“The equine remains from Thórsmörk are interesting. The first molar and the fourth premolar tooth of the lower jaw, as well as the third deciduous molar of another individual, indicate the existence of a horse of ordinary dimensions, as large as the ordinary European horse of the present day, and larger than the Shetland or Dartmoor ponies. There are few points of resemblance between these teeth and those of the Equus spelœus figured by Owen (‘Philosophical Transactions,’ 1869, plate 57).
“Teeth of the Bos taurus are present, though in an imperfect condition.
“From the above remarks it will be, I believe, clear that the skulls now described belong to the Norwegian race, though possibly there may be an admixture of Celtic blood derived from the descendants of the Irish prisoners brought into Iceland by the Norsemen. But in no sense can these be termed any Esquimaux or ‘Boreal’ affinities. That prior to the year A.D. 860, when the expedition of Naddod to ‘Snæland’ brought Iceland face to face with Norwegian civilisation, a more ancient race, allied to the Esquimaux, may have existed in Iceland, is a possible speculation, but one of which as yet we possess no anthropological proofs. The domestic fauna which exists in Iceland appears to accord for the most part with that of Norway, and the people do not appear to possess any intermixture of Esquimaux blood.
“Mr Magnusson said—As regards the possibility of an admixture of Esquimaux blood in the Icelandic nation it cannot be maintained on historical grounds. There is no record extant to countenance the supposition that at any time Iceland has been inhabited, wholly or partially, by this polar race. The island lies out of the belt of the Esquimaux, and he would find himself there entirely out of his element, the conditions for the existence of human life in Iceland being entirely different from those on which life in the polar regions depends. The parts of the country first discovered by the Norwegians contained a few people who had come from England in A.D. 795; and it was first in A.D. 874, or thereabouts, that the first settlers came upon living human beings there. These, however, were not Esquimaux, but Irish Culdees, who had taken up their hermit abode in some of the outlying islands off the south and south-east coast—their solitude being more congenial to the spirit of the anchorite than a residence on the mainland, which meant a more energetic fight with nature than a residence on the islands. The spirit of priest and pirate being then no more homogeneous than now, the Westmen—as they were called by the invader—were soon destroyed. This is, briefly stated, what we learn about these Westmen from Icelandic sources of history. But from Irish sources we learn more. The Irish monk Dicuil, of the eighth century, has written a book called ‘De Mensura orbis Terræ,’ in which he says that in A.D. 795, he spoke to some Irish hermits having returned from an island in the north, which he calls Ultima Thule, and which, from his description, can be none other than Iceland. It is, therefore, certain that Iceland had been discovered from Great Britain or Ireland some seventy years at the least before ever the Norwegians ever came there. As to the human remains before us, they need be no older than the eleventh century, unless scientific evidence should prove the contrary, for at the beginning of that century, and long afterwards, Thórsmörk, the locality from which they are said to come, was an inhabited countryside. Their real value, I presume, depends entirely on their antiquity; but being no philosopher in matters of this nature, I take leave of the bones and Captain Burton’s paper, which has thus far disappointed me that I have learned from it much less than I anticipated.
“Dr Carter Blake agreed with Dr King that no affinities to the Esquimaux were presented by the present specimens. Many Lapp skulls existed in the Continental museums, and some Tschuktchi; but there was great dearth of Esquimaux skulls from Behring’s Straits. On the hypothesis that the Aïno skulls exhibited Esquimaux affinities, it was difficult to discuss the question. Dr Rae’s observations on the stature of the Esquimaux were certainly interesting. The skeletons in our museums were short and stout; but how far were they typical examples of the race? The circulation of the queries by the Arctic Exploration Committee would tend to elucidate these questions. With regard to the observations which had fallen from Mr Eirikr Magnússon, he was himself ‘agreeably disappointed’ that the Institute was not to be converted into a ‘hólmgang’ wherein to criticise Captain Burton’s excellently narrated facts. He failed to perceive what evidence a French or Irish monk could have possessed of Culdees in Iceland in A.D. 795, as Iceland was not discovered (according to Mr Magnússon’s statement) till A.D. 874, and according to ordinary chronologists, till A.D. 860. In matters wherein the veracity of a distinguished traveller had been attacked, it was necessary that the utmost care should be taken respecting facts and dates. Captain Burton in no part of his paper assigned a high antiquity to the bones, which may either belong to the time of Burnt Njál, or to a far more recent period.”
Travelling seawards from western to eastern Iceland is by no means so easy as the converse. I held myself lucky, though somewhat late, in finding the Postdampskibet “Diana” bound for Berufjörð. She left the capital betimes on a normal Icelandic summer day (July 27); windless or sea-breezy below, while high in ether a tangled web of white threads and comet-like cirri showed the usual upper gale, the ἄνεμοι δύο of these regions. The straw-yellow sun-gleams cast upon the south-western shore enabled our learned glances to distinguish the features of the scenery, a now familiar scene.
About noon we ran along the great lava-field of rough slag and deep, loose volcanic ashes, bearing here and there a tuft of wild oats; the surface was fissured with Geos, and the sharp broken and splintery edges were reddened by fire, and whitened by birds. This corner was seldom visited by the older travellers; Mackenzie reached only Grindavík, and even Henderson neglected Reykjanes. It was carefully examined by Dr Hjaltalín, first in 1827, after the submarine eruption to the south-west, which floated a quantity of pumice, and again in 1866, to examine the silica diggings. He found several Makkalubers, or mud-puffs, and Hverar (hot springs), the north-easternmost called Gunna. A little to the north, a solfatara, extending over an acre or so of bald red bolus, was blowing off steam from cracks and holes, whilst to the south-east rose a large extinct vent which had discharged abundantly north-north-westward. This was the “New Geysir,” concerning which I had endured plentiful “chaff;” for instance, the lines addressed to me by a charming person, and beginning with—
The silica mounds, which are now partly, if not wholly, English property, lie near the largest of the mud-puffs, a common caldron, some fifty feet in breadth by half that depth, spluttering thick blue-grey mire, and wasting sulphurous steam. The mineral is remarkably pure; its whiteness suggests that it has been deposited by water, though how and when no one pretends to say; and its laminations are easily reduced to fine powder. It would doubtless sell well in the home markets, but at present there are two objections to it; the quantity does not appear sufficient to justify heavy works, and without these, transport is simply impossible.
To starboard, we had a fine view of the Fuglasker (fowl or gull skerries), which the fog had hid from us in June, and which, like the Canaries, are seldom all visible at the same time. The nearest, about eight miles from Reykjanes, is Eldey (fire eyot), also called the Mjöl-sekkr, from its likeness to a “monstrous half-filled bag of flour;” Scotchmen compare it with Ailsa Craig, and Scoto-Scandinavians with the Holm of Noss. Its shape is that of a tree-stump 200 feet high, cut with a slope dipping north-west, and yellowish-white with rain-washed guano. The heavy surge swarming up the sides and swirling round its small red appendage, the Eldeyjardrángr, suggested peculiar difficulties of landing. The tumult of the waves is described to be even greater about the rest of these “Kaimenis,” the Geirfuglasker, and the tall stack known as Geirfugladrángr, the Danish Grenadeer Huen, or grenadier’s cap. The two latter, prolonging the line to south-west and by west, and distant twelve and fifteen miles out to sea, lie far from the course of steamers; landing must be impossible, save on exceptional days, and the climbing is said to be bad as the landing. Lastly, there is the Eldeyjarboði, “boder,” or warning-stone, alias Blindfuglasker, a sunken rock, where New Isle (Nyöe) rose with the Skaptár[126] eruption in 1783, gathered its three craters into one, and presently disappeared in five to thirty fathoms depth. I could learn nothing about the favourite auk-rock, said also to have been submerged in 1801, or of the skerry which Lyell throws up in June 1830.
As we steamed along shore, where the host of white spectres haunting the background contrast so curiously with the fat burgher-like plain, we looked curiously, but in vain, for the Drífanda-foss (spray-driving force), which acts barometer to the Westman Islands, and which travellers describe as if it were the Yosemite, “swinging like a pendulum, and often scattered into air.” It is probably a local name for the Seljaland-foss, east of the Markarfljót,[127] under whose arch of waters there is the same pleasant and comfortable passage which distinguishes sections of Niagara and the Giessbach. Beyond it we distinguish the Skógarfoss, where the old colonist, burying his treasure in a kieve, still causes men to sing—
The approach to the Vestmannaeyjar about evening time, when a vinous hue masked the grim complexion of these “basaltic ninepins,” was more than usually picturesque. We steamed by the twin drongs and the little black dot, Einarsdrángr, and anchored on the north-west. Fortunately for travellers, there is riding-ground here, when the fierce easter makes the Kaupstaðir impracticable. In propitious weather, ships usually round the north-eastern head of Heimaey, and lie off the eastern or true port, which is somewhat defended by Bjarnarey. The Holm-isle, once a fire-mountain, now a habitation for mankind, is the main body, to which a score of outlying rocks and skerries act satellites. Viewed from the west, this couthless mass of columns, pinnacles, and obelisks, becs, prongs, vigrs, stacks, and frow-stacks,[128] resolves itself into a line of three heaps, like the Moela, or Gizzard Island of Brazilian Santos. The eastern side shows a low slip of land connecting two culminations; to the north, Heimaklettr, upon whose tormented slopes, 916 feet high, sheep are grazing; and southwards, Helgafell, a more shapely volcanic cone of cinders and grass—it is the work of the Trolls, famed for truth. A white church and steeple, fronted by black huts, provides for some 400 souls, excellent cliff men, full of fight, and armed with guns against the marauding of foreign fishermen—Frenchmen especially.
After the visit of Mr Syslumaðr, who came with the Danish flag to fetch the Iceland mails, we resumed our course, leaving a nameless shoal and Bjarnarey to starboard, and presently the tall bluff peak of Erlendsey[129] to port. The sun setting in cloud, mist, and rain at the respectable hour of 9.30, we congregate below, and enter upon a critical consideration of the “Diana.” The English passengers agree that the “Queen” is more “homely-like,” which must console her owners for twenty-three tons of fuel per twenty-four hours; the old Danish craft, much like a gunboat on the West Coast of Africa, with 150 horse-power to drive 300 tons, burns only ten, but, en revanche, she seldom exceeds seven knots. Those who converted her to peaceful pursuits built an upper cabin, cut up the deck, and forgot seats on the quarter-deck; this “hurricane deck” acts like a pendulum, and makes her roll in the mildest sea, lively as her namesake, till we almost expect her to “turn turtle.” The management is essentially in naval style combined with extreme irregularity of hours; even beds are not allowed in the saloon, whilst there are vacant berths in the dog-holes below, consequently sleep is satisfactory as in the “omnibus” of the P. and O., when running down the Red Sea during midsummer. The cleanliness of the Norwegian is notably absent; two wash-hand basins for sixteen head of passengers, and suspended towels, heap difficulties upon washing and make bathing impossible. The Hofmeister or restaurateur, who pays the company for leave to feed the taken-in, is not a praiseworthy institution: I almost prefer the purser-plague. Nor are the Danes famed for cooking; they affect grease and, generally, an amount of carbonaceous matter which would horrify Mr Banting. At seven A.M. there is coffee or tea, appropriately called “tea-water;” we breakfast at nine, dine after Genoa fashion at three, and sup at half-past seven—or thereabouts. All the meals begin with hors d’œuvres, pickled oysters, preserved lobsters, and the bulbs which, according to Don Quixote, are fit only for cullions and scullions; there is an abundance of cold meat, salt and fresh, and of sausages which, to the British mind, suggest nothing but trichines and hydatids. As long as kindly Captain Holme ruled the “Diana,” we had not much cause to complain; on my return voyage his place was taken by a manner of naval martinet, and it is hard to pay full merchantman’s fare for man-of-war’s discipline.[130]
The next morning rose tolerably fair, a matter of no small importance to sight-seers, who are here exposed to constant disappointments—a rainy summer’s day in Iceland is common as a shower in England. About noon we were abreast of the low black ridge, the southern base of a bay-island, whose name, “Ingólfshöfði,” still notes where the first colonist first landed. Over this headland, and due north, rose the culminating point of Iceland, “Öræfa-(pronounced Oeriva-) jökull,” in the Skaptafells Sýsla, the havenless ice-mountain, so called from the open unsheltered coast of south-eastern Thule.[131] Here the climate, affected by the huge refrigerator, becomes Arctic, and the land somewhat justifies the exaggeration of travellers, who compare Iceland with a “bit of the moon;” the sober Paijkull’s “exalted scale of nature” now reads not inapplicable. As Mr Forrester describes “Norway and its Scenery” (1853), this region is an expanse of “savage heights and unfathomable depths,” crowned by its shapely white apex, which rose like an atmosphere of clouds—we were never tired of gazing at it. In June the whole of the upper half, at least 3000 feet high, had been mantled with snow; now the line had shrunk to 2000; and black points, lava islands, and basalt nubs, which warm exposure or too steep an angle had left uncovered, ran up almost to the summit. On August 25 I noticed no change. The shape from the south appeared a flattened cone, a headless sugar-loaf, with white stripes extending far down the folds; about the waist a fast-moving nimbus, brown and slate coloured, enhanced the virgin ermine of the garb. Farther east we saw a long congealed wall built on a meridian, crested about midway by the peaky Hvannadalshnúkr, and buttressed southwards by two parallel points, the hnappar or knobs. Inland the Klofajökull was wholly concealed from view; seawards the semicircle at its base showed every variety of Icelandic eccentricity, the coffin, the sugar-loaf, the horn, the crescent: the expanse of snow-falls and ice-ridges, streaked with couloirs and gullies, ends in glaciers and hanging glaciers, the first we had seen on the island,
The Breiðamerkr, rolling down towards the ocean, kept up by pressure from behind, and showing the usual glorious tints of sapphire-blue and emerald-green, was a model to its kind.
About sunset the scene again shifted. A false shore of lagoon and sand-strips, varying from a mile to a hundred yards in breadth, is broken by a headland, the giants of Vestrahorn—Whydah and Jan Mayen side by side. To the north lies Papós, pope’s or priest’s oyce, the mouth of Papafjörð, which in the Brazil would be called a mar pequeno, fed by drainage from the highlands, meeting the ocean-tide. This unsafe anchorage is the only riding ground for ships along the southern and south-eastern coast, between Eyrarbakki and Djúpivogr. Formerly the peasantry had a week’s journey to the comptoir of Berufjörð, but in 1862-63 Hr Jonssen, a Dane, established a trading station. Beyond Papós rises the five-crested top of the Eystrahorn ridge, a wild and savage spectacle which, being gradually wrapped in a winding-sheet of vapour solid as an ice-fog, ended the glories of the day. Our fellow-passengers wished us Berufjörðians bon voyage—we were to reach our destination at dawn.
But the kindly hope came too soon. July 19 opened with one of those calm and clammy “Scotch mists,” for which all this part of the coast is infamous as Newfoundland, and no wonder, when it lies to leeward of a Jökull-land, covering some 3000 square miles. “Diana” was bound to wait forty-eight hours before she carried us away southwards, but she did so grumblingly: naval officers in Denmark, as in England, may be deterred by undue blame from undertaking the least possible responsibility. Indeed a protest has been proposed against even visiting Berufjörð. Although we saw the loom of the land, we did the very worst thing we could do, steaming slowly to and fro between the twins Selsker and Papey, where the bottom is foul with hidden rocks. The coast between Berufjörð and its southern neighbour, Hamarsfjörð, the latter so called from its hammerhead of perpendicular cliff, is an infinite complication of small, black islets, useful only to eider-ducks, and a
We inquired vainly for the apocryphal Kuggr (“cog,” or small fishing-craft) of the maps, Gunnlaugsson’s included, which is represented only by a shoaling of some six fathoms. We afterwards saw the little lump of Geirfuglasker or Hvalsbak,[132] distant about twelve miles. It was described to me as a rock forty fathoms long and about the height of a ship’s deck, rising from very deep water. Yet it begat the large Enchuysen Island of the Dutch. This modern representation of the Islanda of the Zeni Brothers was perpetuated in Maury’s Wind and Current Charts (3d edit., 1849) and in the Enkhuysen Island of Laurie (1862), who cut off 120 miles (= 2°) from the eastern coast of Iceland. It is a worse case than in olden Ireland, where “the sly surveyors stole a shire.”
It is interesting to observe how the country has retained the names of the Papar. These white-robed “anchorites,” as they are generally called, must first have settled in the island (Papey), and the Ystoria Norwegiæ tells us, “Adhuc quædam insula Papey ab illis denominatur.” They then took courage to explore the coast lying south-west, entered the Papafjörð by the Papós and, passing towards the warm Auster, founded the monastery of Kirkjubær, on the Skaptárós, not far from the point where, in after-ages, Hjörleif landed. We must therefore differ from a modern writer (Edinburgh Review, viii., note, p. 243) who says, “It appears that some wrong-headed monks, either by stress of weather, or by design (for the perfection of religion was supposed to consist in rendering themselves useless by withdrawing from society), had actually sailed to Iceland where they settled, it being most probable impossible for them to find their way back again.” The Papar were no castaways; they kept up, as Dicuil has shown, connection with the mother country; and the Landnámabók, at the end of the Prologus, mentioning both Papey and Papýli or Pappýli (i.e., Paparbýli or pagus), says, “It is related in English books that men fared often from one land to the other.”
Another interesting remark is that whatever way we approach Iceland from Europe, south-east, south, or south-west, we find some islet or needle named Geirfugl, and this connected with the “Gare”-fowl (Alca impennis, Linn.), an ancient and almost forgotten term for the great auk, revived by Messrs Wolley and Newton.[133] This northern “Roc,” Dodo, or Moa (Dinornis gigantea),[134] is sketched by Paijkull in the shape of a three-foot penguin; and according to Professor Steenstrŭp, supported by Mr Newton, it was confined to the Polar regions, or, indeed, to the far north. The Icelanders believe it to be blind (Blind-fuglasker), an opinion not shared by the Norwegians and the Færoese. Mr Newton advised me, in case of success, not to follow the usual system of skinning the birds, and blowing the eggs, but to treat the former with pyroligneous acid, which mummifies the meat, and to preserve the latter in spirits after being coated with paraffin or stearine: thus they would be useful for embryological and other investigations.
The unwieldy bird, common till 1834, was killed off for its meat and feathers, and the last eggs were taken from Eldey (the meal-sack) and the Geirfugladrángr in 1844. Mr Newton suggested a visit to these needles, and Mr R. Buist kindly directed the “Queen” to touch at them; but the weather made a visit impossible. He also advised an exploration of the Geirfuglasker, the south-westernmost skerries of the Vestmannaeyjar archipelago, and others spoke of the Geirfuglasker or Hvalsbak, east of Berufjörð. But the old Icelandic fiery spirit of adventure, all but burnt out under normal circumstances, flames high when the fuel of rixdollars is liberally applied. Geir Zoega of Reykjavik assured me that the Eldey and the Auk-Needle off Reykjanes had been repeatedly visited by fishermen since 1844, the date of the last find;[135] and, though Hr Grímr Thomsen of Bessastaðir “begged to differ in opinion,” the destruction of the bird during the last twenty years proves that the people have been in the habit of hunting it. Of the Hvalsbak I was told that though auks may have been seen there, the breach of the sea would have prevented their nesting and breeding. Remains only the Gare-fowl-skerry of the Irishmen’s Isles, and I am not sanguine that exploration will yield favourable results.
The fog from the west and south-west, which enwraps this firth when the northern Fjörðs are quite clear, began to break at eight A.M., and before eleven it had lifted sufficiently to show the beacon and the one big house perched upon the basaltic knob of Papey. There is a report that this feature and the islets around it are gradually rising, and that a sensible difference is observed every thirty years. Gradually to starboard the lower folds of Strandafjöll, stepped like the Esja and Skarðsheiði, and farther off the black curtain of Búlandstindr, frayed at the summit, struggled into sight. It was a most inhospitable-looking region,
Shortly after noon passing Jón’s Holmr and beyond it the Long Tongue, forming the eastern entrance, we anchored in thirteen fathoms water off Djúpivogr (deep voe), a baylet in the southern jaw of the great eastern firth, Berufjörð.[136]
I parted regretfully with Mr Chapman, who had no longer anything to detain him in Iceland, and landed in company with four Englishmen. Mr Askam, with a fine persistency which hails from Yorkshire, would have probably tried to swim ashore had “Diana” shown the white feather. Mr Alfred G. Lock, the concessionist of the north-eastern sulphur mines, his son Charles, and a friend, Mr Pow, of Penicuick, lately from the Argentine Republic, were equally pleased with the unexpected favours of the fog. The former easily persuaded me to join him as far as the Mý-vatn, with the hopes of pushing southwards over the Ódáða Hraun to the unexplored Vatnajökull.
A few preliminary words concerning the mysterious formation along whose southern line we have coasted, and whose northern frontier we shall presently visit. The map shows a huge white blot, labelled Vatnajökull eða Klofajökull, and little distinction is made by the people. The former, signifying water or lake glacier, is so called because avalasses of fluid are at times discharged—a phenomenon generally attributed to the bursting of reservoirs through the frozen edges, which are higher than the interior: perhaps the snow and ice may be melted by volcanic eruptions. Klofajökull would mean the crevasse glacier, and its nature is said to justify the name. The total area, 3000 square geographical miles (115 by 60, according to Baring-Gould), has been reduced by Dr Lauder Lindsay, utterly without reason, to 400. The volcano hidden within the white depths is placed, by the best authority, Síra Sigurðr Gunnarson, on the north-eastern mid-arc of the Skaptárjökull (N. lat. 64° 17´ to 20´, and W. long. 30° 20´). Its smoke has been seen at Úthlið, south-west of the Geysir, and the people of Berufjörð attribute to it the fog and ash-mist which prevailed between August 18 and 24 of 1872.
Mr James Bryce says of the Vatnajökull, “One tremendous mass, out of which the highest peaks of the island rise, has never been crossed, and never will.” I see no reason to admit him even among the minor prophets. In early days attempts were made to penetrate from the north. The Landnámabók (part iii., pp. 257, 258) tells us, that Bárðr sun Heyángursbiarnar (Bardus filius Heyangur-Biörnis), who had settled up the Skjálfandafljót (river of shivering or earthquakes?), hoping to find a milder climate on the southern coast of the island, began to travel in spring, “per Vonarskardum (crenam spei) cui postea nomen est Bardargata (Semita Bardi); ille postea Fliotshversum occupavit, et Gnupis habitavit, tunc cognomen Gnupa-Bardus (Gnúpa-Bárdr) adeptus est.” Bárðdalr is still known upon the middle course of the Skjálfandafljót, and Fljótshverfi (flood-village) lies east of the Blængr cone. Thus the old man crossed from north to south, along the western skirts of the Vatna-and Klofa-jökulls. The northern counterscarp was visited early in the present century by a party of Danish officers, who, in the attempt, lost a number of ponies through cold and hunger. In July to August 1838, Professor Gunnlaugsson, accompanied by Síra Sigurðr Gunnarson, travelled along the Vatnajökullsvegr, which subtends the north-west, passed the Kistufell, where the west Jökulsá rises, during the night, or when a fog hid it; crossed the upper waters of that river, and struck the Brú (bridge) on the eastern “glacier-river” of the same name. Hr Guðmundsson, of Reykjavik, subsequently visited the Blængr cone, an extinct volcano at the head of the Skaptá-Kuði valley, to the south-west of the Klofajökull. He advised me to travel inland from Hekla, leaving the Skælíngar (scowling) peaks to the left or north; to rest at the fine Búland farm; to cross the Skaptá, and to attack the glacier from the Blængr, where the approach is easy, and whence he saw neither lakes nor crevasses. I also heard of another attempt to penetrate from the Skeiðará valley, which lies west of the Öræfajökull; it failed, but no further details were procurable.
In the summer of 1871, a stout-hearted attempt to penetrate from the south was made by a young law student, Mr Watts, of the Middle Temple,[137] who, accompanied by Mr Milne, reached the large patch of forest called in the map “Núpstaðarskógr.” Hence he made for a crooked cone lying west of a black rock, but he was compelled to beat a retreat. No Icelander would be persuaded to risk life or limb. The travellers had no snow shoes to prevent their sinking thigh-deep at every step, and, having neglected ladders, they were obliged to throw their packs across, and to leap the numerous little crevasses; moreover, the intense cold robbed them of sleep. After his return, he described the Vatnajökull as “at once a volcano and glacial region of immense extent, within which there is reason to believe that many active craters (?) are included. Vast streams of lava, of a magnitude unparalleled elsewhere (?), have issued from it, both in pre-historic and in historic times. Surmises of the vaguest character have been formed respecting the interior, which may possibly include fertile valleys, the resort of the reindeer for winter quarters (?). It is encompassed on all sides, as far as the traveller could judge, by a desert formed by the action of the sea, huge lava-streams, and fragmentary ejectments, and detritus brought down by the flooded rivers incidental to volcanic eruptions. The south base of the mountain is composed of repeated layers of basalt, overlying the older tufas (Palagonite?), over which many lava-streams had flowed at various times, while beyond this, apparently, lies a huge glacier, through which many extinct as well as active volcanic vents have penetrated.”
Mr Watts has twice renewed his attempt (1874 and 1875), and his stout heart deserves, if it cannot command, success. He strongly advised me to avoid the Berufjörð line, and there, I think, he was wrong. The Journal will enter into details; suffice it here to say that there are two roads perfectly practicable. One which we did not visit ascends the Fossárdalr and strikes the Axavatn (axe-water) and Líkárvatn (lyke-water lake?), tarns which many Icelanders have visited: thence the traveller would ford or boat over the upper waters of the Fljótsdalr and the little Jökulsá, which latter leads directly into the north-eastern Vatnajökull. The other, viâ the Lagarfljót, will be described in the following pages. Both offer the great advantages of saving a week’s hard travel to man and beast, of sparing supplies, and of offering a choice of places where depôts can be established.
We found three dwarf landing-piers at Djúpivogr; and that to the east, with its double tramway, was a queer contrast with the popular anchor, four upright cask staves, and two below, containing rough blocks of basalt. A hospitable reception awaited us from Hr N. P. E. Weywadt, the principal agent for the comptoir, and his brother Captain H. R. Tvede, both Danes: the latter has travelled far and wide, he has served in the United States navy, and his abundant information is freely retailed. The former occupies the block of building, tarred wood as usual, to the west of the baylet, containing the dwelling-house and sundry stores. The windmill, little bigger than a man, a common labour-saver in these regions, is rudeness personified. The toy sails of sacking work a perpendicular cog acting upon a horizontal wheel, whose square iron spindle turns the stone: the rye is placed in the hopper or upper case provided with a shoot; the damsel is a nail worked by the spindle, and, as there is no vent in the bucket, the flour must be baled out with the hand. The stones are taken from the quern, and indeed larger sizes are not wanted. These primitive articles make better meal than the mouldy imported flour. Finally, the “wind-house” crowns an adjoining nub of basalt. Facing it is the boiling establishment, a large wooden shed like an Iceland church, containing thirteen vats, an iron pan, and a smithy in a detached hovel. On the hill behind is the “look-out,” which becomes important when steamers are expected. South, or at the bottom of the baylet, lie two double-storied black houses, with white windows, Captain Tvede’s stores: we were comfortably lodged in the upper floor. The climate here is exceptionally genial, less severe in fact than that of Scotland. The north wind is cold and clear, the south wet and warm, the east raw and clammy, and the west mild and muggy. It is reported that an observatory will be established at Djúpivogr. Little farms, provided with nets against sheep, are scattered all around, and Hr Weywadt rents a large tract of ground which we shall pass going up the firth.
I spent some days at the mouth of the Berufjörð, coming and going, and had a good opportunity of studying the whale fishery. A company was established by Captain Hammar, a Danish officer, who afterwards went to Russia with the object of teaching the use of strychnine and curari—here the people opposed him as much as possible, declaring that the flesh, which is poisonous only about the wound, would kill men and dogs.[138] The chief objection is that the animal sinks, and does not rise till some two days after death, causing frequent loss. The first year brought in $10,000; the second, $5000; after which the concern was sold to three capitalists, under whom the shares fell 95 per cent., with a loss of $300,000 to $400,000.
The Iceland whale fishery, famous during the last century[139] all round the island, ceased about the middle of last century, when better grounds were discovered: the result is that the animals have increased abundantly. The natives declare that there are thirteen species, but of these doubtless some are Delphini. The following are the four best known:[140]
1. Balæna mysticetus, or “right” whale of Greenland and the South Atlantic; la baleine franche, which lacks dorsal fin, is found off the north coast, but was never seen here by living man.
2. Balænopter a gigas, or humpback whale, whose fins, despite the name, do not form wings: it is the biggest, averaging seventy to eighty feet; it contains the best and largest quantity of oil, and its colour is whitish, with wrinkled belly.
3. Balæna physalus, herring or sulphur whale, containing far less blubber than the preceding.
4. Balæna rostrata, the yellow-brown finback, or round-lipped whale, whose forefins are some nine feet in length: it is the smallest, the liveliest, and the most powerful; it frequently ascends the firths, and it is known by throwing the highest jets.
The animals are wild and wary, probably the result of clear water, and do not allow themselves to be approached in steamers: they are harpooned from boats using four to six oars. The latter three being “finners” (Physalus antiquorum), do not produce much—fifty barrels would be a fair average. The carcass is cut up on the strand; and the fatty matter, after being kept for some three weeks, when it supplies more oil, is boiled down. The belly, which contains no blubber, yields the favourite food, “Rengi:” when fresh this yellow-white layer between the Spik (speck) and the Thersti (flesh) is mistaken by the ignorant for beef and pork, while connoisseurs prefer it to any meat, especially after it has been soaked in vinegar or sour whey. The whalebone is sent to England, where, according to Mr Consul Crowe (loc. cit.), “it appears to be used for making Prussian blue.” The oil is employed in tanning: the first boiling, of course, is the clearer, and the second is browner, with more “foot.”
Shark-hunting is a popular pastime, here as in “Colymbia,” being more profitable to the Icelander than the whale. It is chiefly the Scymnus microcephalus, or Greenlander, called by the people Há-karl[141] (pronounced Hau-kadl); it may average 18 feet in length, and attain a maximum of 25; the back has two small fins, and the liver, which extends nearly through the whole body, may yield two barrels of oil, each about 140 quarts. It is dangerously voracious; we never hear of accidents to men, for the best reason, they do not bathe; but it tears steaks from the whale’s sides, it devours dead reindeer (?), porpoises, seals, and cods, and it does not despise a pair of boots. The Scymnus much resembles the sunfish or basking-shark (Scyllium maximus), which is caught off western Ireland between May and the end of June; the southern monster, however, ranges from 20 to 50 feet in length, and its dorsal fin stands like a gigantic ploughshare about a yard above water. The ova of the Há-karl, nearly the size of hens’ eggs, are produced in July and August, each shark yielding about half a barrel full. The skin is grey, coarse-grained, and incapable of being polished, but it is valued for shoes.
The sense of smell is said to be highly developed in the Há-karl; on the other hand, it is dim of sight as the elephant, the horny covering of the eye attracting the parasitical whale-louse (Læermodipoda, Cyamus, etc.), which often invest the whole organ. Its vitality is familiar to all who have seen a shark cut up, and tales are told of its swimming round the vessel after being ripped up and losing its liver. This carnivor is caught near the eastern coasts, in 60 to 80 fathoms. On the north it always hugs the land between November and March: in summer it goes out to sea, and it sometimes lies in a depth of 300 fathoms. The usual “sharkers” were half-decked affairs, ranging from 20 to 25 tons, with a crew of six to eight men: they were preferred because heavy grapnels and hawsers are not required; moorings could readily be shifted, and, being low in the water, the prey could be more easily hauled in.
Off late years the craft used on the north side of the island are decked vessels of 35 to 54 tons, provided with oars, and so lightly built that in calm weather they can easily move from place to place, and get clear of the ice. They lie in preference off the rising edge of a bank, the anchor being generally a four-pronged iron grapple, weighing about 180 lbs., with 15 to 20 fathoms of 9/16 inch. chain-cable, and a 350-fathom hawser. If nothing is caught, the position is shifted until the shark is found; and if the latter is good, the vessel remains at the spot, and rides out the storms. In calm wintry weather the fishermen venture their small boats, and if fortunate, they may secure within a couple of days fifteen barrels of liver per crew.
The lines used are thick as our deep-sea log-lines, fastened to three fathoms of chain, weighted in the middle with leads of 10 to 13 lbs. Under this is attached a strong 6-inch iron hook, notched inside to prevent the bait slipping: the latter is generally horsemeat, which has been soaked in blood, or seal-blubber which fetches a mark and more per pound. When hauled up to the surface, the captive is made fast with a rope attached to the craft, and killed with a lance; the belly is ripped up, the liver is stowed away, the gall is preserved for soap, the head is cut off, and the carcass is slung alongside the vessel. “The stench of the dead shark is so intolerable that it cannot be taken on board; but the reason for keeping it is the fear that if the live ones were allowed to glut themselves on their dead comrades, they would no longer take the bait so readily; for they are so voracious that often only a portion of the shark caught on the hook reaches the surface, the others having partly devoured the wounded monster on his passage upwards. So firm are the fishermen on the west coast in this belief, that they have petitioned the legislature to enforce by law the keeping of the carcasses alongside as long as the fishing lasts. This opinion, however, is not shared by all the shark-fishers, and is open to doubt.”
The value of a carcass on shore is about 7s. 6d. A moderate-sized shark gives two-thirds of a barrel of oil, and three barrels of liver yield on an average two barrels; the former each worth between 37s. and 50s., and the latter from 55s. to 125s. The chief markets are Sweden and Germany, where it is largely used for tanneries. The high odour of the comptoirs arises from the liver being kept for some three weeks, under the idea that the supply is increased. The skin is pegged out on the ground to dry, and the flesh, especially of a kind of dog-shark, is sold. The latter is buried for some months above high-water mark; a year is better, and two years make it a delicacy. This bonne bouche has a clear, yellow, red colour, with somewhat the appearance of smoked salmon. Indigestible as all sharks’ meat, it is peculiarly “staying” food, and a couple of ounces will satisfy a man for the day. According to some travellers (Dillon and others), this “crack-dish” communicates its rankness to the eater, who is unapproachable for three weeks; but I never observed the fact; nor did I find that the prepared flesh was unpleasant to the nose, “its presence in a room being very perceptible.” Mr Crowe adds that the peasants often burying it in the ground for two or three weeks, take it up, wash, and cut it in strips, which are hung for a year in the drying house before being considered fit for food. Finally, it is never used here, as in Maskat and Zanzibar, when in the state which may mildly be called “high.”
At Djúpivogr we found the usual species of fin. The white fish is caught by long lines laid at night, and hauled in next day. They carry 200 to 300 hooks, but they are miniatures of the giants used by English fishermen in the North Sea, which are measured by miles. The flounder, the halibut (Heilag-fiski, Helliflynder, Hippoglossus pinguis, or holy flounder), and the red-spotted plaice are favourites, despite want of flavour: the dried skate is the bread of this ichthyophagous race, and the fish has passed into a proverb for voracity—“he eats everything that comes in his way like a skate.” I heard reports of enormous squids, the skate-whaals of the Shetlands, which may easily have given rise to the “Kraken” tale. Specimens have been seen from Zanzibar to Newfoundland, where cuttle-fish (Architeuthis monachus and A. Dux. Steenstrŭp) have been found with bodies 15 feet long by 19 inches diameter, and “extensive arms of unknown extent.” The “Great Cuttle-fish” is the Dragon of Polynesian mythology (p. 209, The Emigration of Turi), and it pulled down canoes unless killed by the axe. The Calmar de Bouguer, so called from the officer commanding the aviso “Alecton,” was attacked in 1861, off north-eastern Tenerife, with bullets and harpoons; this piuvre is described as 18 feet long, and beaked like a giant parrot. Moreover, the lumps of rock rising suddenly from the smooths and lines of ripple, viewed through the evening fog, must have kept alive the haunting idea of the kraken. The Great Sea Serpent, or Soe-orm, alias Aale last (Serpens marinus magnus), appears in the pages of Bishop Pontoppidan as an impossible snake, with crescental coils disposed perpendicularly instead of horizontally. Although Professor Owen determined it to be an otary, the fact is not “proven;” and of late years it was revived as a gigantic saurian which has escaped the general destruction of his race. Similarly there is an immense mass of evidence in favour of the Lind-orm or great land serpent. We find him in Livy, Pliny, and Strabo; and Regulus saw him at Bagrada stretching 100 feet long. That most conscientious traveller, Dr de Lacerda, relates that when voyaging up the Brazilian Tiété, his slaves sat down upon a trunk, which proved to be a snake; and I brought home traditions of his having closed a path to travellers in Eastern Intertropical Africa.
At Djúpivogr we met Hr Oddr V. Gíslason, a “Candidatus Theologiæ,” who had visited England, and had published an Icelandic primer (Leidvisír, Reyk., 1863), which he dedicated to a friend, the late Hermann Bicknell. At the capital where his wife remains, he acts as Lloyd’s agent, and in the east he collects ponies and sheep for Mr Askam. His local reputation as a shark-fisher and a viveur stands tolerably high, but he can work hard when he pleases. This worthy at once applied himself to buying bât-ponies, and to hiring a guide, whose perfect and well-known uselessness deserves notice.
Gísli Eyriksson is a good-looking man of thirty-five, with blue eyes, aquiline nose, and a full blond beard. Formerly a day labourer, he prefers to be an able-bodied pauper; the sturdy vagrant owns two nags, yet he has thrown his loafing self, his wife, and his three children upon the parish. His only merit is not drinking; and the women pity him because he is pretty. An Ebionite from the womb, a Lazarus with the tastes of Dives, the invertebrate creature is soft as a girl; he dawdles limp as a negro; he malingers, pleading a bad knee to attract compassion; he makes everybody do his duty; he is ever in the kitchen, never at work; he breaks everything he touches; it makes one’s fingers tingle to look at him. Presently he will strike for more pay. Meanwhile he is the picture of the Prodigal Son in Iceland garb: his stutt-buxur,[142] the pointed and buttoned overalls, said to have been imported from Scotland by King Magnús Berfætti, are in rags and tatters; his stirrups are knotted cords, and his bridle is a string. Inconsequent as a Somali, he drops his fragmentary Svipa (whip) every hour, and he manages even to lose his knife. We engaged him for 4 marks per diem; the “dog of an Icelander” swore after return that the wage was $1, 3m.; and when he received his $29 he mounted his nag and jogged leisurely home.
July 30.
We sent on our ponies, the first detachment, during the thick fog of morning, the warm moist sea-air showing 73° (F.), condensed by the black and white heights; and in mid-afternoon, we set out for Berufjörð in Captain Tvede’s whaleboat. It had a centre-board after approved fashion, but no sail to catch the fair wind from the Fjörð-mouth. The crew consisted of two Icelanders, who, accustomed to the silly narrow blade, the “mos majorum,” were unable to handle the broad oar; the two coopers, a Dane, and a German who disliked soldiering at home, did much better. As the mist lifted we enjoyed the views upon the firth, which our patriotic captain compared with the Organ Mountains, Rio de Janeiro. Yet there is abundant Icelandic physiognomy in the Fjörð viewed from above, especially when the sun is slightly veiled and the shadow of the mist falls upon the wild forms with a pale, unearthly glare. As a rule, too, there is a distinct circulation, an indrift of lower and an outdrift of upper cloud; the effect of the double winds, so common in maritime Iceland, and very striking to the nephelophile. The rival shores contrast sharply. The northern, especially about the Berunes chapel, has broader flats and more frequent farms, backed by the stepped copings and the buttresses of the Strandafjöll. The trend is to the north-west, where quaint and regular castellations, either rising sheer or based upon débris disposed at the natural angle, are divided by deep gaps and fosses. The eastern sky-line is broken into crags which appear a mass of ruins; in places the capping is a single stone, a needle, a column, a Grettis-tak (logan-stone), or an “old man;” here falls a sharp arête; there towers a pyramid, which viewed at another angle proves to be a headland. The general form is not unlike those dolomites which Sir Humphrey Davy mistook for granite. A remarkable band of green Palagonite, locally called “petrified clay,” dips waterwards at an angle of 37°; it crops out north at Breiðdalsvík, and it is said to be traceable southwards for a two days’ march.
The fronting shore begins with a fringe of rocks and skerries; the Fiskenakketange baylet is mistaken at night for Djúpivogr; and the inner and outer Gleðivík (gled-wich), the Indre and Ydre Glæding of old Danish charts, are especially rich in “rognons of rock.” The uplands are formed by masses of trap, with drops and slopes cut and chasmed, at right angles, by gashes and ravines bearing a thin vegetation. We are shown the Teigarhorn (paddock-horn) torrent, about a mile and a half from Djúpivogr; here fine zeolites are, or rather were, found, and Iceland spar is known to exist—unfortunately the farm is Church property. The only important feature is the Búlandstindr, whose north-eastern pyramid, laid down at 3388 feet (Danish), makes an excellent landmark for those coming from the south; the grim black wall bears snow on the northern exposure, and the easily breaking stone renders the ascent unpleasant. At five P.M. we passed the Gautavik (Gothwich) farm, about a century ago the only trading comptoir, dating from the days of Burnt Njál. Some forty-five minutes afterwards we touched at the excellent anchorage of Staulovik, to land Hr Gíslason and a very small boy carrying a very very large jar of rum. Shortly afterwards we opened on the right bank Fossárdalr, which bounds Búlandstindr on the north: here the strata rise waterwards at an angle of 28°. The vale, faintly green, is called Viðidalr in the upper part; it is the directest line viâ Keldadalr (well-vale) to Fljótsdalr, immediately east of Snæfell, but there is no bridle-path, and the compass must be the only guide.
The channel was not wholly desert, we met two boats; the sticks planted upon the islet-rocks, the Æðarsker, and the Æðarsteinn, showed it to be an eider-firth, where the intelligent seal well knows that he may not be shot, and where ravens flock in forlorn hopes of a duckling. “Faraóslið” is the folk or cavalry of Pharaoh, for that wicked but debatable king, so great is the might of myth, has colonised even Ultima Thule; and his lieges still become men and women, laying aside their furs, on the eve of St John. They give rise to a multitude of proverbs, e.g., “‘Too near the nose,’ as the seal said when hit in the eye.” Phoca here forms part of the parson’s flock. They are tame as porpoises. The cows are never killed, and the young are spared; when a battue of men-seals with gun and club takes place, it is during summer. These mammals are most numerous on the southern and eastern coasts; here in one spot we count fourteen pair of eyes quietly but persistently prospecting us. As the fine is three marks for firing a gun within a mile, and the flesh is the best possible shark-bait, we are consulted upon the subject of aircanes.[143] “Krummi” (crook-bill), the raven, whose size has been exaggerated by travellers, is everywhere in Iceland an unmitigated pest, and he shows the unbecoming familiarity of the “ghurab” in Somaliland. His impunity may be due to his cousin the corbie’s sentiment: