and although she has improved upon the reckless licentiousness of the Saga days, ichthyophagy and idleness must do much to counterbalance the “sun-clad power of chastity.” The “unsophistication” of the race is certainly on the wane; there are doubtless

but the islander is pre-eminent for a “canniness” which equals, if it does not exceed, that of the Yankee, the lowland Scotch, and the Maltese. And what he gains he can keep with a most tenacious hold.

The statistics of crime in Iceland are peculiarly unsatisfactory. As the Journal will show, many a man goes free who would be prosecuted and severely punished farther south. Traveller after traveller has asserted, “it is in a large measure to their widespread home education that we must attribute the fine moral character of the Icelanders;” and capital has been made of the fact that the old stone-prison became the Government House. The Danish Parliamentary Reports (p. 255, vol. xlvii. for 1837-1838) contain details concerning the number of persons arraigned and convicted, sentenced, and acquitted by the tribunals. During a period of seven years (1827-1834), there were but 292 indictments on the island; of these 216 ended in conviction; 20 cases were suspended; 32 were dismissed, and 56 were acquitted. Of the 216 convictions, 79 were for “carnal offences;” 86 for larceny; 15 for transgressing sanitarial laws; 5 for murder, and 31 for various offences, such as false-witness and receiving stolen goods. The last statistics in 1868 give 46 criminal cases (37 males, 9 females) for the whole island, and in 37 conviction and sentence followed; 34 were for theft, 1 for forgery, 2 for adultery, besides 29 were fined for disturbance of the peace and for offences against public order. There were also 57 cases of adultery and seduction; 24 of these were fined, and in 33 cases the fine was remitted (Skýrslur um Landshagi, v. 193, 1871).

The suicide,[175] arson, and infant exposure of the republican and pagan ages are no longer heard of; vagrancy is hardly an offence; the state of the country prevents technical robbery; and forgery does not belong to its present state of civilisation. It is peculiar that almost all classes believe in and fear a tribe of outlaws or bandits who occupy the deserts of the interior—these are the days of Robin Hood come again.

§ 3. Society.

The social condition of Iceland has been compared with Lord Macaulay’s pictures of the Highlanders a hundred and fifty, and of the English three hundred years ago—the differences are more salient than the points of resemblance. The proverb “Heimskt er heimaðlia barn” (homely is the housebred child) produced a habit of voyaging and travelling; and wide wandering made the homes centres of refinement: the same practice in the Hebrides astonished Dr Johnson. Unhappily it is now no longer the popular habit; it has gone the way of the manly exercises, bowls, quoits, swimming, and practising weapons, which distinguished the heroic age. With much aristocratic feeling there is no aristocratic order properly so called; the earl, the baron, and the clan-chief are equally unknown; whilst the parson, like the priest in Slavonic countries, is the modern pattern to the Thane or Churl. As in the United States, there is no gentlemen class except the liberal professions, and even the clergy until the present generation were farmers and fishermen, labourers, mechanics, and so forth, often poorer and shabbier than the laity. The official circles are too small to form a beamten-kreis; the squirearchy is represented by the franklins or peasant lairds, who no longer correspond with the ancient Udallers; the merchants are chiefly foreigners.

Under these circumstances we can hardly expect much general refinement, nor the particular phase which produces men whose life consists in adorning society, and women born to wear diamonds and to be beautiful. Yet the Icelander, franklin or pauper, has none of the roughness and rudeness which we remark in the manners of the Canadians and of the lowland Scotch. “No tax is levied upon civility,” and their mutual regard for one another’s feelings, though sometimes carried to an inconvenient extent, is the essence of true politeness. The intercourse is rather ceremonious than “free and easy,” and travellers deride such quaint mixture as “You lie, my blessed (or beloved) friend!” The abuse of mutual regard is a servile fear of making enemies; they often tamely put up with injuries, as the Brazilian submits to be plundered by a richer neighbour, and the Syrian swallows his wrath rather than offend one who may some day become a Pasha.

The Icelander is a large-brained and strong-brained man, essentially slow and solid in point of intellect, and capable of high culture, of wide learning, and of deep research. This lesson is taught by the whole of his literature; although the muse no longer sings of love and war, she is by no means mute—her turn is now the theological, the philological, and the scientific. Arngrímr Jónsson well describes his countrymen as “Ad totius Europæ res historicas lyncæi.” But the islander never attains his full development except out of his own country, and this condition dates from past ages. Throughout the north, from England[176] and Val-land (France and Italy), to Mikligarðr (Constantinople),[177] he has distinguished himself and proved

Abroad, his emulation is excited, his ambition is roused, and his slow sturdy nature is stirred up to unusual energy. At home he can command no serious education, nor can he escape from the indolent and phlegmatic, the dawdling and absolutely unconditioned slowness of the country, where time is a positive nuisance, to be killed as it best can. In Iceland the author met several Danes, but only two Icelanders, who spoke good English, French, or German; it is far otherwise in Europe, and especially, we need not say, in England.

As the notices of emigration will show, Iceland, like Ireland, is instinctively seeking her blessing and salvation, the “racial baptism.” One traveller records the “inexpressible attachment of the islanders for their native country.” Their Sehn sucht in a mountainless land, and the time-honoured boast, “Hið besta land solin skínr uppá” (Iceland is the best land upon which the sun shines).[178] So Bjarni Thorarensen sings, “World-old Iceland, beloved foster-land, thou wilt be dear to thy sons, as long as sea girds earth, men love women, and sun shines on hills.” But all the people of all the poorest countries console themselves in the same way, and geographical ignorance confirms an idea which to the traveller becomes simply ludicrous: moreover, northerners, it need hardly be said, gain more by removal, and therefore emigrate more readily than southerners. The latter express themselves unmistakably:

And “Ulysses ad Ithacæ suæ saxa properat, quemadmodum Agamemnon ad Mycenarum nobiles muros; nemo enim patriam amat quia magna, sed quia sua” (Seneca), They are happy at home; why should they leave home?

The Icelander cannot be called degenerate. He is what he was. But whilst the world around, or rather beyond him, has progressed with giant strides, he has perforce remained stationary. His mother country forbids him to decuple the human hand and arm by machinery; the enormous water-power of his rivers is useless, and thinness of population bars out the appliances of civilisation—how can he expect to hold a fair place in the race of life? Moreover, like another small and heroic kingdom, modern Greece, Iceland has suffered from ages of virtually foreign dominion, not to say tyranny, and from restrictions of trade, which, small as items, combined to form a system of grinding oppression. His brightest days were those when, like the Goth and Hun, the Arab and the Tartar, he devoted himself to plundering the wealthy weak. But the times for these nomad incursions are past, until at least China can renew them; and he hopelessly sank when no longer able to harry the southern islands, to break down London bridge, to plunder and massacre Luna, and to spread

His future career is in his own hands, and improvement must be sought in extended stock-breeding, in better use of the fisheries, and in extensive emigration. With free institutions he will bring to the task the same high and steadfast spirit which distinguished him in his prime. Anthropologists justly object to the popular theory of a nation degenerating, unless, indeed, there be a mixture of foreign and inferior blood; but they see everywhere in history the decline and fall of races, whenever the stronger neighbouring peoples rise to the same or to a higher level of civilisation. The Roman and the Athenian still greatly resemble the conquerors of Europe and Asia, but in those days the Gauls and the Germans, the Scandinavians and the Britons, were mere barbarians, uneducated and undisciplined. Now all are on a level, and, as we saw in the late Franco-Prussian war, the physically strongest wins—the north beats, and will ever beat, the south.

The islanders, like their brother Scandinavians and the Teutons, had no idea of towns. We may apply to them the description of Tacitus (Germ., c. xvi.), “Nullas Germanorum populis urbes habitari satis notum est ... colunt discreti ac diversi, ut fons, ut campus, ut nemus placuit.” In Norway the first town, Níðar-ós, par excellence called Kaupang, was built by the two Olaves (Ó. Tryggvason or Trusty-son, and Ó. Helgi the Saint) in A.D. 994-1030; the real founder of cities was Olave the Quiet (1067-1093). Thus in old Norse codes the Town-law is an appendix to the Land-law. As late as 1752, Reykjavik was a single isolated farm.

It is strange how little the style of Iceland life has altered since the time (1767) when M. de Kerguelen wrote his short and lively sketch—it seems to be fixed like the language. As now, the island was divided into four provinces, of which each had eighteen to twenty counties, and every county fifteen to sixteen parishes. The Sýslur were under bailiffs, all subject to the grand bailiff (Governor), and to the sovereign council (Althing). The chief civil officer and the royal seneschal (treasurer), who collected the taxes, reported to a governor-general residing at Copenhagen—he is now represented by the minister for Iceland. There were two bishops, one for the south (Skálholt), and another for the north (Hólar); there is at present only one in the capital, but the people would willingly see, and will see, the older status restored.

The Iceland farm-house[179] was then, as now, a set of buildings scattered over the “tún,” or infield. The abode was entered by a passage (Bæjar-dyr) six feet wide, with a cross-raftered roof, and this “Skemma” was lighted by windowlets (Skjágluggi) of “Himna” (membrane), transparent parchment of cattle’s bladder; by Likna-belgur, ewe’s chorion; by Vats-belgur, sheep’s amnion; or by Skæna, inner membranes of the stomach, a little more opaque, or, rarely, by bulls’ eyes of glass. They were not the only tenements in the eighteenth century which had no light—

Fronting the common entrance was the Baðstofa (public room, literally meaning bathroom), measuring fourteen ells by eight, in which the household worked at dressing wool and weaving cloth. It led to a bedroom, where the house master and mistress slept, the children and servants occupying the garrets and cock-lofts. On each side of the lobby were two rooms, the kitchen (Eld-hús, opposed to the stofa or gynæceum), and the store-room or Búr (our “bower,” and the Scottish “byre”); the dairy and the guest-chamber (Gestaskáli). At present the entrance is usually faced by the kitchen, and at right angles there is a covered gallery or tunnel, upon which the doors open: thus the rooms are not wholly dark, even when they lack glass, which is rare.[180] The outhouses (Úti-hús) were the stables, the stores (Geymslu-hús), the byres, the sheep pens (Fjár-hús), the forge, and, sometimes, the carpenter’s shop. The house (Bæjar-hás or Heima-hús) was built of planks, which, coming from Copenhagen, were too expensive to be used as flooring. The only fire was in a stove; the fuel was of turf and cow-“chips,” and the interior was never dry—the unrheumatic traveller will not find that damp of which the many complained. The furniture consisted of a table and chests acting chairs; Niels Horrebow, the Dane who saw everything en beau, added wainscots, glasses, and a variety of luxuries. Johann Anderson, afterwards burgomaster of Hamburg, by no means wore the rose-coloured spectacles.

“The people appeared mild, good-natured, and humane, but distrustful and addicted to drink. They were very fond of chess, and good coasting sailors, but not very courageous”—no wonder, considering their craft! They soon became infirm; they were old at fifty, and they rarely reached eighty. “Landsarsak” (Landfarsótt[181]) was the name given to all fatal illnesses usually arising from scurvy, wet feet, and want of exercise. Their hay was not housed, but heaped in stacks two yards square, upon raised mounds, at short distances, and covered with sloping turf to lead the rain into surrounding ditches. In summer food was of cods’-heads, boiled like all other provisions: in winter the peasants ate sheeps’-heads kept in (fermented) vinegar of sour milk (Sýra), or in juice of sorrel (Súra),[182] and other plants, the mutton being sold. Bread was not the staff of life, being eaten only on high days and holidays, that is, at births, marriages, and deaths: the richer sort baked cakes, broad and thin, like sea biscuits, of black rye flour from Copenhagen.

The men dressed like sailors in breeches, jackets acting coats, and vests of good broadcloth, with four to six rows of buttons, always metal, copper or silver. The fishermen wore overalls, coarse smooth waistcoats, large paletots of sheepskin or leather, made water-proof by grease or fish-liver oil; leather overalls, stockings, and native shoes. The women were clad in jackets and gowns, petticoats and aprons of woollen frieze, over which was thrown a “Hempa,” or wide black robe, like a Jesuit frock, trimmed with velvet binding. The wealthy added silver ornaments down the length of the dress, and braided the other articles with silk ribbons, galloon, or velvets of various colours. The ruff was a stiff collar from three to four inches broad, of very fine stuff, embroidered with gold or silver. The head-dress was a cone like a fool’s-cap or sugar-loaf, two to three feet tall, kept in place by a coarse cloth, and covered with a finer kerchief. The soleless shoes of ox-hide or sheep-skin, made by the women out of a single piece, were strapped to the instep.

The wives were not so strong as the husbands, yet they had the hardest work in haymaking. Their labour was difficult, and they “kept their beds for a week.” At baptism a bit of linen dipped in milk was placed in the babe’s mouth, and the child was breeched at the end of two years.

§ 4. The Family.

Population was checked by not allowing marriage to a man who did not own a hundred of land or a six-oared boat in trim: this wholesome law, however, is becoming obsolete as the ferocious old code which prevented the propagation of paupers. The number of births is about 2940 to 2020 deaths per annum: thus the annual increase is 920, but the mortality of children is, or perhaps we should say was, disproportionate. In 1858, 489 upon the island died between the ages of 1 to 5, and 68 between 5 to 10—a total of 557. During the same year the number of illegitimate to legitimate births was 15:100: this figure appears pretty constant, but rather on the increase than the reverse. In the early nineteenth century, Hooker gives 383 illegitimates in 2516 births = 15⅕ per cent. = nearly to 1:7—a high average, which he explains by the huddling together of families. Mr Vice-Consul Crowe (1866) gives 1:6·9 of births. Statistics of the years between 1860 and 1870 give 20:100, or 1:5. The Consular Report of 1870-71 asserts that “in every 100 births there were 17 of illegitimate children,” and shows the following figures: 1866, 17·7; 1867, 16·7; 1868, 17·2; 1869, 16·2; 1870, 16·8.

Of 2937 children, only 48 were born (1858) of mothers under 20; 23 were legitimate, and 25 were not: 458 had mothers aged 20 to 25: 933, of whom 764 were born in wedlock and 169 were not, had mothers aged 25 to 30: the mothers of 703 new-born children were 30 to 35 years old; those of 549, from 35 to 40; those of 221 from 40 to 45; and, lastly, those of 25, from 45 to 50.

In the same year, 3 men committed suicide; 65 were drowned; 17 perished by accidents, and 1939 died of disease. The smallest number of deaths (128) occurred in February, the coldest month; and the greatest number (205) in July, the warmest.

There is little of novelty in the religious ceremonies accompanying baptisms, marriages, and funerals, which are those of the Augsburg rite; but there is something to say upon the subject of names. Until the middle of the last century, the surnames, as in olden Kent, were all patronymics or matronymics; such was the ancient fashion of Europe, especially of England and Germany, a custom still preserved by the great Slav race (vich or ich), and by the modern Greeks, who prefer-poulo and who almost ignore the ancient-ides. It is notorious how Linne (Linnæus), the prince of naturalists, was prompted by the growing use of family names to devise the generic and specific distinctions, which superseded a system cumbrous and intricate as that of a Chinese dictionary. In very thinly populated countries, where every man knew his neighbour, it was possible to be called Jón Jónsson[183] and Caroline Jónsdóttir, but so rude a plan would not serve elsewhere. We still find it in the country parts of Iceland, and, curious to say, the people are returning to the old fashion of taking the paternal name as surname. The matronymic, e.g., Sveinn Ástriðarson, in early times was assumed when the mother outlived the father: it was never a mark of base blood; as amongst the Spaniards, where El Hijo de ruin padre, Toma el apelido de la madre.

In 1855, a curious official paper was published under the title “Um Mannaheiti á Íslandi.” It shows that the island has only 63 native surnames, and 530 men’s and 529 women’s Christian names: no wonder that “nicknames” are common as amongst Moslems and Brazilians. Hence local cognomens are also much used, as Peter of Engey, and Jón of the “Strönd,” i.e., the coast from Hafnafjörð to Keblavik. The popular address would be Herra Bonde (Mr Farmer), Herra Hreppstjóri (Mr Constable), or “Good day, comrade!” sounding very republican, and accompanied by a resounding kiss.

Every fifth man appears to affect, in one of five forms, the fourth Evangelist. Jón (Johns, 4827), Jóhannes (498), Jóhann (494), Hannes (154), and Hans (80), making a total of 5053. On the other hand, whilst Odin has disappeared, Thór, in compounded shape, enters into 2010 male and 1875 female “Christian” names = 3885. Guðrún[184] numbers 4363; Marguerite, 1654; yet Marias, elsewhere so common,[185] are only 384; and Rosas decline to 269. Amongst historical names, we find 122 Sæmundr; of Biblical names, even the quaintest and the most Hebraical, such as Samson, Samuel, and Solomon, Jael, and Judith, are here common as in all Protestant countries: Catholics more wisely avoid them, leaving them to their original Jewish owners. The western counties affect the strangest terms, such as Petra, Petrea, Petrina, Petulína, and Tobía, a feminine. And throughout the island there is arising a new fashion of combining names almost as ingenious as that of the Latter-Day Saints. For instance, the daughter of Brynjólfur by Thórdís will be called Bryndís; the son of Sæmundr by Elina is named Elínmundr. Of course nothing can be more barbarous, but what does “fashion” care for barbarism?

In pagan times the wife was often assisted by Friðlas or supernumeraries, and, though she was liable to be exchanged or loaned, as was the case amongst the polished Hindús, the Greeks, and the Romans, she could put away her baron for so slight an offence as wearing a chemisette, or any other article of feminine attire. The simple process was to declare before witnesses that they twain ceased to be one flesh. The marriage tie sat almost as lightly upon Icelanders as upon Scandinavians generally, even in the Catholic days: since the introduction of Lutheranism, it has, as we might expect, been still less binding.[186] We may therefore conclude that a certain love of change is in such matters a characteristic of the race. At present every peine infamante allows divorce; and incompatibility of temper, shown by three years of separation, with the consent of the mayor, is a plea of sufficient force to claim from the Minister of Justice at Copenhagen freedom a mensâ et thoro. Both parties are able to remarry, and they may be reunited, unless they have misconducted themselves whilst living apart; in this case they must obtain a dispensation from the chancellerie of the empire.

§ 5. Diseases.

It is calculated that the yearly deaths at Reykjavik average 59-60, and this figure, if correct, is high for the population, in 1870 only 2024, now at most 2500. For instance, the mean of London being 19 per 1000, and all England 20·8, to say nothing of Glastonbury, Reykjavik, with the most favourable calculations, would be 24.[187] With more attention to hygiene, the headquarter village should not show a death-rate exceeding 17:1000—the beau-ideal of the modern sanitarian.

The list of diseases is so extensive that little beyond the names can be mentioned. They result mainly from the utter absence of hygiene; from want of cleanliness; from bad living, hardship, and fatigue; and from exposure to cold, especially after living in close and heated rooms. The latter is a fertile source of ill-health: so at St Petersburgh the higher classes suffer from the maladies of Calcutta, hepatalgia, jaundice, and spleen-enlargments; and, after a certain number of “seasons,” they must seek health in the Crimea, or in Southern Europe. Hence the fondness of Icelanders for sour food which equals that of the acid-loving citizens of Damascus. The pudding of the island is Skyr, which the Dictionary wrongly translates “curdled milk, curds,” and which Rafn derives from the Sanskrit Kshira (milk): it is the Khir of Sind and Belochistan; the Laban of Arabia; the Dahin of Hindostan; the Saure-milch of South Germany; the Kisalina of Styria and Slavland, and the Hattelkit or Corstorphine Cream of Scotland.[188] Icelanders eat it with sugar, which gives it a sickly taste. Hence the use of acid butter; of Mysuost, or whey cheese, brown, and not unlike guava cheese; of Valle, fermented whey, somewhat like Koumiss; of Sýra, or sour whey, acting small beer, and used in pickles like vinegar; of Súr mjólk, or sour milk; and of Blanda, the favourite drink, half whey and half water, into which blueberries, and black, crake, or crow berries (Icel. Krækjuber, Empetrum baccis nigris) are sometimes infused. And hence, finally, the use of Korn-súra (Polygonum viviparum), Cochlearia (officinalis and Danica), trefoil (T. repens), Sedum Acre (house leek), and other social plants, which are considered antiseptic and antibilious.

The skin diseases are alopecia, herpes, and psora inveterate as on the Congo River. “St Anthony’s fire” was cured by binding live earth-worms upon the part afflicted. Scurvy (Skyrbjúgr) results from “thinness of blood,” induced by want of proper nourishment, especially by the overuse of salt and dried meat and fish: the increased growth of vegetables, not to speak of medicines, has much modified its malignancy. Measles and scarlatina are rare, but periodical attacks of smallpox, which often appear in history,[189] still compel the capital to convert one of the best houses into an hospital. In 1872, it was occupied by French fishermen only; there was no case among the natives. The author did not see a single instance of the protean and the most cosmopolitan of diseases, whose various phases are known as Lepra Arabum, Leuce, and Mal Rouge; Leontasis, or Facies leonina; Elephantias, Elephantiasis, and Barbadoes Leg. It is known to old writers as “Icelandic scurvy,” to the islanders as Lík-thrá-sótt, or corpse-pang, which Henderson translates, a rotten, rancid corpse;[190] Holdsveiki, or flesh-weakness, and Spitalska (’Spital sickness), the latter being the biblical term. When the extremities drop off, the term generally applied was Limafallsíki.

In the ninth century, leprosy required some 19,000 hospitals in Europe; and it has perhaps lingered longest in the Færoes and in Iceland. Here, curious to observe, its very headquarters were about Skagi and Reykjanes, the best and mildest climates. A few cases still remain, but the establishments built in Catholic days have not been kept up by the Reformation, perhaps showing the want to be less urgent. The horrid malady is evidently dying a natural death, like others which have yielded their places to new comers, or which are gradually disappearing, without leaving issue. The best authorities explain the change by the use of bromide of potassium and the increase of vegetable diet. And to the question of Aretæus, “Sed quænam medela excogitari poterit, quæ Elephantem, tam ingens malum, expugnari digna est?” Iceland answers, fearless of Cobbett, the potato. The latter has taken the place of the old-fashioned simples, the tops and berries of juniper (J. communis), of Dryas octopelata, of Vaccinium myrtillus (bilberries), of Sanguisorbs, and of similar sub-acid tonics.

It is impossible to enter into a subject which has filled many a volume, but it may briefly be stated that no cosmical cause of leprosy has ever been discovered; and that what seems to account for its origin in one place, completely fails in another. India, especially Malabar, attributes it to biliary derangements, caused by fish and milk diet. The Brazil, like the Jews, the Moslems, and other pig-haters, refers it to pork; Syria and Palestine, ignoring the “impure,” declare it to result from atavism and inheritance. Iceland remarks that it was worst when men wore woollen garments; and similarly Sir George Staunton assigns the modern exemption of Europe to the general use of linen.

Peirce declares that syphilis (introduced, according to Uno Von Troil, about A.D. 1753), chlorosis, mania à potu, caries of the teeth and intermittent fevers are unknown, or almost unknown. He is certainly incorrect with respect to the latter complaint; typhus and various febrile affections are very common in the finest and warmest months, when many of the peasantry show signs of “malaria.” Pleurisy is popularly supposed to be infectious. Rachitis, called in Norway the “English sickness,” because it is supposed to have passed over in late years from Britain to France, Holland, and Germany; scrofula and consumption are rare. Chiragra is attributed by old writers to “handling wet fishing tackle in cold weather.”[191] The trismus infantium seu neonatorum, called “ginklofi” when opisthenous, and “klums” if emprosthonous, has raged like a plague, especially at Heimaey, one of the Vestmannaeyjar. The children, contrary to the practice of all wild peoples, were weaned after the first week, and were fed upon the flesh of the foul mollie, or fulmar-petrel: the same was once the case at St Kilda, with similar results. At Heimaey, 64 per cent. of babes have died between the fifth and the twelfth days after birth: since a medical man was stationed there, the tetanus has been arrested; and of 20 births, only a small proportion has been lost.

The other complaints are catarrhs, influenzas (where the stars have little “influence”), and chronic rheumatisms, the latter an especial plague; hysteria, gout, and arthrites, constipation and diarrhœas, very prevalent during spring. The endemic echinococcus and cysticercus, affecting one-seventh of the population, are subjects of remarkable interest, which have been treated at considerable length. No less than seven species of hydatids have been detected in dogs. An able analysis of writings upon these internal cysts, causing “liver-complaints” and “staggers,” will be found in Schmidt’s Jahrbücher der in-und Ausländischen Gesammten Medecin (No. V., Band 134 of 1867, and No. X., Band 152 of 1871). The principal northern authorities quoted are Hjaltalín, Jón Finsen, Krabbe, Thorarensen, and Skaptason.

SECTION VI.

EDUCATION AND PROFESSIONS.

Christian III., the Reformer, ordered a school to be built near each cathedral church—a Moslem action which did him honour. Skálholt had forty, and Hólar thirty-four students when the high school, which, as in the United States, is called the “Latin school,” was removed to Reykjavik in 1801; in 1805 it was transferred to Bessastaðir, and in 1846 it again returned to the capital. Bishop Pètursson (p. 365, et seq.) gives the fullest account of the establishment till 1840. In 1834 Dillon found the whole number reduced to forty, of whom some received stipends of $33, and others of $60 per annum. In 1872 the total of scholars was sixty-three; the maximum being eighty-eight and the minimum fifty-eight; of these forty are distributed amongst the dormitories, and board with different families in the town; twenty-three are day scholars residing with their families or friends. The lads matriculate after confirmation, if from the country; and the usual ages are fourteen to seventeen. They are separated into four classes (Icel. Bekkur; Dan. Classe), but No. 3 is subdivided into A and B; thus making the total five. No. 4 also demands similar treatment, but room is wanted and also money to fee extra professors. No. 1, which is the junior class, studies Icelandic, Danish, Thýsku[192] (German), and Latin, as far as Cæsar and Phædrus; Bible history and theology, general history, geography, and zoology. No. 2 continues these items and introduces the student to mathematics, Greek, and English. No. 3 adds geology, mineralogy, and botany; and No. 4 French and general information. The course lasts six years, ending with the maximum age of twenty-three; after which the scholar is “demissus” and can become a “candidat” of theology, or devote himself to law or physic. The shorter holidays are from December 23 to January 3, and from Holy Wednesday to the Wednesday after Easter Sunday. The long vacation is that of our venerable universities, originally designed for allowing poor scholars to beg and to take part in the all-important labours of ingathering the harvest; between July 1 and October 1 being the busy time at home: moreover, the lads have a long and a hard way to travel. The high school year is thus of nine months.

The students are known by their “signums,” a lyre in circle borne upon the cap-band, but some appear to prefer the cross as a badge. In the college they rise at 6.30 A.M., and if not dressed and ready by 7 A.M. they are reprimanded. At that hour they drink coffee with sugar and milk, and fifty minutes afterwards they go to chapel, which lasts till 8 A.M. The morning lectures now begin, and at 10.45 A.M. they are dismissed to a breakfast of coffee, bread and butter, cold fish, and sometimes meat.[193] The pupils do not take their meals in the school building, but at the different houses where they board. No stimulants whatever are allowed, nor must the pupils smoke, snuff, nor chew in or about the buildings, but of course they can indulge outside it. The second lecture then continues from 11.15 to 2 P.M., after which two hours are given to recreation and dinner of hot fish or meat. Till 7 P.M. the studies for the next day are prepared; and supper, cold like the breakfast, leads to more private reading between 8 P.M. and 10 P.M., at which time all boarders must be in college. The day ends in the chapel, hymns accompanying the prayers; and all are in bed at 10.45, or 11 P.M. on Sundays and festivals. Thus there are five and a half hours of lectures; five of preparation for the next day, and seven hours thirty minutes for sleep. Punishments are confined to degradation in the class and, in extreme cases, to expulsion; of course there is no flogging, and the prison and unsalutary semi-starvation of the French college are equally unknown. Fasts are not kept, even after the fashion of Oxford, which, in the author’s day, noted “abstinence” by the addition of fish.

Public examinations take place every year about mid-June; they are held in the first-floor front hall of the building where the Althing meets. They begin with writing, a professor walking about to prevent “cribbing,” and they end in vivâ voce. These determine the students’ claims to the stipendia, of which there are three grades. There are twenty-six Heil-Ölmusa[194] (whole scholarships), each of $100 per annum; twenty-four Hálf-Ölmusa of $50, and four Quarter-Ölmusa, the latter often not distributed. Moreover, those who proceed for study to the University of Copenhagen are entitled to $15 per mensem.

The Latin school (Latínuskóli i Reykjaviki) publishes yearly transactions, in a short yellow pamphlet, Icelandic and Danish (Skýrsla um hinn Lærðaskóla Reykj. Einar Thorðarson). In that of 1871 we find the following names:

The Rector is the only official who lives in the college, and he receives a salary of $1816 per annum. The actual tenant (1872)[195] is Hr Jens Sigurðsson, brother to Jón, the O’Connell of Iceland, and he has made himself eminent by his historical studies.

The Yfirkennari, or head-master, lectures the fourth, or highest class, in Greek, Latin, and French, with a salary of $1192. The present occupant is Hr Jón Thorkelsson.

Of the following professors (Skólakennari, Dan. Adjunct), three receive a total of $3756 per annum = $1192, including house-rent; the theological lecturer (Prestaskólakennari, Dan. Docent) about the same sum; while the two assistants receive something more than half ($612). Their names and duties are:

1. Haldór Kr. Friðriksson, who lectures all the classes in Icelandic, Danish, German, English, and geography.

2. Gísli Magnússon, in Latin, Greek, and Hebrew; the Hebrew, formerly so much affected, is now become almost obsolete; there are only eighteen pupils at the priests’ seminary, and a single Oriental student on the island, Rev. Thorwaldr Björnsson, whom we shall presently meet. It is curious how those who hold to “the Bible and nothing but the Bible,” neglect the Oriental text for translations, which are so far from being correct that the best often utterly pervert the meaning; and, stranger still, that the vast stores of exegetical and hermeneutical learning should still lie locked up in the forbidden Talmud,[196] and in the pages of Jewish commentators.

3. Jónas Guðmundsson, in Latin, Danish, and theology.

4. Haldór Guðmundsson, in arithmetic, physics, mathematics, and botany.

5. Hannes Árnason, in geology and minerology.

The three extra professors are:

1. Procurator P. Melsteð, in Danish history and geography; he is a Tímakennari (Dan. Timelærer) paid by the hour, 40 skillings.

2. Saungkennari (Dan. Musiklærer), the organist, P. Guðjónsson, who receives annually $250, without house-rent.

3. Kennari i leikfimi (Dan. Gymnastiklærer), C. P. Stunberg, said to be a retired officer in the Danish Army; his salary is the same as No. 3.

And, finally, there is the inspector with a pay of $220 per annum.

The only unequivocal success of an Iceland education appears to be the hand-writing; it is caligraphic as in the Brazil and Paraguay; probably for the same reason, namely, that time is not money. As will appear in the Journal, a smattering of modern languages has been allowed gradually to usurp the place of Latin, which few even of the priests now speak fluently—the traveller frequently regrets the change. The Rob Roy canoeist finds the classical tongue a meagre vehicle for intercourse; he would not do so if he knew the neo-Latin languages, and would give an hour per day for a few weeks to the colloquies of Erasmus, pronounced Italianistically, and to conversation with a foreign priest. Professor Blackie proposes Greek as the language of the future; we shall next expect to see Sanskrit or Chinese[197] advocated: the difficulties of the ancient dialect, with its duals and middles, are enormous, and no such thing as modern Greek yet exists.[198]

The Icelandic pronunciation of the Latin vowels is Italian rather than French, e.g., Dominum (like “room,” not Dominom) and náútá, a sailor, not nota: j, after vernacular fashion, is equivalent to y (ejus = eyus); and g in gener, regio, and gymnast are hard (get, not George). The stranger must carefully conform to these peculiarities or he will not be understood.

Icelanders have two grievances connected with the Latin school, one not unreasonable, the other urgent. They complain that youths learn bad habits at the capital, and parents prefer the days of the “schola Bessestadensis.” Moreover, they declare that the suppression of the northern school has caused loss of time and money—families being obliged to send their children from the eastern quarter almost round the island viâ the north to Reykjavik. The Danish Government could hardly do better than to restore the northern centre of learning, and, perhaps, transferring the southern to Thingvellir would improve the present state of things.

Art simply does not exist in Iceland, and, to judge from the little museum of Reykjavik, it was always rude as that of Central Africa: the only attempt appears to be on the part of the goldsmith. There is a single painter at Reykjavik, and his career has been cramped by inability to study in lands where the sun shines. The sculptor and the architect have no business here. Even music and dancing, especially the latter, which reminds us of that “accursed thing,” the dancing-master lately denounced in Argyleshire, have hardly passed, except at Reykjavik, from the savage to the barbarous stage. We read of the Fidla or violin, and of a Lang Spil like that of the Scoto-Scandinavian islands, an oblong box about two feet three inches wide, and ending in a “fiddle-head;” the three steel wires were either scraped with a bow, or were scratched with the forefinger, the instrument being placed upon a table. But local colour has departed and we hear only that piano which civilised men just prefer to the guillotine, an occasional flute, and some form of “musical bellows,” harmonium, or accordion. The traveller’s ears are never regaled with the Norwegian Ranz des Vaches, nor the plaintive airs which have struck earlier visitors. And the people appear to be deficient both in time and tune; their lullabies are horrible; “Hieland Laddie” is painfully distorted, and the snatches of song are in the true “rum-ti-tiddy” style, grateful, perhaps, to Dan Dinmont, but assuredly to none but he.

A little volume of 180 pages published by the Icelandic Literary Society, at Copenhagen (Islenzk Sálmasaungs og Messubók), and costing $1, suggested that there might be some remnants of music handed down from the past. But it proved to be merely a collection of old German hymns well-known throughout the Lutheran world; and the only specimens worth reproducing were these.