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out, to the great annoyance of the pastor and congregation. Upon an
eminence close at hand was the national school, in which were taught
Hebrew, English, French, and Danish.
In three hours my tour was complete. The general impression upon my mind
was sadness. No trees, no vegetation, so to speak--on all sides volcanic
peaks--the huts of turf and earth--more like roofs than houses. Thanks
to the heat of these residences, grass grows on the roof, which grass is
carefully cut for hay. I saw but few inhabitants during my excursion,
but I met a crowd on the beach, drying, salting and loading codfish, the
principal article of exportation. The men appeared robust but heavy;
fair-haired like Germans, but of pensive mien--exiles of a higher scale
in the ladder of humanity than the Eskimos, but, I thought, much more
unhappy, since with superior perceptions they are compelled to live
within the limits of the Polar Circle.
Sometimes they gave vent to a convulsive laugh, but by no chance did
they smile. Their costume consists of a coarse capote of black wool,
known in Scandinavian countries as the "vadmel," a broad-brimmed hat,
trousers of red serge, and a piece of leather tied with strings for a
shoe--a coarse kind of moccasin. The women, though sad-looking and
mournful, had rather agreeable features, without much expression. They
wear a bodice and petticoat of somber vadmel. When unmarried they wear a
little brown knitted cap over a crown of plaited hair; but when married,
they cover their heads with a colored handkerchief, over which they tie
a white scarf.
CHAPTER 7
Conversation and Discovery
When I returned, dinner was ready. This meal was devoured by my worthy
relative with avidity and voracity. His shipboard diet had turned his
interior into a perfect gulf. The repast, which was more Danish than
Icelandic, was in itself nothing, but the excessive hospitality of our
host made us enjoy it doubly.
The conversation turned upon scientific matters, and M. Fridriksson
asked my uncle what he thought of the public library.
"Library, sir?" cried my uncle; "it appears to me a collection of
useless odd volumes, and a beggarly amount of empty shelves."
"What!" cried M. Fridriksson; "why, we have eight thousand volumes of
most rare and valuable works--some in the Scandinavian language, besides
all the new publications from Copenhagen."
"Eight thousand volumes, my dear sir--why, where are they?" cried my
uncle.
"Scattered over the country, Professor Hardwigg. We are very studious,
my dear sir, though we do live in Iceland. Every farmer, every laborer,
every fisherman can both read and write--and we think that books instead
of being locked up in cupboards, far from the sight of students, should
be distributed as widely as possible. The books of our library are
therefore passed from hand to hand without returning to the library
shelves perhaps for years."
"Then when foreigners visit you, there is nothing for them to see?"
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