The Exports Consist Of Fish, Particularly Salted Cod, Fish-Roe,
Tallow, Train-Oil, Eider-Down, And Feathers Of Other Birds, Almost
Equal To Eider-Down In Softness, Sheep's Wool, And Pickled Or Salted
Lamb.
With the exception of the articles just enumerated, the
Icelanders possess nothing; thirteen years ago, when Herr Knudson
established
A bakehouse, {31} he was compelled to bring from
Copenhagen, not only the builder, but even the materials for
building, stones, lime, &c.; for although the island abounds with
masses of stone, there are none which can be used for building an
oven, or which can be burnt into lime: every thing is of lava.
Two or three cottages situated near each other are here dignified by
the name of a "place." These places, as well as the separate
cottages, are mostly built on little acclivities, surrounded by
meadows. The meadows are often fenced in with walls of stone or
earth, two or three feet in height, to prevent the cows, sheep, and
horses from trespassing upon them to graze. The grass of these
meadows is made into hay, and laid up as a winter provision for the
cows.
I did not hear many complaints of the severity of the cold in
winter; the temperature seldom sinks to twenty degrees below zero;
the sea is sometimes frozen, but only a few feet from the shore.
The snowstorms and tempests, however, are often so violent, that it
is almost impossible to leave the house. Daylight lasts only for
five or six hours, and to supply its place the poor Icelanders have
only the northern light, which is said to illumine the long nights
with a brilliancy truly marvellous.
The summer I passed in Iceland was one of the finest the inhabitants
had known for years. During the month of June the thermometer often
rose at noon to twenty degrees. The inhabitants found this heat so
insupportable, that they complained of being unable to work or to go
on messages during the day-time. On such warm days they would only
begin their hay-making in the evening, and continued their work half
the night.
The changes in the weather are very remarkable. Twenty degrees of
heat on one day would be followed by rain on the next, with a
temperature of only five degrees; and on the 5th of June, at eight
o'clock in the morning, the thermometer stood at one degree below
zero. It is also curious that thunderstorms happen in Iceland in
winter, and are said never to occur during the summer.
From the 16th or 18th of June to the end of the month there is no
night. The sun appears only to retire for a short time behind a
mountain, and forms sunset and morning-dawn at the same time. As on
one side the last beam fades away, the orb of day re-appears at the
opposite one with redoubled splendour.
During my stay in Iceland, from the 15th of May to the 29th of July,
I never retired to rest before eleven o'clock at night, and never
required a candle. In May, and also in the latter portion of the
month of July, there was twilight for an hour or two, but it never
became quite dark. Even during the last days of my stay, I could
read until half-past ten o'clock. At first it appeared strange to
me to go to bed in broad daylight; but I soon accustomed myself to
it, and when eleven o'clock came, no sunlight was powerful enough to
cheat me of my sleep. I found much pleasure in walking at night, at
past ten o'clock, not in the pale moonshine, but in the broad blaze
of the sun.
It was a much more difficult task to accustom myself to the diet.
The baker's wife was fully competent to superintend the cooking
according to the Danish and Icelandic schools of the art; but
unfortunately these modes of cookery differ widely from ours. One
thing only was good, the morning cup of coffee with cream, with
which the most accomplished gourmand could have found no fault:
since my departure from Iceland I have not found such coffee. I
could have wished for some of my dear Viennese friends to breakfast
with me. The cream was so thick, that I at first thought my hostess
had misunderstood me, and brought me curds. The butter made from
the milk of Icelandic cows and ewes did not look very inviting, and
was as white as lard, but the taste was good. The Icelanders,
however, find the taste not sufficiently "piquant," and generally
qualify it with train-oil. Altogether, train-oil plays a very
prominent part in the Icelandic kitchen; the peasant considers it a
most delicious article, and thinks nothing of devouring a quantity
of it without bread, or indeed any thing else. {32}
I did not at all relish the diet at dinner; this meal consisted of
two dishes, namely, boiled fish, with vinegar and melted butter
instead of oil, and boiled potatoes. Unfortunately I am no admirer
of fish, and now this was my daily food. Ah, how I longed for beef-
soup, a piece of meat, and vegetables, in vain! As long as I
remained in Iceland, I was compelled quite to give up my German
system of diet.
After a time I got on well enough with the boiled fish and potatoes,
but I could not manage the delicacies of the island. Worthy Madame
Bernhoft, it was so kindly meant on her part; and it was surely not
her fault that the system of cookery in Iceland is different from
ours; but I could not bring myself to like the Icelandic delicacies.
They were of different kinds, consisting sometimes of fishes, hard-
boiled eggs, and potatoes chopped up together, covered with a thick
brown sauce, and seasoned with pepper, sugar, and vinegar; at
others, of potatoes baked in butter and sugar. Another delicacy was
cabbage chopped very small, rendered very thin by the addition of
water, and sweetened with sugar; the accompanying dish was a piece
of cured lamb, which had a very unpleasant "pickled" flavour.
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