54. REYKJAVIK, THE CAPITAL OF ICELAND.

    Skalholt.—Reykjavik.—The Fair.—The Peasant and the Merchant.—A Clergyman in his Cups.—Hay-making.—The Icelander’s Hut.—Churches.—Poverty of the Clergy.—Jon Thorlaksen.—The Seminary of Reykjavik.—Beneficial Influence of the Clergy.—Home Education.—The Icelander’s Winter’s Evening.—Taste for Literature.—The Language.—The Public Library at Reykjavik.—The Icelandic Literary Society.—Icelandic Newspapers.—Longevity.—Leprosy.—Travelling in Iceland.—Fording the Rivers.—Crossing of the Skeidara by Mr. Holland.—A Night’s Bivouac.

Next to Thingvalla, there is no place in Iceland so replete with historical interest as Skalholt, its ancient capital. Here in the eleventh century was founded the first school in the island; here was the seat of its first bishops; here flourished a succession of great orators, historians, and poets; Isleif, the oldest chronicler of the North; Gissur, who in the beginning of the twelfth century had visited all the countries of Europe and spoke all their languages; the philologian Thorlak, and Finnur Johnson, the learned author of the “Ecclesiastical History of Iceland.” The Cathedral of Skalholt was renowned far and wide for its size, and in the year 1100, Latin, poetry, music, and rhetoric, the four liberal arts, were taught in its school, more than they were at that time99 in many of the large European cities. As a proof how early the study of the ancients flourished in Skalholt, we find it recorded that in the twelfth century a bishop once caught a scholar reading Ovid’s “Art of Love;” and as the story relates that the venerable pastor flew into a violent passion at the sight of the unholy book, we may without injustice conclude that he must have read it himself in some of his leisure hours, to know its character so well.

Of all its past glories, Skalholt has retained nothing but its name. The school and the bishopric have been removed, the old church has disappeared, and been replaced by a small wooden building, in which divine service is held once a month; three cottages contain all the inhabitants of the once celebrated city, and the extensive churchyard is the only memorial of its former importance. Close by are the ruins of the old school-house, and on the spot where the bishop resided a peasant has erected his miserable hovel.

But the ever-changing tide of human affairs has not bereft the now lonely place of its natural charms, for the meadow-lands of Skalholt are beautifully imbedded in an undulating range of hills, overlooking the junction of the Bruara and Huita, and backed by a magnificent theatre of mountains, among which Hecla and the Eyjafialla are the most prominent.

Reykjavik, the present capital of the island, has risen into importance at the expense both of Skalholt and Thingvalla. At the beginning of the present century the courts of justice were transferred from the ancient seat of legislature to the new metropolis, and in 1797 the bishoprics of Hoolum and Skalholt, united into one, had their seats likewise transferred to Reykjavik. The ancient school of Skalholt, after having first migrated to Bessestadt, has also been100 obliged to follow the centralizing tendency, so powerful in our times, and now contributes to the rising fortunes of the small sea-port town.

But in spite of all these accessions, the first aspect of Reykjavik by no means corresponds to our ideas of a capital. “The town,” says Lord Dufferin, “consists of a collection of wooden sheds, one story high—rising here and there into a gable end of greater pretensions—built along the lava-track, and flanked at either end by a suburb of turf huts. On every side of it extends a desolate plain of lava that once must have boiled up red-hot from some distant gateway of hell, and fallen hissing into the sea. No tree or bush relieves the dreariness of the landscape, and the mountains are too distant to serve as a background to the buildings; but before the door of each merchant’s house facing the sea there flies a gay little pennon; and as you walk along the silent streets, whose dust no carriage-wheel has ever desecrated, the rows of flower-pots that peep out of the windows, between curtains of white muslin, at once convince you that, notwithstanding their unpretending appearance, within each dwelling reign the elegance and comfort of a woman-tended home.”
55. GOVERNOR’S RESIDENCE, REYKJAVIK.

Twenty years since, Reykjavik was no better than a wretched fishing-village, now it already numbers 1400 inhabitants, and free-trade promises it a still greater increase for the future. It owes its prosperity chiefly to its excellent port, and to the abundance of fish-banks in its neighborhood, which have induced the Danish merchants to make it their principal settlement. Most of them, however, merely visit it in summer like birds of passage, arriving in May with small cargoes of foreign goods, and leaving it again in August, after having disposed of their wares. Thus Reykjavik must be lonely and dreary enough in winter, when no trade animates its port, and no traveller stays at its solitary inn; but the joy of the inhabitants is all the greater when the return of spring re-opens their intercourse with the rest of the world, and the delight may be imagined with which they hail the first ship that brings them the long-expected news from Europe, and perhaps some wealthy tourist, eager to admire the wonders of the Geysirs.

The most busy time of the town is, however, the beginning of July, when the annual fair attracts a great number of fishermen and peasants within its walls. From a distance of forty and fifty leagues around, they come with long trains of pack-horses; their stock-fish slung freely across the animals’ backs, their more damageable articles close pressed and packed in boxes or skin bags.

The greater part of the trade in this and other small sea-ports—such as Akreyri, Hafnafjord, Eyrarbacki, Berufjord, Vapnafjord, Isafjord, Grafaros, Budenstadt, which, taken all together, do not equal Reykjavik in traffic and population—is carried on by barter.2

Sometimes the Icelander desires to be paid in specie for part of his produce, but then he is obliged to bargain for a long time with the merchant, who of course derives a double profit by an exchange of goods, and is loth to part with101 his hard cash. The dollars thus acquired are either melted down, and worked into silver massive girdles, which in point of execution as well as design are said, on good authority,3 to be equal to any thing of the kind fashioned by English jewellers, or else deposited in a strong-box, as taxes and wages are all paid in produce, and no Icelander ever thinks of investing his money in stocks, shares, or debentures.

He is, however, by no means so ignorant of mercantile affairs as to strike at once a bargain with the Danish traders. Pitching his tent before the town, he first pays a visit to all the merchants of the place. After carefully noting their several offers (for as each of them invariably treats him to a dram, he with some justice mistrusts his memory), he returns to his caravan and makes his calculations as well as his somewhat confused brain allows him. If he is accompanied by his wife, her opinion of course is decisive, and the following morning he repairs with all his goods to the merchant who has succeeded in gaining his confidence.

After the business has been concluded, the peasant empties one glass to the merchant’s health, another to a happy meeting next year, a third to the king, a fourth because three have been drunk already. At length, after many embraces and protestations of eternal friendship, he takes his leave of the merchant. Fortunately there is no thief to be found in all Iceland; but in consequence of these repeated libations, one parcel has not been well packed, another negligently attached to the horse, and thus it happens that the poor peasant’s track is not unfrequently marked with sugar, coffee-beans, salt, or flour, and that when he reaches home, he finds some valuable article or other missing.

It would, however, be doing the Icelanders an injustice to regard them as generally intemperate; for though within the last twelve years the population has increased only ten per cent., and the importation of brandy thirty, yet the whole quantity of spirits consumed in the island amounts to less than three bottles per annum for each individual, and, of this allowance, the people of Reykjavik and of the other small sea-ports have more than their share, while many of the clergy and peasantry in the remoter districts hardly ever taste spirituous liquors. Dr. Hooker mentions the extraordinary effect which a small portion of rum produced on the good old incumbent of Middalr, whose stomach had been accustomed only to a milk-diet and a little coffee. “He begged me,” says the doctor,4 “to give him some rum to bathe his wife’s breast; but having applied a portion of it to that purpose, he drank the rest without being at all aware of its strength, which, however, had no other effect than in causing this clerical blacksmith,5 with his lame hip, to dance in the most ridiculous manner in front of the house. The scene afforded a great source of merriment to all his family except his old wife, who was very desirous of getting him to bed, while he was no less anxious that she should join him in the dance.”

Dr. Hooker justly remarks that this very circumstance is a convincing proof how unaccustomed this priest was to spirituous liquors, as the quantity taken could not have exceeded a wine-glass full.

102 After his visit to the fair, the peasant sets about hay-making, which is to him the great business of the year, for he is most anxious to secure winter fodder for his cattle, on which his whole prosperity depends. The few potatoes and turnips about the size of marbles, or the cabbage and parsley, which he may chance to cultivate, are not worth mentioning; grass is the chief, nay, the only produce of his farm, and that Heaven may grant clear sunshiny days for hay-making is now his daily prayer.

Every person capable of wielding a scythe or rake is pressed into the work. The best hay is cut from the “tún,” a sort of paddock comprising the lands adjoining the farm-house, and the only part of his grounds on which the peasant bestows any attention, for, in spite of the paramount importance of his pasture-land, he does but little for its improvement, and a meadow is rarely seen, where the useless or less nutritious herbs are not at least as abundant as those of a better quality. The “tún” is encircled by a turf or stone wall, and is seldom more than ten acres in extent, and generally not more than two or three. Its surface is usually a series of closely-packed mounds, like graves, most unpleasant to walk over, the gutter, in some places, being two feet in depth between the mounds. After having finished with the “tún,” the farmer subjects to a process of cutting all the broken hillsides and boggy undrained swamps that lie near his dwelling. The blades of the scythes are very short. It would be impossible to use a long-bladed scythe, owing to the unevenness of the ground.

The cutting and making of hay is carried on, when the weather will permit, through all the twenty-four hours of the day. When the hay is made it is tied in bundles by cords and thongs, and carried away by ponies to the earthen houses prepared for it, which are similar to and adjoin those in which the cattle are stalled. “It is a very curious sight,” says Mr. Shepherd, “to see a string of hay-laden ponies returning home. Each pony’s halter is made fast to the tail of the preceding one, and the little animals are so enveloped in their burdens that nothing but their hoofs and the connecting ropes are visible, and they look as though a dozen huge haycocks, feeling themselves sufficiently made, were crawling off to their resting-places.”

When the harvest is finished the farmer treats his family and laborers to a substantial supper, consisting of mutton, and a soup of milk and flour; and although the serious and taciturn Icelander has perhaps of all men the least taste for music and dancing, yet these simple feasts are distinguished by a placid serenity, no less pleasing than the more boisterous mirth displayed at a southern vintage.

Almost all labor out-of-doors now ceases for the rest of the year. A thick mantle of snow soon covers mountain and vale, meadow and moor; with every returning day, the sun pays the cold earth a decreasing visit, until, finally, he hardly appears above the horizon at noon; the wintry storm howls over the waste, and for months the life of the Icelander is confined to his hut, which frequently is but a few degrees better than that of the filthy Lap.

Its lower part is built of rude stones to about the height of four feet, and between each row layers of turf are placed with great regularity, to serve instead of mortar, and keep out the wind. A roof of such wood as can be procured103 rests upon these walls, and is covered with turf and sods. On one side (generally facing the south) are several gable ends and doors, each surmounted with a weather-cock. These are the entrances to the dwelling-house proper, to the smithy, store-room, cow-shed, etc. A long narrow passage, dark as pitch, and redolent of unsavory odors, leads to the several apartments, which are separated from each other by thick walls of turf, each having also its own roof, so that the peasant’s dwelling is in fact a conglomeration of low huts, which sometimes receive their light through small windows in the front, but more frequently through holes in the roof, covered with a piece of glass or skin. The floors are of stamped earth; the hearth is made of a few stones clumsily piled together; a cask or barrel, with the two ends knocked out, answers the purpose of a chimney, or else the smoke is allowed to escape through a mere hole in the roof.
56. ICELANDIC HOUSES.

The thick turf walls, the dirty floor, the personal uncleanliness of the inhabitants, all contribute to the pollution of the atmosphere. No piece of furniture seems ever to have been cleaned since it was first put into use; all is disorder and confusion. Ventilation is utterly impossible, and the whole family, frequently consisting of twenty persons or more, sleep in the same dormitory, as well as any strangers who may happen to drop in. On either side of this apartment are bunks three or four feet in width, on which the sleepers range themselves.

Such are in general the dwellings of the farmers and clergy, for but very few of the more wealthy inhabitants live in any way according to our notions of comfort, while the cots of the poor fisherman are so wretched that one can hardly believe them to be tenanted by human beings.

104 The farm-houses are frequently isolated, and, on account of their grass-covered roofs and their low construction, are not easily distinguished from the neighboring pasture-grounds; where four or five of them are congregated in a grassy plain, they are dignified with the name of a village, and become the residence of a Hrepstior, or parish constable.

Then also a church is seldom wanting, which however is distinguished from the low huts around merely by the cross planted on its roof. An Icelandic house of prayer is generally from eight to ten feet wide, and from eighteen to twenty-four long; but of this about eight feet are devoted to the altar, which is divided off by a partition stretching across the church, and against which stands the pulpit. A small wooden chest or cupboard, placed at the end of the building, between two very small square windows not larger than a common-sized pane of glass, constitutes the communion-table, over which is generally a miserable representation of the Lord’s Supper painted on wood. The height of the walls, which are wainscoted, is about six feet, and from them large wooden beams stretch across from side to side. On these beams are placed in great disorder a quantity of old Bibles, psalters, and fragments of dirty manuscripts. The interior of the roof, the rafters of which rest on the walls, is also lined with wood. On the right of the door, under which one is obliged to stoop considerably on entering, is suspended a bell, large enough to make an intolerable noise in so small a space. A few benches on each side the aisle, so crowded together as almost to touch one another, and affording accommodation to thirty or forty persons when squeezed very tight, leave room for a narrow passage.

These churches, besides their proper use, are also made to answer the purpose of the caravanseras of the East, by affording a night’s lodging to foreign tourists. They are indeed neither free from dirt, nor from bad smells; but the stranger is still far better off than in the intolerable atmosphere of a peasant’s hut.

Mr. Ross Browne thus describes the church and parsonage at Thingvalla; “The church is of modern construction, and, like all I saw in the interior, is made of wood, painted a dark color, and roofed with boards covered with sheets of tarred canvas. It is a very primitive little affair, only one story high, and not more than fifteen by twenty feet in dimensions. From the date on the weather-cock it appears to have been built in 1858. The congregation is supplied by the few sheep-ranches in the neighborhood, consisting at most of half a dozen families. These unpretending little churches are to be seen in the vicinity of every settlement throughout the whole island. Simple and homely as they are, they speak well for the pious character of the people.

“The pastor of Thingvalla and his family reside in a group of sod-covered huts close by the church. These cheerless little hovels are really a curiosity, none of them being over ten or fifteen feet high, and all huddled together without the slightest regard to latitude or longitude, like a parcel of sheep in a storm. Some have windows in the roof, and some have chimneys; grass and weeds grow all over them, and crooked by-ways and dark alleys run among them and through them. At the base they are walled up with big lumps of lava, and two of them have board fronts, painted black, while the remainder are105 patched up with turf and rubbish of all sorts, very much in the style of a stork’s nest. A low stone wall encircles the premises, but seems to be of little use as a barrier against the encroachments of live-stock, being broken up in gaps every few yards. In front of the group some attempt has been made at a pavement, which, however, must have been abandoned soon after the work was commenced. It is now littered all over with old tubs, pots, dish-cloths, and other articles of domestic use.
57. CHURCH AT THINGVALLA.

“The interior of this strange abode is even more complicated than one would be led to expect from the exterior. Passing through a dilapidated doorway in one of the smaller cabins, which you would hardly suppose to be the main entrance, you find yourself in a long dark passage-way, built of rough stone, and roofed with wooden rafters and brushwood covered with sod. The sides are ornamented with pegs stuck in the crevices between the stones, upon which hang saddles, bridles, horse-shoes, bunches of herbs, dried fish, and various articles of cast-off clothing, including old shoes and sheepskins. Wide or narrow, straight or crooked, to suit the sinuosities of the different cabins into which it forms the entrance, it seems to have been originally located upon the track of a blind boa-constrictor. The best room, or rather house—for every room is a house—is set apart for the accommodation of travellers. Another cabin is occupied by some members of the pastor’s family, who bundle about like a lot of rabbits. The kitchen is also the dog-kennel, and occasionally the sheep-house. A pile of stones in one corner of it, upon which a few twigs or scraps of sheep-manure serve to make the fire, constitute the cooking apartment. The floor consists of the original lava-bed, and artificial puddles composed of106 slops and offal of diverse unctuous kinds. S............