Chapter IV

“Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase,
And marvel men should quit their easy chair
The toilsome way, and long long league to trace,
Oh! there is a sweetness in the mountain air
And life, that bloated ease can never hope to share.”

BYRON.

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

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

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

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

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

“The Land of the West, the land of the free,
Where mighty Missouri rolls down to the sea.”

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

AMERICAN STUDENT SONG.

KEY C
s |s :d’ :d’ | d’ :r’ :d’ |t : r’ :— |— : : s|
When I was a stu-dent of Ca—diz, I
|s : t : d’ |r’: l : t |d’ :— :d’ |d’ : : s|
played on my Spanish guitar; Ching! Ching! I
╰───────────╯
Chorus.
|s : d’ : d’ | d’ :r’:d’ |t :r’ :— | — : : s|
used to make love to the ladies. I
|s : t : d’ | r’ :l :t |d’ :— :d’ |d’: :— |
think of them now when a— far. Ching! Ching!
╰───────────╯
Chorus.

CHORUS.

| d’ : s : s | d’ :s : s |s : t :—.t |t : — : l|
Ring, ching, ching, Ring, ching, ching, Ring out ye bells, Oh!
| s :t :- .t |t: — :l |s :d’ :—.d’|d’ :— :— |
Ring out ye bells. Oh! Ring out ye bells.
| d’ : s : s | d’ :s : s |s : t :—.t |t : — : l|
Ring, ching, ching, Ring, ching, ching. Ring out ye bells. I
|s : t : d’ |r’: l : t |d’ :— :d’ | d’ : |
play on my Spanish guitar; Ching! Ching!
╰───────────╯
Chorus.

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

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

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

“Reeled and set, and crossed and cleekit,
Till ilka carline swat and reekit.”

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

“But pleasures are like poppies spread,”
The time came round to go to bed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A few hundred yards beyond the place where the valley is blocked by hundreds of moss-clad boulders, piled one on the top of the other in picturesque confusion, the river Oxara (Axewater), which has just taken a magnificent leap from the top of the precipice a little further on, completes its descent to the plain, by tumbling, with loud roaring and impetuous fury, from rock to rock till it takes its final plunge into Execution Pool, whence it flows silently on, past church, parsonage, and graveyard, into Lake Thingvellavatn.

Descending by the rough precipitous path—whose difficulties and dangers have, we find, been somewhat exaggerated in a description given to us before we left Reykjavik—we ride along the bottom of the rift, and, looking round about us, or glancing upwards to the black frowning crags on the ridges over our heads, are struck with the desolate wildness of the scene which impresses us even more forcibly than it did from the heights above. Leaving the Almannagja, near the second fall of the Oxara, and fording the stream a little to the right we reach Thingvellir at last, and are not sorry that the day’s journey is at an end.

My companion and Gudmundsen, having fortunately preceded me, have managed to secure not only the best room in the parsonage, but, what is much more important, the two best beds. They have thus forestalled the members of the other expedition, who have resolved themselves into a committee of ways and means and are deeply engrossed in discussing the serious question as to which of the seven ought,—in virtue of age, delicacy of constitution, or other sufficient reason,—to occupy the only two remaining beds. It is an anxious moment for the five unfortunates who after a hard ride of nearly forty miles—(which in at least one instance has resulted in the loss of a few square inches of epidermis)—will probably have to lie down upon bare boards.

Another serious matter is also weighing heavily upon their minds. They have already been on the premises for upwards of an hour, and it is now nearly nine o clock at night, yet there are no signs of supper, and they are all desperately hungry. “All things come to those who know how to wait,” however, even in Iceland, and shortly after my arrival a repast, which includes coffee, brown bread, cheese, butter, and boiled char (the latter fresh from the lake) is spread before us and enjoyed.

Having satisfied our appetites, we stroll through the churchyard, where we see the famous stone used in days of old as the national standard of measure. The church itself, like all the sacred edifices in the country, is a plain little wooden structure capable of holding comfortably about fifty or sixty persons. Here we meet our host the præstur, Sira Paulsen, who speaks English fairly well, and whom we find to be an exceedingly pleasant well-informed gentleman.

Subsequently in conversation with our guide I learn that churches are built by subscription, and that land (the best in the country) generally comprising from three to four farms, is set apart by the State in every case as an endowment. These farms, which of course vary in value, are called “Kirk farms” and are let to tenants, with the exception of what is called the “home farm” which surrounds the præstur’s house, and is cultivated by himself. The præstur receives marriage fees, rents of Kirk farms, and tithes on live stock and produce. A house is also provided for him which he is bound to keep and leave in good repair. On induction, or ordination, he is presented with from one to four cows, and from six to twenty-four sheep, according as the living is a poor one or a rich one, and on leaving is required either to restore these in good condition, or to provide satisfactory substitutes. The average income of a well-paid clergyman from all sources does not probably exceed a thousand kroner, and he is therefore “passing rich” on barely “sixty pounds a-year.” In many cases the stipend is not half of this sum. As regards his qualifications for his sacred office, he must have attended the Latin School for five or six years, and subsequently spent two years at the Theological College. If approved on examination he is appointed to a church either by the Bishop, or by the Governor with the sanction of the Bishop, according to the conditions of the presentation. There are, however, more churches than parsons at present, and it is not uncommon for a præstur to have to officiate at four or five different places at a considerable distance from each other. In such cases the services are of course occasional. The people strongly disapprove of the present system of patronage, and are agitating for the right of electing their ministers, which will, it is thought, probably be granted by the Althing next year. There is only one bishop for the whole of Iceland, who resides at Reykjavik, and whose official salary is 3,416 rixdollars or about £380 per annum. But in each of the different counties—of which there are altogether twenty-one—there is a dean, or Bishop’s deputy, who looks after the temporal and spiritual condition of the churches, and superintends the education of children.

There is one Government School called the Latin School at Reykjavik, and a School of Science has recently been established in the north near Akureyri. Education in these is free, and the students who attend them, having generally been privately prepared by the præstur, or by tutors, may be considered the pick of the country. Those who are too poor to support themselves receive an allowance from the State for maintenance. The remainder of the schools are what are known in England as “private adventure schools,” and the fees usually paid in these vary from ten to twenty kroner per session of six months, commencing on the 1st of October and ending on the 1st of April. During summer education is at a standstill, the children being engaged in haymaking, and other work, or permitted to enjoy a long holiday. They thus probably forget a good deal of what they had learnt during the winter. Our guide, who is a schoolmaster, informs us that he teaches his pupils reading, writing, arithmetic, orthography, geography, history, mathematics, Danish, and English, but no branch of either art or science.

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PLATE V.

1 The Almannagja from the South.
2 Lake Thingvellavatn and Hengill.—3 Rocks on summit of
Almannagja.—4 A rest by the way.
5 The Almannagja from the North.
]

But it is getting well on to midnight, and we have a long ride to-morrow so I shut up my notebook and make for the house, stopping on the way to my own room to take a look at the arrangements made for the five poor fellows who are to sleep on shake-downs. I find them ruefully contemplating sundry deal planks and wooden boxes, on which, without bedding, and with a bare sufficiency of rugs or other coverings, they are about to stretch their weary bones. I feel that it would sound like a cruel mockery to wish them a “Good night,” and as I turn into the bed that has been prepared for me on the sofa in our sitting-room, it is with an uncomfortable feeling that there is something decidedly selfish in the satisfaction I experience at being better off than my neighbours. But

“Sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleave of care,
The death of each day’s life, sore labour’s bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course,
Chief nourisher in life’s feast,”

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

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