The first newspaper printed in Iceland began in 1775: in the catalogue of writers prefixed to the work of Uno Von Troil, it is called the IslÄndische Zeitung. This Islendingur, not long defunct, gained considerable reputation; the back numbers are to be found at the College Library. At present the island publishes three periodicals, of which two are printed at the capital. The first, which appears regularly twice a month, is called the ThjÓÐÓlfr,[1] an old Icelandic Christian name; and in 1872 numbered its twenty-fourth year. The sheets vary from one to two, according to the amount of news; the columns are double, the page is about 10 inches by 8½; the subscribers’ list shows some 1100, and the yearly subscription is $1, 2m. 0sk. The editor, Hr Procurator JÓn GuÐmundsson, a barrister, conducts it worthily, and with great intelligence; he is outspoken, but not factiously so. The TÍminn (Times) appears once a month; its politics are of the “Hlut-lausir,” lot-less, or neutral tint, which would have caused it to be ostracised at Athens; and there is some mystery about the editor, who is usually supposed to be Hr PÁll EyÚlfsson, silversmith and cicerone. The third is the NorÐanfari (Northern Traveller) of Akureyri,[2] the chief commercial station in the north. It usually comes out some twenty-six times a year in the full size of four pages, and at intervals with reduced proportions: matter is fearfully scarce during the four winter months, when there are no mails, and local subjects must be at a premium. As regards the sparring of rival journalists, it is, to quote Arlequin’s saying, “tout comme chez nous.”

The history of printing-presses in Iceland has been copiously treated. They were first established at the two bishoprics of SkÁlholt and HÓlar; privileges were then granted to LeirÁ, ViÐey,[3] and Hrappsey; and now there are two, in Reykjavik and Akureyri. The office at the capital is in High Street, where three men work the two presses and four cases: the folding machine has yet to be introduced.

The Icelandic Literary Society (HiÐ Íslenzka BÓkmentafÈlag) still survives: after passing through the usual phases, it is now loyal and respectable. Concerning the first, or Societas Invisibilis (HiÐ Ósynilega FÈlag), established in 1760, ample information will be found in Bishop PÈtursson’s “Hist. Eccles. Isl.” (pp. 339-342). The second (HiÐ Íslenzka lÆrdomslista fÈlag), dating from 1779, is treated of in Mackenzie (chap, vii.): it admitted corresponding and honorary members. The third (HiÐ konunglega Islenzka lÆrdÓmslista fÈlag) in 1787 became a Royal Society: it is interesting because it first treats of the sulphur mines and trade of Iceland in the reign of Frederick II. (1336-59); and the presiding genius was the celebrated JÓn EirÍksson. This worthy, whilst under the influence of melancholia, committed suicide, a proceeding as rare amongst men of distinction in the post-Christian as it was common during the pagan times of Iceland. I inquired in vain about the savant’s bust, which was broken on the voyage to this island; my informants had only a hazy idea that the head had been returned to Copenhagen. A medallion of the great Scandinavian literato, now in the hands of Hr SigurÐur GuÐmundsson, shows him in profile, with protruding chin and brow, a nose worthy of Fielding, a long-tailed wig with ailes de pigeon, and a frilled shirt.

The fourth Royal Society of General Instruction in Iceland (HiÐ Konunglega islenzska LandsuppfrÆdÍngar FÈlag) was established by MagnÚs Stephensen. The fifth, VÍsinda og UpplÝsingar-Stiftan (Institute for Knowledge and Instruction), was conducted by BjÖrn GottskÁlkson, when the press was removed from Hrappsey to LeirÁgarÐar. The sixth, which actually exists (HiÐ Íslenzka BÓkmenta FÈlag), was founded by the celebrated Professor Rask in 1816, on March 30, which is kept as its birthday. The bye-laws were printed in Icelandic and Danish at Copenhagen in 1818: the SkÝrslur, or annual report, first appeared in 1825.

The object of the Society is to publish and circulate, at the cheapest price, useful, standard, and also original books, together with newspapers and periodicals. Such literature is still a prime want in the country, and an enterprising publisher like Mr N. TrÜbner might do a “good stroke of business.” The two branches, Danish and Icelandic, choose their own executive every year, and keep separate accounts, which are blended in the general annual statement: the latter is published by Hr Bianco Luno of Copenhagen, in French and English, as well as in Scandinavian. The books are also printed at the metropolis, and sent out to the island. The magnum opus is the annual review, historical report, and magazine of general literature, classically called Skirnir, the Narrator, or Eddaic messenger of Freyr.

The Society numbers some 720 FÈlagar (members), besides a few corresponding and honorary, French and English, German and “American.” The subscription is $3 per annum. The Icelandic branch meets, besides extraordinary occasions, twice a year, in March and July; the latter is the Synod time, corresponding with our May meetings; and the venue is at the Priests’ Seminary for want of other room. The first president was Hr ÁrnÍ Helgason; Bishop PÈtursson has held it for twenty years, and it is actually tenanted by Hr JÓn Thorkelsson, head-master of the Latin School. The rector, Hr Jens SigurÐsson, is the treasurer; Hr PÁll MelsteÐ is secretary; and Hr HÁlldÓr GuÐmundsson acts librarian.

Formerly there was a high school at each bishopric, and a prime grievance of the island is that the two having been reduced to one, the northern and eastern provinces are put to uncalled for expense and inconvenience. Children learn the “four R’s” at home from their parents: hence the unalphabetic are rare, and some priests even refuse to marry them. At the capital both sexes may attend a preparatory school in Harbour Street (HafnarstrÆti), till the age of confirmation, or fourteen. The cost is small, $8 per annum, but all the pupils, even those who come from afar, must live in the town. Besides the elements of knowledge, they learn history and geography, Danish and Icelandic, but neither French and English. Music is little cultivated, the piano is not unknown, but the singing is chiefly confined to hymns, and of these few are original. Dancing and gymnastics are equally neglected.

I visited the Supreme Court, a low building in the row north of the LandfÓgeti or treasurer’s office, under charge of the stiff old usher. The left room is for the town councils; the right for the administration of justice, as shown by the oval table, by four chairs within, and by two small tables and bench without the cross-rail. It would be hard to swing a cat, with anything like safety to the animal, inside this temple of Themis, and its mean proportions gave me satisfaction. The next move was to the Latin School, which has now taken the place of the Schola Bessastadensis. The highly uninteresting building, already collapsing in its twenty-ninth year, is approached by a bridge spanning the foul drain, and is fronted by a sloping, grassy lawn kept in decent order. The civil hall-porter acts cicerone. Turning to the left of the hall, where a big clock stands, we find the younger classes preparing for examination, a professor walking about to prevent “cribbing:” this is the written portion; the viv voce process will be conducted in the front hall of the first floor, where the Althing meets. It is a fair-sized room, with the royal portrait at the bottom opposite the entrance, fronted by a long desk of green cloth: the rest of the furniture consists of benches covered with green baize. The governor sits on the proper right of royalty, and the president of the Diet on the left. The last session (1871) was described to me as somewhat stormy, and the nays (neis) far outnumbered the yeas: the latter (jÁ), when reiterated in excitement and pronounced yÄu, sound somewhat comically, a manner of bark, yow, yow, yow.

There are two dormitories in which the little beds stand side by side. Everything is of the humblest description; even the ceiling of the professors’ sitting-room wants repair. A change to the capital has somewhat modified the excessive uncleanness which foreign visitors remarked at BessastaÐir, but there is still much to be desired.

In the Introduction I have given the details of the High School. The programme leaves little to be desired, but sensible Icelanders agree with strangers that the education is sterile and not “serious,” in the French sense of the word invented about 1830. The pupils learn a smattering of many things, but nothing thoroughly. This is doubtless the result of a social condition in which only superficial knowledge is at a premium: the same may be remarked in the United States and in the Brazil, compared, for instance, with Oxford and Coimbra, where students find specialties necessary.[4] The consequences of studying Icelandic and Danish, Latin and Greek, English, French, and German, are that very little can be learned. At the beginning of the century every priest could converse in Latin—I have now met many who cannot speak a word of it, and I have not met one who spoke it even tolerably. The useful cosmopolitan dialect has been exchanged for “modern languages:” similarly the Magyar now cultivates his own dialect, and has abandoned the Latin which, to him almost a mother-tongue, kept Hungary in contact with the culture of the West.

The pupils are hard workers and have excellent memories; they must chiefly, however, depend upon books, and the result is that whilst many of them collect a fair stock of phrases, and pronounce them remarkably well, they can hardly understand a word of the reply. Another and a severer charge is brought against the establishment. The dissipations of Reykjavik appear very mild to a dweller in European cities, but they are, comparatively speaking, considerable. Youngsters between the ages of fourteen and twenty-three easily learn to become boon companions, and to lay the foundation of habits which affect their after-lives. The professorial HetÆra being unknown, the students are apt to make any connections which present themselves, and intrigues with the “ancilla” sometimes end in marriage perforce. Thus the country clergyman or the franklin begins life burdened with a helpmate utterly unmeet for him; who neglects his house and children, who thinks of nothing but dress and “pleasuring,” and who leads him rapidly on the road to ruin, in a country where all domestic comfort and worldly prosperity depend upon the “gudewife.” Hence the old system of schools at SkÁlholt and HÓlar, and even at BessastaÐir, is greatly preferred, and, perhaps, even now the seminary might with profit be removed to Thingvellir. Here it has been proposed to lay out a model farm, where the alumni could add agriculture to their pastoral acquirements.

About the age of twenty-three the SkÓla-piltar, or pupils, become “students,” that is to say, B.A.’s. In order to enter the learned professions, especially the law, they matriculate at the University of Copenhagen, where they are housed and receive annual stipendiums of £15 to £20. They distinguish themselves by thrift and canniness, emulation, energy, and abundant application, when the place agrees with them. But often they suffer from the insidious attacks of a climate which even Englishmen would call rigorous; the comparative mildness acts upon them as tropical heat upon us, and in not a few cases they die of pulmonary disease.

Medicine may be studied at Reykjavik. The school is simply a room in the Hospital, and subjects for dissection cannot be had without a permission, which is generally refused. On the other hand, students have the benefit of lectures from thoroughly able men, Drs HjaltalÍn and Jonassen. The course lasts from three to five years, and after an examination the LÆknir (M.D.) may either practise in private, or aspire to become “physicus,” at some out-station.

Theological students attend the Priests’ Seminary at Reykjavik. It consists of two lecture rooms, fronting the sea, in HafnarstrÆti, and furnished with chairs and black desks, a stove, and a list of lectures. The candidates who reside in the town are taught by the Lector SigurÐr Melsted and two “Docents,” Hannes Árnason and Helgi HÁlfdanarson. The examinations take place in June and August; the former tests their progress in logic and psychology, the latter in theology, ecclesiastical history, exegesis, and canon law. The course lasts at least two years, and at the age of twenty-five, after the final examination, students obtain the degree of “candidat.” Some do not choose to be at once ordained, reserving the final step for later in life, but the material advantages of the profession in Iceland never allow it to lack recruits. The result of such a course is to saturate the mind with the Bible, learnt from translations and explained by the individual opinions of swarming commentators. It makes men “fall down and worship” (as the great Spinoza has it) “an idol composed of ink and paper, instead of the true word of God.” And when the superficial and ill-taught “divine” has to do battle with a polemical Catholic or a pugnacious Rationalist, the action generally ends in a ludicrous defeat. I especially allude to the late controversies with M. Baudouin, and the disputes with “Free-thinkers,” recorded by Professor Paijkull: the Great Book, or Commentary on St John, written by Candidat (TheologiÆ) MagnÚs EirÍksson, is attacked by an “Old Pastor,” with an obsolete virulence worthy of the Inquisition.

I was introduced to Professor Hannes Árnason, the geologist of the Government College, who kindly showed me the collections of natural history. Of botany there is none, the hortus siccus seems to be generally neglected in the smaller museums of the world: the student must content himself with Dr HjaltalÍn’s work, and the “Flora Danica,” of which a good, but untinted, copy is found in the College Library. Zoology is confined to a few stuffed birds.[5] The mineralogical collection is richer; mostly, however, it is a rudis indigestaque moles; the upper part of a chest will be labelled, and the lower drawers in most unadmirable disorder. Moreover, where the traveller wants only local specimens, they are mostly general; for instance, a small cabinet of fourteen drawers contains Germany.[6]

We then proceeded to the College Library, a detached building of solid construction, but suffering sadly from damp accumulating in the porous stone. In the big bluewashed room fires are neglected, consequently the books are damp and mildewed.[7] At the bottom, above a broken globe, is a votive tablet erected to an English benefactor, Charles Kellsall of London, who supplied funds for the building, and who left it a library, which, they say, has not yet begun its journey Icelandwards: there is none to Mr John Heath, who printed the Rev. JÓn Thorlaksson’s well-known Eddaic paraphrase of “Paradise Lost,” and to whom the Icelandic Literary Society owes a heavy debt of gratitude.

The principal library is in the DÓmkirkja, under the charge of Hr JÓn Árnason, inspector of the Latin School—in Iceland, as amongst Moslems, the church is considered the natural place for the library. You open the Lich-gate, ascend the right-hand staircase, and a second dwarf flight leads to the greniers under the roof. When the sun shines, the slates are too hot for the hand: this keeps the collection dry; and the reader is disposed to enjoy it.

The library opens on Wednesdays and Saturdays between twelve and one P.M., when you are allowed freely to borrow after signing your name. The interior is not prepossessing. The total of the volumes may be 14,000; but the catalogue is still to be made. Printed papers lie about in extreme confusion, and “vieux bouquins” are so strewed and piled that you can hardly find what you want. Many of the sets also are imperfect, having been lost or stolen. The three large deal stands, and the shelves ranged against the higher wall, do not supply accommodation enough, and the single writing-table is always desert. The curiously-carved black press from the west, and the pulpit with the four evangelists rudely cut upon it, are interesting, but should be transferred to the Antiquarian Museum.[8]

The manuscripts are a private collection belonging to the librarian, Hr JÓn Árnason. They number 226, but not a few of them are copied from Sagas, and other works already printed; this is often done in Iceland, where time is cheap and books are dear. A comparison of the state of Icelandic with that of Persian literature would bring out a curious similarity, resulting from similar conditions, mental as well as physical; and it is the more interesting when we consider the intimate blood connection of the two families. Hr JÓn Árnason wanted £200 for his neatly bound collection, and it has, I believe, been sold in London.[9]

The Antiquarian Museum, two rooms fronting north, is upon the same floor as the Library, under the charge of Hr SigurÐr GuÐmundsson, who, like Hr JÓn Árnason, is unsalaried. The former, smitten in youth by love of art, has given his life to painting, and to the study of Icelandic antiquities. The sketch and plans of the “SkÁli,” or ancient hall, and the plan of Thing-vollur in “Burnt NjÁl,” are productions of which he need not be ashamed. He usually makes the Hospital his studio; and he showed me some portraits which have the rare merit of representing the person, and not another person. Unhappily, it was his fate to lack the patron; a few years of youth spent like Thorwaldsen at Rome, where models are found, and where Nature inspires the brain, would have given warmth and life to a fancy frozen by the unartistic atmosphere of the far north.

The Collection, open at the same time as the Library, is in “apple-pie order,” and, though young and small, it promises a goodly growth. There is a catalogue (SkÝrsla um forngripasafn Íslands Í ReykjavÍk, i. 1863-1866, published by the Icelandic Literary Society, and printed at Copenhagen, 157 pages, octavo), to which addenda should be appended; the specimens, as well as the cases, also require numbering, for easier reference. It is to be hoped that my excellent correspondents, the late Dr Cowie and Mr Petrie, have so arranged the collections at Lerwick and Kirkwall that the Shetlands and Orkneys may not blush in the presence of Iceland. I shall describe this museum at some length in a note at the end of this chapter: here we are amongst the past centuries, and older life in Iceland is prominently brought before our modern eyes.

Through the kindness of Hr JÓn Árnason, I managed to “interview” the venerable Professor BjÖrn Gunnalaugsson, who, being now eighty-four years old (born 1788), partly blind, and very deaf—his wife also an invalid—rarely opens to strangers. He is a fine old man, with large prominent features, shaven face, long hair, with small hands, here very unusual, and thin knees, rarer still. His portrait, taken in middle age, with two wellearned decorations upon the black dress-coat, shows an unusually sympathetic figure.

Welcoming us kindly, the Professor sat in his stuffed chair before a little table, and I noticed that he swayed his body to and fro like a Moslem boy reading the Koran. We talked of his past life: he had forgotten the details, but he remembered the main points. After spending his youth in teaching mathematics and natural philosophy at the College, he resolved to map out his native island with theodolite, compass, and reflecting circle, and to this labour of love he conscientiously devoted twenty years, not twelve nor eighteen, as has been generally said. He was not very sure about his proceedings upon the VatnajÖkullsvegr, the path north of the great south-eastern glacier, before his time considered utterly impracticable; and my curiosity was chiefly for this point. He mentioned his fellow-traveller, SÍra SigurÐr Gunnarson, then a young man, who had just taken his degree. He believed that the march took place in July or August, but not after. Of the eight ponies, two were laden with hay, and they found grass at TÓmasarhagi, north-west of the VatnajÖkull. During his march, no volcano was observed, either in the glacier or to the north of it; and he seemed to have neglected tracing out the sulphur diggings.

When consulted about the VatnajÖkullsvegr, Professor Gunnlaugsson strongly advised me to avoid it, as the animals would be exhausted before the real work of exploration began. The easiest attack upon the great glacier, he said, was from the north, especially when the polar winds were blowing, and thus travellers might penetrate to the centre without encountering the difficulties of the KlofajÖkull to the south. Altogether he was in favour of BerufjÖrÐ, the starting point. As the Danish steamer is bound, weather permitting, to touch at that port, I had thought when in England of making it my base; unhappily, the line was represented as too rugged for transit, in fact, impassable, whereas it is distinctly the reverse.

The Napoleon Book (p. 94) declares that Professor Gunnlaugsson began the wrong way by details instead of by an ensemble or general plan—a primitive style which would leave much of perfect topography to be desired. It forgets the preliminary trigonometrical labours of the Danish officers, detailed in the Introduction to these pages, and which left to Professor Gunnlaugsson only the task of filling in the already measured triangles. These meritorious men, as often happens, did the best part of the work, yet their names have well nigh sunk into oblivion. But what can we expect when politics and party-spirit enter into science?

NOTE ON ANTIQUARIAN MUSEUM.

The room first entered is divided into two by a glass case, containing the toilette of the past century, when dress, worth some $300, was an heir-loom, and when costume was purely insular; not as now, a mixture of Icelandic, Danish, and cosmopolitan. The Museum of Science and Art at Edinburgh contains some articles presented by the gentleman to whom these pages are inscribed; and M. de Kerguelen (1772) sketches a “lady of Iceland” intelligible only when the several items are seen. The case is surmounted by a rude portrait, with Latin verses, in honour of a certain FrÚ[10] HÓlmfrÍÐr: her hair is concealed by a white koffur or fillet wrapper, somewhat like that worn by the married German Jewess at the four holy cities of Palestine, and this is surmounted by the HÆltve, or travelling hat. The steeple-crowned broad-flapped felt is precisely the PÉtasus of the old Greeks, and probably came to Iceland with the pilgrims of the Middle Ages. For the house there are skull caps in plenty, mostly black velvet and gold embroidered; some of them have flaps like the “Kan-top” of Hindostan, others show the rudimental crest which culminated in the Skaut-faldr.[11] This foolscap, built with a card-board frame, is then covered with linen; a thin plate of metal forms the crest shape, and the white material is stuffed with cotton, like the HÚfa (pronounced HÚa,= our hood). It is fastened to the hair by pins; and an outer band, spangled with a dozen silver-gilt stars, secures it round the brow, ending behind in a cravat bow and two ribbons, which hide the fastening. Finally, a deep fall or lace veil is turned back, passed over it, and thrown upon the shoulders, reaching almost to the waist. This Skaut-faldr is an excrescence, which deserves to be compared with the TantÚr, or silver horn of the Libanus, which was and is generally confined to married, though sometimes worn by marriageable women.

The other articles of dress are the Skirta (shift) of woollen stuff, worn next to the body: according to some authorities, the health of the people has been improved by cotton, which others deny. The Upphlutur is the long-sleeved bodice, or waist piece, with gold embroidered cuffs, and velvet stripes covering the seams. In modern days it is of velvet, brought from Europe. The Fat is a Wadmal petticoat, extending to the ankles, and of these articles sometimes two or three were worn for warmth. The outer one is copiously worked, and is faced by the coloured Svinta (apron). The Treja is a tight-fitting jacket, with chased buttons: the Hempa, a short outer coat, worn by men and women, buttoned over the chest, is wide at the bottom, about a hand’s breadth shorter than the skirt, and open at the flaps to show the embroidered petticoat. The UppslÖg or cuffs are slashed; round the neck is a HÁlsklÚtr (white cravat), a HÁls-sikener, or cravat of purple silk; and for full dress StrÚtr, little black collars on the jacket neck, and Kragar, stiff hoops or ruffs of black embroidered stuff, which make the head look as if it were dished up. The terminations are Sokkar, coarse woollen stockings, and SkÓr, the Iceland papushes: finally, Kvenn vetlingar, rough gloves, protected the hands. The trimmings of the gowns, skirts, and petticoats are very handsome; nothing of the kind can be found in the present day; and the people have the lost art of cutting wool so as to resemble velvet-pile. The black dye is admirable; it is a fast colour, and lasts exceptionally long. According to the Custodian, it was made by steeping the cloth in dark mud, and then treating it with the juice of the arbutus (Uva ursi, SurtarlÝng), our bear-berry and the cane-apple of Ireland. The modern toilette has been greatly simplified to the Skaut-faldr and bodice, the skirt of black broadcloth and velvet, embroidered with green silk, and the waist-belt, a poor filigree copy of old work. It costs £17 to £18, and might answer for a civilised fancy ball: the general aspect is that of a Circassian woman’s dress—in Circassia.

The ornaments, belts, buttons, bodices, chains, and rings, mostly heir-looms, are as numerous as the articles of dress: they are survivals of the time when people wore all their wealth. Some of the Hnappar (buttons), round and of worked surface, have one or more figures of the Crucifixion hanging to them. These are no longer made. There are Ermahnappr, silver-gilt buttons, for the sleeves,[12] and much larger, with clasps, for the waist; bodkins (Laufa priÓnar), ornamented with silver; KeÐja, chains of sorts; HÁlsfesti for the neck, and HerÐafesti for the shoulder; rings of gold, silver and brass, one of them spiral and elastic; Nisti (bracelets), and Mallinda, velvet girdles, embroidered with silver. Some of the belts are plates of gold and silver, linked together, and hanging down in front almost to the knees. There is an immense demand for these curios: every stranger carries off some specimens of the old work, with which the owners are compelled by necessity to part: the country people would be buyers, not sellers. Modern imitations are made without any success at Reykjavik, but not elsewhere. You give German dollars to PÁll EyÚlfsson, or to Hr Sigfusson, if the latter is sober, and they convert them into filigree work, which does not contrast well with the neat, plain jewellery of Norway, now becoming known in England. Needless in these days to warn strangers against counterfeits, the “Iceland snuff-boxes” of walrus tooth are mostly made in Germany.

Near the door is a quaint bird’s-eye sketch, dating from 1770, brought from the BorgafjÖrÐ SÝsla, and illustrating the dress of the time at a BÆr,[13] or farm-house. In front of the buildings, which are all out of perspective, as if the painter had Chinese eyes obliquely set, stand groups of men and women, walking, riding, and working. The former have knee-breeches, and one of them not a little resembles in suit the portraits of Doctor Johnson. There are two sawyers, and others ply the iron-shod wooden spade, of which a specimen hangs in the room. The women, raking hay, or pumping, drawing, and carrying water in pails, bear the Skaut-faldr, now confined to Sundays and festivals. Another portrait of a woman (1772) wears a foulard round the head, instead of the skull cap or foolscap. A curious pencil sketch, probably copied from the original in the SkarÐ church, BreiÐafjÖrÐ, shows DaÐi Bjarnarson (ob. Æt. 68, A.D. 1643) and his wife Arnfrydur, both kneeling with cuffed hands: he wears a Skegg (beard), in cut and shape most like a tile, huge trunk hose, tight stockings, and shoes with big rosettes.

The same room contains a variety of domestic implements, especially worked tapestry: in another part specimens of large-meshed white lace are preserved. There is a bed, dating from 1740, box-shaped, but not so much as the modern: on the outer side the occupant and the clothes are guarded by rudely carved RÚm fjÖl (bed foils) or planks, five feet long, still used here and at the FÆroes. Being carpentered into the chamber-walls, the other side requires no such protection. Curtains shelter it from the cold: there are coverlets and a night-cap, in those days often used as a day-cap; and the outer corners are supplied with rude human figures. The mannikin at the tester holds a kind of candlestick, evidently to facilitate the practice, pleasant but wrong, of reading in bed. Upon the top of a press stands a lantern, with scanty glass, and woodwork rising flamboyant, or rather like green sausages, above it. All the rooms contain upright planks, grotesquely carved: these are lineal descents from the consecrated high seats of the heathenry, and in more modern times they were ranged round the hall, with hangings between. One of them shows a mermaid with pendent bosom and child; of course, desinit in piscem. The single chair has a tall carved back and inside the two doors are sets of ornamental iron work. The quaint-shaped knockers are purely Roman—they are still dug up in Syria.

The weapons, which date from A.D. 1050 to 1400, are represented by old spears and halberts. A good imitation Toledo blade, with sunk midrib; daggers and battle-axes, one of which was taken from under a heap of stones in the Vestmannaeyjar; chain armour, and a variety of large and small Bigones (hones), of smooth compact basalt, for cleaning and sharpening weapons. A saddle cloth, hanging against the wall, shows figures of various animals, tolerable tambour work, in the Persian style. There is a collection of iron, wooden, and bone stirrups, and sundry prick-spurs. The cups are interesting; and one of them, probably intended for a man and his wife, contains at least a quart bottle. The finest are made of walrus teeth (Rostungr, Trichecus rosmarus), the animal being often cast ashore in the north: poorer specimens are of horn. Here we find the material for the Guma Minni, or memorial bowls; the GuÐfÖdurs Minni, or cup quaffed to God the Father; the Heilags Anda Minni, to the Holy Ghost; the toast to the Archangel Michael, a fighter like old Thor; the Mariu Minni, of the Blessed Virgin; and the Marteinn’s Minni, to Martin (Turonensis). The snuff-boxes are unlike the horns now used: one is an oval, with an upper plate of ivory and wood below, hooped round with brass, and containing a cullender, probably used for pulverising the leaf. Mangling seems to have been a favourite occupation; the hand articles (Kefli) are found in numbers: the roller is smooth; the upper stick is carved, and gaudily painted;[14] and the Étuis are as numerous as the mangles. One case containing bobbins is fastened to an embroidery cushion; another bears date 1677. Some hold horn spoons, others razors, others buttons, and all are shaped like the inkstands of the East, and curiously but artlessly carved. There is a coarse plane for the carpenter. The weaver of rude cloth worked his sword-shaped shuttle of polished bone, yielded by the whale, whose ribs also supplied rafters, more expensive but more durable than wood. The mammal gave material for dice and draughtsmen played at Kotra (tables), and these are the nearest approaches to the “chessmen made of fish bones,” mentioned in old books. There is a specimen of the Langspiel (violin), and its horsehair bow, formerly so well known in the Scoto-Scandinavian islands.[15] This instrument has three pegs for strings, and seventeen frets, but no bridge: possibly it was played with the thumb, as the Barber of Seville is still wont to do. Uno Von Troil supplies it (p. 92) with six brass wires, acting strings; but I do not understand what his “symphon” is. Mackenzie sketches it, but shows the side instead of the face; and Hooker, drawing it from memory, draws it incorrectly.

The spoils of the Old Church are not numerous: they consist of two altar-cloths embroidered in colours; the altar stone from the SkÁlholt Cathedral, white marble, blackened above by use; an antique monstrance with a Latin inscription; and some fine enamelled and jewelled crucifixes, said to date from A.D. 1300: many of the stones have been picked out, but the eyes remain. There is also a rudely carved salmon, supposed to have been an ex voto.

In the same room stand two cases (unnumbered) containing finds from a grave opened at Baldursheim in the north, and supposed to date before the Christian era (A.D. 1000). Besides a few bits of rusty iron, serving for different purposes, it has a calvaria without front teeth, and with a large occipital projection like a woman’s. A third case, also from the same place, shows fragments of another calvaria, a large jaw and other bones, a small tooth-comb, and sundries. A fourth has horse-bits of bronze and rust-eaten iron, shaped like the modern, and huge spurs with and without rowels, now unknown in the island except to foreigners. A fifth and a sixth preserve fine old filigree buttons and gold brooches, larger than crown pieces, used as fibulÆ for the breast and shoulders: they are said to be pre-Christian; and the Edda (VÖlundarkviÐa, 24) alludes to a curious ornamentation:

And even in modern days maternal affection sometimes mounts a sucking-tooth in a ring. The necklace beads are very interesting; some are of jade, others of crystal, and others of amber. There is a long blue bugle, not unlike the Popo bead of West Africa, and the specimen which Mr Rattray found at SÁhib el ZamÁn (CÆlesyria), and presented to the Anthropological Institute. Others are irregular tubes with green, red, and white upon black ground; the forms, and even the decorations, may be found everywhere, from the British Islands to the Arabian Desert. It is hard to say whence these articles came to Iceland, beads are indestructible as gums and cowries: of all ornaments they seem to have travelled farthest.

There are also two presses containing antiquities, presented by Mr Henderson, son of the well-known Icelandic traveller; the Lord’s Prayer in old characters, ancient annotations of music, and a document with the signature of the martyr (?) JÓn Árason, “Biskup À HÓlum.” The seal, printed on red wax, bore a crucifix with the bishop standing to the left: on the right was a mitre and a shield charged with a lily.

The most interesting parts of the collection to me were what have been contemptuously called in Scotland “chuckie stanes.” Strictly speaking, no pre-historic remains exist in Iceland: perhaps it is safer to say that none have yet been found. At present we must believe, despite the synecdoche of “Ultima Thule,” that the island, when colonised by the Irish monks, was a desert, and we must continue to hold this opinion until Mongoloid skulls or other remains shall have been discovered. The neolithic-stone age still endures in Iceland, as it does in the Brazil, not to mention other countries. Here almost every cottage, in places where iron is wanting, has a stone-hammer for pounding fish: it is a rounded ball of porous basalt about four inches in diameter, and bored through to admit a wooden handle. The general use of the article may convince students that the pierced celts and stone axes which, on account of easy fracture, were held to have been intended for worship or display, and, perhaps, for reproducing copper or bronze forms, might have been used for battle if not for work.

The stone articles in Iceland seem to be imitated from those of the outer world; and the similarity of type, extending from England to Australia, has not a little astonished anthropologists:[17] “Tant il est vrai,” says Sig. Visconti, “que l’esprit de l’homme, malgrÉ la diffÉrence des siÈcles et des climats, est disposÉ À agir de la mÊme maniÈre dans des circonstances pareilles, sans avoir besoin ni de tradition ni d’exemple.” Hence the New Zealanders, as well as the old Icelanders, gave names to their ancestral canoes, their paddles, and their weapons. The steatite bowls might be from Minas Geraes: the material, according to the people, was supplied by the southern islands. On the other hand, Mackenzie (chap. ix.) found about DrÁpuhlÍÐ, “a yellowish white substance, having a smooth, shining fracture; it may be cut with a knife, and appears to be steatite.” He also mentions (p. 428) friable, white and reddish-brown steatite, near the hot springs of Reykjavik. A truncated, tetragonal pillar of bluish soap-stone, with a square cornice and a shallow cup ending in a cylinder pierced right through, is somewhat mysterious: possibly it was used, and so local tradition asserts, as a portable font.

The basaltic specimens are: 1. Weaver’s weight bored for stringing; 2. Sinker for fish-net, with deep groove round the longer waist of the oval; 3. Weight, dating from 1693, shaped like a conical cannon-ball, and adorned with bands and bosses; 4. Circular quern-stone with hole through it; 5. Cone, with flat base, used to grind colours; 6. Rude ladle with broken handle; 7. Pierced stones for spindles, resembling the African; 8. Various hones, before alluded to; 9. Prismatic column with runes, taken from a tomb; and, lastly, what seems to have been a club or axe. Though made of the hardest and closest basalt, with broad ribs whose angles are now rounded, the specimen is imperfect: the handle, one foot one inch long, is partly broken away, and the head, four inches broad, lacks the edged part. Still it is the most valuable of the “ceraunei lapides.”

The east room has a large central stand of four compartments. We especially remark: 1. The seals of ivory and bone. 2. An iron chÂtelaine to which hung a knife, a skewer, and a key, not unlike those we use for watches, but with the handle more rounded: it is inscribed I. H. S. 3. A diminutive “Hammer of Thor,”[18] with a magical character on the head which discovered thieves: the only other “MiÖlner” on the island belongs to a widow at HofsÓs. 4. Buttons of horsehair from the mane and tail; they were still used by the FÆroese in 1810. 5. Two specimens of the Lausnarsteinn, a flat, hard seed two or three inches in diameter, which here, as in Cornwall, was supposed, when drunk in infusion, to facilitate parturition: the superstition vanished when it was found to be not a magic bean but only a horse-chestnut thrown ashore, like the Dolichos urens and the Entada gigalobium, by the currents. 6. Onyxes and agates, called Nachturn-steinn (nature stones), which, being banded, were held to be charms, and prevented the owner losing his cattle, whilst the Oska-steinn (asking-stone) gave him all he wished. 7. A fine Christ, evidently from a crucifix; the blood is enamelled, and the work appears to be Byzantine.

Two cases to the east contain a few early types cut in wood, and one of them is devoted to those of Hreppsey. Only one letter of 1488 remains, and there are a few capitals used by Bishop GuÐbrand at NupÚfell in EyjafjÖrÐ. The drawers beneath protect old manuscripts written with decoction of willow-bark, or with the arbutus-juice which served as cloth-dye: the colour is well preserved. A glass box hanging to the western wall contains German coins, pottery, quaintly rounded silver spurs, and Bishop GuÐbrand’s drinking-cup. Another and a similar case shows the only procession flag in the island; it is of faded pink silk, almost colourless, with a white linen cross and an edging of three lappets fringed with green and gold. There are also narrow webs for weaving ornamental cords.

Over the western doorway hangs an old lace bed-curtain, white, and well made. Scattered about the room are various articles—viz.: 1. A wooden plank with an epitaph dated 1755, and quite in the style of the “lying tombstone;” 2. Carved door-posts for the church or the house; 3. A large wooden chair, the arms ending in carved knights, whose horses are those of our chessmen; and 4. A beam, ten feet long, pierced with thirty-two holes—with such an instrument Penelope might have woven her web. There is also a specimen of the old FlekÍ, two or three boards thirty-two inches long by twenty-eight; it was drilled with holes pierced for snares of twisted horsehair, and anchored off some skerry with ropes, and stones or horse-bones. A decoy bird upon each instrument was useful to catch guillemots.