Chapter III

When I was at home I was in a better place,
But travellers must be content.—SHAKESPEARE.

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

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

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

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

“As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.”

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

“Ships were drifting with the dead
To shores where all was dumb,”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then will these words of their national anthem

“Eldgamla Isafold,
Astkœra fósturmold,
Fjallkonan fríth;
Mögum thin muntu kœr.
Methan lönd girthir sœr
Og gumar girnast mœr,
Gljár sól á hlíth.”

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

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

Fair Iceland, old as fire,
Mountain bride our hearts’ desire
Sweet fosterland.
While woman loved shall be
By man; or sun shines free;
While land is girt by sea
Thou shalt be dear.

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

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

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

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

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

We learn from him that he pays his labourers 2 kroner and 75 öre per day of eleven hours, being at the rate of 25 öre per hour. Let me remark here that the kroner is a Danish silver coin value thirteen pence half-penny sterling, and that it contains 100 öre; the labourer’s daily wage therefore reckoned in English money amounts to about 3s 1d. Skilled workmen earn from 3 kroner (3s 4½d) to 3 kroner and 50 öre (3s 11d) per day. The hours of labour are from 6.0 a.m. till 7.0 p.m., one hour each being allowed for breakfast and dinner. There is no half holiday, but Sunday is strictly observed as a day of rest and devotion. Flour at present costs about 18 kroner (20s 3d) per bag of 200lb, about the same as in England, and beef—seldom eaten—from 25 to 40 öre (3½d to 5½d) per lb, or from 45 to 50 öre (6d to 6¾d) when scarce, or very fat and good.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Friend after friend departs
Who hath not lost a friend?
There is no union here of hearts
That hath not here an end.”

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

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PLATE IV.

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

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