and yet further complete the
resemblance of the head of the fiord to a great amphitheatre. From these
steps, water, glassy-white, may be seen trickling down, every little
way, all round; with here and there a mountain cataract which has made a
deep gully for itself. The hill-range on the left, which sweeps round
and bounds the view, is capped with a series of singular rocky cones,
occurring at regular intervals, and in shape resembling the chimneys of
a glass work. They are mottled with snow-patches; mist streaks float
athwart them; while in the west, not only those chimneys, but the top of
the ridge itself is now hid from view, muffled up in dense clouds which
form the curtain of the amphitheatre. A river flows into the fiord from
the valley, which, although green and yielding a hay-crop, is marshy and
much in want of draining. From the sloping nature of the ground, this
could easily be done at little expense, and would, we doubt not, prove a
highly remunerative investment.
[Illustration: MR. HENDERSON’S FACTORY AT SEYDISFIORD.]
Near the beach are three stores, or factories as they are called; two
belong to Danes, and the other to Mr. Henderson, one of the owners of
the _Arcturus_, who has been here for sometime but is going south with
us to-night. The factories are one-storey houses, built of wood. A
traffic in produce, chiefly fish and wool, is carried on with the
farmers, whose sod-covered dwellings are sparsely scattered along the
neighbouring coast, or in valleys above the fiords. Customers are
sometimes attracted from much greater distances; we saw long strings of
ponies riding down water-courses, and crossing the shoulders of bare
hills where one would think there was scarcely footing for a goat.
Before breakfast Dr. Mackinlay and I had a swim in the fiord, and found
the water much warmer than we anticipated; indeed, it was pleasanter in
this respect than the last bath I had in the sea at Teignabraich. We
then breakfasted with Mr. Henderson, who gave us a most cordial welcome.
The steamer was several days later in arriving than the time he had
expected her, so that he had almost begun to despair of her ever coming
for him, and was conjuring up gloomy visions of being obliged to winter
here, and fancying all sorts of things. Now, for him, all was changed
and bright. I tried to masticate a bit of raw dried stock-fish, which
the Icelanders commonly use, eating it as we do bread. I also tasted
“snaps,” of which the Danes are so fond, for the first and last time; it
seemed like a mixture of gin and kirchen-wasser, flavoured with
coriander seed. The breakfast before us was a most substantial one,
there being no lack either of welcome, which is the best of cheer, or of
mutton, fish, beer, coffee, milk, and stale black rye-bread. Be it
remembered that this breakfast was neither Icelandic, Danish, nor
Scotch; but, exhibiting some of the characteristics of all three, seemed
marvellously adapted to our present requirements in this distant
habitat.
We stepped into the store, and saw exposed for sale hardware and soft
goods of all kinds. In a corner were standing lots of quart-bottles
gaudily labelled “essence of punch,” whatever that may be. Mr. Henderson
showed me some specimens of double refracting calc, or Iceland spar,
which is obtained in the neighbourhood. It only occurs in one place of
the island, filling a fissure of greenstone from two to three feet wide
and twenty to twenty-five feet long, on the north bank of the
Reydarfiord, about a thousand feet above the sea level. There, a cascade
rushes over the rock, bringing down fragments of the spar from time to
time. The mass itself gets loosened, bit by bit, through the action of
frost on the moisture which enters edgeways between the laminae, wedging
them apart in the direction of the cleavage of the crystals. Transparent
specimens more than a few inches in size are rare and valuable. Mr.
Henderson presented me with a beautiful large semi-transparent
chalcedony weighing 1 lb 7 oz., and some pebbles.
His partner, Mr. Jacobson, an Icelander, also gave me a young raven to
make a pet of. It was this year’s bird and quite tame. I called it Odin;
and, having got hold of an old box, improvised a door from a few spars,
that it might have a sheltered place to roost in at night till it got to
the end of its voyage.
I now wandered up the valley, for an hour or two, alone, and sat down on
a slope, on the right side of it, to look around me and rest. The river,
near where I sit, flashes down over a steep rock and forms a fine
waterfall, the roaring of which is echoed from the chimney-capped
amphitheatre of hills opposite. Beneath the fall, it flows peacefully
along, runnelling and rippling on, to the blue fiord, through the quiet
green valley. White streamlets of water trickle down the trap
hill-sides, every forty or fifty yards; the whole producing a continuous
quiet murmur or undertone, not unlike that from the wings of an
innumerable swarm of gnats playing in the sunshine on a warm summer’s
day, but ever broken in upon by the clear liquid tinkle of the
streamlets nearest us, heard drip, dripping, with a clear metallic sound
which might be compared to the chirp of the grasshopper. This solitary
glen, now lying bathed in light, is fanned by the gentle breeze,
fragrant with the smell of tedded hay, and richly variegated with wild
flowers—harebells, butter-cups, wild thyme, cotton-grass, and
forget-me-nots—a gathered bunch of which is now lying beside me on a
moss-cushioned rock. Quietly musing here on all, of strange or new, I
have seen since leaving home, and dwelling more particularly on the
great kindness I have received at all hands, I feel grateful to God, who
has hitherto opened up a way for me and given me friends amongst
strangers wherever I chanced to wander.
We saw specimens of surturbrand, which crops out on the top of a steep
mountain, at the mouth of the fiord, on the north side, and obtained a
few more geological specimens and plants.
After dinner, I strolled for a quarter of a mile up the valley with Mr.
Henderson and Dr. Mackinlay, to visit the farm behind the store. It
consists of a group of hovels, the walls are stone and turf, the gables
wood, and the roofs covered with green sod. The entrance is a dark muddy
passage leading into a ground-floor apartment as dark and muddy, where,
in winter, cattle are kept. The kitchen is a dirty, smoky, sooty hole,
with fish hanging in it to smoke and dry; a pot of seal-blubber stands
steaming in a corner. The fire is raised on a few stones above the
floor, like a smithy-forge; while there is a hole in the roof for the
smoke. Picking our way through another long passage, dark and dirty, we
found a trap-ladder and ascended to a little garret, where I could only
walk erect in the very centre. The apartment was floored and fitted up
with bunks all round the sides and ends. In these box-beds, at least
seven people—men, women and children—sleep at night, and sometimes a few
more have to be accommodated. The little windows in the roof are not
made to open, and no regard whatever is paid to ventilation. Dr.
Mackinlay prescribed for an old man we found lying ill in this
abominable fetid atmosphere, where his chances of recovery were very
slight. He was an old farm servant about whom nobody seemed to care
anything.
[Illustration: FARM HOUSE, SEYDISFIORD.]
In a little apartment shut off from this one, and in the gable portion
of the building which in this case constitutes the front of the house,
an old woman at the window sits spinning with the ancient distaff,[39]
precisely as in the days of Homer.
To amuse the farmer’s daughters I showed them my sketches, with which
they seemed much interested.
[Illustration: SEYDISFIORD, LOOKING EAST TOWARDS THE SEA.]
I understood part of their remarks, and could in some degree make myself
understood by them, with the few Danish and Icelandic words I kept
picking up. On receiving a little money and a few knick-knacks, they,
all round, held out their hands and shook mine very heartily. This, the
Icelanders always do, on receiving a present of anything however
trifling.
After sketching the farm-house, I took two views of Mr. Henderson’s
store; one of them from a height behind, looking down towards the fiord,
and the other from the brink of it, looking up the valley. In the
latter, a part of the same farm-house appears, and thus indicates its
exact position.[40] With the assistance of these three sketches taken
together, the reader will be enabled to form some idea, of the
appearance presented by this arm of the North Sea.
SEYDISFIORD, BY FARÖE TO LEITH
We sailed from Seydisfiord at half-past six P.M. on Saturday night,
direct for the Faröe islands.
There is a singular cone-shaped mountain called Brimnæs Fjall at the
mouth of the fiord, showing masses of clay-rock alternating with and
pushing up trap, which is deposited in thin layers of perpendicular
structure. Several pillars or shafts are left standing singly on the
very summit, and present a very curious appearance, distinctly relieved
against the amber light of the sky. At Dr. Mackinlay’s request I made a
sketch of it.
[Illustration: BRIMNÆS FJALL.]
A vessel of Mr. Henderson’s, which had been given up as lost, now
unexpectedly came in sight, which necessitated Mr. Jacobson and a young
Iceland lad, who were _en route_ to Copenhagen, to get on board her and
return to Seydisfiord to look after her cargo, evidently much to their
disappointment.
The wild scenery of the coast, especially at Reydarfiord, was strikingly
picturesque.[41]
Mr. Murray, Professor Chadbourne, Mr. Henderson and I walked the deck
till a late or rather an early hour, and watched the fast receding
mountain-ranges of Iceland—pale lilac, mauve, or deep purple—and the
distant horns, shading through similar tints from rose to indigo, all
distinctly seen athwart the golden light of the horizon which for hours
has been ebbing slowly and softly away, but is now on the turn, and
about to flow again.
_Sabbath, August 7._ The weather is fine; no land or sail in sight all
day; whales playing about the ship. Had many pleasant deck-walks and
talks, and several quiet hours, sitting perched on the stem, reading, or
watching the prow, below, cutting and cleaving through the clear green
water like a knife.
_Monday morning, August 8._ We are sailing between two of the Faröe
islands, bright sunshine lighting up all the regularly terraced
trap-rocks, caves, and crevices of this singular group.
I have now got a pet to look after, and, without Shakspere’s authority
for it, we know that
“Young ravens must have food.”
The last thing I did last night was to shut _Odin_ in his box, and the
first thing this morning to let him out again and give him the freedom
of the ship. The bird knows me, is pleased when I scratch his head, and
confidingly runs hopping to me for protection when the boys about the
ship teaze him more than he likes. His fellow traveller, a young
Icelandic fox brought on board at Reykjavik to be sent to the Marquis of
Stafford, also runs about the ship during the day. At first we had some
misgivings on the subject; for
“Treason is but trusted like the fox—
Who ne’er so tame, so cherished, and locked up,
Will have a wild trick of his ancestors.”
However, these fears were soon dissipated; for _Odin_ can hold his own,
and when the fox, approaching furtively, uses any liberty with his tail
feathers, he suddenly gets a peck from the bird’s great formidable beak,
which he does not seem much to relish. The salutary fear continues for a
short time, is forgotten, and again the dab comes as a reminder. We were
often greatly amused, watching their individual habits and droll ways,
when the one intruded upon the other. It was half play, half earnest, a
sort of armed neutrality with a basis of mutual respect.
On the west coast of Stromoe is the roofless ruin of the church of
Kirkuboe. It was begun in the twelfth century, but never finished. It is
built of stone, has five large windows and several small ones below; a
little farm house or hut, with red tiles on the roof, stands near it.
What a strange lonely place for a church! Thorshavn lies on the
other—the east—side of the island. It is only five miles distant as the
crow flies, but as we have to sail round the south point, and Stromoe is
twenty-seven miles long, we do not reach it till near noon.
On landing, Mr. Haycock accompanied me to call for Miss Löbner, who has
been poorly ever since her sea voyage. Her mother presented wine, cake,
coffee &c., and was most hospitable. None of us being able to speak
Faröese, at first we felt a little awkward; but a brother of the old
lady’s who speaks English soon came to the rescue and acted as
interpreter. With justifiable pride, they again showed us their flower
and kitchen garden. I got the whale-knives, caps, shoes, gloves &c.,
which had been made or procured for me during my absence in Iceland. Ere
leaving, Miss Löbner appeared to say adieu! and insisted on my accepting
several other specimens of Faröese workmanship as remembrances of
Thorshavn. No people could have been kinder.
Again, wandering about, we explored the town, looked at the church,
stepped into the stores, passed the governor’s garden, and wandered a
mile or two in that direction in order to obtain a view, and get quit of
the fishy smells which superabound in Thorshavn.
On our return we called for Mr. Müller, who presented me with a copy of
the gospel of St. Matthew in Danish and Faröese, arranged in parallel
columns. I understood him to say that this was the only book ever
printed in the Faröese dialect, and that it is now out of print and very
rare. It bears the date of 1823.
Here we saw an old man 76 years of age, an Icelander who has been in
Faröe for the last 40 years. He had spent several years in England, and
told me that, in 1815, he saw our regiments land at Liverpool after the
battle of Waterloo. He speaks English fluently.
A Thames fishing smack, and a sloop from Lerwick, are lying in the bay.
Piping and dancing goes merrily on, on board the latter, relieved by
intervals of music alone. In one of these, we heard “The Yellow Hair’d
Laddie,” rendered with considerable taste, although, doubtless, several
“improvements and additions” were made on the original score.
We took some Faröese boatmen into the saloon of the steamer, and I shall
not soon forget the look of wonder and utter astonishment pourtrayed on
their countenances, as they gazed on the mirrors and everything around,
or were shown things with which they were not familiar and heard their
uses explained. They were greatly pleased with my life-belt. Dr.
Mackinlay showed them a multiplying-glass, and, as it was handed from
one to another—each man first making the discovery of what had so
inexplicably excited the wonder of the last looker—the queer
exclamations of amazement accompanied by inimitable pantomimic gestures
reached their culminating point, and were irresistibly droll.
[Illustration: NAALSÖE—FARÖE.]
The weather is all we could desire. The sailors are singing some curious
Danish songs, with the time well marked, as they heave the anchor; and
at 20 minutes past 6 o’clock P.M. we are steaming out of the bay. The
evening is lovely, and the Thermometer, on the deck, stands at 68°.
Thorshavn soon disappears, and we leave the Faröe islands astern,
relieved against an amber sky, Dimon being the most striking and
conspicuous of the group. A few stars shone overhead, and I walked the
deck till midnight.
[Illustration: ENTRANCE TO THE SOUND LEADING TO THORSHAVN.]
_Tuesday, August 9._ At breakfast, tasted a whale-steak which Miss
Löbner had yesterday sent on board for me, with particular instructions
to the stewardess to have it properly cooked. The flesh looked and
tasted like dry tough beef, with a slight flavour of venison. The
blubber, however was too strong for any of us to do more than merely
satisfy—not gratify—our curiosity.
The day was lovely. Professor Chadbourne invited me to visit and spend a
month with him during his holiday. Indeed, cordial, pressing
invitations, all round, were the order of the day. As fellow-travellers
we had been happy together, and felt sorry at the near prospect of our
little party being broken up and scattered; for several valued
friendships had been formed.
Between three and four o’clock in the afternoon, the thermometer
indicated 98° in the sun and 75° in the shade. Dr. Mackinlay showed me
an old Danish dollar he had got, in change, at Reykjavik; it bore the
date of A.D. 1619, the year of the landing of the Pilgrim Fathers from
the _May Flower_. Part of the day was spent in writing out these pages
from my diary. In the evening we saw, far to our left, faint and dim on
the horizon line, the north-west islands of Shetland; and by a quarter
to 8 o’clock P.M. were sailing twenty miles to the west of Fair Isle,
which lies between Orkney and Shetland. Both groups are in sight. We
have not seen a sail since we left Faröe, and now, what we at first
fancied to be one, off the north end of the Orkneys, turns out to be a
light-house, rising apparently from the sea, but in reality from low
lying land which is yet below the horizon.
The sunset to-night is gorgeous; cavernous recesses opening through a
dense purple cloud-bank into glowing regions of fire; while broad
flashing gleams ray out on every side athwart the sky, as if from
furnace-mouths. Then we have moonlight on a sea smooth as glass, and not
even a ripple to be seen. The Orkney light-house, now gleaming like a
setting star, is left far astern. The phosphoresence along the vessel’s
side and in her wake is most brilliant; while, seething, electric-like,
from the screw, it rivals the “churned fire-froth” of the demon steed.
The moon, half-hid, is at times deep crimson and again bright yellow.
Many falling stars are shooting “madly from their spheres;” not that our
music lured them, although, “on such a night” of nights, when all is
harmonious, we cannot but sing. Mr. Murray gives us “Home, sweet home”
and “The last rose of summer,” and ere retiring at midnight, all of us
join together in singing the “Spanish Chant.”
_Wednesday morning, August 10._ We are off Inverness; wind a-head and
rising. Professor Chadbourne to-day gave me an oak-leaf which he plucked
from the tree, at Upsala, planted by Linnæus with his own hands. Wrote
as long as the heaving of the ship would admit of it, then arranged
botanical specimens and read Wordsworth. The wind is blowing so fresh,
off Peterhead, that, with full steam, we are not making above one and a
half knots; and at times can scarcely keep any way on. Passed the
Bell-Rock; the sea still rising. Went to bed at 11 o’clock P.M.; vessel
pitching a good deal.
_Thursday morning, August 11._ Rose at four o’clock and was on deck ere
the _Arcturus_ dropt anchor in Leith Roads. But as we cannot get our
traps on shore till the custom-house officer comes at nine o’clock to
overhaul them, we remain and breakfast on board. The examination made,
at half-past ten o’clock A.M., we landed by a tug steamer, and made for
our respective railway stations, each, on parting, bidding the other “a
bright adieu!” in the hope that it might only be for “a brief absence!”
“Odin” was in good feather: his owner sun-bronzed and strong.
At length, comfortably ensconsed in the fast express, I lay back in the
corner of a compartment, closed my eyes and resigned myself to see
pleasant pictures and dream waking dreams—of snow jökuls, volcanoes,
glaciers, and ice-fields; of geysers, mud-cauldrons, and sulphur-pits;
of lava plains, black, wierd and blasted, or dreary wastes of ice; of
deep rapid rivers, flashing waterfalls, leaping torrents; of frightful
chasms, rugged cliffs, and precipitous mountains mirrored in deep blue
fiords; of pathless stony deserts, enlivened at times with oasis-like
spots of tender green herbage and bright coloured flowers; of wild
break-neck rides, over bare rocks, among slabs and lava-blocks of all
shapes and sizes and lying in every conceivable direction; through
volcanic sands and scoriæ; by red and black vetrified craters, or across
dangerous fords; of multifarious scamperings too, and mud-plashings over
hill and dale; or wild rides down rocky steeps, not on a phantom steed,
but on a sure-footed Iceland pony; of pleasant companionship by the way;
of cordial welcome and great kindness received, in quiet homesteads, and
at all hands from the people, wherever we went; then again of Frost
contending with Fire, and of all the varied and marvellous phenomena of
Iceland, that singularly interesting island in the lone North Sea.
[Illustration: STROMOE—FARÖE.]
-----
Footnote 38:
At night it sunk to 50°.
Footnote 39:
See illustration D at p. 53.
Footnote 40:
Compare illustrations pp. 202, 206, and 207.
Footnote 41:
See illustration p. 197.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
APPENDIX.
I.
ICELANDIC STORIES AND FAIRY TALES
TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH BY THE REV. OLAF PÁLSSON, DEAN AND
RECTOR OF REYKJAVIK CATHEDRAL. REVISED AND EDITED BY DAVID
MACKINLAY AND ANDREW JAMES SYMINGTON.
--------------
STORIES OF SÆMUNDUR FRODI, CALLED THE LEARNED.[42]
I. THE DARK SCHOOL.
Long, long ago, when Trolls and Giants lived among men, there was a
famous school where curious youths were taught the mysteries of
witchcraft. France and Germany both claim the honour of it, but no one
knows where it really was.
It was kept in a dismal cavern, deep underground, into which no ray of
sunlight ever entered. Here, the scholars had to stay no less than seven
winters; for it took them all that time to complete their studies. They
never saw their teacher from one year’s end to another. Every morning a
grey grizzly hand, all covered with hair, pushed itself through the
cavern wall and gave to each one his lesson book. These books were
written all over with letters of fire, and could be read with ease, even
in the dark. The lessons over, the same grizzly hand again appeared to
take away the books and bring in the scholars’ dinner.
At the close of winter, the scholars who had then got through their
seven years apprenticeship were dismissed. The great iron door was
opened, and the master stood watching those who went out; for he had
stipulated that the scholar who walked hindmost, in passing through, was
to be seized by him and kept as a thrall. But who was this strange
school-master? Why, Old Nick himself. No wonder, then, that each of the
scholars struggled hard to be first in passing the fatal threshold.
Once on a time, there were three Icelanders at the dark school; Sæmund
Frodi, afterwards parish priest at Oddi, Kalfur Arnason, and Halfdan
Eldjarnsson, afterwards parish priest at Fell, in Slettuhlid. They were
all dismissed at the same time. Sæmund, to the great delight of his
companions, offered to walk hindmost in going out of school, so he
dressed himself in a long loose cloak, which he took care to leave
unbuttoned, and bidding good bye to school-fellows left behind, prepared
to follow his countrymen. Just as he was putting his feet on the first
step of the stair which led up from the school door, Old Nick, who was
watching hard by, made a clutch at the cloak and called out,
“Sæmund Frodi, pass not the door,
Thou art my thrall for evermore.”
And now the great iron door began to turn on its hinges; but, before Old
Nick had time to slam it too, Sæmund slipt his arms out of the sleeves
of his cloak, and sprung forward out of the grasp of his enemy.
In doing so, the door struck him a heavy blow on the heel, which gave
him a good deal of pain, when he said,
“The door hath swung too near the heel,
But better sore foot than serve the Deil.”
And so Sæmund outwitted Old Nick, and got away from the dark school
along with his two friends. Since then, it has become a common saying in
Iceland, when a person has had a narrow escape from danger, that “the
door swung too near his heels.”[43]
II. SÆMUND GETS THE LIVING OF ODDI.
At the time Sæmund, Kalfur, and Halfdan came out of the dark school,
there was no priest at Oddi, for the old priest had just died. All three
of them would fain have the living, and so each went to the king to ask
it for himself. The king knew his men; and so he sent them all away with
the same answer, that whoever reached Oddi first, should be made priest
of that place.
Thereupon Sæmund summoned Old Nick and said to him, “Now, I’ll make a
bargain with you, if you swim with me on your back across to Iceland,
and land me there without wetting my coat-tail, I’ll be your servant as
long as I live.” Old Nick was highly pleased with the offer and agreed
at once. So, in less than no time, he changed himself into a seal, and
left Norway with Sæmund on his back.
Sæmund took care to have his prayer book with him, and read bits out of
it every now and then while on the way. As soon as they got close to the
shores of Iceland, which they did in less time than you would think, he
closed the book and suddenly struck the seal such a heavy blow on the
neck with it that the animal went down all at once into deep water.
Sæmund, now left to himself, struck out for the shore and got easily to
land. In this way Old Nick lost his bargain, and Sæmund got the living
of Oddi.
III. THE GOBLIN AND THE COWHERD.
When Sæmund was priest of Oddi, he once had a cowherd—a good servant
withal, but greatly addicted to swearing. Sæmund often reproved him for
this, but all his reproofs were of no avail. At last he told him, he
really ought to leave off his bad habits, for Old Nick and his servants
lived upon people’s curses and wicked words. “Say you so?” said the
cowherd, “if I knew for certain that Old Nick would lose his meals by
it, I would never say a bad word more.” So he made up his mind to mend
his ways.
“I’ll soon see whether you are in earnest or not,” said Sæmund, and so,
he forthwith lodged a goblin in the cowhouse. The cowherd did not like
his guest, and no wonder: for he was up to every kind of mischief, and
almost worried the life out of him with his wicked pranks. The poor
cowherd bore up bravely for a time, and never let slip an oath or angry
word. The goblin got leaner day by day, to the intense delight of the
cowherd, who hoped, bye and bye, to see an end of him.
One morning, on opening the byre door, the poor cowherd found every
thing turned topsy-turvy. The milk pails and stools were broken in
pieces and scattered about the floor; and the whole of the cows—and
there were many of them—tied tail to tail, were straggling about without
halters, and goring each other. It needed but half an eye to see who had
done the mischief. So the cowherd in a rage turned round to the goblin
who, shrunk and haggard, lay crouched up in a corner of a stall, the
very picture of wretchedness, and poured forth such a volley of furious
curses as would have overwhelmed any human being in the same plight. The
goblin all at once began to revive; his skin no longer shrivelled looked
smooth and plump; his eye brightened up, and the stream of life again
flowed joyously through his veins.
“O, oh!” said the cowherd, as he suddenly checked himself, when he saw
the wonderful effect his swearing had on the goblin, “Now I know for
certain that Sæmund was right.” And from that day forward he was never
known to utter an oath. As for the goblin, he soon pined away again and
has long since been beyond troubling anybody. May you and I, and all who
hear this story, strive to follow the good example of Sæmund’s cowherd!
IV. OLD NICK MADE HIMSELF AS LITTLE AS HE WAS ABLE.
Sæmund one day asked Old Nick how little he could make himself. “Why,”
replied he, “as for that I could make myself as small as the smallest
midge.” Thereupon Sæmund bored a tiny hole in the door post, and asked
him to make good his boast by walking into it. This he at once did; but
no sooner was he in, than Sæmund stopped the hole with a little plug of
wood, and made all fast.
Old Nick cursed his folly, cried, and begged for mercy; but Sæmund would
not take out the stopper till he promised to become his servant and do
all that he was told. This was the reason why Sæmund always had it in
his power to employ Old Nick in whatever business he liked.
V. THE FLY.
As might be expected, Old Nick always harboured a great ill will against
Sæmund: for he could not help feeling how much he was in Sæmund’s power.
He therefore tried to revenge himself on various occasions; but all his
tricks failed, for Sæmund was too sharp for him.
Once, he put on the shape of a little fly, and hid himself—so he
thought, at least—under the film that had gathered on the priest’s milk
jug, hoping that Sæmund would swallow him unawares, and so lose his
life. But Sæmund had all his eyes about him; so instead of swallowing
the fly he wrapped it up in the film, covered the whole with a bladder,
and laid the package on the altar. There, the fly was obliged to remain
till after the service, when Sæmund opened the package and gave Old Nick
his liberty. It is told, as a truth, that old Nick never found himself
in a worse case than when lying on the altar before Sæmund.
VI. THE GOBLIN’S WHISTLE.
Sæmund had a whistle of such wonderful power, that, as often as he blew
it, one or more goblins appeared before him, ready to do his
bidding.[44] One day, on getting up, he happened to leave the whistle
under his pillow, and forgot all about it till the afternoon when the
housemaid was going to make his bed. He charged her, if she found
anything unusual about the bed, she was on no account to touch it, or
move it from its place. But he might have saved himself the trouble of
speaking; for, as soon as the girl saw the whistle, she took it up in
her hand, and looked at it on every side. Not satisfied with much
handling it, she put it to her mouth and blew it lustily. The sound of
the blast had not died away before a goblin stood before her, saying,
“what will you have me to do?” The girl was not a little startled, but
had the presence of mind to conceal her surprise.
It so happened that the hides of ten sheep, that had been killed that
day, were lying on the ground in front of the parsonage. Recollecting
this, the girl replied to the goblin, “Go and count all the hairs that
are on the ten hides outside, and, if you finish your task before I get
this bed made, I’ll consent to marry you.” The goblin thought that a
task worth undertaking for such a prize; and hurrying out, fell to
counting the hairs with all his might. The girl who did not like the
idea of being the wife of a goblin, lost no time, you may be sure, in
getting through with her work; and it was well she bestirred herself;
for, by the time the bed was made, the goblin had almost finished his
task. Only a few hairs of the last hide remained uncounted, but they
were enough to make him lose his bargain. When Sæmund afterwards learned
how prudently the girl had got out of her scrape, he was very well
pleased.
ICELANDIC FAIRY TALES.
BIARNI SVEINSSON AND HIS SISTER SALVÖR.[45]
Once on a time, a worthy couple, Sveinn and his wife, occupied a farm,
on the shores of the beautiful Skagafiord, in the north country. They
were in easy circumstances and were blessed with two fine children, a
son and daughter, who were the joy of their hearts. Biarni and his
sister Salvör—for these were the names of their children—were twins and
greatly attached to each other.
In the spring of the year,[46] about St. John’s day, when these two had
reached the age of twenty, the people of Skagafiord were arranging a
party to make a journey to the mountains of the interior, to gather
Iceland-moss for making porridge. Sveinn promised to let his son go with
the party. As soon as Salvör knew that, she felt a great desire to go
too; and so she went to her parents to ask their consent. This was not
so easily got, as they did not wish to part with both their children at
once; and besides, they knew she was ill fitted to bear the hardships
and fatigues of mountain travelling. But she fretted so much at the
thought of being left behind, that, at last, they consented to let her
go.
The night before the moss-gatherers were to leave, Sveinn the farmer
dreamed that he had two beautiful white birds, of which he was very
fond, and that all at once, to his great grief, the hen-bird disappeared
and could nowhere be found. On awaking in the morning, he could not help
thinking that his dream betokened no good to his darling Salvör, so he
called her to him, and after telling her his dream, he said to her,
“Salvör dear! I cannot bear to part with you, you must stay at home with
your mother and me, for I would never forgive myself if any ill befel
you by the way.” Salvör who had been in great glee at the prospect of
riding, day after day, up the romantic valleys to the south of
Skagafiord, and there tenting out amidst the mountains, was neither to
hold nor to bind, when she found that, after all, she would have to stay
at home; she wept with vexation and distressed herself so much that her
father could not bear it, and again gave an unwilling consent to let her
go. So she accompanied her brother and the rest of the party to the
mountains.
The first day after getting there, she gathered Iceland-moss with the
others, but during the night she fell suddenly ill and was unable to
leave her tent on the following day. Biarni stayed with her, and did all
that a brother could do to help and comfort her. For three whole days he
was her companion, but, on the fourth day, he left her for a time in
charge of a friend, while he himself joined the moss-gatherers. After
partly filling his bag, he sat himself down by a large stone, and,
resting his head on his hand, brooded over his sister’s unhappy fate; he
feared she was going to die among the mountains.
By and by he heard a great tramping of horses, and, on looking about, he
saw two men riding towards him at a quick pace. One of them wore red
coloured clothes, and had a red horse; the other who was younger, was
dressed in black, and was mounted on a black horse. On reaching the
place where Biarni was sitting, they dismounted and saluted him by name.
“What ails you Biarni,” said the elder of the two strangers. For a time
Biarni answered not a word, but on being pressed to do so, he opened up
his heart to them and told all about his sister’s illness.
“My companions are going to return home, but I must stay to watch over
Salvör; and who knows how soon she may die in my arms.”
“You are in a hard case Biarni,” said the other, “and I am sorry for
you, but won’t you leave your sister with me, and I will take good care
of her.”
“No, no,” said Biarni, “that I dare not do, for I know neither who you
are, nor where you come from. But will you tell me where your home is?”
“That’s no business of yours,” said the other, rather gruffly, and then,
taking from his pocket a silver-gilt box set with precious stones,
added, “Won’t you sell me your sister for this box.”
“No,” said Biarni, “nor for a thousand like it. I would not give her to
you for any money.”
“Well! well! there is no help for it, you will at all events accept this
box, as a token that you have met with men among the mountains.”
Biarni took the offered gift with pleasure, and thanked the giver. The
two men then bade him farewell and rode away, while he returned to the
tent. Next morning his companions went away home, leaving him alone with
his sister. Though she was now a little better, he dared not sleep, for
he was afraid lest the strangers should come and steal her away. But,
after watching a whole day and night, he felt overcome with fatigue; so
he lay down, and folding his arms round her waist to protect her, fell
into a sound sleep. But, when he awoke, his sister was gone, and was
nowhere to be found. He spent a whole day sorrowfully wandering from
spot to spot, looking and calling for her, but it was all in vain. He
then turned his back on the mountains, and with a heavy heart went home,
and told his parents what had happened.
“Woe is me,” said Sveinn, “what I feared most has come to pass, but
God’s will be done!”
There was great grief in Skagafiord when the news spread from farm to
farm; for Salvör, with all her way-wardness, was a promising girl, and
was every body’s favourite. A party of young men returned to the
mountains to look for her, but nowhere was the least trace of her to be
found.
And now ten years had passed away. By this time Biarni was married and
settled on a farm, not far from his father’s. During autumn all his
sheep went amissing, and his shepherd could not discover what had become
of them though he searched diligently for them three whole days. On
learning this, Biarni bid his wife provide him with a week’s supply of
food, and an extra pair of shoes; “for,” said he, “I shall go to the
mountains myself to look for the sheep.” His parents, who were still
alive, urged him to stay at home; for they feared that, if he went to
the mountains, they might never see his face again.
“I must go,” said he to them, “I cannot afford to lose the sheep. But be
of good heart, and do not begin to weary for me till the week is over.”
He then went away on foot, and did not leave off walking for three days.
At the end of that time he came to a cavern, where he turned in and lay
down to sleep. On waking, he could not see a yard before him; for a
thick fog which rested on the ground. He continued his journey, but soon
lost his way. Towards evening the fog cleared off, and he found himself
in a spacious valley, not far from a large well built farm house. It was
the hay season, so that all the people of the farm were busy in the
meadow. On getting near the house, he noticed, in particular, two women
and a girl who were tedding the hay. “God’s peace be with you,” said he,
on reaching the spot; and then, telling them of his mishaps, he asked
permission to stay all night under their roof. They gave him a hearty
welcome, and the girl went with him to the house. She was of more
genteel appearance than the rest—young and handsome—and, as Biarni
thought, bore some resemblance to his long lost but well remembered
sister. This unexpected circumstance renewed his old griefs, but he did
what he could to seem cheerful before his young hostess. She led him
through several apartments to a large well furnished room, where
everything was neat and tidy. Here, she drew in a chair, and kindly
asked him to sit down and rest, while she brought in supper. He had not
long to wait; for she soon placed upon the table a plentiful supply of
meat and wine.
After supper, she showed him to the little room where he was to sleep
for the night; she then took away his wet clothes, wished him a kind
good night, and left the room.
As Biarni lay in bed, he fell a-wondering where he was, and how the
sight of the girl should have so waked up the sad memories of the past.
He fell asleep thinking of these things, but was soon awakened by the
sound of singing in a room over his head. It was the family at evening
worship, as is the custom of the country. He heard both men and women
singing, but one voice sounded clear above all others, and thrilled to
his very heart, so strongly did it remind him of his sister Salvör.
Thoughts of the past filled his mind and kept him awake for hours, but
he fell asleep again, and slept on, till he was roused up in the morning
by the girl. She brought with her a suit of fine clothes, and bade him
put them on.
“To-day is Sunday,” she added, “and you must stay here till to-morrow.”
She then left the room.
While Biarni was putting on his clothes, a little boy in a green coat,
and very nicely dressed, came into the room and wished him good morning.
“What has brought you here, so far away from home?” said the little
fellow to him.
“I have come to look for some sheep that I have lost.”
“Well, I have not seen them in this valley. But I hope you won’t go to
look for them to-day. Father is going to hear service in the church, and
you must be there too.”
Before Biarni had time to reply, some one called the boy away, saying,
“Sveinn, come here, and don’t plague the stranger with your nonsense.”
At breakfast, Biarni was waited on by the girl who had treated him so
well the evening before.
Towards mid-day, people began to come from far and near, to join in the
public service in the church close by. The boy came for Biarni, and led
him by the hand into the church and showed him to a seat. On looking
about, what was his surprise to see by his side the man in the red
clothes whom he had seen, ten years before, among the mountains! But,
his surprise was greater still, on discovering that the clergyman who
conducted the service, was no other than the man in the black dress who
had travelled with the other. The church was full of people. Most of the
men were tall and strongly built, but had something forbidding about
their looks. Some wore brown knitted garments of undyed wool. Biarni
said nothing to his neighbour, but took out the gilt box and offered him
a pinch of snuff. This he took, but without seeming to recognize Biarni.
By and by, Biarni saw, seated just in front of the pulpit, a comely well
dressed woman who seemed the very picture of his sister. When their eyes
met, she was overcome with emotion and began to smile and weep by turns.
Biarni now felt confident that it was indeed his beloved sister Salvör
whom he now saw before him.
The service decently performed to the end and the blessing pronounced,
the boy again took Biarni by the hand and led him out. In passing the
church door, an old ill looking man, who sat there, tripped Biarni up
and made him fall. On this, the man in the red clothes came forward and
chastised the offender, while Biarni went with the boy into the farm
house. The two men whom Biarni had met among the mountains, shortly
after came in and saluted him.
“Do you know us, Biarni!” said they to him kindly.
“Yes,” replied he. But not another word could he utter for emotion.
A moment after, the woman, he had seen in the church and taken for his
sister, entered the room. She flew into his arms and pressed him to her
bosom saying,
“Before we were born we lay in each other’s arms, I was taken weeping
from thy embrace, and now I return laughing to thy arms, my brother.”
It was a joyful meeting.
When Biarni recovered himself, he told his sister about his parents, and
also all that had happened in Skagafiord since her departure. The man in
red clothes then addressed himself to Biarni, and said,
“Whilst thou wert asleep among the mountains, I took thy sister away
from thee and gave her in marriage to this man in the black dress, who
is my son. He is the clergyman of the valley and I am the sysselman. It
was I that took away the sheep and led thee astray to this place, that
brother and sister might meet again. To-night thou must stay here with
thy sister. To-morrow I shall give thee back thy lost sheep and go with
thee part of the way to Skagafiord.”
Biarni spent a happy evening with Salvör. In the morning he took leave
of her with many tears, and departed under the guidance of her husband
and of her father-in-law, who gave him back his sheep, and helped him to
drive them. On reaching the inhabited part of the country, his new
friends parted with him and bade him an affectionate farewell; but not
before they had made him promise to leave Skagafiord and live with them.
“You must come and settle in the valley beside us,” said they to him,
“we shall return next summer and lead you and your friends to your
sister’s home.”
On getting to Skagafiord, Biarni told his wife and mother all that had
happened to him, when away, and also the promise he had made to remove
to the mountains; but charged them to say nothing to the neighbours
about it. His parents were rejoiced to learn that Salvör was still
alive, and promised to go with him and his wife.
In June of the next year, three men, from the mountains, rode up one
night to Biarni’s house. The night following, Biarni, and his parents,
and all his household went away with them and in due time reached the
valley where Salvör lived. How it rejoiced Sveinn and his wife to see
again their long lost daughter! They settled in the valley and died
there, at a good old age.
Biarni lived there too, for many years, but he could never forget the
beautiful Skagafiord; so when age came upon him, he returned to his old
home, and spent his latter years among the friends of his youth.
UNA THE FAIRY.
Many many years ago, a strapping young fellow, called Geir, was settled
in the farm of Randafell, on the south slope of the Eyafialla mountains,
near the sea-coast. Every thing prospered with him; for he was active
and industrious, and scorned to eat the bread of idleness. His wife was
as industrious as himself, but unfortunately, she took ill and died,
shortly after their marriage. At the hay-making season, which came on
soon after, he missed his wife greatly; for the maid servants were too
few to look after the house and make the hay.
One day, when they had a good deal more work before them than they were
able to get through, a strange woman made her appearance in the hay
field, and, without so much as saying, “by your leave,” began at once to
handle the rake; and cleverly she handled it, too, for she got through
more work than any two of them. She was young and handsome, but silent
as the grave. Not a word could Geir, or any one else, get out of her the
live long day. At night she disappeared, no one knew where; but, when
morning came, there was she, first in the field, ready to take her place
among the women.
Things went on in this way till the end of the harvest, when Geir went
up to her, and thanked her kindly for the help she had given them.
She took what he said in good part, and no longer refused to talk with
him. They had a long chat together, but Geir was not made a bit the
wiser, as to where she lived, or whose daughter she was. She told him,
however, that her name was Una.
“Una,” said he to her at last, “I am greatly in want of a housekeeper; I
don’t know any body so likely to suit as you; will you take the
situation?”
“I have no objection to do so,” she replied, “when do you want me?”
“The sooner the better.”
“Well, I shall come with my luggage to-morrow, and take up my abode with
you.” She then disappeared.
Next morning, she walked into the farm house, and set down a large
chest, full of clothes, which she had brought with her. This she put out
of the way in the closet, and then began to bustle about the house,
looking after household duties.
And now things began to prosper again with the Randafell farmer. Una was
a capital manager, and soon became famous all over the country side for
her good butter, and her well ordered house. Geir was delighted with his
housekeeper; but one thing distressed him—he could not persuade her to
go to church.
When Christmas Eve came round, Geir and all the servants went to church,
to the vesper service. Geir was anxious that Una should go too. But no!
she would not budge, excusing herself by saying, that she was needed at
home to look after the house. It was morning before the church goers got
back, for the church was a good three hours’ ride from Randafell. On
returning they found Una busy preparing the Christmas feast. The
ordinary work of the house was done, so that they had nothing to do but
to take a few hours rest, before sitting down to enjoy themselves.
By the time the third winter came round, Geir began to think of taking a
wife, and who so likely to suit him as Una! And so thought all the
neighbours too. Many a talk they had about her, when gathered together
in the churchyard, on the Sundays, waiting the arrival of the clergyman.
After discussing her good qualities, “Isn’t it strange,” the one would
say to the other, “that we can’t find out who Una is, or where she comes
from?”
“Aye! that is true,” another would say, “but isn’t it stranger still,
that all the time she has been at Randafell, she has never once entered
the church door?”
Geir was very fond of her, but could not make up his mind to ask her to
marry him, so long as she refused to bend her knee in prayer to God.
On the third Christmas Eve, Geir set out, with all his household, to the
midnight service in the church. Una as usual remained at home. When they
were on the road, Geir’s serving man suddenly complained of severe pain.
He lay down on the spot, and said he would rest there till he got
better; so Geir and the others went on without him.
As soon as they were out of sight, the man got up to his feet, mounted
his horse and rode back again to the farm. His sickness was only
feigned, in order to get the chance of finding out what could tempt Una
always to stay at home, at a time when every true hearted Icelander made
a point of joining his neighbours, in the house of God, to commemorate
the anniversary of that blessed night when Christ was born in Bethlehem.
On reaching the farm, he unsaddled the horse, and slipped quietly in,
taking care to hide in a dark corner where he could see all that was
going on, without being himself seen. Una was busy sweeping and cleaning
the house; and so cleverly did she go about her work that everything was
put to rights in a very short time. After washing herself, she went to
the store-closet and put on a dress which the man had never seen till
now, and which was more befitting a king’s daughter than a poor farmer’s
housekeeper. Never before had Una looked so handsome and beautiful.
She now took out of her chest a piece of red cloth, which she put under
her arm. Shutting her chest and the closet door, she left the house and
ran down the meadow, till she came to a pool of water. Here she spread
out the red cloth, and placed herself upon it. At this instant the man,
who had been breathlessly following her, came up, and unseen by her just
succeeded in getting his foot on a corner of the cloth. And now they
sunk down and down into the earth, with a feeling as if they were going
through smoke. By and by they landed on a green plain, not far from a
splendid farm house. Una took up the cloth, put it under her arm, and
went up to the house. The man walked softly behind, taking care to keep
out of her sight. A great many people came out of doors to welcome Una,
who seemed rejoiced to see them, and saluted them kindly.
Great preparations were going on inside for a feast. The guest chamber
was swept and garnished, and the table laid. As soon as the people took
their places several dishes were brought, and abundance of good wine.
The serving man, who had slipped in with the others unknown to Una, took
his place among the guests. Among other things he was presented with a
fine rib of smoked mutton, which he took and preserved, for he had never
seen so fat a rib before. After supper the people amused themselves with
games of different kinds, and were all very happy.
Just as day began to break, Una told her friends, she would have to go
away, as her master, the peasant, would soon be back from church. So she
took a kind leave of every one, and walked to the spot where she had
alighted, on coming down.
The man followed her, and again succeeded in getting his foot on the
cloth, without being seen. So they ascended together through the dark
earth, till they came to the pool of water again. Una took up the cloth,
and went straight to the store-room to change her dress. After that she
went into the house, to await the return of the peasant, and make ready
the Christmas feast.
The serving man had, meantime, taken up his place at the spot where he
had been left behind the night before. When the farmer came up he asked
him how he was.
“I am almost well again,” said the man, “and quite able to go home with
you.”
So they all rode together to Randafell.
Una received them with a smiling face, and told them that the feast was
quite ready. So they were not long in taking their places. As is usual
on such occasions, the principal dish was smoked mutton. As this
happened to be very fine, the farmer took up a large rib, and holding it
up said,
“Have any of you ever seen such a rib as this?”
“I think I have; what think you of that,” said the serving man, as he
held up before them the rib he had got the night before.
As soon as Una saw this, she changed colour, went out without saying a
single word, and was never afterwards seen.
GILITRUTT.
Once on a time, a smart active young peasant occupied a farm under the
Eyafialla mountains. As his pasture land was good, he kept many sheep.
These yielded him no small store of wool, and yet, it was no easy matter
for him to keep a coat on his back; for the wife whom he had lately
married, though young and healthy, was lazy to a degree, and gave
herself little concern about the affairs of the house. Her husband was
greatly dissatisfied, but could not induce her to mend her ways.
At the close of summer he gave her a large bundle of wool, and told her
to be sure to spin it and work it up into coarse wadmal during the
winter months. “Very well,” she said, “I’ll see about it bye and bye;”
but at the same time looked as if she would far rather have nothing to
do with it. She let it lie in a corner untouched, spite of the hints she
got every now and then, from her husband. It was mid-winter before she
fully made up her mind to set to work; and then she began to perplex
herself, as to how she could get so much wool worked up, before the
close of winter.
Just then, an ugly old woman came to the door, begging for alms.
“Can you do any work for me in return,” asked the peasant’s wife.
“Perhaps I can,” replied the old woman.
“But what kind of work would you have me to do?”
“I want you to make some coarse cloth for me, out of this wool.”
“Very well, let me have the wool then.”
And so, the peasant’s wife handed the large bag of wool to the old
woman, who, without more ado, tossed it up on her back, at the same time
saying,
“You may depend on my coming back with the cloth, the first day of
summer.”
“But what payment will you ask for your work when you bring the cloth,”
said the peasant’s wife.
“I won’t take any payment; but you must tell me what my name is, in
three guesses.”
The peasant’s wife, too lazy to spin and weave for herself, agreed to
this strange condition, and so the old woman departed.
As the winter months passed on, the peasant often asked what had become
of the wool.
“Give yourself no concern about it,” said the wife, “you’ll have it
back, all spun and woven, by the first day of summer.”
As he never could get any other answer, he at last ceased to talk about
the wool. All this time his wife was trying to find out the old woman’s
name, but all her efforts were unavailing. By the time the last month of
winter came round she became so anxious and uneasy that she could
neither eat nor sleep. Her husband was greatly distressed at the change
which had come over her, and begged her to let him know what ailed her.
Unable longer to keep the matter secret, she told him the whole.
He was very much startled at what he heard, and told her how very
imprudent she had been, as the old woman was, most certainly, a witch,
and would take her away if she failed in her bargain.
A day or two after this conversation, he had occasion to go up the
adjoining mountain. He was so bowed down with grief, at the thought of
losing his wife, that he scarcely knew what he was about; and so
wandered from the road, till he came to the bottom of a lofty cliff.
While he was considering how he could get into the right road again, he
thought he heard a sound as of a voice inside the hill. Following the
sound he discovered a hole in the face of the cliff. On peeping through
this hole, he saw a tall old woman sitting weaving with the loom between
her knees; and, as she beat the treadles, every now and then breaking
into a snatch of song,
“Ha! Ha! and Ho! Ho!
The good wife does not know
That Gilitrutt is my name.”
“Aha!” muttered the peasant to himself, “if she does not know now, she
will know bye and bye;” for he felt quite sure that was the same old hag
who had so imposed on his poor foolish wife.
All the way home, he kept repeating the word _Gilitrutt_, and, as soon
as he got in doors, he wrote it down on a piece of paper, that he might
not forget it. But he did not, at that time, give his wife the least
inkling of what had befallen him. The poor woman grew more and more
sorrowful, as the days passed on; and, when the closing day of winter
came, she was so woe-begone that she had not the heart even to put on
her clothes. In the course of the day, her husband enquired if she had
found out her visitor’s name yet.
“Alas, no! Would to God I could find it out! for I am like to die of
grief.”
“There is no occasion for that,” he replied cheerfully, “I’ve found out
the name for you; so you need not be afraid to meet the old hag.” With
that, he handed her the piece of paper, and at the same time told about
his adventure on the mountain. She took the paper, with a trembling
hand, for at first she feared that the news was too good to be true;
and, though her husband’s story comforted her not a little, she could
not get rid of a suspicion that the name might not be the true one.
She wanted her husband to stay indoors the next day, so as to be present
when the old woman called.
“No! no!” said he, “you kept your own counsel when you gave her the
wool, so, you must do without me when you take in the cloth, and pay her
the wages agreed on.”
He then left the house.
And now came the first day of summer. The peasant’s wife was in the
house alone, and lay a-bed, listening with a beating heart for the first
sound of the old hag’s footsteps. She had not long to wait; for, before
the morning passed, a trampling noise was heard, and in stalked the old
woman with a bundle on her back, and a scowl on her face. As soon as she
got within the room, she threw down the big bundle of cloth, and, in an
angry tone, called out,
“What is my name now? What’s my name?”
The peasant’s wife, who was almost dead with fear, said “Signy!”
“That my name! That my name! guess again, good wife.”
“Asa,” said she.
“That my name! That my name! No indeed. You must guess again; but
remember this is your last chance.”
“Are you not called Gilitrutt?” said the woman timorously.
This answer came like a thunderbolt on the old hag, who fell down with a
great noise on the floor, and lay there for sometime. She then got up,
and, without speaking a word, went her way out of the house, and was
never more seen in the country-side.
As for the peasant’s wife, she was full of joy at her deliverance, and,
ever after, was a changed woman. She became a pattern of industry and
good management, and henceforth always worked her own wool herself.
HILDUR THE FAIRY QUEEN.
Once on a time a farmer settled in a mountainous part of the country,
but the particular spot is not mentioned, nor has his name come to us;
but we do know that he was a bachelor, and had a housekeeper named
Hildur.
Who Hildur was, neither the farmer nor any of the neighbouring gossips
could find out: but as she took good care of the household and
discharged her duties faithfully, she was allowed to keep her own
secret. All the servants liked her, and the farmer thought himself very
fortunate in having fallen in with such a housekeeper. She was of a
quiet disposition, but always kind and obliging.
The farmer’s affairs were in a flourishing state: his sheep throve and
multiplied, and he had nothing to annoy him except this, that he had
great difficulty in getting shepherds to enter his service. The cause of
this was not that the farmer treated his shepherds badly, but that, one
after another, they were found dead in bed, on Christmas morning.
In olden times, it was the custom for the Icelanders, on Christmas Eve,
to meet together at midnight for public worship; and any one who
absented himself from church, on that occasion, was considered as much
to blame as if he were keeping away on Christmas day itself. Those
living up among the mountains, and who had long weary roads to go, had
often great difficulty in getting to church in time; especially those
who were not able to leave home before the Pleiades could be seen in the
south-eastern heavens.
In this farm, the shepherds did not usually get home from work before
that time, so that they generally missed the opportunity of attending
the Christmas Eve service. Hildur never went on those occasions, as she
preferred staying at home to watch the house—as is customary for some
one to do on Christmas Eve—and attend to the preparations for the
Christmas feast. She was always busily occupied in this way till the
night was far advanced, so that the church-goers were back from the
services and asleep in bed, before she retired for the night.
As often as Christmas morn came round, the farmer’s shepherd, whoever he
might be, was found dead in bed. This strange fatality was well known
over all the country side. No wonder, then, that shepherds were afraid
of entering the farmer’s service, even though offered better wages than
they could get elsewhere. No mark of violence was ever seen on the body
of the unfortunate shepherd, so that no blame could be attached either
to the farmer, or to any one in the house. At last the farmer declared
that he could not find it in his heart to engage shepherds, with the
prospect of certain death before them, and that he would, for the
future, leave his sheep to take care of themselves.
When things had reached this pass, there came to him, one day, an active
hardy man, who offered his services as shepherd.
“I am not so much in want of your services as to be willing to take
you.”
“Have you engaged a shepherd for next winter?” asked the stranger.
“No, I have not,” replied the farmer, “but surely you have heard how sad
has been the end of all that have been before you.”
“Oh yes, I’ve heard all about it; but their fate will not hinder me from
taking care of your sheep, if you are only willing to engage me.”
At last, the farmer complied with his entreaties, and engaged him as
shepherd. He soon shewed that he was in every respect fitted for the
place. He was kind and obliging; and both able and willing to lend a
hand at any farm work, so that he soon became a favourite with
everybody.
Till Christmas-tide, nothing extraordinary happened. On Christmas Eve,
the farmer went to church as usual with his domestics. The housekeeper
alone stayed at home, and the shepherd was left in charge of the sheep.
Towards evening the shepherd came in from his work, and after partaking
of dinner, lay down to rest in bed. He took care, however, not to drop
asleep; for, though free from fear, he thought it only prudent to keep
awake. When the night was advanced he heard the church-goers come in,
and take some refreshment before going to bed. Up till this time, he had
not remarked anything unusual; but when the others had fallen asleep, he
felt languid and weary. He was afraid lest he should be overpowered with
sleep, and did his best to keep awake. A little while after, some one,
whom he believed to be the housekeeper Hildur, stealthily approached the
bed-side. Thinking he was asleep, she began to try to put something in
his mouth. He felt certain that it must be a magic-bridle, and so,
pretending to be quite unconscious of what was going on, he let himself
be quietly bridled.
As soon as the bridle was on, she led him out very easily; mounting on
his back, she rode away at a smart pace till they reached a yawning
chasm in the earth. Then she dismounted beside a stone, and letting go
her hold of the bridle, disappeared into the chasm. The shepherd did not
want to lose sight of her, and so tried to follow; but he soon found
that that was out of his power, so long as he had on the bridle. By dint
however of rubbing his head against the stone, he got rid of the bridle,
and leaving it behind, he threw himself into the chasm into which Hildur
had sprung.
As far as he could judge, he had not gone very deep down till he saw
Hildur again. She was then landed on a fine level meadow, along which
she was walking quickly. From what he saw he came to think that all was
not right with Hildur, and that she was not the woman she had seemed to
be in the farmer’s house. In order to keep her from seeing him as he
followed her over the plain, he took out of his pocket a stone which had
the wonderful property of making him invisible so long as he held it in
his hand. With this stone of darkness in his left-palm, he made after
her as fast as he could, and kept close behind her the rest of the way.
After walking some distance over the plain, there appeared in sight a
splendid palace of great size, towards which Hildur directed her steps.
A great crowd of people came out to meet her. Foremost among them was a
man dressed in purple and gold, who bade her welcome, at the same time
calling her his beloved wife, and embracing her very affectionately.
Those who attended him saluted her as their queen, and received her with
every mark of respect. By the king’s side were two children, of eight or
ten years of age, who ran joyfully into Hildur’s arms, and called her
mother.
On entering the palace, Hildur was very honourably received. She was
dressed in a royal robe, and had rings of gold put upon her hand. The
shepherd followed the crowd into the palace, and took up his place where
he could see all that was going on without running the risk of being
found out. The furniture was rich and gorgeous beyond conception, so
that he was completely dazzled with the sight.
In the principal saloon a table was set out and a feast prepared, the
splendour of which cannot be described.
Hildur then made her appearance, magnificently attired, and sat down on
the throne beside the king, while the other guests took their places on
each side.
At the close of the feast, the table was removed, and soon the guests
began to pass the time in dancing, or other amusements. The king and
queen paid no heed to what was going on, but sat alone, engaged in a
close conversation which seemed to the shepherd to be at once kind and
sorrowful.
While the king and queen were thus occupied, three children, younger
than those before mentioned, came forward, and their mother Hildur, who
received them kindly, took the youngest on her knee and fondled it. But,
as the child was restless and uneasy, she set it down again. She then
drew a ring from her finger, and gave it to the child as a plaything.
The child amused itself for some time with it, and then dropped it on
the floor. The shepherd, who was standing close by, at the time, hastily
snatched it up and put it into his pocket, without being observed by any
one. As soon as the ring was missed, a careful search was made for it,
but, to the great astonishment of everybody but the shepherd, it was
nowhere to be found.
As the night was now far advanced, the queen—Hildur—began to prepare for
her departure. Those present were sorry to see this, and begged her to
stay longer with them. The king also added his entreaties, but all
without effect. Before this time, the shepherd had noticed an
ill-looking woman, who sat all alone in a corner of the room. She was
the only one that had failed to give Hildur a joyful welcome to the
palace, or ask her to prolong her stay. As soon as the king saw that
Hildur was bent on going, he stepped up to this old woman, and said,
“Take back your words, mother! at my humble entreaty, so that my queen
may no longer be bound to absent herself from home, and from those
nearest and dearest to her.”
The old woman replied angrily, “All my words shall stand, I will by no
means retract them.”
With a sorrowful heart, he went back to the queen, and, folding his arms
around her, begged her in words of kindness not to leave him again.
“Alas,” said she, “I cannot stay here, in consequence of the spell by
which your mother has bound me, and who knows if I shall ever see you
more.”
She then told him she had killed so many men it could no longer be
concealed, and that she would certainly be punished, even though what
she had done was sore against her will.
While she was lamenting her unhappy lot, the shepherd, seeing how
matters stood, made the best of his way out of the palace, and went
straightway to the bottom of the chasm. He reached the top, with the
greatest ease. After that, he put the stone of darkness in his pocket,
and putting the bridle in his mouth again, waited patiently on Hildur.
It was not long before Hildur made her appearance, looking very
sorrowful. Taking a hold of the bridle, she mounted on his back and rode
quickly back to the farm.
On her arrival she laid the shepherd quietly in bed, and unbridled him,
and then slipped away to her own bed, where she lay down to sleep.
Although the shepherd had been all this time wide awake, he feigned
sleep so well that Hildur was quite deceived. After she had gone to bed,
he was no longer on his guard, but fell asleep, and as might be expected
slept till it was broad day. The farmer was astir early in the morning,
for he was anxious to know if this Christmas, like so many that was
gone, was to be a season of mourning in place of a season of rejoicing.
The most of the servants got up early too, but, while they were
dressing, he went quietly to the shepherd’s bed, and touching him with
his hand, found that he was alive and apparently well. This rejoiced the
heart of the farmer, who falling down on his knees, praised God loudly
for his great goodness. The shepherd, shortly after, got up in the best
of health. As soon as he was dressed, the people of the house gathered
about him, to ask if anything unusual had befallen him during the night.
“Nothing,” said he, “except that I had a very wonderful dream.”
“What kind of a dream?”
The shepherd began with the tale, as it is here told; how Hildur came to
his bed and bridled him; and every thing exactly, as far as he could
recollect. When he had done, all were silent except Hildur, who said,
“If you tell the truth, show us some token to prove what you say.”
The shepherd, noways daunted by this demand, shewed them the ring, which
he had picked up from the floor of the fairy palace during the night,
and said,
“Though I am not bound to bring forward proofs, I can easily do so, for
there is token sufficient that I have been with the fairies. Is not that
your ring, Queen Hildur?”
“To be sure it is,” replied Hildur “and may good fortune ever attend
you, for you have delivered me from the spell by which my cruel
mother-in-law bound me, and through which I have been compelled to do so
many bad deeds which my soul abhorred.”
Then queen Hildur told her story as follows. “I was a fairy maid of low
degree, but the present fairy king fell in love with me. The marriage
was so displeasing to his mother, that she became furious with rage and
told him that he would have to part with me soon, and that, after that,
we could enjoy each other’s society only at rare intervals and for a
short time together. But me she bound with such a spell, that I was
forced to become a servant in the world of woe, and, every Christmas
Eve, to kill a man. I was to bridle him when asleep, and ride on his
back along the same road that I took with the shepherd last night in
going to meet the king. This I was to do till I was convicted of murder
and put to death, unless, before that, I should fall in with a man so
courageous as to dare to go with me to the world of Fairies, and then be
able to show plain proofs that he had been there and seen what was done.
Now, it is clear that all the other shepherds of this farmer have
suffered death for my sake, but, as it was not in my power to prevent
it, I hope their deaths will not be laid to my charge. This
stout-hearted man is the first who dared to venture into the dark road
that leads to Fairyland. I shall yet reward him for delivering me from
the spell of my cruel mother-in-law. I thank you all for your kindness
to me, during the years I have been among you. But I must stay here no
longer, for I long for my proper home.”
After these words Queen Hildur disappeared, and since then, she has
never once been seen in the world of mankind.
Of the shepherd, it is told, that he married and settled down on a farm,
in the following spring. He was generously treated by the farmer, who,
when they parted, stocked his farm free of all cost to him. Ere long he
became noted as one of the best farmers of the neighbourhood, and was
often called upon for his advice and assistance in matters of
difficulty. He was beloved by all, and successful beyond all his
expectations in whatever he undertook. None of his neighbours could
boast of such thriving flocks and herds as his. But his wonderful good
fortune did not make him proud, for, as he often said, he owed all his
success to Hildur the Fairy Queen.
A CLERGYMAN’S DAUGHTER MARRIED TO A FAIRY MAN.
In a certain district of Iceland, there lived a clergyman who had a
daughter in the early bloom of womanhood. One day, when the conversation
turned on the subject of elves or fairies, the young woman happened to
say,
“I should like to be married to a fairy man, if he were only a brave
one.”
Her father was very angry at her words, and gave her a good scolding and
a box on the ear besides. Shortly afterwards, a child about the
parsonage saw a man ride up to the door of the house, and then dismount.
Watching his opportunity, the man stepped indoors, and soon reappeared,
leading the clergyman’s daughter by the hand. Before he could be
prevented, he mounted on horseback and rode off with her. Her sorrowful
parents searched for her throughout all the neighbouring country, but
nowhere could she be found.
It is told, that three winters after this time, a shepherd who had been
long in the clergyman’s service, and had loved his daughter dearly, one
day lost his way and all the sheep. After wandering about for hours, he
found himself at the door of a farm house he had never before seen. The
farmer, a fine manly looking fellow, came out, and after listening to
his story offered him a bed for the night. He accepted the offer gladly,
but at the same time lamented over the loss of the sheep.
“Don’t bother yourself about them to-night,” said the farmer, “be sure
they will turn up again;” and with that he led him to a room up stairs.
There he saw an old man and woman, and two children who were playing on
the floor. But, besides these, he saw the clergyman’s lost daughter who
was now the wife of the man who had asked him in.
The shepherd was entertained with the best that was in the house; and
when bed-time came, was shown to a private sleeping room. The
clergyman’s daughter then went to him, and handing him a leather bag,
asked him faithfully to deliver to her mother some valuables she had put
in it. She also bade him tell her mother that though her husband was a
fairy man, he did not hinder her from saying her prayers every night. On
the shepherd asking her if ever she went to church, she said she was
there just as often as himself, and that she always sat under the
pulpit, with her husband, beside the altar.
“How does it come that nobody ever sees you in church?”
“Oh, the reason is,” she replied, “that we always leave the church
before the blessing. But don’t tell anybody what I have now mentioned.
Only deliver the leather bag to my mother; for if you blab what I’ve
told you, be sure you will be an unfortunate man.”
He gave her a promise of secrecy; on that, she left the room. On getting
up in the morning, he was glad to learn that his lost sheep had turned
up. The farmer, who had fed them on hay during the night, delivered them
up to him, and put him on the right road. He got home with the sheep in
safety, and after a very short journey; but he never could tell which
way he came. As for the promise of secrecy, he paid no attention to it;
but on the contrary gave a full and exact account of everything he had
seen and heard.
Now, the clergyman, who was anxious to find his daughter, bethought
himself of a plan, and that was, to pronounce the blessing before she
could have time to get out of church. So he went round among his
parishioners, and told them not to be shocked if they should hear him
the next Sunday pronounce the blessing at an earlier stage of the
service than usual. When next Sunday came, his daughter occupied her
customary seat, though not visible to any one in the church. In the
middle of the service the clergyman stopped and pronounced the blessing.
His daughter, thus caught unawares, was obliged to discover herself. He
did what he could to induce her to stay, but all in vain.
“If you try to force me,” said she, “the consequences will be very
serious; and besides, it would not be right in me to leave a husband who
has always treated me so kindly.”
Of the shepherd, it is told, that he was from that day unfortunate in
all that he had to do with. But one cannot be sorry for him, as he
brought his troubles on his own head through his want of truthfulness.
THE CLERGYMAN’S DAUGHTER IN PRESTSBAKKI.
In Prestsbakki, in the Skaptáfells district, there once lived a
clergyman, named Einar. He was well to do in the world, and had a
numerous family. No one cared less about fairy tales than he did. In
fact, he used to speak of fairies as if there were no such beings. In
his idle moments he would tauntingly dare them to shew themselves to
him; and then, as they did not choose to obey his orders, he would boast
that there were no fairies to come.
Well, on one night while asleep, he dreamed that a man came to his
bedside and said to him,
“You have provoked the fairies long, but now they will have their
revenge. From this time forward you shall not dare to deny their
existence. I will take away your eldest daughter, and you shall never
see her more.”
And sure enough, in the morning, when the clergyman awoke, he found that
his eldest daughter, who was twelve years of age, had disappeared.
Search was made for her in all directions, but nowhere could she be
found. As time passed on, she often made her appearance among her
brothers and sisters, while they were playing in the meadows. Again and
again, they tried to prevail on her to go home with them; but, just as
she seemed willing to do so, she always became invisible. When asked as
to her welfare, she always said that she was in good health, and kindly
treated by her new friends. Her father frequently saw her in his dreams,
and to him she told the same story, only adding that she was to be
married, bye and bye, to the fairy clergyman’s son. Some time after she
appeared to her father again in a dream, and invited him to come to her
marriage, which was to take place on the following day. This was the
last time he ever dreamed about her, and never after did she show
herself among her brothers and sisters.
THE CHANGELING.
It was a common belief, in olden times, that the fairies often took away
infant children who happened to be left alone, and changed them for
decrepit old men or women who were made to appear as children. These
changelings, however, neither grew nor spoke after the manner of
children, and were very apt to become idiots. It once happened that all
the people of a certain farm were working in the meadows, except the
mistress of the house who was at home looking after the house and her
little son, a boy three or four years old. Up to that time the boy had
thriven amazingly. He could talk well, and was a clever promising child.
As there was no one to assist the mother with the household work, one
day, she was obliged to leave the boy by himself for a short time, while
she went to wash the milk pails in a brook close by. On returning soon
after, she was surprised to find the boy, at the door, weeping and
howling in a strange uncouth way, very different from his wonted manner.
Usually he was very quiet, gentle and obedient, but now she could not
get a word out of him. Time passed on, but the child remained silent,
restless, and thoroughly untractable. His body ceased to grow, and his
behaviour was like that of an idiot. His mother could not account for
the strange change that had come over him. In the midst of her grief,
she at last bethought herself of going to take the advice of a neighbour
woman who was famous for her prudence and skill. The neighbour listened
attentively to all she had to say about the boy, and then said to her,
“Don’t you think, good wife, that the boy is a changeling? for, it seems
to me, that the fairies must have taken away your own boy the day you
left him alone, and have put another in his place.”
“How could I find out, if what you say is true?” said the surprised
mother.
“Oh, very easily, just go home, and take the first opportunity of
leaving the boy alone beside something that is likely to call forth his
surprise. When his eye catches what you have put purposely in his way,
if nobody is within sight, he is sure to make some remark about it to
himself. You must listen to what he says, and if you find anything
strange or suspicious about it, go in at once and flog him without
mercy, till something comes out of it.”
The boy’s mother thanked her neighbour humbly for her advice, and went
away home to put it into practice. The first thing she did on returning
was to place the little porridge pot in the middle of the kitchen floor.
She then bound a great many sticks together, so as to make a long rod,
and fastened the spurtle to one of the ends. The rod was so big, that
when the spurtle rested in the pot, the upper end was away up the
chimney. Leaving it in this position, she went away and fetched the boy
to the kitchen, and then left him all alone. On going out, she drew the
door behind her; but not so closely as to prevent her from peeping in to
see what was going on.
As soon as the boy thought he was alone, he began to trip round the pot,
wondering greatly what could be the meaning of the long spurtle. At last
he said, “Well, old as I am, and I am no chicken now, as my grey beard
and my eighteen children in Fairyland can testify, I never, in all my
born days, did see such a long spurtle for such a little porridge pot.”
This was enough for the mother, who was not long of making her
appearance in the kitchen with a good sized stick in her hand. Seizing
hold of the changeling, she flogged him unmercifully for a long while,
spite of his heart-rending cries.
Bye and bye a strange old woman walked in, holding on her arms a little
boy whom she fondled kindly. Addressing the farmer’s wife, she said,
“Why should you treat my husband so cruelly. Your conduct is a sorry
recompense for the care I have bestowed on this little boy of yours.” So
saying, she laid the little boy at his mother’s feet, and took her
husband away with her.
The fairy man and woman were never more seen again. The now recovered
boy remained with his parents, and grew up a fine manly youth, the joy
of his mother’s heart.[47]
-----
Footnote 42:
Sæmund Frodi, like other learned men of those days, was supposed to be
in possession of magic powers. He was the Friar Bacon of Iceland; and
these stories in which his name figures, handed down by tradition, are
still often told in Iceland by the fireside on the long winter
evenings. Curious to observe, that, in most mediæval stories of this
kind, Satan is always outwitted and gets the worst of it. A.J.S.
Footnote 43:
This story may explain the origin of the Scotch proverb, “Deil tak’
the hindmost.”—There is another version of Sæmund’s mode of escape;
viz.: That when he was about to be seized, pointing to his shadow on
the wall, he said, “I am not the hindmost, don’t you see him that is
coming behind me!” Old Nick then caught at the shadow, and thought it
was a man; but Sæmund got out, and the door was slammed on his heels.
But after that time, it is added, Sæmund was always without a shadow,
for Old Nick would not let his shadow free again. Here, in this
old-world story, we have the germ of Chamisso’s “Shadowless Man.”
A.J.S.
Footnote 44:
The reader will here be reminded of Aladdin’s Lamp, Genii, and of the
East, from whence these Stories also originally came in the days of
Odin.
Footnote 45:
To the right understanding of the story of “Biarni Sveinsson,” it must
be remembered that a superstition prevailed amongst the Icelanders
regarding the central deserts. These, they believed, were inhabited by
a strange mysterious race of men who held no intercourse with the
other inhabitants, and were said to be in the habit of kidnapping
women from the country. This belief may have had its origin in the
fact, that, in former days, some few outlaws and their families took
refuge in the deserts, and lived there for a time in order to escape
the hands of justice. A.J.S.
Footnote 46:
In Iceland vegetation is late.
Footnote 47:
These popular northern fireside stories and tales are partly gathered
from direct oral narration, and partly taken from a small volume,
“Islenzk Æfintyri,” the collection of Messrs. M. Grimson and J.
Arnason, published in Icelandic, at Reykjavik, in 1852.
II.
SPECIMENS OF ICELANDIC POEMS.
--------------
FROM THE “VÖLUSPÁ”
In the “Völuspá,”[48] from the older Edda, we have a sublime description
of chaos; of creation; an account of a period of strife, crime, and
suffering; dire conflicts between the powers of good and evil; of the
destruction of the world of Odin and the dissolution and conflagration
of the universe; of the Regnarök or twilight of the Gods; of the
renovated world, the descent of Baldur the Good, the punishment of the
wicked, and the happiness of the good in Gimlé or Heaven. From this
poem—the most remarkable in the whole range of Scandinavian
mytho-cosmogony—the following verses are extracted:
“It was time’s morning
When Ymer lived.
There was no sand, no sea;
No cooling billows;
Earth there was none,
No lofty heaven;
Only the Gulph of Ginunga,
But no grass.
· · · ·
The sun knew not
Where was his dwelling;
The stars knew not
That they had a firmament;
The moon knew not
What powers she possessed.
· · · ·
The tree Yggdrasil
Bears a sorer burden
Than men know of.
Above the stags bite it;
On its sides age rots it;
Nighögg gnaws below.
· · · ·
There saw she wade
In the heavy streams
Men—foul perjurers,
And murderers.
· · · ·
Brothers slay brothers:
Sisters’ children
Shed each other’s blood.
Hard is the world;
Sensual sin grows huge.
There are sword-ages, axe-ages,
Earth-cleaving cold;
Storm-ages, murder-ages,
Till the world falls dead,
And men no longer spare
Or pity one another.
· · · ·
Mimer’s sons play,
But the world is kindled
By the ancient
Gjallarhorn.
Loud blows Heimdall,
His sound is in the air:
Odin talks
With the head of Mimer.
Quivers then Yggdrasil,
The strong-rooted ash:
Rustles the old tree
When Jötun gives way.
All things tremble
In the realms of Hel,
Till Surtur’s son
Swallows up Odin.
Garmer he shouts
By the Gnipa-hall
The band must burst
And the wolf fly.
Hrymer drives eastward,
Bears his shield before him;
Jormungand welters
In giant fierceness.
The waves thunder;
The eagles scream;
Death rends the corpses
And Nagelfar gives way.
Köl hies eastward;
Come must Muspel’s
Folk to the sea.
Loke rows afar;
All the children of madness
Follow the wolf,
Bileist’s brother
Journeyeth with them.
Surtur fares southward.
With flickering flames
From his sword
God’s sun flashes.
Break the stone mountains;
The weird women flee,
Men throng Hel’s dread roads,
And Heaven is rent.”
Then Surtur flings fire over the world.
“The sun grows dark.
Earth sinks in the sea.
From heaven vanish
The lustrous stars.
High from the flames
Rolls the reek;
High play the fires
’Gainst heaven itself.
· · · ·
Up, sees she come
Yet once more,
The earth from the sea,
Gloriously green.
· · · ·
Then comes the Mighty One
To the great Judgment—
The great above all—
He who guides all things.
Judgments he utters;
Strifes he appeaseth;
Laws He ordaineth
To flourish for ever.
· · · ·
In Gimlé the lofty
There shall the hosts
Of the virtuous dwell,
And through all ages
Taste of deep gladness.”
FROM THE “SÓLAR LJÓD”
The “Sólar Ljód”—“Sol” or “Sun-song”—was composed by Sæmund himself, the
collector of the Edda, and a Christian priest, ages before the time of
Dante.
“By the Nornors’ seat
Nine days I sate,
Then to horse was lifted.
The sun of the giant race
Gleamed sadly
Out of heaven’s weeping clouds.
Without and within
Seemed I to journey
Through the seven worlds
Above and below.
Better path I sought
Than there was to find.
And now to be told is
What first I beheld
In the home of torture.
Scorched birds were flying—
Wretched souls in myriads,
Thick as mosquito legions.
Flying saw I
Hope’s dragons
And fall in drear waste places.
They shook their wings
Till to me seemed that
Heaven and earth were rent.
The stag of the sun
Southward saw I journey.
His feet stood
On earth, but his huge antlers
Traversed the heavens above him.
Northward saw I ride
The sons of the races;
Seven they were together.
From the full horn they drank
The purest mead
From wells of heavenly strength.
The winds stood still,
The waters ceased to flow.
Then heard I a dread cry.
There for their husbands
False vengeful women
Ground earth for food.
Bloody stones
Those women dark
Dragged sorrowfully,
Their gory hearts
Hung from their breasts
Weighed with heavy weights.
Many men
Along the burning ways
Sore wounded saw I go.
Their visages
Seemed deeply dyed
With blood in murder shed.
Many men
Saw I amongst the dead
Without one hope of grace.
Pagan stars there stood
Over their heads
All scored with cruel runes.
Men saw I too
Who enviously had scowled
Upon the good of others.
Bloody runes
Were on their breasts
Ploughed out by hands of men.
Men saw I there
All full of woe,
All mazed in wondering.
This do they win
Who to eternal loss
Love this world only.
Men saw I too
Who sought always to snatch
From others their possessions.
In throngs they were,
And to the miser’s hell
Bore groaning loads of lead.
Men saw I next
Who many had bereaved
Of life and goods,
And through the hearts of these
For ever fiercely ran
Strong venom snakes.
Men too I saw
Who never would observe
Sabbaths and holy days.
Their unblessed hands
Fast rivetted together
With ever burning stones.
Men too I saw
Who with huge brag and boast
On earth did vaunt themselves.
Here their clothes
Were vilely squalid
And with fire enwrapt.
Men saw I too
Who with their slanderous breath
Had blasted others.
Hel’s ravens
Remorselessly their eyes
Tore from their heads.
But all the horrors
Thou canst not know
Which Hel’s condemned endure.
Sweet sins
There bitterly are punished,
False pleasures reap true pain.
· · · ·
Men did I see
Who the Lord’s laws
Had followed stanchly.
Purest light
For ever growing clearer
Passed brightly o’er their heads.
Men did I see
Who with unwearied zeal
Did seek the good of others.
Angels read
The holy books
Upon their radiant heads.
Men did I see
Who with sharp fasts
Their bodies had subdued;
God’s holy hosts
Before them all bow’d down
And paid them highest homage.
Men did I see
Who had their mothers
Piously cherished,
And their place of rest
Amid heaven’s beams
Shone gloriously.
Holy maids there were
Who their pure souls
Had kept unsoiled by sin,
And souls of those
Who their rebellious flesh
Did ever sternly quail.
Lofty chariots saw I
Travel through heaven
Having access to God;
And they were filled with those
Who causelessly
Had on the earth been slain.
Father Almighty!
Illustrious Son!
And Holy Spirit of Heaven.
Thee do I implore,
Who didst make all things,
To keep us from all sin!”
Sæmund concludes this remarkable poem with these strophes:
“This song
Which I have taught thee
Thou shalt sing unto the living.
The Sun’s song,
Which in its solemn theme
Hath little that is feigned.
Here do we part,
But part again to meet
On the Great Day of men.
Oh, my Lord!
Give the dead rest,
Comfort to those who live!
Wonderful wisdom,
To thee in dream is sung,
’Tis truth which thou hast seen!
And no man is so wise
Of all who are created
As, ere this, to have heard
One word of this Sun’s Song!”
FROM THE POEMS RELATING TO SIGURD & BRYNHILD.
From the heroic poems relating to Sigurd and Brynhild—the originals from
which the German “Niebelungen-lied” is taken—the following passage is
extracted. In it Gudrun, in conversation with Thjodreck, describes her
youth before the murder of Sigurd: “A maid was I amongst maidens; my
mother reared me lovely in bower. Well loved I my brothers, till me
Gjuké apportioned with gold, with gold apportioned and gave me to
Sigurd. So raised himself, Sigurd, over the sons of Gjuké, as the green
lily above the grass grows; or the high-antlered stag, above other
beasts; or the fire-red gold above the silver grey. My brothers were
incensed that I should have a husband more illustrious than any. Sleep
they could not, nor decide on anything, before they Sigurd had caused to
perish. Grangé (Sigurd’s steed) galloped to the _Ting_ (assembly of the
people), wild was his neighing, but Sigurd himself was not there. All
the horses were covered with sweat, and with blood of the contenders.
“Weeping I went to speak to Grané, the blood sprinkled; of his master I
asked him; then hung down Grané mournfully his head, for the creature
knew that his lord was not living. Long did I wander, long was I
confused in mind before of the Prince I could ask after my King.”
The “Hávamál”—“Odin’s High Song”—displays a shrewd insight into human
nature, and contains many maxims, both of a moral and social kind, which
one would scarcely expect to find embodied in the heathen ethics of an
ancient Scandinavian Scald. The whole poem is here presented to the
reader.
HÁVAMÁL.
I.
“In every corner
Carefully look thou
Ere forth thou goest;
For insecure
Is the house when an enemy
Sitteth therein.
II.
Hail him who giveth!
Enters a guest.
Where shall he be seated?
Yet, ill shall fare he
Who seeks his welfare
In other men’s houses.
III.
Fire will be needful
For him who enters
With his knees frozen.
Of meat and clothing
Stands he in need
Who journeys o’er mountains.
IV.
Water is needful,
A towel and kindness
For this guest’s welcome;
Kind inclinations
Let him experience;
Answer his questions.
V.
Good sense is needful
To the far traveller;
Each place seems home to him.
He is a laughing-stock
Who, knowing nothing,
Sits mid the wise.
VI.
With the deep thinker
Speak thou but little;
But guard well thy temper;
When the noble and silent
Come to thy dwelling,
Least errs the cautious.
VII.
Good sense is needful
To the far traveller;
Least errs the cautious;
For a friend trustier
Than good understanding
Findeth man never.
VIII.
A cautious guest
When he comes to his hostel
Speaketh but little;
With his ears he listeneth;
With his eyes he looketh;
Thus the wise learneth.
IX.
Happy is he
Who for himself winneth
Honour and friends.
All is uncertain,
Which a man holdeth
In the heart of another.
X.
Happy is he
Who prudent guidance
From himself winneth;
For evil counsel
Man oft receiveth
From the breast of another.
XI.
No better burden
Bears a man on his journey
Than mickle wisdom.
Better is she than gold
Where he is a stranger;
In need she is a helper.
XII.
No better burden
Bears a man on his journey
Than mickle wisdom.
No worse provision
Takes a man on his journey
Than frequent drunkenness.
XIII.
Ale is not so good
As people have boasted
For the children of men.
For less and still less,
As more he drinketh,
Knows man himself.
XIV.
The hern of forgetfulness
Sits on the drunkard,
And steals the man’s senses.
By the bird’s pinions,
Fettered I lay,
In Gunlada’s dwelling.
XV.
Drunken I lay,
Lay thoroughly drunken,
With Fjalar the wise.
This is the best of drink,
That every one afterwards
Comes to his senses.
XVI.
Be silent and diligent,
Son of a Prince,
And daring in combat;
Cheerful and generous,
Let every man be,
Till death approaches.
XVII.
A foolish man fancies
He shall live for ever
If he shuns combat.
But old age will give
To him no quarter,
Although the spear may.
XVIII.
The fool stares about
When he goes on a visit,
Talks nonsense or slumbers.
All goes well
When he can drink,
For then the man speaks his mind.
XIX.
He, he only
Who has far travelled,
Has far and wide travelled,
Knoweth every
Temper of man,
If he himself is wise.
XX.
If cups thou lackest
Yet drink thou by measure:
Speak what is seemly or be still.
No one will charge thee
With evil, if early
Thou goest to slumber.
XXI.
The gluttonous man,
Though he may not know it,
Eats his life’s sorrow:
Lust of drink, often
Makes the fool, foolish
When he comes mid the prudent.
XXII.
The flocks they have knowledge
When to turn homeward
And leave the green pastures;
But he who is foolish
Knoweth no measure,
No bounds to his craving.
XXIII.
An evil man
And a carping temper
Jeer at all things.
He knows not;
He ought to know,
That himself is not faultless.
XXIV.
A foolish man
Lies awake the night through
And resolves on many things.
Thus is he weary
When the day cometh;
The old care remaineth.
XXV.
A foolish man
Thinks all are friendly
Who meet him with smiles;
But few he findeth
Who will aid his cause,
When to the Ting he cometh.
XXVI.
A foolish man
Thinks all are friendly
Who meet him with smiles.
Nor knows he the difference
Though they laugh him to scorn
When he sits ’mong the knowing ones.
XXVII.
A foolish man
Thinks he knows everything
While he needs not the knowledge.
But he knows not
How to make answer
When he is questioned.
XXVIII.
A foolish man,
When he comes into company
Had better keep silence.
No one remarketh
How little he knows
Till he begins talking.
XXIX.
He appears wise
Who can ask questions
And give replies.
Ever conceal then
The failings of others,
The children of men.
XXX.
Who cannot keep silence
Uttereth many
A word without purport.
The tongue of the garrulous,
Which keepeth back nothing,
Talks its own mischief.
XXXI.
Hold in derision
No one, although he
Come as a stranger.
Many a one, when he has had
Rest and dry clothing,
Thou mayest find to be wise.
XXXII.
He seemeth wise
Who in speech triumphs
O’er mocking guests.
The talkative man
Knows not at the table
If he talks with his enemies.
XXXIII.
Many are friendly
One to another;
Yet storm ariseth.
Strife will arise
For ever, if one guest
Affronteth another.
XXXIV.
Thou mayst dine early
Unless thou art going
Unto the banquet.
Sits he and flatters;
Hungry he seemeth,
Yet few things he learneth.
XXXV.
Long is the journey
To a deceitful friend
Though he dwell near thee.
But, direct lies the path
To a friend faithful,
Though he dwelleth afar off.
XXXVI.
Do not too frequently
Unto the same place
Go as a guest.
Sweet becomes sour
When a man often sits
At other men’s tables.
XXXVII.
One good house is there
Though it be humble:
Each man is master at home.
Though a man own but
Two goats and a straw-rick,
’Tis better than begging.
XXXVIII.
One good house is there
Though it be humble:
Each man is master at home.
The man’s heart bleedeth
At every mealtime
Who his food beggeth.
XXXIX.
Without his weapon
Goes no man
A-foot in the field.
For it is unsafe
Out on the by-paths
When weapons are needful.
XL.
Never found I so generous,
So hospitable a man
As to be above taking gifts.
Nor one of his money
So little regardful
But that it vexed him to lend.
XLI.
He who has laid up
Treasures of wealth
Finds want hard to bear.
Adversity often uses
What was meant for prosperity,
For many things are contrary to expectation.
XLII.
With weapons and garments,
As best may be fitting
Give thou thy friends pleasure.
By gifts interchanged
Is friendship made surest;
If the heart proffers them.
XLIII.
Let a man towards his friend,
Ever be friendly,
And with gifts make return for gifts.
With thy cheerful friend
Be thou cheerful;
With thy guileful friend on thy guard.
XLIV.
Let a man towards his friend
Ever be friendly;
Towards him and his friend.
But with an enemy’s friend
Can no man
Be friendly.
XLV.
If thou hast a friend
Whom thou canst confide in
And wouldst have joy of his friendship,
Then, mingle thy thoughts with his,
Give gifts freely,
And often be with him.
XLVI.
If thou hast another,
Whom thou hast no faith in
Yet wouldst have joy of his friendship,
Thou must speak smoothly;
Thou must think warily,
And with cunning pay back his guile.
XLVII.
Yet one word
About him thou mistrusteth
And in whom thou hast no reliance.
Thou must speak mildly,
More so than thou meanest;
Paying back like with like.
XLVIII.
Young was I formerly;
Then alone went I,
Taking wrong ways.
Rich seemed I to myself
When I found a companion;
For man is man’s pleasure.
XLIX.
The noble, the gentle
Live happiest,
And seldom meet sorrow.
But the foolish man,
He is suspicious,
And a niggard grieves to give.
L.
I hung my garments
On the two wooden men
Who stand on the wall.
Heroes they seemed to be
When they were clothed!
The unclad are despised.
LI.
The tree withereth
Which stands in the court-yard
Without shelter of bark or of leaf.
So is a man
Destitute of friends.
Why should he still live on?
LII.
Even as fire,
Burns peace between enemies,
For the space of five days.
But on the seventh
It is extinguished,
And the less is their friendship.
LIII.
Only a little
Will a man give;
He often gets praise for a little.
With half a loaf
And a full bottle
I won a companion.
LIV.
Small are the sand-grains,
Small are the water-drops:
Small human thoughts:
Yet are not these
Each of them equal.
Every century bears but one man.
LV.
Good understanding
Ought all to possess,—
But not too much wisdom.
Those human beings
Whose lives are the brightest,
Know much and know it well.
LVI.
Good understanding
Ought all to possess,
But not too much knowledge.
For the heart of a wise man
Seldom is gladdened
By knowledge of all things.
LVII.
Good understanding
Ought all to possess,
But not too much knowledge.
Let no one beforehand
Inquire his own fortune.
The gladdest heart knoweth it not.
LVIII.
Brand with brand burneth
Till it is burned out:
Fire is kindled by fire.
A man among men
Is known by his speech;
A fool by his arrogance.
LIX.
Betimes must he rise
Who another man’s life
And goods will obtain.
The sleeping wolf
Seldom gets bones.
No sluggard wins battle.
LX.
Betimes must he rise
And look after his people
Who has but few workmen.
Much he neglecteth
Who sleeps in the morning.
On the master’s presence depends half the profit.
LXI.
Like to dried faggots,
And hoarded up birch bark,
Are the thoughts of a man,
The substance of firewood
May last, it is true,
A year and a day.
LXII.
Cleanly and decent,
Ride men to the Ting
Although unadorned.
For his shoes and apparel
Nobody blushes,
Nor yet for his horse, though none of the best.
LXIII.
Question and answer
Is a clever thing,
And so it is reckoned.
To one person trust thyself,
Not to a second.
The world knows what is known unto three.
LXIV.
Bewilderedly gazes
On the wild sea, the eagle,
When he reaches the strand.
So is it with the man
Who in a crowd standeth
When he has but few friends there.
LXV.
Every wise man
And prudent, his power will use
With moderation.
For he will find
When he comes ’mong the brave
That none can do all things.
LXVI.
Let every man
Be prudent and circumspect
And cautious in friendship.
Often that word
Which we trust to another
Very dear costs us.
LXVII.
Greatly too early
Came I to some places;
Too late to others.
Here the feast was over;
There unprepared.
Seldom opportunely comes an unwelcome guest.
LXVIII.
Here and everywhere
Have I been bidden
If I fell short of a dinner.
But the fragments are easily
Left for his faithful friend
When a man has eaten.
LXIX.
Fire is pleasant
To the children of men.
And the light of the sun,
If they enjoy
Health uninterrupted,
And live without crime.
LXX.
Perfectly wretched
Is no man, though he may be unhappy:
One is blessed in his sons;
One in his friends;
By competence one;
By good works another.
LXXI.
Better are they
Who live than they who are dead.
The living man may gain a cow.
I saw the fire blazing
In the hall of the rich man,
But death stood at the threshold.
LXXII.
The lame may ride;
The deaf fight bravely;
The one-handed tend the flocks,
Better be blind
Than entombed:
The dead win nothing.
LXXIII.
It is good to have a son
Although he be born
After his father’s death.
Seldom are the cairn-stones
Raised by the way-side
Save by the son to his father.
LXXIV.
There are two adversaries;
The heaviness of the brain,
And death by the bedside.
He who has gold for his journey
Rejoices at night
When he grows weary.
LXXV.
Short are the boat-oars;
· · · ·
Unstable autumnal nights.
The weather changes
Much in five days;
Still more in a month.
LXXVI.
Little enough knows he
Who nothing knows:
Many a man is fooled by another.
One man is rich,
Another man is poor;
But that proves not which has most wisdom.
LXXVII.
Thy flocks may die;
Thy friends may die;
So also mayest thou, thyself;
But never will die
The fame of him
Who wins for himself good renown.
LXXVIII.
Thy flocks may die;
Thy friends may die;
So also mayst thou thyself.
But one thing I know
Which never dies,
The doom which is passed on the dead.
LXXIX.
I saw the well-filled barns
Of the child of wealth;
Now leans he on the staff of the beggar.
Thus are riches,
As the glance of an eye,
They are an inconstant friend.
LXXX.
A foolish man,
If he gain wealth
Or the favour of woman,
Grows in self-esteem,
Though he understands nothing:
Forth goes he in arrogance.
LXXXI.
Know thou, that when
Thou enquirest of the runes,
Known to the world,
What the holy Gods did,
What the great Scalds have written,
It is best for thee to be still.
LXXXII.
Praise the day at eventide;
The wife when she is dead;
The sword when thou hast proved it;
The maid when she is married;
Ice when thou hast crossed it;
Ale when thou hast drunken it.
LXXXIII.
In wind cut thou firewood;
In wind sail the ocean;
In darkness woo a maiden,
For many eyes has daylight.
In a ship man voyages;
The shield it defends him;
The sword is for slaughter,
But the maid to be courted.
LXXXIV.
Drink ale by firelight;
On the ice drive the sledge;
Sell thou the lean horse
And the sword that is rusty;
Feed the horse at home;
Bed the dog in the court-yard.
LXXXV.
The word of a maiden
No one can trust;
Nor what a woman speaketh;
For on a turning wheel
Was the heart of woman formed,
And guile was laid in her breast.
LXXXVI.
A breaking bow;
A burning flame;
A hungry wolf;
A chattering crow;
The grunting swine;
The rootless tree;
The heaving billows;
The boiling kettle;
LXXXVII.
The flying spear;
Sinking waters;
One night’s ice;
The coiled-up snake;
The bride’s fond talk;
Or the broken sword;
A bear’s play;
Or a king’s son;
LXXXVIII.
A sick calf;
A freed bondsman;
A false fortune-teller;
The newly-slain on the field;
A bright sky;
A smiling master;
The cry of a dog;
A harlot’s sorrow;
LXXXIX.
An early sown field
Let no one trust,
Neither his son too soon;
The field depends on the weather;
The youth on his sense,
And both are uncertain.
XC.
A brother’s death,
Though it be half-way here;
A half-burned house;
A steed very lively,
(For a horse has no value,
If one foot stumble),
Are not so sure
That a man may trust to them.
XCI.
Thus is peace among women;
Like a fleeting thought;
Like a journey over slippery ice,
On a two-years-old horse
With unroughed shoes,
And ill broken in;
Or in wild tempests
Tossed in a helmless ship;
Or trying to capture
Deer mid the thawing snow of the hills.
XCII.
Now speak I truly,
For I know what I speak of,
Deceitful to woman is the promise of love:
When we speak fairest,
Then mean we foulest;
The purest heart may be beguiled.
XCIII.
He speaketh smoothly
Who would win the maiden;
He offers property,
And praises the beauty
Of the fair maiden;
He wins who is in earnest.
XCIV.
The love of another
Let no man
Find fault with.
Beautiful colours
Oft charm the wise,
While they snare not the fool.
XCV.
For that failing
Which is common to many
No man is blamed.
From the wise man to the fool,
’Mong all children of men,
Goes he, Love, the mighty one.
XCVI.
Thought alone knoweth
What the heart cherisheth,
It alone knows the mind.
No disease is worse
For the wise man
Than joy in nothing.
XCVII.
This I experienced
When I sate mid the rushes
Awaiting my love.
The good maiden
Was to me life and heart;
Mine is she no longer.
XCVIII.
The maid of Billing
White as snow found I,
In her bed sleeping.
Princely glory
Was to me nothing
If I lived not with her!
XCIX.
“To the court, Odin,
Come towards the eventide
If thou wilt woo me
All will be ruined
If we do not in private
Know how to manage.”
C.
Thither I sped again;
Happy I thought myself,
More so than I knew of,
For I believed
I had half won her favour
And the whole of her thoughts.
CI.
So again came I,
When the quarrelsome people
All were awake.
With candles burning
And piled-up firewood
Received she my visit.
CII.
A few morrows after,
When again I went thither,
All the house-folk were sleeping.
There found I a dog,
Of the fair maiden’s
Bound on the bed.
CIII.
Few are so noble
But that their fancy
May undergo change.
Many a good girl
When she is well known
Is deceitful towards men.
CIV.
That I experienced
When the quick-witted maiden
I decoyed into danger.
She heaped reproach on me,
The merry maiden,
And I won her never.
CV.
Gay at home
And liberal, must
Be the man of wisdom.
Full of talk and pleasant memories
Will he be ofttimes,
With much cheerful converse.
CVI.
He is called Fimbulfambi
Who but few things can utter;
’Tis the way of the simple.
I was with the old giants,
Now am I returned;
There was I not silent,
With affluence of speech
I strove to do my best
In the hall of Suttung.
CVII.
Gunlöd gave me,
On a golden chair seated,
A draught of mead delicious;
But the return was evil
Which she from me experienced,
With all her faithfulness,
With all her deep love.
CVIII.
I let words of anger
By me be spoken,
And knawed the rock.
Above and below me
Went the paths of the giants;
Thus ventured I life.
CIX.
Dear-bought song
Have I much rejoiced in;
All succeeds to the will;
Because the Odrejrer
Now have ascended
To the old, holy earth.
CX.
Uncertain seems it
If I had escaped
From the courts of the giants
Had I not been blessed by
The dear love of Gunlöd,
She, whom I embraced.
CXI.
On the day following
Went the Rimthursar
To ask the gods council,
In the halls lofty;
Ask whether Bölverk were
Come mid the mighty gods,
Or if Suttung had slain him.
CXII.
A holy ring-oath
I mind me, gave Odin.
Now who can trust him.
Suttung is cheated;
His mead has been stolen
And Gunlöd is weeping.”[49]
-----
Footnote 48:
Völu-spá or spae, the Prophesy—wisdom, oracle, or mystic song—of Völu
(Völu is the genitive of Vala). Scoticê, Vala’s spae, as in the word
_spae_-wife. One of these Valor, or Northern sybills, whom Odin
consulted in Neifelhem, when found in the tomb where she had lain for
ages, is represented as saying—
“I was snowed over with snows,
And beaten with rains,
And drenched with the dews;
Dead have I long been.”
Footnote 49:
These specimens of old Icelandic poetry are selected from “The
Literature and Romance of Northern Europe,” by William and Mary
Howitt: 2 vols. 8vo., Colburn & Co., 1852.
III.
POEMS ON NORTHERN SUBJECTS.
--------------
LAY OF THE VIKINGS.
BY MRS. ANDREW JAMES SYMINGTON.[50]
In an unceasing, ebbless flow, around
The peaceful homes of Thulé, her best safety
Roll Arctic billows, rearing giant crests
In proud defiance—bulwarks impassable
Against the intruder’s steps. Fiercely and bold,
Even as a lioness doth guard her ’fenceless young,
Do they, the unconquerable surges, foam and champ,
And keep unslumbering vigils round the graves—
The restless, storm-rocked graves—of the Vikings
Their sons—those tameless spirits of the past—
Whose dirge their sighing parent hourly waileth
As erst they rode exultant on his bosom.
Boldest and noblest of earth’s kind were ye—
Conquerors of nations—fathers of a race
Of giant princes—ah! how fallen now!
Meet were it that your honoured dust should slumber
In this your polar cradle; rocked by northern gales,
Lulled by the sighing surges whose strong hands
Have hung a cloudy curtain o’er your rest.
Meet were it that the springtide rain should weep
O’er the degeneracy of your race—
The scattered glory of your Fatherland!
Fitting were it that the dark thunder-cloud
Should be the swift-winged chariot upon which
Your spirits love to ride—your path meanwhile
Lit by the fitful rays of yonder cold
Mysterious, flickering night-lamp, _Borealis_.
Nought less sublime, less wildly grand than these
Would be in harmony with your proud spirits.
Would ye not laugh to scorn the spicy breezes
Of India’s drowsy clime, or soft Italia’s
Radiant skies?—and ah! methinks ye whisper,
Were but the ocean charmed, that he should cease
His mournful lullaby around your pillow;
Or did old Winter’s gales less rudely blow,
_Ye_ then would rise in vapoury clouds, and leave
A land unworthy even to be your tomb.
--------------
VÍKÍNGA BRAGUR.[51]
Óðfluga hraðar
Öldur streyma
Íshafs hins nyrðra,
Og öflugust vígi
Byggja um kyrrar
Byggðir Thúlu.
Hamramar æ
Þær hreykja kollum,
Og öruggar varnir
Mót árásarmönnum
Búa, þær aldrei
Bila kunna.
Sem vakir ljónsinna
Varnarlausum
Ungum yfir
Með afarmóði,
Freyða svo öldur
Ósigrandi
Halda þær vörð
Um Víkinga leiði;
Því blunda í klettum
Brimi skelfdum
Harðúðgir niðjar
Frá horfnum dögum;
Fékk þeim ei hugur
Í brjósti bilað;
Harmar því móðer
Og hryggðar saungva
Aldrei fær slitið,
Er hún minnist
Þeirra, er áður
Ungir léku
Meginglaðir
Á móðurbrjósti.
Leit ei nokkur
Af niðjum jarðar
Aðra tignari
Eður knárri
Yður, sem þjóðir
Unnuð sverðum,
Feður jötna,
Er fólki styrðu.
Horrfinn er heiður,
En heiðraðar moldir
Náðu hvíld hæfri
Und norðurheimsskauti;
Í vöggu þeim velta
Vindar stríðir;
Vögguljóð kveða
Veinandi unnir,
Þær er með mundum
Meginstyrkvum
Lögðu skýblæur
Á leiði niðja.
Var það að verðúng,
Er varandi unnir
Yðar æ gráta
Ættar hnignun,
Og frama horfinn
Fósturjarðar.
Það og vel hæfði,
Er þrumuskýin,
Vagnar þau urðu
Vængjum búnir,
Yðar sem aka
Andar glaðir;
En lýsa á vegi
Ljósgeislar kaldir
Leiptrandi Norður—
Ljósa skærra.
Sízt fær lægra neitt
Eður svipminna
Yðar samboðið
Anda háum.
Munduð þér kýma
Megnum hlátri
Að ilmandi vindum,
Um er þjóta
Ofurdrúnga lopt
Indíafoldar,
Eður geislandi
Uppheims boga,
Yfir er breiðist
Ítalska grund.
Er mér sem heyri
Yður hvísla:
Ægir ef fengi,
Umvafinn fjötrum,
Sorgleg ei lengur
Súngið kvæði
Þau um hægindi
Heyrast yðar,
Og aldinn vetur
Ei ólma léti
Geysa svo vinda,
Sem gjörir hann nú;
Munduð þér þá
Í mekkjum sudda
Hefja látast
Frá hauðri burtn,
Yðra óhæfu
Gröf að geyma.
--------------
THE VIKING’S RAVEN.[52]
BY MRS. ANDREW JAMES SYMINGTON.
Beside a weird-like Norway bay,
Where wild and angry billows play,
And seldom meet the night and day,
A Raven sat.
He was the last of all his race
That lingered in that lonely place;
Age, grief, were stamped upon his face,
Sad, desolate.
Yet to that darkling norland sky
He raised an undimmed, fearless eye,
As though he proudly would defy
And battle fate.
His mate long dead, his nestlings flown,
The moss had o’er his eyry grown;
And all the scenes his youth had known
Were changed and old.
For he had heard the vikings all
Responding to the mystic call,
That summoned to great Odin’s hall
Those heroes bold.
He oft had skimmed the Polar seas;
And Harold’s sail aye wooed the breeze,
To follow where the Raven flees
On tireless wing.
But victory ceased on them to smile.—
On Hialtland’s rugged, rock-bound isle
He saw them raise the funeral pile
Of the Sea-King.
· · · ·
Once his unerring pinions led
To where the shafts of battle sped;
But, when the conquered Northmen fled,
He scorned to flee;
But watched where brave young Ingolf lies,
With drooping heart and fading eyes,
Pining for his native skies,
A captive he.
A maiden of the sunny South
There loved and would have freed the youth,
But he was wed to Gulda Brûth.
His norland bride.
And she, across the stormy main,
Had turned her weary eyes in vain;—
Her hero ne’er returned again:
And so she died.
No Saga tells where rests the brave,
No mourner weeps by Ingolf’s grave;
The Raven’s sable pinions wave
There all alone.
And then he spread his pinions wide
Upon the free north wind to ride,
With mien erect, and eye of pride;
His task well done.
And nought around, howe’er so bright,
Could win his stay, or stop his flight
From where he saw the pole-star’s light
Shine o’er the north.
When, hark! a wild exulting cry
Falls on his ear; his piercing eye
A burning vessel can descry
That flashes forth,
Like to the fitful spirit-gleam
Of the Aurora’s restless beam;
But ah! he knows it is no dream,
And droops his wing.
Beside the blazing spectral pyre—
A spark from Baldur’s sacred fire
Lighteth to death a Norseman sire,—
Brave old Thorsteing.
His arms are folded o’er his breast,
And on his noble brow doth rest
The shadow from his warrior crest
That waves on high.
His glances on the ocean fell;
Fondly he marked its rising swell—
That ocean he had loved so well—
Then raised his eye.
And when he saw the faithful bird,
The soul of song within him stirred.
Hast thou once more returned,
Thou trusty friend, to me?
What news hast thou of Ingolf,
My son, the brave and free?
Hath he in battle fallen,
His good sword by his side?
Or, captive, is he sighing
To see once more his bride?
Ah! no, his soul would scorn
In captive chain to lie;
I know he hath been borne
To Valhalla’s halls on high,
And I’ll meet him in the sky
E’re the morn.
Alas! with us will perish
The Vikings’ race and name,
That long made foemen tremble
When Scalds rehearsed our fame.
And thou, dark bird of omen,
Back to our country hie,
And tell her recreant children
How Norsemen ought to die.
But to guard my mountain home
My spirit yet will soar,
And on old ocean roam
As in the days of yore.
Oft to visit yon loved shore
I will come.
The song hath ceased, and Thorsteing brave
Is sleeping now in Odin’s cave.
Athwart the sky the lightnings flash,
While down the Fiords the thunders crash,
And sullen waves in fury lash
The fretted shore.
Where is that Raven, grim and lone?—
Uprooted is the old grey stone.
Where late he sat, and he is gone
To come no more.
--------------
DEATH OF THE OLD NORSE KING.
BY A.J.S.
Haste, clothe me, jarls, in my royal robe;
My keen biting sword gird ye.
Haste! for I go to the Fatherland,
Both king of earth and sea.
My blade so true, with a spirit-gleam—
Death lurks in its skinkling fire—
I grasp thee now as of olden time
In conflict hot and dire.
I’ve trampled foes; from their blanchéd sculls
Now drain off the dark-red wine;
Fall bravely all in the battle field,
Be crowned with wreaths divine!
My eyes wax dim, and my once jet locks
Now wave with a silvery white;
Feeble, my arm cannot wield the blade
I dote on with delight.
Grim Hela breathes a chilling shade,
I hear the Valkyrii sing;
Now to the halls of the brave I’ll rise,
As fits an old Norse King.
Heimdallar’s ship, with the incense wood,
Prepare as a pyre for me;
Blazing, I’ll rise to the Odin halls,
At once in the air and sea!
They’ve lit slow fire in the incense ship;
The sun has just sunk in the wave;
Set are the sails, he is launched away,
This hero-king so brave!
The death chaunt floats in the deep blue skies,
All wild, in the darkling night;
Fearful there glares from the blazing ship
A wild red lurid light.
It shimmering gleams o’er the lone blue sea,
The flickers shoot wild and high—
Odin hath welcomed the brave old king
To his palace in the sky!
The bale-flames die, and a silence deep
Now floats on the darkness cold,
Where so fearless and free, on the deep blue sea,
Had died this Norse king bold!
=1845.=
--------------
DAUÐI GAMALS NORÐMANNA-KONUNGS.[53]
1.
Skundið þér, jarlar!
Skjótt mig búið
Skrúðklœðum, beztu
Skarti jöfurs,
Og meginbitrum
Mœki girðið;
Því heim vil eg halda
Til húsa föður,
Á láði bæði og lög
Lávarður kjörinn.
Tryggvan, gljáandi
Tek eg mœki—
Af honum leiptrar
Ólmur dauði—
Hann vil eg nú
Í höndum bera,
Sem áður í grimmum
Oddaleikum.
2.
Hefi eg fjendur
Fótum troðna;
Myrkrauðar drekka
Megið nú veigar
Skýgðum af hausa—
Skeljum þeirra.
Hnígið sem hetjur
Í hildarleiki,
Örlög þá kalla,
Æðstum heiðri
Krýndir af goðum
Þeim á Gimli búa.
Daprast mér sjón
Og dökkvir áður
Leika silfurlit
Lokkar á höfði;
Armur aflvana
Ei fær valdið
Mœki, þeim unað
Mestum veldur
3.
Hefur upp myrkva
Frá Helju kaldan;
Að berst eyrum
Ómur Valkyrju;
Hefur mig hugur
Til hetjusala;
Svo ber Norðmanna
Nýtum jöfri
Aldurhnignum
Æfi Gúka.
Heimdalls þer snekkju
Hraðir búið,
Og ylmandi látið
Eldskíð loga;
Vil eg þar nar
Á vita brenna;
En hugur mig ber
Til hallar Óðins
Til upphimins jafnt
Og Unnar sala.
4.
Brennur skíðeldur
Á skipi kveiktur;
Mær hverfur sól
Í marar skauti;
Undin eru segl,
Ytt frá landi
Siglir þar hetjan,
Hilmir frægur.
Nötra ná hljód
Í niðmyrkvu lopti;
Bregður á býsnum
Í blindmyrkri nætur;
Leiptra geigvænir
Logar frá snekkju,
Og dökkrauðri miðla
Dauðaskýmu.
5.
Brunnar einskipa
Um bláan Ægi
Umvafin skeið
Í ógna blossum;
En Óðinn fagnandi
Aldinn sjóla
Til himinsala
Hefir leiddan,
Dvína burt logar
Og djúpri lystur
Megin þögn yfir
Myrkva kaldan;
Þar í myrkbláu
Mararskauti;
Hilmir Norðmanna,
Hetjan frægust,
Hugprúður, frjáls,
Réd Sielju gista.
-----
Footnote 50:
Written in reply to the following lines, by Delta, sent her by way of
a challenge.
“To where the Arctic billow foams
Round Shetland’s sad and silent homes,
There sighs the wind and wails the surge
As ’twere of living things the dirge.”
In these old heathen days, be it remembered, where all were sea-rovers
there were good and bad among them. For a fine description of the best
type of the Viking and his code of honour, see Tegner’s beautiful
northern poem, “The Frithjof Saga.”
Footnote 51:
The “Lay of the Vikings,” translated into Icelandic verse by the Rev.
Olaf Pálsson. It is in the free metre of the old sagas—the same as
that which Thorláksson adopted in his translation of “Paradise Lost.”
The following is the translation of Delta’s lines:
Þar sem um Hjaltlands
Heimkynni þögul
Norðurhafs öldur
Ólmar freyða,
Stynja þar stormar,
Stúra brimboðar,
Lifandi veru
Líkar sorgröddum.
Footnote 52:
The raven was regarded as sacred, and greatly venerated by the old
Norse Vikings, who had always one or two of these birds in their
ships. When setting out on marauding expeditions the raven was let
loose and his flight followed by the bold voyagers, in the belief that
he led them to war and victory. These birds it was supposed lived to a
fabulous age. Odin’s shield had a raven on it, and so had the
_Landeyda_ or battle-flag of Sigurd, which ever led to victory,
although its bearer was doomed to die. Hialtland is the ancient name
of Shetland. The Norse rovers thought it a disgrace to die in their
beds in peace; and when they found their end approaching, clad in
armour, had themselves carried on board their ships which were then
set fire to and sent adrift, that the old heroes might die, as they
had lived, on the ocean, and thence worthily rise to Valhalla.
Footnote 53:
The “Death of the Old Norse King,” translated into Icelandic verse by
the Rev. Olaf Pálsson.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
IV.
INFORMATION FOR INTENDING TOURISTS:
A LETTER RECEIVED FROM THE REV. OLAF PÁLSSON IN ANSWER TO
QUERIES ABOUT TRAVELLING IN ICELAND.
--------------
Reykjavik, 20th Nov. 1861.
My Dear Friend,
According to your wish in your kind note of 15th
August this year, I will now try to give some answers to the queries you
have there put to me, about several matters which it may be useful for
strangers who travel in Iceland to know.
I have since conferred with Zöga, who is assuredly the very best guide
in this place, and well versed in these matters. The hints that I am
able to give are as follows, and correspond to the order of the queries
put.
1st. I have not such an extensive acquaintance with the coasts of
Iceland as to be able to describe all places of shelter that might be
found around the island; for doubtless they are many. But I am sure,
that it will not be advisable for any foreign vessel to approach the
south coast; for, from Cape Reykjanes to Berufiord, there is no shelter
at all along the whole south side of Iceland, except in the Westmanna
Islands, which lie some ten miles from the shore.
As a general rule, every merchant place, marked on the map, will be
found tolerably safe.
2d. For the Englishman who arrives at Reykjavik, or for any traveller
who has some knowledge of English, it is not absolutely necessary to
know other languages; for guides who know that language can be had
there, and these make tolerably good interpreters in the country.
This, however, will scarcely be the case in any other merchant place in
Iceland.
3d. As to expenses of travelling; I can only remark that a guide is paid
about 2 rix dollars[54] a day (4/6).
Every gentleman will be obliged to have two ponies each at 64 skillings
per day (1/5). A jack horse is to be got at 48 skillings per day, and
will not comfortably carry more than 100 to 120 lbs. weight. If this
horse is provided with pack saddle and chests for preserving goods in,
it will cost 64 skillings. If the travellers should wish to be away for
a longer time from human habitations, it will be necessary for them to
bring with them a tent, a sufficient quantity of victuals, &c. Thus it
will be found that two gentlemen travelling cannot easily do with less
than five pack horses, and then they will require to have two guides,
one to take care of the horses and baggage, and the other to attend upon
themselves when they wish to travel faster, or to visit places where the
train of baggage horses cannot easily go with them.
From this I hope an idea can be formed of the average cost of such
travelling for a week or so. For a more protracted journey through the
island, it will certainly be preferable to buy the horses, and dispose
of them again by auction on returning to Reykjavik. The average price of
a pack horse will be 24 rix dollars, and for a riding pony 30 to 40 rix
dollars. They will again sell at a half, or at least a third of the
money, according to the length of the journey, their condition, and the
season of the year. This calculation is made for a journey begun from
Reykjavik, which in most respects will be found the most convenient
place to start from.
4th. An india-rubber boat will very probably be serviceable, but it will
seldom be needed; for on almost every one of the larger rivers there are
plenty of ferries.
5th. The very best month for travelling in Iceland undoubtedly is July,
and next to it August. A journey can be begun in the middle of June. At
an earlier time there will not be sufficient grass for the horses. The
journey can usually, without the risk of getting bad weather, be
prolonged to the middle of September.
These, my dear sir, are all the hints I am able to give you. I am sure
there are many other things which might be taken into consideration, but
I have written this to my best ability, although in great haste, which
may excuse the many faults I am sure will be found with my English. With
my best wishes &c.
Yours very truly,
O. PÁLSSON.
NOTE.—The screw steamer _Arcturus_ makes six trips during the
season, carrying the mails from Copenhagen to Iceland, and
calling at Grangemouth and the Faröe Islands. The first sailing
north is generally about the beginning of March, and the last
towards the end of October. Fares—First cabin £5; second do. £3
10s. Return—only available for the same voyage—first cabin £9;
second do. £6. Further information may be obtained by applying
to Mr. P. L. Henderson, 20 Dixon Street, Glasgow; Messrs. David
Robertson & Co., Grangemouth; or Messrs. Koch & Henderson,
Copenhagen.
-----
Footnote 54:
A rix dollar is equal in value to 2/3 English. A skilling is a
fraction more than a farthing.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
V.
GLOSSARY.
The following Explanatory List of Geographical Terms will
assist the memory, aid the pronunciation, and, it is
believed, prove of interest and practical utility.[55]
á _or_ aa, _river_.
bakki, _hill_.
beru, _bare_.
beru-fjördr, _bare frith_.
blá, _blue_.
bœr, _farm_.
bol, _or_ bol-stadr, _main farm_, or _steading_ (bu _or_ boo, in
Orkney).
brekka, _brink of a precipice_.
brú, _bridge_.
dalr, _valley_.
eingi, _or_ hagi, _meadow_, or _field_.
ey (eyjar, genitive singular; eyja, genitive plural), _an island_
eyri, _sand_, _sand-bank_ or _bar_ (ere, in north of England)
fell, _same as_ fjall.
ferjur, _ferries_.
fjall, (plural fjöll), _fell_, or _height_; as Blá-fjall, _blue fell_,
or, in English, _Scawfell_, _&c._
fjördr, _frith_.
fljót, _a river_ (_fleet_)
fors, _force_, or _waterfall_.
hals, _ridge_, or _col_.
hædir, _heights_.
heidi, _heath_.
hof, _or_ hofdi, _head_, or _headland_.
holl, _hill_.
holt, _wood_.
hraun, _lava_.
hreppr, _a rape_ (whence divisions of land, and “rapes” of Sussex).
hvamm, _a combe_, or _recess surrounded by hills_; _as Ilfra-combe_.
hvit, _white_ (hence hvit-á, _white river_.)
jökull, _ice mountain_.
jökuls-á, is the name given to many rivers, and means only _ice river_;
but it is usually associated with another name, such as Axa-firdi
Jökuls-á, or _ice river of the Axa frith_.
kirk, _church_.
kverk, _chin_ (hence Kverk-fjöll, _Chinfell_).
lid, _lithe_, provincial for _a sloping bank_ (whence Reykja-lid, _the
smoking bank_).
lœkr, _brook_, _stream_.
muli, _mull_, or _cliff_; thing-muli, _the heights_, or _cliffs, under
which an assembly was held_.
myri, _morass_.
ness, _headland_.
nupr, _bluff_, or _inland cliff_.
orœfi, _wastes_.
rafn, _raven_.
reyk, _smoke_.
sandr, _sands_.
skard, _pass_, _defile_.
skógr, _underwood_.
stadr, _stede_, _stead_, or _sted_; _as Hampstead_.
strönd, _strand_.
sysla, _or_ syssel, _district_.
thing, _meeting_.
vatn (plural, vötn), _lake_.
vellir, _plain_.
vik, vikr, _bay_; Grunda-vik, _green bay_; Greenwich = Green-vik.
-----
Footnote 55:
Extracted from the postscript to Mr. William Longman’s “Suggestions
for the Exploration of Iceland”—an address delivered to the members of
the Alpine Club, of which he is Vice-President.—Longman & Co., 1861.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
VI.
OUR SCANDINAVIAN ANCESTORS.[56]
Few subjects possess greater interest for the British race than the
Scandinavian North, with its iron-bound rampart of wave-lashed rocks,
its deeply indented fiords, bold cliffs, rocky promontories, abrupt
headlands, wild skerries, crags, rock-ledges, and caves, all alive with
gulls, puffins and kittiwakes; and in short, the general and striking
picturesqueness of its scenery, to say nothing of the higher human
interest of its stirring history, and the rich treasures of its grand
old literature.
The British race has been called Anglo-Saxon; made up however, as it is,
of many elements—Ancient Briton, Roman, Anglo-Saxon, Dane, Norman, and
Scandinavian—the latter predominates so largely over the others as to
prove by evidence, external and internal, and not to be gainsaid, that
the Scandinavians are our true progenitors.
The Germans are a separate branch of the same great Gothic family,
industrious, but very unlike us in many respects. The degree of
resemblance and affinity may be settled by styling them honest but
unenterprising inland friends, whose ancestors and ours were first
cousins upwards of a thousand years ago.
To the old Northmen—hailing from the sea-board of Norway, Sweden, and
Denmark—may be traced the germs of all that is most characteristic of
the modern Briton, whether personal, social, or national. The
configuration of the land, and the numerous arms of the sea with which
the north-west of Europe is indented, necessitated boats and seamanship.
From these coasts, the Northmen—whether bent on piratical plundering
expeditions, or peacefully seeking refuge from tyrannical oppression at
home—sallied forth in their frail barks or skiffs, which could live in
the wildest sea, visiting and settling in many lands. We here mention,
in geographical order, Normandy, England, Scotland, Orkney, Shetland,
Faröe, and Iceland. Wherever they have been, they have left indelible
traces behind them, these ever getting more numerous and distinct as we
go northwards.
Anglen, from which the word England is derived, still forms part of
Holstein a province in Denmark; and the preponderance of the direct
Scandinavian element in the language itself has been shewn by Dean
Trench, who states, that of a hundred English words, sixty come from the
Scandinavian, thirty from the Latin, five from the Greek, and five from
other sources.
In Scotland many more Norse words, which sound quite foreign to an
English ear, yet linger amongst the common people; while, as in England,
the original Celtic inhabitants were driven to the west before the
Northmen, who landed for the most part on the east. In certain districts
of the Orkneys a corrupt dialect of Norse was spoken till recently, and
the Scandinavian type of features is there often to be met with.
The Norse language is still understood and frequently spoken in
Shetland, where the stalwart, manly forms of the fishermen, the
characteristic prevalence of blue eyes and light flaxen hair, the
universal observance of the Norse Yule, and many other old-world
customs, together with the oriental and almost affecting regard paid to
the sacred rites of hospitality, on the part of the islanders, all
plainly tell their origin.
The language of the Faröe islanders is a dialect of the Norse,
approaching Danish, and peculiar to themselves. It is called Faröese.
The peaceful inhabitants not only resemble, but are Northmen.
In Iceland we have pure Norse, as imported from Norway in the ninth
century, the lone northern sea having guarded it, and many other
interesting features, from those modifications to which the Norwegian,
Danish, and Swedish have been subjected by neighbouring Teutonic or
German influences. This language, the parent, or at least the oldest and
purest form of the various Scandinavian dialects with which we are
acquainted, has been at different times named Dönsk-tunga, Norræna, or
Norse, but latterly it has been simply called Icelandic, because
peculiar to that island.
The language, history, and literature of our ancestors having been thus
preserved in the north, we are thereby enabled to revisit the past, read
it in the light of the present, and make both subservient for good in
the future.
Herodotus mentions that tin was procured from Britain. Strabo informs us
that the Phœnicians traded to our island, receiving tin and skins in
exchange for earthenware, salt, and vessels of brass; but our first
authentic particulars regarding the ancient Britons are derived from
Julius Cæsar, whose landing on the southern portion of our island, and
hard-won battles, were but transient and doubtful successes. The
original inhabitants were Celts from France and Spain; but, as we learn
from him, these had long before been driven into the interior and
western portion of the island by Belgians, who crossed the sea, made
good their footing, settled on the east and south-eastern shores of
England, and were now known as Britons. With these Cæsar had to do. The
intrepid bravery of the well-trained and regularly disciplined British
warriors commanded respect, and left his soldiers but little to boast
of. The Roman legions never felt safe unless within their entrenchments,
and, even there, were sometimes surprised. Strange to realise such dire
conflicts raging at the foot of the Surrey hills, probably in the
neighbourhood of Penge, Sydenham, and Norwood, where the Crystal Palace
now peacefully stands. Even in these dark Druid days, the Britons,
although clothed in skins, wearing long hair, and stained blue with
woad, were no mere painted savages as they have sometimes been
represented, but were in possession of regularly-constituted forms of
government. They had naval, military, agricultural and commercial
resources to depend upon, and were acquainted with many of the important
arts of life. The Briton was simple in his manners, frugal in his
habits, and loved freedom above all things. Had the brave Caswallon
headed the men of Kent, in their attack upon the Roman maritime camp,
Cæsar and his hosts would never, in all likelihood, have succeeded in
reaching their ships, but would have found graves on our shores. His
admirable commentaries would not have seen the light of day, and the
whole current of Roman, nay, of the world’s history might have been
changed.
Our British institutions and national characteristics were not adopted
from any quarter, completely moulded and finished, as it were, but
everywhere exhibit the vitality of growth and progress, slow but sure.
Each new element or useful suggestion, from whatever source derived, has
been tested and modified before being allowed to take root and form part
of the constitution. The germs have been developed in our own soil.
Thus, to the Romans, we can trace our municipal institutions—subjection
to a central authority controlling the rights of individuals. To the
Scandinavians, we can as distinctly trace that principle of personal
liberty which resists absolute control, and sets limits—such as Magna
Charta—to the undue exercise of authority in governors.
These two opposite tendencies, when united, like the centripedal and
centrifugal forces, keep society revolving peacefully and securely in
its orbit around the sun of truth. When severed, tyranny, on the one
hand, or democratic license, on the other—both alike removed from
freedom—must result, sooner or later, in instability, confusion, and
anarchy. France affords us an example of the one, and America of the
other. London is not Britain in the sense that Paris is France; while
Washington has degenerated into a mere cockpit for North and South.
From the feudal system of the Normans, notwithstanding its abuses, we
have derived the safe tenure and transmission of land, with protection
and security for all kinds of property. British law has been the growth
of a thousand years, and has been held in so much respect that even our
revolutions have been legally conducted, and presided over by the staid
majesty of justice. Were more evidences wanting to show that the
Scandinavian element is actually the backbone of the British
race—contributing its superiority, physical and moral, its indomitable
strength and energy of character—we would simply mention a few traits of
resemblance which incontestably prove that the “child is father to the
man.”
The old Scandinavian possessed an innate love of truth; much
earnestness; respect and honour for woman; love of personal freedom;
reverence, up to the light that was in him, for sacred things; great
self-reliance, combined with energy of will to dare and do; perseverance
in overcoming obstacles, whether by sea or land; much self-denial, and
great powers of endurance under given circumstances. These qualities,
however, existed along with a pagan thirst for war and contempt of
death, which was courted on the battle-field that the warrior might rise
thence to Valhalla.
To illustrate the love of freedom, even in thought, which characterises
the race, it can be shewn that, while the Celtic nations fell an easy
prey to the degrading yoke of Romish superstition, spreading its deadly
miasma from the south, the Scandinavian nations, even when for a time
acknowledging its sway, were never bound hand and foot by it, but had
minds of their own, and sooner or later broke their fetters. In the
truth-loving Scandinavian, Jesuitical Rome has naturally ever met with
its most determined antagonist; for
“True and tender is the North.”
In the dark days of the Stuarts, witness the noble struggles of the
Covenanters and the Puritans for civil and religious liberty.
Notwithstanding mixtures and amalgamations of blood, as a general rule
the distinctive tendencies of race survive, and, good or bad, as the
case may be, reappear in new and unexpected forms. Even habit becomes a
second nature, the traces of which, centuries with their changes cannot
altogether obliterate.
On the other side of the Atlantic, the Puritan Fathers, their
descendants, and men like them, have been the salt of the north; while
many of the planters of the south, tainted with cavalier blood, continue
to foster slavery—“that sum of all villanies”—and glory in being
man-stealers, man-sellers, and murderers, although cursed of God, and
execrated by all right thinking men. John Brown of Harper’s Ferry, who
was the other day judicially murdered, we would select as an honoured
type of the noble, manly, brave, truth-loving, God-fearing
Scandinavian—_The Times_ and _Athenæum_ notwithstanding.[57] His heroism
in behalf of the poor despised slave had true moral grandeur in it—it
was sublime. America cannot match it. Washington was great—John Brown
was greater. Washington resisted the imposition of unjust taxes on
himself and his equals, but was a slave-holder; John Brown unselfishly
devoted his energies—nay, life itself—to obtain freedom for the
oppressed, and to save his country from just impending judgments. The
one was a patriot; the other was a patriot and philanthropist. The
patriotism of Washington was limited by colour; that of Brown was
thorough, and recognised the sacred rights of man. He was hanged for
trying to accomplish that which his murderers ought to have done—nay,
deserved to be hanged for not doing—hanged for that which they shall yet
do, if not first overtaken and whelmed in just and condign vengeance;
for the cry of blood ascends. He was no less a martyr to the cause of
freedom than John Brown of Priesthill, who was ruthlessly shot by the
bloody Claverhouse. These two noble martyrs, in virtue alike of their
name and cause, shall stand together on the page of future history, when
their cruel murderers and the abettors of them have long gone to their
own place. For such deeds there shall yet be tears of blood. The wrongs
of Italy are not to be named in comparison with those of the slave. Let
those who boast of a single drop of Scandinavian blood in their veins no
longer withhold just rights from the oppressed—rights which, if not
yielded at this the eleventh hour, shall be righteously, though
fearfully, wrested from the oppressors, when the hour of retribution
comes.[58]
Perhaps the two most striking outward resemblances between Britons and
Scandinavians may be found in their maritime skill, and in their powers
of planting colonies, and governing themselves by free institutions,
representative parliaments, and trial by jury.
The Norse rover—bred to the sea, matchless in skill, daring, loving
adventure and discovery, and with any amount of pluck—is the true type
of the British tar. In light crafts, the Northmen could run into shallow
creeks, cross the North Sea, or boldly push off to face the storms of
the open Atlantic. These old Vikings were seasoned “salts” from their
very childhood—“creatures native and imbued unto the element;” neither
in peace nor war, on land nor sea, did they fear anything but fear.
“Tameless spirits of the past!
Boldest and noblest of earth’s kind were ye—
Conquerors of nations—fathers of a race
Of giant princes.”[59]
In them we see the forerunners of the buccaneers, and the ancestors of
those naval heroes, voyagers, and discoverers—those Drakes and Dampiers,
Nelsons and Dundonalds, Cooks and Franklins, who have won for Britain
the proud title of sovereign of the seas—a title which she is still
ready to uphold against all comers.
In Shetland, we still find the same skilled seamanship, and the same
light open boat, like a Norwegian yawl; indeed, planks for building
skiffs are generally imported from Norway, all prepared and ready to put
together. There the peace-loving fishermen, in pursuit of their perilous
calling, sometimes venture sixty miles off to sea, losing sight of all
land, except perhaps the highest peak of their island-homes left dimly
peering just above the horizon-line. Sometimes they are actually driven,
by stress of weather, within sight of the coast of Norway, and yet the
loss of a skiff in the open sea, however high the waves run, is a thing
quite unknown to the skilled Shetlander. The buoyancy of the skiff (from
this word we have ship and skipper) is something wonderful. Its high bow
and stern enables it to ride and rise over the waves like a sea-duck,
although its chance of living seems almost as little, and as perilous,
as that of the dancing shallop or mussel-shell we see whelmed in the
ripple. Its preservation, to the onlooker from the deck of a large
vessel, often seems miraculous. It is the practice, in encountering the
stormy blasts of the North Sea, to lower the lug-sail on the approach of
every billow, so as to ride its crest with bare mast, and to raise it
again as the skiff descends into the more sheltered trough of the wave.
By such constant manœuvering, safety is secured and progress made. When
boats are lost—and such tragedies frequently occur, sometimes leaving
poor lonely widows bereft, at one fell swoop, of husband, father, and
brothers, for the crews are too often made up of relatives—it is
generally when they are caught and mastered by strong currents running
between the islands, which neither oar nor sail can stem. Such losses
are always on the coasts—never at sea.
Of the Scandinavian powers of colonising:—There is ample evidence of
their having settled in Shetland, Orkney, and on our coasts, long before
those great outgoings of which we have authentic historical records. To
several of these latter we shall briefly advert, viz., the English,
Russian, Icelandic, American, and Norman.
We may first mention that, in remote ages, this race swept across Europe
from the neighbourhood of the region now called Circassia, lying between
the Black Sea and the Caspian, to the shores of the Baltic, settling on
the north-west coast of Europe. Their traditions, and numerous eastern
customs—allied to the Persians and the inhabitants of the plains of Asia
Minor in old Homeric days—which they brought along with them, all go to
confirm their eastern origin. Nor did they rest here, but, thirsting for
adventure in these grim warrior ages, sailed forth as pirates or
settlers, sometimes both, and, as can be shewn, made their power and
influence felt in every country of Europe, from Lapland to the
Mediterranean.
They invaded England in A.D. 429, and founded the kingdoms of South,
West, and East Seaxe, East Anglia, Mercia, Deira, and Bernicea; thus
overrunning and fixing themselves in the land, from Devonshire to North
of the Humber. From the mixture of these Angles, or Saxons, as they were
termed by the Britons, with the previous Belgian settlers and original
inhabitants, we have the Anglo-Saxon race. The Jutes who settled in Kent
were from Jutland. In A.D. 787, the Danes ravaged the coast, beginning
with Dorsetshire; and, continuing to swarm across the sea, soon spread
themselves over the whole country. They had nearly mastered it all, when
Alfred ascended the throne in 871. At length, in A.D. 1017, Canute,
after much hard fighting, did master it, and England had Danish kings
from that period till the Saxon line was restored in 1042.
In the year A.D. 862, the Scandinavian Northmen established the Russian
empire, and played a very important part in the management of its
affairs, even after the subsequent infusion of the Sclavonic element. In
the “Mémoires de la Société Royale des Antiquaries du Nord,” published
at Copenhagen, we find that, of the fifty names of those composing
Ingor’s embassy to the Greek Emperor at Constantinople in the year A.D.
994, only three were Sclavic, and the rest Northmen—names that occur in
the Sagas, such as Ivar, Vigfast, Eylif, Grim, Ulf, Frode, Asbrand, &c.
The Greeks called them Russians, but Frankish writers simply Northmen.
In the year A.D. 863, Naddodr, a Norwegian, discovered Iceland,[60]
which, however, had been previously visited and resided in at intervals
for at least upwards of seventy years before that time, by fishermen,
ecclesiastics, and hermits, called Westmen, from Ireland, Iona and other
islands of the Hebrides. Of these visits Naddodr found numerous traces.
In A.D. 874, Ingolf with followers, many of whom were related to the
first families in Norway, fleeing from the tyranny of Harold Harfagra,
began the colonisation of Iceland, which was completed during a space of
sixty years. They established a flourishing republic, appointed
magistrates, and held their Althing, or national assembly, at
Thingvalla.
Many of the Northmen who at various times had settled on our shores,
accompanied by their acquired relatives, also set sail and joined their
brethren; thus making use of Britain as a stepping stone between
Scandinavia and Iceland. Many traces of these early links yet remain. We
heard of a family in the island that can trace its descent, in a direct
line, from a royal ancestor of Queen Victoria.
Thus, in this distant volcanic island of the Northern Sea, the old
Danish language was preserved unchanged for centuries; while, in the
various Eddas, were embodied those folk-songs and folk-myths, and, in
the sagas, those historical tales and legends of an age at once heroic
and romantic, together with that folk-lore which still forms the staple
of all our old favourite nursery tales, as brought with them from Europe
and the East by the first settlers.[61] All these, as well as the
productions of the Icelanders themselves, are of great historical and
literary value. They have been carefully edited and published, at
Copenhagen, by eminent Icelandic, Danish, and other antiquarians. We
would refer to the writings of Müller, Magnusen, Rafn, Rask, Eyricksson,
Torfæus, and others. Laing has translated “The Heimskringla,” the great
historical Saga of Snorro Sturleson, into English.[62] Various other
translations and accounts of these singularly interesting Eddas, sagas,
and ballads, handed down by the scalds and Sagamen, are to be met with;
but by far the best analysis, with translated specimens, is that
contained in Howitt’s “Literature and Romance of Northern Europe.”[63]
We would call attention, in passing, to that Edda, consisting of the
original series of tragic poems from which the German “Niebelungen-lied”
has been derived. Considered as a series of fragments, it is a
marvellous production, and, to our thinking, absolutely unparalleled in
ancient or modern literature, for power, simplicity, and heroic
grandeur.
Christianity was established in Iceland in the year 1000. Fifty-seven
years later, Isleif, Bishop of Skálholt, first introduced the art of
writing the Roman alphabet, thus enabling them to fix oral lessons of
history and song; for, the Runic characters previously in use were
chiefly employed for monuments and memorial inscriptions, and were
carved on wood staves, on stone or metal. On analysis, these rude
letters will be found to be crude forms and abridgments of the Greek or
Roman alphabet. We have identified them all, with the exception of a few
letters, and are quite satisfied on this point, so simple and obvious is
it, although we have not previously had our attention directed to the
fact.
Snorro Sturleson was perhaps one of the most learned and remarkable men
that Iceland has produced.
In 1264, through fear and fraud, the island submitted to the rule of
Haco, king of Norway:—he who died at Kirkwall, after his forces were
routed by the Scots at the battle of Largs. In 1387, along with Norway,
it became subject to Denmark. In 1529, a printing press was established;
and in 1550 the Lutheran reformation was introduced into the
island—which form of worship is still retained.
True to the instinct of race, the early settlers in Iceland did not
remain inactive, but looked westward, and found scope for their
hereditary maritime skill in the discovery and colonising of Greenland.
They also discovered Helluland (Newfoundland), Markland (Nova Scotia),
and Vineland (New England). They were also acquainted with American
land, which they called Hvitramannaland, (the land of the white men),
thought to have been North and South Carolina, Georgia, and Florida. We
have read authentic records of these various voyages, extending from
A.D. 877 to A.D. 1347. The names of the principal navigators are
Gunnbiorn, Eric the Red, Biarni, Leif, Thorwald, &c. But the most
distinguished of these American discoverers is Thorfinn Karlsefne, an
Icelander, “whose genealogy,” says Rafn, “is carried back, in the old
northern annals, to Danish, Swedish, Norwegian, Scottish, and Irish
ancestors, some of them of royal blood.” With singular interest we also
read that, “in A.D. 1266, some priests at Gardar, in Greenland, set on
foot a voyage of discovery to the arctic regions of America. An
astronomical observation proves that this took place through Lancaster
Sound and Barrow’s Strait to the latitude of Wellington’s Channel.”
When Columbus visited Iceland in A.D. 1467, he may have obtained
confirmation of his theories as to the existence of a great continent in
the west; for, these authentic records prove the discovery and
colonisation of America, by the Northmen from Iceland, upwards of five
hundred years before he re-discovered it.
The Norman outgoing is the last to which we shall here allude. In A.D.
876 the Northmen, under Rollo, wrested Normandy from the Franks; and
from thence, in A.D. 1065, William, sprung from the same stock, landed
at Hastings, vanquished Harold, and to this day is known as the
Conqueror of England. It was a contest of Northmen with Northmen, where
diamond cut diamond.
Instead of a chapter, this subject, we feel, would require a volume. At
the outset we asserted that northern subjects possessed singular
interest for the British race. In a very cursory manner we have
endeavoured to prove it, by shewing that to Scandinavia, as its cradle,
we must look for the germs of that spirit of enterprise which has
peopled America, raised an Indian empire, and colonised Australia, and
which has bound together, as one, dominions on which the sun never sets;
all, too, either speaking, or fast acquiring, a noble language, which
bids fair one day to become universal.
The various germs, tendencies, and traits of Scandinavian character,
knit together and amalgamated in the British race, go to form the
essential elements of greatness and success, and, where sanctified and
directed into right channels, are noble materials to work upon.
It is Britain’s pride to be at once the mistress of the seas, the home
of freedom, and the sanctuary of the oppressed. May it also be her high
honour, by wisely improving outward privileges, and yet further
developing her inborn capabilities, pre-eminently to become the
torch-bearer of pure Christianity—with its ever-accompanying freedom and
civilisation—to the whole world!
-----
Footnote 56:
This chapter, written in December 1859, has already appeared in the
pages of a periodical.—A.J.S.
Footnote 57:
These journals, while admitting, in a general though apologetic way,
that great evils exist in connection with slavery, yet, somehow, on
every occasion, systematically and persistently uphold pro-slavery
measures and interests.
Footnote 58:
Fuller information and subsequent events in America have justified and
amply confirmed this estimate of Brown, formed at the time. Having had
access to documents, published and unpublished, and being in a
position to judge, we would confidently refer the reader to a volume
of 452 pp. 8vo., since published by Smith, Elder & Co.—“The Life and
Letters of Captain John Brown, edited by Richard D. Webbe”—as
presenting a fair statement of the facts of the case. From Brown’s
deeds and words, therein recorded, it will be clearly seen, how calm,
noble and dignified was the bearing of the man whom short-sighted
trimmers, on both sides the Atlantic, have attempted to brand as a
fanatic.
Footnote 59:
See “Lay of the Vikings,” p. 278.
Footnote 60:
The antiquarian book to which we have already referred, erroneously
attributes the discovery to Garder, a Dane of Swedish origin. Our
authority is Gísli Brynjúlfsson, the Icelandic poet, now resident in
Copenhagen, to whose kindness we are also indebted for the copy of
this work which we possess.
Footnote 61:
For these last, we would refer to Thorpe’s “Yuletide Stories,”
Dasent’s “Popular Tales from the Norse,” our own Nursery Lore, and to
preceding Stories and Tales in this appendix.
Footnote 62:
Mr. Dasent has since published an admirable translation of “Njal’s
Saga,” which presents a vivid picture of life in Iceland at the end of
the tenth century.
Footnote 63:
See the preceding specimens of old Icelandic poetry.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
INDEX
Abrasions of Ice-drift, 72, 76, 86
Academy, 61
Ailsa, 44
Akur Eyri, 57
Almannagjá, 77-82, 88-89
Alsey, 44
Althing, 86-90, 141
America discovered by Northmen, 306
Amphitheatre, head of Seydisfiord, 201
Amptmen, 154
Anchorage at Reykjavik, 48
Anglen, 294
Angles, 303
Apavatn, 103
Appearance of Great Geyser, 126
Approach to Faröe, 13
Approach to the Geysers, 106-107
Arch of rock under water, 111
Arctic discovery in A.D. 1266, 307
Armannsfell, 140
Arrival of Steamer, 50
Ascent of Hrafnagjá, 92
Ashes carried to Bergen, 169,
to Faröe, 176, 191
Auks, 15
Balls of fire, 164
Bannockburn, Burn’s, in Icelandic, 65
Basin of Great Geyser, 108
Bay at Reykjavik, 160
Beck, Rev. S. D. 84
Beds, 72
Bells of water, 113
Berufiord, 199, 201
Biarni Sveinsson and his sister Salvör, 226
Bible associations, 127-128
Birches, 91, 100, 106
Birds very tame, 100
Bjarnarey, 43
Blae-berries, 106
Blesi, 111, 136,
Blue tint of, 112
Boats’ crews, fishing, 99
Boxes for baggage, 70
Breida Fiord, 47, 199
Breidamerkr Jökul, 197
Bressay, 8
Bridge at Bruará Waterfall, 103-105
Brimnæs Fjall, 208
Britain’s, honour and duty, 308
British race, Origin of, 293
Brown, Capt. John, of Harper’s Ferry, 299
Bruará, 103,
Fording of, 103-105, 135
Bruce’s address at Bannockburn, in Icelandic, 65
Brushwood, 91
Brynjúlfsson, Gísli, 65
Bunsen’s Geyser theory, 124
Buttercups, 108
Butterflies, 105
Canute, 303
Cathedral at Reykjavik, 48, 62-64
Celtic nations, Traits of, 298
Central authority, 297
Central molten fire, 129
Chadbourne’s, Professor, night quarters at Farm, 133
Chalcedony, 204
Changeling, The, 257
Chaos, Iceland in winter like, 75
Chasms, 91
Chimney capped amphitheatre of hills, 205
Christianity introduced, 88, 306
Christian Names, 182
Church Swimming, 170
Church at Thorshavn, 24
Church rebuilding, 83
Churchyard at Reykjavik, 66,
at Thingvalla, 141
Cinder-range, 94-96
Circassian origin of the Northmen, 302
Clearness of northern atmosphere, 47
Clergyman’s daughter married to a Fairy Man, 253
Climate of Iceland, 55-58, 67
Coal, 97
Coast near Reykjavik, 45
Cod-fish Heads, 66
Colonies, Planting, 300, 302
Coloured Clays, 131
Columbus, 42, 307
Column of Fire, 173
Commissariat on Shipboard, 5
Conundrum, Icelandic, 55
Cooking at the Geysers, 115
Coppice, 91
Cormorants, 15
Corrivreckan, 13
Corrugated Lava, 76, 86, 139
Costume of the Faröese, 22, 28, 29;
of Icelandic Ladies, 51, 52, 68
Cowper on Earthquakes and Volcanoes, 193
Cragsmen, 14
Crater, Extinct, 93-94
Crimes, 155
Criminals, 88
Curlew, 72, 134
Dark School, The, 219
Danish Monopolists, 41-42
Death of the Old Norse King, 206
Do. in Icelandic, 207
Defile, 79
Derivation of name Faröe, 12
Descent into Almannagjá, 78-81
Diapensia, 74
Dimon, 14
Dirty Habits, 98
Distaff in use, 207
Distance, Ideas of, compounded, 47
Dome of water, 113
Donny, M., of Ghent’s Geyser Experiment, 125
Drainage needed, 142
Drángr, 44
Dream at the Geyser, 116
Dried Fish, 99
Drongs, 179
Druid days, 296
Dwarf Willows, 139
Dyrhólaey, 39
Earthquakes, 164, 169, 172, 173, 175, 176.
List of, 196
East, Iceland recalls the, 101, 103, 127-128
East coast, 197
Education, 61-62
Eider-down, 54.
Ducks, 48
Einarsdrángr, 44
Eldey, 46, 162
Endurance, Powers of, 298
English Tapestry and Linen in Iceland, 41
Eric, 41, 307
Erlendsey, 44
Eruptions, List of, 195-196
Essian Mountains, 160
Evening at Governor’s, 144
Exports from Faröe, 25
Extinct Geysers, 110
Eyafialla Jökul, 162
Factories, 200, 203.
Mr. Henderson’s, 202
Fair, Annual, 99
Fair Isle, 7-8, 214
Fairy Tales, 226
Famine and pestilence, 172, 192
Farms, 72, 96-98, 101.
Above Seydisfiord, 205.
Fifty destroyed, 173
Faröese, 12-34, 209
Faröese Atmospheric effects, 33.
Birds, 15, 34.
Boatman, 28.
Boatmen in saloon of steamer, 212.
Book, 211.
Cataracts, 33.
Interior, Mediæval aspect of, 26.
Knives, 26.
Lakes, 33.
Tidal currents, 33
Faxa Fiord, 47, 199
Fellow travellers, 3
Ferns, 88
Feudal system, 297
Fiords, 198-201.
Uses of, 200
First sight of Iceland, 38
Fisheries at Westmanna Islands, 40
Fishermen on East coast of Scotland, 6
Fishing boats, Faröese, 28
Fish, Mode of catching, at Lax-elv, 71
Fissures at Althing, containing water, 87
Fitful Head, 8
Fishermen’s houses at Reykjavik, 66
Flames and floods, 168, 171
Flosi, 87
Flowers larger in the North, 73
Fly, The, 224
Foaming fire-stream, 189
Foam-flakes, 9
Folk-lore, 305
Food, 97
Foola, 10
Forest, Dwarf, 91, 100
Formation of Faröe islands, 12-13, 32-33
Fort at Thorshavn, 23
Fox, 210
Free institutions, 296, 300
French policy and interests in Iceland, 58-59
Frodi, Ari, 125
Front street of Reykjavik, 52
Frost, Action of, on rocks, 14
Fuel, 97
Garden-plots at Reykjavik, 67
Geirfuglasker, 44
Geranium, Wild, 73
German race, 293
Germs of British character, 298, 301
Geyser bumpers, 130
Geysers, how formed, 109, 100
Geyser Eruption, 117.
Expedition, Arranging for, 50-51
Geyser ground, 123
Geyser water, Analysis of, 109
Gilitrutt, 240
Glaciers, 30, 179
Glades, 74
Glen above Seydisfiord, 205
Globes, Vast red-hot, 174
Glossary, 292
Goblin, The, and the Cowherd, 222
Goblin’s Whistle, The, 225
Government, 154
Governor, 154
Grand eruption of Great Geyser, 117
Grassy plot, 74
Great Geyser, 107
Grimsey, Island of, 57
Gritty slope, 107-108
Grœnavatn, 103
Guide, 50
Guillemots, 15
Guldbringu, Sysla, 99
Gudmundsson, M., 157
Gudrun and Sigurd, 265
Gusts in Faröe, 28
Haco, 306
Harold Harfagra, 304
Hastings, 307
Haukadal, 103, 107
Bird’s eye view of, 125
“Hávamál,” The, or High Song of Odin, 266
Hay-harvest, 84.
In túns, 85, 96.
200 Loads of, destroyed, 167.
Head-dress of Icelandic females, 49, 51, 68
Heimaklettur, 43
Heimaey, 40
Hekla, 99, 135,
Eruption of in A.D. 1766, 136.
Abode of Hela, 138
Heradsthing, 155
Hermanness, 11
Hildur the Fairy Queen, 244
Holum, 137
Hornafiord, 198
Horses sure-footed, 73, 75, 80, 92, 105-106
Hostess’ duties to Guests, 133-134
Hotel at Reykjavik, 64, 149
Hot Springs, 112.
At Laugervatn, 96
Houses of Faröese Fishermen, 21
Houses at Reykjavik, 67
Household Suffrage, 153
Hrafnagjá, 79, 89, 92, 139
Hummocks on pasture land, 85
Hung-milk, 97
Hvitá, 103
Ice-floes from Greenland, 55-58
Icebergs from Spitzbergen, 55-58
Ice-drift, Effects of, 72, 76, 86
Iceland Spar, 144,
where found, 204
Iceland left behind, 209
Illusory feeling over flowing water, 105
Indoor occupations, 98
Ingolf, 304
Intercourse between Britain and Iceland in Fifteenth century, 41-42
Inundations of melted ice, 166
Islands Minni, 146
Islendingur newspaper, 157
Islet-patches, 108
Jacks-of-all-trades, 98
Jökuls, 106
Jökulsá, 197.
formed, 166
Jonsbook, 155
Jonson, Rector, 157
Jutes, 303
Kaupstadr, 40
Kirkuboe, Church of, 210
Kiss of peace, 102
Kitchen fires, 72
Kittiwakes, 15
Kleifervatn, 158
Krisuvik, 45.
Ride to, 158
Kötlugjá, 125, 162.
Eruptions of, 163-177
Lambs, Mode of carrying, 101
Landfoged, 155
Lang Jökul, 103
Lang-spiel, 144
Laugervalla, 96, 99, 103
Laugervatn, 96
Language, Scandinavian element in, 294
Launay’s, Capt., vessel, _Agile_, 150
Latin conversation, 85, 141
Latin Vowel Sounds, 34
Lava-blister, 93
Lava, ejected by Skaptár, Bulk of, 187
Lava-waste, 74, 86
Lava-streams, Fluid, 188.
Extent of, 190
Lay of the Vikings, 278.
do. in Icelandic, 279
Laxá, 103
Lax-elv, or salmon river, 71
Leather bottle, 101
Leif, 307
Lerwick, 8.
Sloop, 211
Library at Reykjavik, 152.
at Thorshavn, 23-24
Light-house north of Orkney, 214
Lime juice, 151
Literature, Icelandic love of, 62
Little breakfast, 149
Little Geyser, 107, 111, 114, 123
Löbner, Miss, visit to 211
Lögberg, 86-90
Love of country, 145
Love of truth, 298
Lutheran Service at Thorshavn, 29-31
Maelsek, 46
Magna Charta, 297
Magnetic stones, 137
Mackenzie’s, Sir George, Geyser theory, 124
Markarfliót, 177
Meddomsmen, 155
Meeting on the Althing, 88-89
Milk diet, 97-98
Mits with two thumbs, 53-54
Mortality of children, 98
Mosquitoes, 105
Mud-caldrons, 158
Municipal institutions, 297
Mural precipice, 78
Myrdals Jökul, 162
Naalsöe, 15, 212
Naddodr, 304
National Song, 144
Native Manufactures of Iceland, 53
Needle Rocks or Drongs, 33
Nesey, 76
Newspapers, 157
Njal’s Saga, 305.
Scene of, 177
Nordurfari, 65
Norse Language, 183
Norse Words, 294,
Customs, 295
Norfolk commerce with Iceland, 41
Norman outgoing, 307
Northern “Dim,” 116
Northmen, The, 293.
Traces of, 294, 303.
Invade England, 303.
In Russia, 303.
Noss, 9
Occupations of Faröese, 26.
Of the Icelanders, 181.
Old Nick made himself as little as he was able, 224
Olfusá, 103
Oræfa Jökul, 185
Organ in Church at Thorshavn, 29
Our Scandinavian Ancestors, 293
Outfit for Iceland, 2, 289
Out-door Occupations, 98
Oxerá, 82, 88-90, 140.
Waterfall of, 78
Pack of Lava Blocks, 86
Pálsson’s, Rev. Olaf, Library, 60-61
Parliament, Functions of, 88.
Assembled, 152
Parnassia, 94, 108
Pasturage covered with ashes, 169, 172, 191
Perseverance, 298
Personal Liberty, 297
Pet Raven, 209
Petrifactions, Geyser, 108
Piratical Habits, 294, 300, 303
Plain, 94
Plateau, 74
Planters, 299
Plopping Pits, 107
Ploughs, 85
Plover, Golden, 75, 93, 100
Pluck, 301
Poems on Northern Subjects, 278
Poetry, Specimens of old Icelandic, 260
Ponies, 51.
Guided by the heel, 106.
Left to shift for themselves, 106.
Adventure of a, 158
Population of Faröe, 13, 26.
Of Iceland, 61
Porpoises, 18
Portland, 179, 182, 184
Portland Huk, 38
Premonitory symptoms of Geyser eruptions, 113
Preserved salmon, 71
Priest’s house, 82, 90
Produce, 203
Ptarmigan, 100
Puffins, 15
Pumice, 137
Puritan Fathers, 299
Rainfall, 55-56
Rake, 85
Rampart, 79
Randröp, Mr., 60
Range of vari-coloured hills, 94-95
Raven, Tame, 204
Ravine, 73
Red-hot stones, 189
Relay ponies, 71, 75
Remembrance of Iceland, The, 147
Representative parliaments, 153, 296, 304
Retrospect of Icelandic travel, 215-216
Reverence, 298
Reydarfiord, 199, 204, 209
Reykjanes, 45, 162
Reykjavik, 48-68, 143.
Library of, 63-64
Ride to the Geysers, 69
River disappears, 188
Rock-walls, 78, 79, 82
Rolling of ship, 35
Rollo, 307
Rover, Norse, 300
Runic characters, 306
Run-milk, 97
Sæmund gets the living of Oddi, 221.
Stories of, 219
Sagas, 305
Salmon-preserve of Europe, Iceland the, 59.
River, 144
Salutations, 101-102
Sandey, 76
Sand-glasses in church at Thorshavn, 24
Saula-hleith, 141
Scalds, 305
Scandinavian Ancestors, Our, 293
Scoriæ, 74
Scythe, 85
Sea-birds, Graceful motions of, 39
Swarms of, 40, 43
Sea training, 294, 301
Sea-pinks, 76, 108
Sea swallows, 134
Sea-fowls used as food, 16
Sea-gull shot, 16
Seamanship, Shetland, 301
Seething clay, 112
Self-denial, Self-reliance, 298
Seydisfiord, 201
Sheep’s knee bone, 101
Shetland Isles, 8-11
Shoes, Icelandic, 53
Showers, 76
Silex, 132
Silica in solution, 109
Silver Trinkets, 53, 60, 150
Sira, 102
Sivertsen, Mr., 52-53.
His late son, 53
Skagi, 48
Skaptár Jökul, 135, 186-187.
Eruption of, in A.D. 1783, 187-193
Skialdbreid, 140
Skier, 97-98, 99
Skiffs of the Northmen, 302
Skogar-foss, 178
Skua-gulls, 15.
Mode of obtaining fish, 37
Sky darkened with dust and ashes, 166, 170, 171, 174, 189
Slag, 93
Slattaretind, 33
Sleeping Apartment in Farm, 206
Sleeping at Thingvalla, 91
Smith, Dr. R. Angus, 132
Smith, Icelandic use of the word, 183
Snæfell’s Jökul, 47, 161
Snaps, 203
Snorro Sturleson, 305
Snow-birds, 75, 100
Sog, The, 103
“Sólar Ljód,” or “Sun Song,” 262
Solheima Sand formed, 165
Sport, 17-18
Stappen, 161
Start for the Geysers, 70
Statistics, 180-182
Steaming Holes, 107
Steward’s Bell, 5
Stock fish, 203
Stock, Icelanders rear, 96
Stony Moor, 74
Store at Seydisfiord, 204
Streets of Thorshavn, 21
Strokr, 107, 110, 121, 123.
Eruption of, provoked by turf, 111, 121
Stromoe, 15.
Caves on, 32, 210
Stuffed Birds, 150
Sulphur Banks, 158.
Spring, 46
Sumburgh Head, 8
Sumpter Ponies, Mode of loading, 69
Sunset, 6, 44.
Due north, 45
Surnames, 182
Surturbrand, 205
Sysselmen, 154
Tabasheer, 109
Temperature of Geysers, 113.
Of Faröe, 29.
Of Iceland, 55-58
Tent in a gale, 130
Terns, 75
Thea, 149
Thingvalla, 86, 92, 140.
Lake of, 76, 92.
Vale of, 77-80
Thingore, 137
Thióthólfr Newspaper, 157
Thorláksson, 62
Thorshavn, 18-31
Thorlevsholm, 88
Thorpe, 200
Thrasi’s Treasure, 178
Thorwaldsen’s Font, 63
Thyckvaboe, 169
Thyme, 94, 108
Time of Henry III, 41
Tints of Mountains, 47, 50.
Peaks, Reykjavik, 160
Tintron, Crater of, 93-94
Toilet at the Geyser, 120
Tourists, Information for intending, 2
Trackless wastes, 75
Tracks worn in Turf, 100
Traffic, 203
Trampe, Count Von, 58
Transparency of Atmosphere, 141
Trap Hills in Faröe, 13, 32
Trial by Jury, 300
Trout, 83
Tún, 72, 85, 96
Túngufljot, 103
Turf-fires, 72
Turf-roofs, 19, 21, 40, 49, 82, 90, 96
Two-thumbed mits, 149
Una the Fairy, 235
Unpacking Traps, 83
Vale of Thingvalla, 77-80
Varder or Guiding Marks, 75
Vegetables grown, 67
Velvet Turf, 106
Ventilation on Shipboard, 11
Véron’s, Capt., Vessel, _Artemise_, 151
Ver-tima, 98
Vestments of the Bishop, 63
Videy, 48
Vikings, 301.
Raven, The, 281
Volcanic History, 193.
Sand, 93.
Wastes, 72
Völuspá 260
War, Thirst for, 298
Waterfalls, 39.
Of the Oxerá, 90.
Above Seydisfiord, 204
Water-floods, 167, 172
Waterfowl, Lines to, 36
Westmanna Islands, 39-45.
In the 13th and 19th century, 42-43
Westmanna Skerries, 43, 44
Westmannshavn, 40
Whales, 179-80.
Whale-flesh, 22.
Rib-rafters, 72.
Steak, 213
Whirlpool at the Monk, 13
Wild-flowers, 74, 88, 100, 134
Wilderness, 75
William the Conqueror, 307
Willows, Dwarf, 91, 100, 106
Witchcraft, 88
Wrinkled rock surfaces, 76, 86, 139
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Just Published, foolscap 8vo. price 5s. cloth.
NEW EDITION.
HAREBELL CHIMES
OR
SUMMER MEMORIES AND MUSINGS.
BY
ANDREW JAMES SYMINGTON.
-------
_Also, by the same Author_,
THE BEAUTIFUL
IN
NATURE, ART, AND LIFE.
In 2 vols. crown 8vo. price 21s. cloth.
---------------------
LONDON: LONGMAN, GREEN, LONGMAN & ROBERTS
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Transcriber’s Notes
=Note:= Use of Icelandic diacritics by the author/printer is very
inconsistent, and usage has partly been regularized. All types of
diacritics which have historically not been used for Icelandic have been
changed, as noted below. Spelling of individual words has also been
normalized where there was variation. Otherwise, spelling of Icelandic
words has been retained.
Obvious misspellings of English words and printer’s errors have been
changed. Hyphenation inconsistencies have been retained, except in cases
where a predominant form has been found.
Pg. vii: Proper name consistency: ‘Skaptar Jökel’ to ‘Skaptár Jökul’
Pg. vii: Punctuation consistency: ‘on Northern Subjects.’ to ‘on
Northern Subjects’—Removed period at end of TOC entry
Pg. vii: Proper name consistency: ‘Kötluja’s’ to ‘Kötlugjá’s’
Pg. vii: Corrected accent: ‘Sölar’ to ‘Sólar’
Pg. viii: Corrected accent: ‘Bruarâ’ to ‘Bruará’
Pg. viii: Proper name consistency: ‘Kötlujá’ to ‘Kötlugjá’
Pg. 12: Repeated word: ‘in in the time’ to ‘in the time’
Pg. 17: Hyphenation consistency: ‘on-goings’ to ‘ongoings’
Pg. 23: Hyphenation consistency: ‘flag-staff’ to ‘flagstaff’
Pg. 25: Corrected typo: ‘posseses’ to ‘possesses’
Pg. 26: Hyphenation consistency: ‘lambskin’ to ‘lamb-skin’
Pg. 29: Punctuation fix: ‘Mr’ to ‘Mr.’
Pg. 31: Punctuation fix: ‘Mr’ to ‘Mr.’
Pg. 37: Hyphenation consistency: ‘zigzagging’ to ‘zig-zagging’
Pg. 38: Corrected typo: ‘ROCKSOFF--’ to ‘ROCKS--OFF’
Pg. 43: Proper name consistency: ‘Aladin’ to ‘Aladdin’
Pg. 47: Proper name consistency: ‘Guldbringe’ to ‘Guldbringu’
Pg. 48: Punctuation fix: ‘their nests are lined’ to ‘their nests are
lined.’—Added missing period at para end
Pg. 49: Proper name consistency: ‘Gudmundson’ to ‘Gudmundsson’
Pg. 49: Proper name consistency: ‘Hjaltelin’ to ‘Hjaltalin’
Pg. 52: Punctuation fix: ‘cleanliness comfort and refinement’ to
‘cleanliness, comfort and refinement’—Added missing comma
Pg. 55: Repeated word: ‘the the’ to ‘the’
Pg. 60: Corrected typo: ‘fastideous’ to ‘fastidious’
Pg. 62: Hyphenation consistency: ‘fire-side’ to ‘fireside’
Pg. 64: Corrected typo: ‘substanial’ to ‘substantial’
Pg. 64: Corrected typo: ‘supplimented’ to ‘supplemented’
Pg. 65: Corrected typo: ‘órfjálsum’ to ‘ófrjálsum’
Pg. 66: Corrected typo: ‘sgiri’ to ‘sigri’
Pg. 66: Hyphenation consistency: ‘church-yard’ to ‘churchyard’
Pg. 66: Hyphenation consistency: ‘buttercups’ to ‘butter-cups’
Pg. 66: Proper name consistency: ‘Hjaltelin’ to ‘Hjaltalin’
Pg. 66: Corrected accent: ‘höggí’ to ‘höggi’
Pg. 70: Corrected typo: ‘at each others’ to ‘at each other’s’—Added
missing apostrophe
Pg. 76: Hyphenation consistency: ‘sea pink’ to ‘sea-pink’
Pg. 78: Hyphenation consistency: ‘Oxerâ’ to ‘Oxerá’
Pg. 81: Proper name consistency: ‘ALMANNAGJA’ to ‘ALMANNA GJÁ’
Pg. 81: Proper name consistency: ‘ALMANNAGJA’ to ‘ALMANNA GJÁ’
Pg. 82: Proper name consistency: ‘Oxerâ’ to ‘Oxerá’
Pg. 83: Proper name consistency: ‘OXERA’ to ‘OXERÁ’
Pg. 84: Proper name consistency: ‘Shakspeare’s ’ to ‘Shakspere’s ’
Pg. 85: Corrected accent: ‘tuns’ to ‘túns’
Pg. 86: Punctuation fix: ‘conceivable direction,’ to ‘conceivable
direction.’—Comma at para end
Pg. 90: Proper name consistency: ‘OXERA’ to ‘OXERÁ’
Pg. 94: Hyphenation consistency: ‘hillside’ to ‘hill-side’
Pg. 96: Hyphenation consistency: ‘Lauger-vatn’ to ‘Laugervatn’
Pg. 96: Hyphenation consistency: ‘Apa-vatn’ to ‘Apavatn’
Pg. 96: Hyphenation consistency: ‘Lauger-vatn’ to ‘Laugervatn’
Pg. 97: Hyphenation consistency: ‘stockfish’ to ‘stock-fish’
Pg. 102: Corrected accent: ‘thèr’ to ‘thér’
Pg. 102: Corrected accent: ‘thèr’ to ‘thér’
Pg. 105: Corrected accent: ‘BRUARA´’ to ‘BRUARÁ’
Pg. 106: Hyphenation consistency: ‘head-land’ to ‘headland’
Pg. 112: Proper name consistency: ‘Skaptar’ to ‘Skaptár’
Pg. 115: Hyphenation consistency: ‘day-light’ to ‘daylight’
Pg. 116: Spelling consistency: ‘Igdrasill’ to ‘Yggdrasill’
Pg. 117: Corrected typo: ‘minature’ to ‘miniature’
Pg. 125: Corrected accent: ‘Landnàmabok’ to ‘Landnámabok’
Pg. 129: Corrected typo: ‘asteriods’ to ‘asteroids’
Pg. 134: Proper name consistency: ‘SKAPTAR’ to ‘SKAPTÁR’
Pg. 135: Proper name consistency: ‘Skaptar’ to ‘Skaptár’
Pg. 138: Missing punctuation: ‘Faröe Islands. pp 30’ to ‘Faröe Islands,
pp 30’—Period for comma
Pg. 140: Hyphenation consistency: ‘Oxerâ’ to ‘Oxerá’
Pg. 146: Corrected typo: ‘girnmunst’ to ‘girnumst’
Pg. 147: Corrected typo: ‘vir’ to ‘vér’
Pg. 148: Proper name consistency: ‘Rändrop’ to ‘Randröp’
Pg. 148: Proper name consistency: ‘Rändrop’ to ‘Randröp’
Pg. 154: Spelling consistency: ‘amtmen’ to ‘amptmen’
Pg. 156: Punctuation fix: ‘312-323’ to ‘312-323.’—Added missing period
Pg. 157: Corrected accent: ‘Thiöthölfr’ to ‘Thióthólfr’
Pg. 158: Corrected typo: ‘Kleiservatn’ to ‘Kleifervatn’
Pg. 159: Corrected typo: ‘Bryujúlfsson’ to ‘Brynjúlfsson’
Pg. 161: Corrected accent: ‘JOKUL’ to ‘JÖKUL’—Added diaeresis for
consistency
Pg. 163: Corrected typo: ‘Elldborg’ to ‘Eldborg’
Pg. 163: Apostrophe usage: ‘KÖTLUGJÁS’ to ‘KÖTLUGJÁ’S’
Pg. 164: Hyphenation consistency: ‘waterfloods’ to ‘water-floods’
Pg. 166: Hyphenation consistency: ‘waterfloods’ to ‘water-floods’
Pg. 166: Corrected accent: ‘Kötlugjâ’ to ‘Kötlugjá’
Pg. 166: Hyphenation consistency: ‘waterfloods’ to ‘water-floods’
Pg. 167: Corrected typo: ‘Eyaffialla’ to ‘Eyafialla’
Pg. 167: Proper name consistency: ‘Skaptafells-syssel’ to
‘Skaptáfells-syssel’
Pg. 167: Quote placement: ‘has ever occurred.’ to ‘has ever
occurred.”’—Added missing close-quote to quote end
Pg. 171: Corrected typo: ‘Hsfrsey’ to ‘Hafrsey’
Pg. 171: Hyphenation consistency: ‘west-ward’ to ‘westward’
Pg. 171: Hyphenation consistency: ‘east-ward’ to ‘eastward’
Pg. 171: Punctuation fix: ‘issue from Kötlugjá,’ to ‘issue from
Kötlugjá.’—Comma for period
Pg. 172: Corrected typo: ‘counrty’ to ‘country’
Pg. 173: Hyphenation consistency: ‘over-flowed’ to ‘overflowed’
Pg. 176: Duplicate word: ‘the the’ to ‘the’
Pg. 176: Proper name consistency: ‘Guldbringé’ to ‘Guldbringu’
Pg. 176: Quote placement: ‘80 to 90 miles distant.”’ to ‘80 to 90 miles
distant.’—Removed extra close-quote
Pg. 177: Proper name consistency: ‘Guldbringé’ to ‘Guldbringu’
Pg. 177: Proper name consistency: ‘Markarflíót’ to ‘Markarfliót’
Pg. 178: Corrected accent: ‘aúdug’ to ‘audug’
Pg. 178: Corrected accent: ‘Fiflskù’ to ‘Fiflsku’
Pg. 178: Spelling consistency: ‘thángast’ to ‘thángad’
Pg. 182: Proper name consistency: ‘Huc’ to ‘Huk’
Pg. 183: Corrected accent: ‘skörsmidr’ to ‘skórsmidr’
Pg. 184: Corrected accent: ‘JOKUL’ to ‘JÖKUL’—Added diaeresis for
consistency
Pg. 184: Corrected accent: ‘KOTLUGJA’ to ‘KÖTLUGJÁ’—Added diaeresis for
consistency
Pg. 185: Corrected accent: ‘JOKUL’ to ‘JÖKUL’—Added diaeresis for
consistency
Pg. 187: Proper name consistency: ‘SKAPTAR’ to ‘SKAPTÁR’
Pg. 189: Corrected typo: ‘distingushed’ to ‘distinguished’
Pg. 189: Extra punctuation: ‘lava. continued’ to ‘lava
continued’—Removed extra period
Pg. 194: Proper name consistency: ‘Elldborg’ to ‘Eldborg’
Pg. 194: Proper name consistency: ‘Guldbringé’ to ‘Guldbringu’
Pg. 195: Proper name consistency: ‘Skeideræ’ to ‘Skeidará’
Pg. 195: Proper name consistency: ‘Skeideræ’ to ‘Skeidará’
Pg. 196: Proper name consistency: ‘Elldborg’ to ‘Eldborg’
Pg. 196: Corrected typo: ‘Heinabegr’s’ to ‘Heinaberg’s’
Pg. 196: Proper name consistency: ‘Skeidaræ’ to ‘Skeidarár’
Pg. 197: Proper name consistency: ‘Briedamerkasandr’ to
‘Breidamerkr-sandr’
Pg. 197: Proper name consistency: ‘Breidamerks’ to ‘Breidamerkr’
Pg. 190: Corrected typo: ‘Skuptaà’ to ‘Skaptaá’
Pg. 199: Hyphenation consistency: ‘Breida-fiords’ to ‘Breida fiords’
Pg. 205: Hyphenation consistency: ‘Buttercups’ to ‘Butter-cups’
Pg. 208: Chapter / TOC consistency: ‘N/A’ to ‘SEYDISFIORD, BY FARÖE TO
LEITH’—Added section heading where indicated in TOC
Pg. 209: Corrected typo: ‘similiar’ to ‘similar’
Pg. 215: Punctuation fix: ‘breakfast on board,’ to ‘breakfast on
board.’—Comma at end of sentence
Pg. 219: Corrected accent: ‘PALSSON’ to ‘PÁLSSON’
Pg. 220: Proper name consistency: ‘Kalfar’ to ‘Kalfur’
Pg. 221: Corrected typo: ‘dont’ to ‘don’t’
Pg. 221: Heading consistency: ‘II.--SÆMUND GETS’ to ‘II. SÆMUND
GETS’—Removed em-dash in section title to match other headers
Pg. 226: Proper name consistency: ‘A. J. S.’ to ‘A.J.S.’—Usually
without spaces
Pg. 228: Hyphenation consistency: ‘Iceland moss’ to ‘Iceland-moss’
Pg. 228: Corrected typo: ‘wont’ to ‘won’t’
Pg. 229: Proper name consistency: ‘Skagafiörd’ to ‘Skagafiord’
Pg. 232: Corrected typo: ‘wont’ to ‘won’t’
Pg. 234: Proper name consistency: ‘Skagafiörd’ to ‘Skagafiord’
Pg. 234: Proper name consistency: ‘Skagafiörd’ to ‘Skagafiord’
Pg. 235: Proper name consistency: ‘Skagafiörd’ to ‘Skagafiord’
Pg. 236: Corrected typo: ‘dont’ to ‘don’t’
Pg. 239: Missing punctuation : ‘such a rib as this’ to ‘such a rib as
this?’—Added missing ‘?’ at para end
Pg. 241: Corrected typo: ‘wont’ to ‘won’t’
Pg. 242: Missing punctuation : ‘if she does’ to ‘“if she does’—Added
missing opening quotation mark
Pg. 252: Corrected typo: ‘Fairies’’ to ‘Fairies’
Pg. 254: Corrected typo: ‘dont’ to ‘don’t’
Pg. 255: Corrected typo: ‘parishoners’ to ‘parishioners’
Pg. 259: Quote placement: ‘little porridge pot.’ to ‘little porridge
pot.”’—Added missing close-quote at quote end
Pg. 260: Proper name consistency: ‘Volu’ to ‘Völu’
Pg. 260: Proper name consistency: ‘Vola’ to ‘Vala’—Nominative form
corrected, see next sentence
Pg. 260: Chapter / TOC consistency: ‘N/A’ to ‘FROM THE “VÖLUSPÁ”’—Added
section heading where indicated in TOC
Pg. 261: Corrected typo: ‘Gjallarborn’ to ‘Gjallarhorn’
Pg. 261: Corrected typo: ‘Nighögg’ to ‘Nidhögg’
Pg. 262: Chapter / TOC consistency: ‘N/A’ to ‘FROM THE “SÓLAR
LJÓD”’—Added section heading where indicated in TOC
Pg. 264: Quote placement: ‘this Sun’s Song!’ to ‘this Sun’s
Song!”’—Added missing close-quote at poem end
Pg. 265: Hyphenation consistency: ‘Niebelungen lied’ to
‘Niebelungen-lied’
Pg. 265: Corrected typo: ‘illustrions’ to ‘illustrious’
Pg. 265: Corrected typo: ‘mornfully’ to ‘mournfully’
Pg. 265: Quote placement: ‘Odin’s High Song’ to ‘“Odin’s High
Song’—Added missing open-quote at quote beginning
Pg. 265: Chapter / TOC consistency: ‘N/A’ to ‘FROM THE POEMS RELATING
TO SIGURD & BRYNHILD.’—Added section heading where indicated in TOC
Pg. 267: Missing punctuation : ‘the man speaks his mind’ to ‘the man
speaks his mind.’—Missing period added at stanza end
Pg. 269: Repeated word: ‘and and a straw-rick’ to ‘and a straw-rick’
Pg. 272: Missing punctuation: ‘live without crime’ to ‘live without
crime.’—Missing period added at stanza end
Pg. 274: Hyphenation consistency: ‘fire-wood’ to ‘firewood’
Pg. 274: Missing punctuation: ‘in her breast’ to ‘in her
breast.’—Missing period added at stanza end
Pg. 275: Corrected typo: ‘CXII’ to ‘XCII’
Pg. 277: Quote placement: ‘Gunlöd is weeping.’ to ‘Gunlöd is
weeping.”’—Added missing close-quote at poem end
Pg. 279: Corrected accent: ‘I’shafs’ to ‘Íshafs’
Pg. 279: Corrected accent: ‘O’lmar’ to ‘Ólmar’
Pg. 279: Proper name consistency: ‘Thorlakson’ to ‘Thorláksson’
Pg. 280: Corrected typo: ‘Ogöruggar’ to ‘Og öruggar’
Pg. 280: Corrected accent: ‘I’brjósti’ to ‘Í brjósti’
Pg. 280: Corrected accent: ‘A´’ to ‘Á’
Pg. 280: Corrected typo: ‘Horrfiun’ to ‘Horrfinn’
Pg. 280: Corrected accent: ‘I’vöggu’ to ‘Í vöggu’
Pg. 280: Corrected accent: ‘A´’ to ‘Á’
Pg. 280: Corrected typo: ‘þaðað’ to ‘það að’
Pg. 280: Corrected accent: ‘I’talska’ to ‘Ítalska’
Pg. 280: Corrected typo: ‘semheyri’ to ‘sem heyri’
Pg. 281: Corrected accent: ‘I’mekkjum’ to ‘Ímekkjum’
Pg. 281: Proper name consistency: ‘Hiatland’ to ‘Hialtland’
Pg. 281: Corrected typo: ‘Ogaldinn’ to ‘Og aldinn’
Pg. 281: Corrected accent: ‘þer’ to ‘þér’
Pg. 287: Corrected accent: ‘þèr’ to ‘þér’
Pg. 287: Corrected accent: ‘Skjött’ to ‘Skjótt’
Pg. 287: Corrected typo: ‘húrsa’ to ‘húsa’
Pg. 287: Corrected accent: ‘A´’ to ‘Á’
Pg. 287: Corrected typo: ‘bœði’ to ‘bæði’
Pg. 287: Corrected accent: ‘O´’ to ‘Ó’
Pg. 287: Corrected accent: ‘I´’ to ‘Í’
Pg. 287: Corrected accent: ‘Fo´tum’ to ‘Fótum’
Pg. 287: Corrected accent: ‘I´’ to ‘Í’
Pg. 287: Corrected accent: ‘bùið’ to ‘búið’
Pg. 288: Corrected typo: ‘Ogdökkvir’ to ‘Og dökkvir’
Pg. 288: Corrected typo: ‘Mæki’ to ‘Mœki’
Pg. 288: Corrected typo: ‘Irá’ to ‘Frá’
Pg. 288: Corrected accent: ‘O´mur’ to ‘Ómur’
Pg. 288: Corrected accent: ‘A´vita’ to ‘Á vita’
Pg. 288: Corrected accent: ‘O´ðins’ to ‘Óðins’
Pg. 288: Corrected accent: ‘A´skipi’ to ‘Á skipi’
Pg. 288: Corrected accent: ‘I´marar’ to ‘Í marar’
Pg. 288: Corrected accent: ‘I´niðmyrkvu’ to ‘Í niðmyrkvu’
Pg. 288: Corrected accent: ‘I´blindmyrkri’ to ‘Í blindmyrkri’
Pg. 288: Corrected accent: ‘I´ógna’ to ‘Í ógna’
Pg. 288: Corrected accent: ‘O´ðinn’ to ‘Óðinn’
Pg. 288: Corrected typo: ‘myskbláu’ to ‘myrkbláu’
Pg. 292: Corrected accent: ‘sỳsla’ to ‘sysla’
Pg. 292: Corrected accent: ‘sỳssel’ to ‘syssel’
Pg. 292: Punctuation fix: ‘lava,’ to ‘lava.’—Comma for period at entry
end
Pg. 292: Corrected accent: ‘fljöt’ to ‘fljót’
Pg. 295: Proper name consistency: ‘Caesar’ to ‘Cæsar’
Pg. 304: Corrected typo: ‘flourshing’ to ‘flourishing’
Pg. 305: Proper name consistency: ‘eddas’ to ‘Eddas’—Capitalised
elsewhere
Pg. 305: Proper name consistency: ‘eddas’ to ‘Eddas’—Capitalised
elsewhere
Pg. 309: Hyphenation consistency: ‘Blaeberries’ to ‘Blae-berries’
Pg. 306: Proper name consistency: ‘Skalholt’ to ‘Skálholt’
Pg. 307: Spelling consistency: ‘Biarne’ to ‘Biarni’
Pg. 309: Proper name consistency: ‘Almanna Gjá’ to ‘Almannagjá’
Pg. 309: Proper name consistency: ‘Ailsay’ to ‘Ailsa’
Pg. 309: Hyphenation consistency: ‘Icedrift’ to ‘Ice-drift’
Pg. 309: Corrected accent: ‘Hrafnagjà’ to ‘Hrafnagjá’
Pg. 309: Corrected accent: ‘Bruarâ’ to ‘Bruará’
Pg. 309: Corrected accent: ‘Bruarâ’ to ‘Bruará’
Pg. 309: Proper name consistency: ‘Salvor’ to ‘Salvör’
Pg. 309: Proper name consistency: ‘Breidamerks’ to ‘Breidamerkr’
Pg. 310: Hyphenation consistency: ‘re-building’ to ‘rebuilding’
Pg. 310: Missing punctuation: ‘days 296’ to ‘days, 296’—Added comma
before pg. number
Pg. 310: Missing punctuation: ‘26’ to ‘26.’—Added missing period at end
of index subentry
Pg. 310: Hyphenation consistency: ‘Einars-drángr’ to ‘Einarsdrángr’
Pg. 311: Corrected pg. reference in index: ‘265’ to ‘266’
Pg. 311: Corrected accent: ‘tûns’ to ‘túns’
Pg. 311: Hyphenation consistency: ‘surefooted’ to ‘sure-footed’
Pg. 311: Proper name consistency: ‘Goldbringé’ to ‘Guldbringu’
Pg. 311: Proper name consistency: ‘Grœnvatn’ to ‘Grœnavatn’
Pg. 312: Hyphenation consistency: ‘Hvità’ to ‘Hvitá’
Pg. 312: Hyphenation consistency: ‘Icedrift’ to ‘Ice-drift’
Pg. 312: Hyphenation consistency: ‘In door occupations’ to ‘indoor
occupations’
Pg. 312: Corrected typo: ‘Kleiservatn’ to ‘Kleifervatn’
Pg. 312: Hyphenation consistency: ‘Lighthouse’ to ‘Light-house’
Pg. 312: Proper name consistency: ‘Hrafna Gjá’ to ‘Hrafnagjá’
Pg. 312: Proper name consistency: ‘Logberg’ to ‘Lögberg’
Pg. 312: Proper name consistency: ‘Markarfliot’ to ‘Markarfliót’
Pg. 312: Proper name consistency: ‘Landfogged’ to ‘Landfoged’
Pg. 313: Corrected accent: ‘Oxerâ’ to ‘Oxerá’
Pg. 313: Punctuation fix: ‘Plain, 94.’ to ‘Plain, 94’—Extra punctuation
at entry end
Pg. 313: Punctuation fix: ‘Plateau, 74.’ to ‘Plateau, 74’—Extra
punctuation at entry end
Pg. 313: Punctuation fix: ‘Pits, 107.’ to ‘Pits, 107’—Extra punctuation
at entry end
Pg. 314: Missing punctuation: ‘140’ to ‘140.’—Added missing period at
end of index subentry
Pg. 314: Hyphenation consistency: ‘sea pinks’ to ‘sea-pinks’
Pg. 314: Corrected accent: ‘Thiöthölfr’ to ‘Thióthólfr’
Pg. 315: Corrected accent: ‘Tûn’ to ‘Tún’
Pg. 315: Corrected accent: ‘Bruarâ’ to ‘Bruará’
Pg. 315: Hyphenation consistency: ‘Waterfloods’ to ‘Water-floods’
*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Pen and pencil sketches of Faröe and Iceland : With an appendix containing translations from the Icelandic and 51 illustrations engraved on wood by W. J. Linton" ***
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