Chapter V

“From Nature’s constant or eccentric laws,
The thoughtful soul this general inference draws,
That an effect must pre-suppose a cause.”

PRIOR.

The weather is so charming, the sky so clear, the sunshine so bright, and the air so pure and invigorating that it would be a shame to lie abed under such circumstances, so in spite of the fatigues of the previous day we are up early on the morning after our arrival at Thingvellir and have visited and photographed half-a-dozen interesting scenes before breakfast. These are the Almannagja, described in the previous chapter, the Upper and Lower Waterfalls, Execution Pool, the ford of the Oxara, and the famous Lögberg, or Law Hill.

The latter,—by far the most classical spot in Iceland,—is interesting to the traveller principally on account of its historical associations. Before I refer to a few of these let me try to describe its appearance.

The Lögberg is situated on the same side of the river as the church and parsonage, is reached by clambering over two or three hundred yards of hilly ground, and is simply a long irregular-shaped tongue of grass land in the centre of an undulating plateau which forms the summit of a low lava-hill.

Two immense fissures, one on either side, completely surround it, save at the point of approach. These fissures, into which you can look down from their precipitous edges, vary in width in different places from perhaps ten to twenty feet. It is impossible, however, to judge their depth with any accuracy, for, at about thirty feet from the surface, they are filled with beautifully clear water, which flows into and out of them by subterranean channels, and almost converts the Lögberg into an island.

Here, however, on the green oasis under our feet, which contrasts so strikingly with the grey moss and bare rocks that encircle it, the first Althing, or Parliament of Iceland, assembled in the year 929 to consider a code of laws which had been drawn up, and submitted for adoption, by one of the settlers well versed in the laws of the mother-country Norway.

Here occurred the scene, already described, when Christianity subverted Paganism; and here parliamentary meetings, and general courts of justice continued to be held for centuries.

Here also as recently as June 26th, 1873, as if to seek inspiration in their struggle for civil liberty amid scenes that reminded them of the brightest days of their history,—the days of the Icelandic Commonwealth,—a great gathering of delegates from all parts of the country assembled, and pledged themselves to obtain either absolute independence or the right of self-government.

And when in 1874 the new constitution was signed by the King, and Iceland received that which is the inalienable right of all free nations, Home Rule—subject, and wisely subject, only to Imperial interests—it was towards the Lögberg that the hearts of the people turned in all their rejoicings.

And here, too, in “the good old days,” which have happily given place to better and older days, many a dreadful tragedy was witnessed. Below yonder, where the Oxara takes its second leap, is a deep quiet pool in which, under the very eyes of the assembled multitude who looked down upon the scene from the spot on which we now stand, it was customary to drown poor miserable women convicted of offences against the moral law. There, close by, criminals were executed, and witches burnt to death; and on the plain at the base of the hill many a quarrel between individuals or parties was settled by an appeal to the ordeal of combat.

Thank Heaven the days of Feudalism, of Kingcraft, and of Priestcraft have all but come to an end in Iceland as in other free countries, and there is now “government of the people, by the people, for the people.”

On returning to the parsonage to breakfast we are met with the unpleasant news that three of our ponies have taken it into their heads to run away, and that our guide has started in search of them. As we are bent upon visiting the Geysirs, and also upon crossing Hengill, a task which some of the knowing ones at Reykjavik have pronounced to be too difficult to be performed in four days, the delay thus caused is both unfortunate and annoying. There is nothing for it, however, but “to possess our souls in patience.”

“Whatever can’t be cured,
Must with patience be endured.”

The traveller,—especially the traveller in Iceland, which is not a land flowing with milk and honey—can learn no more useful lesson than the one contained in the foregoing couplet from an old English song. It will stand him in good stead “many a time and oft,” and will even help him occasionally to derive amusement from his misfortunes.

About noon after three or four hours’ hard riding Gudmundsen returns to report his non-success, and shortly afterwards sets out again in another direction. Growing tired of loafing about the graveyard, or paddling down the river in the parson’s boat, we make up our minds to go on with the three ponies which are standing tethered to the church gate; leaving our guide to follow should he find the wanderers before nightfall. Sira Præstur Paulsen who kindly volunteers to accompany us a few miles on our way, gives us careful instructions as to the route, and at our request also furnishes us with the following question which we take down in Phonetic Icelandic, “Whar er veyaguerin till Geysis?” which means “Which is the way to the Geysirs?” He further instructs us to enquire for a farm called Efstaydalr, about half-way, and to wait there till Gudmundsen joins us, as he thinks it may not be safe to ford the Bruera without a guide.

After winding along the plain by a narrow and very rough path for several miles the kindly parson pulls up, bids us “good bye,” and starts off to hunt up Gudmundsen, having learnt that the missing ponies are in custody on a neighbouring farm. We ride rapidly on, and gradually ascend through a country which seems to grow wilder and drearier as we advance into it; passing on the way several lava-rifts similar to, but smaller than, the Almannagja, the largest of which is called Ravnegja, or Raven’s Rift.

It is recorded in Professor Geikie’s work on Physical Geography that “the floods of lava which poured from Shaptarjökull during the years 1783–5 were the most tremendous ever known. Torrents of molten rock destroyed the surface of the country for many hundreds of square miles, filling up water courses, ravines, and lakes, and reaching to an extreme distance of forty-five miles in one direction, and of fifty miles in another. In some level places where the lava spread out, the stream attained a breadth of fifteen miles, and a thickness of one hundred feet, but it accumulated in narrow valleys sometimes to a depth of six hundred feet. It has been computed that the total mass of lava poured forth during that series of eruptions would form a mountain equal in bulk to Mont Blanc.”

The awful nature of such occurrences as the foregoing is a subject of conversation during the next two hours, at the expiration of which we reach a veritable plain of desolation, covered on each side of us with boulders of immense size, and broken fragments of lava of the most fantastic shapes.

The snow-drifts in cleft and crevice that look, as Shakespeare says: “like snow upon a raven’s back,” contrast vividly with the shelving slopes—black and smooth as those of a colliery embankment—of the group of hills on our left, whose steep overhanging summits wear crowns of grim and jagged rock, that literally appear to have become solidified in the very act of boiling over while the lava was in its molten state.

On our right the stony wilderness, terrible in its utter desolation, and unrelieved by a single tree or patch of cultivation, stretches away till it meets the sky, and Hope and Despair kiss each other on the horizon. Away ahead of us, and many a hundred feet below, lies the plain whither we are hastening, bounded by a chain of distant mountains, beyond which we hope soon to see the snow-clad crest of Hekla.

No trains of ponies, tied head to tail, such as we often met yesterday, plodding patiently along the stony paths with their burdens of timber, cod’s heads, brandy-skins, and other necessaries and luxuries are to be seen either before or behind us, and there are neither folds filled with bleating ewes waiting to be milked, nor little grass-covered farm houses, with their adjoining cattle-shelters, to indicate the presence of human beings. A few birds, with breasts the colour of the moss from which they rise, are the only living things that meet our eyes for at least an hour as we ride over a landscape whose description may be summed up in three words—wilderness, mountain, and sky.

But after a long descent by a steep path which winds round the base of one of the hills on our left, we arrive at an extensive plain called Laugerdal, on which sheep and ponies are grazing not far from a party of men who have pitched tents in the middle of it. We have hitherto followed the track without much difficulty, but are now a little at fault. Riding up to one of the tents, however, we put our one question and are understood, the path is pointed out, and away we go across a barren undulating plateau till we reach a second plain, where, on the shores of a large lake, we see steam issuing from the ground in various places, these being the first signs that we are at length nearing the region of volcanic hot springs.

Away beyond the lake,—distant about fifty miles, and lying to the left of two other cones which seem to rival it in height, but lack its shapely beauty,—rises Hekla, once included among the seven wonders of the world, and still the best known, though perhaps not the most important, of the burning mountains of Iceland. Unfortunately its summit is shrouded in mist, and we are only able to distinguish the lower portions of its snow-covered slopes, which rise gracefully behind a low intervening range of hills. The setting sun throws the latter into complete shadow, and it lies across the horizon like a line of intensest black, above which the white glistening mountain beyond shines like a dream of heaven.

Turning to the left we skirt the plain, ford the river, pick our way over a stretch of bog-land, scramble up a rocky slope, and at last reach a church and a farm house, where being satisfied that we have missed the road, we apply to a youth for information, dwelling particularly in our enquiry on the word Efstaydalr.

We manage to understand one another, and with the help of a bright little fellow, who joins us, and who knows what “milk” means, succeed in conveying to the good lady of the house the fact that we should like something to eat, and are accordingly shewn into the best room and presently served with hot milk, coffee,—excellent coffee too—and sweet biscuits apparently home-made. I have never tasted better coffee in any part of the world, and attribute this to the fact that the beans were ground in an adjoining room while we were waiting. It is the favourite beverage of the Icelanders, and they take care to have it good.

While we are refreshing ourselves, the youth first addressed, a pleasant-faced good-natured intelligent fellow persists in addressing us in Icelandic, stopping in his discourse every now and then to apply to his nose a snuff bottle which resembles a small brandy-flask. This is generally made of wood, and has a stopper attached to it by a few inches of silver chain. The snuffer having removed the stopper puts the neck of the bottle into one or other of his nostrils and sniffs up the tobacco dust. The habit, which is a vicious one, is so universal that one is constantly reminded of the old distich:—

“Tobacco is an Indian weed,
It was the devil sowed the seed,
It drains the pocket, spoils the clothes,
And makes a dust-bin of the nose.”

Paying our hostess a couple of kroner—twice as much as she asks—we start about 9.0 p.m. for Efstaydalr, accompanied by the talkative youth, who throws himself across our spare pony and constitutes himself our guide. We ascend a very steep hill, from whose summit we can see the distant ocean and Myrdalsjökull—we might have seen the Westmann’s Islands had the sky been clearer—ride at a rapid pace along a path cut through dwarf-birch scrub, and arrive in a short time at a spot whence our guide points out Efstaydalr. He then takes his leave, but on pocketing the kroner which he gets for his willing services insists upon shaking hands with us, and does so very heartily. This we simply regard as an act of friendliness on his part, for the Icelanders strike us as being a kindly-disposed good-natured polite people, who almost invariably salute strangers, and each other, by removing their hats and uttering a word (sœlir) which sounds like “silur” and means “May you be blest or happy.”

We learn subsequently, however, that it is customary for the recipient of a gift to shake hands with the donor. The Icelanders also shake hands all round after a meal, beginning with the host or head of the family. Men salute one another by kissing, and I am told it is usual,—and no doubt very much more satisfactory,—for them to salute women in the same way. Even the most desolate regions have something to commend them.

Everyone with whom we have conversed—especially among those whose opinions are entitled to most weight—bears emphatic testimony to the honesty of the Icelander; and to his willingness to oblige. One of our friends on the Camoens told us that having lost the winch of his fishing-rod it was brought to him by a man who rode twenty miles to restore it. Our captain stated that on one occasion he entrusted a large sum of money—amounting to £2,000—in silver to a man who undertook to convey it across country to Messrs Slimon & Co.’s resident agent. The money was packed in boxes and carried as usual on ponies, one of which unfortunately broke down on the road. The man in charge left the boxes containing the bullion in a mud-hole by the wayside, and went on with the remainder, returning to fetch the other two a few days later, when the money was found untouched. The captain also mentioned the case of a passenger who had travelled with him—an officer in the British army—who, having unfortunately started off into the interior without his watch, borrowed one from a man whom he met on the road. The latter gave it up without any hesitation on the understanding that it was to be left at a house in Reykjavik which he was in the habit of visiting when in town. Being thoroughly honest himself, the poor Icelander had perfect faith in the honesty of the stranger, and fortunately was not deceived, for on calling for his watch some time afterwards at the place appointed it was returned to him with a handsome gratuity.

At Efstaydalr—(Upper Dale)—we dismount and knock at the doors of the long row of turf-covered buildings that form the homestead. There seems to be no one at home, however, and we are wondering what we shall do next when two men turn up who seem somewhat anxious to get rid of us. We have a shrewd guess that their anxiety arises from the fact that our poor ponies are taking advantage of the opportunity to nibble a few blades of the rich grass which is growing upon the “tun.” This grass is so precious in the farmer’s eyes that he guards it with jealous care, it being reserved for his cattle, and not intended for ponies or sheep. It grows naturally upon the few acres of hummock-covered land round the farm, and it is manured only by the cattle that feed upon it. It is never ploughed up nor otherwise prepared for seed, neither is it sown. I may here remark that we have not yet seen a single plough, harrow or other agricultural implement of any kind during the whole course of our journey up to the present.

Our next stage is the Bruera—(Bridge Water)—which after about an hour’s riding we reach in company with two or three trains of pack-ponies, which like ourselves are travelling late. Remembering the Præstur’s advice not to cross the river without a guide, but to wait at Efstaydalr for Gudmundsen, we deem it prudent to keep near the lad who is in charge of the leading team, but on reaching the ford find that there is neither difficulty nor danger. Though it is eleven o’clock at night, the sun is still shining just below the horizon, and the light is as clear as that of an English summer evening.

Before us a stream, apparently fifty or sixty yards broad, rushes with loud roaring from a defile on the left, and at the spot where we ford it, leaps into a rift or chasm in mid-channel, and forms a sort of miniature horse-shoe fall. From this chasm which we cross by a frail bridge of wooden planks, the river takes another plunge to a lower level where it again broadens out by a series of stages, till, after rushing between two high natural gateways of rock, it once more rolls grandly between its green banks on to the sea. On reaching the opposite side we halt to give the ponies a rest, being still a long way from the Geysirs.

Leaving the patient animals to crop the scanty herbage, wherever they find it best and sweetest, we lie down under the shelter of a bank where we are protected from the breeze by a belt of dwarf-birch scrub. Taking out of my pocket a valued and favourite companion, a little birthday book which has been round the world with me, and which contains extracts from Longfellow’s poems, I while away the time till midnight by reading selections to my friend by the soft light that fills the sky above. I have just read the following appropriate extracts:—

“The day is done; and slowly from the scene,
The stooping sun upgathers his spent shafts,
And puts them back into his golden quiver!”

“THE GOLDEN LEGEND.”

and

“Silently one by one in the infinite meadows of heaven,
Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.”

EVANGELINE.

and we are discussing the beauty of the thoughts therein expressed, when we hear the clatter of hoofs, and are presently joined by our errant guide. After a few words of explanation we resume our journey, and for more than two hours plod on again over the wild desolate country that lies between us and the Geysirs, which we eventually reach about 2.15 a.m.

Riding over the silicious crust, and rivulets of boiling water, with which we are so familiar from our experiences in the Wonderlands of New Zealand and the United States, we pass the great Geysir. Two or three tents have been pitched close to it, in which we guess that a couple of our late shipmates—soldier and parson—are lying sound asleep. Being by this time very tired and very stiff, and rather sleepy, we would willingly lie down even under a tree, if there were one, but have to push on for other three-quarters of an hour till we arrive at a farmhouse about two miles beyond the hot springs, and on the other side of the river.

With a little difficulty we succeed in rousing an elderly lady who, in petticoat and chemise, barefooted and bare-headed, and with a big black smudge on a nose dirtier than the rest of her dirty face, and a sleepy look in her half-closed eyes, but with perfect good nature, hands us the key of the little church, that stands in the centre of the adjoining grave-yard. We subsequently find that we should have been almost as well off—(so far as comfort is concerned)—had she given us what is slangily known as “the key of the street.”

She next retires into the house and presently returns with three beds, two horse rugs, and a couple of pillows—but neither pillow slips nor sheets—and throwing these on the floor, leaves us to arrange them in the spaces right and left of the altar, which we lose no time in doing. We then lie down and stretch out our weary limbs with a sense of relief, for we have been on the march for eleven hours and in the saddle for nine and a half, during which time we have ridden nearly forty-five miles. My companion wisely avails himself of the third bed, brought by mistake, and placing it, German-fashion, on the top of him, and covering his feet with several of the old gowns which are hanging on nails on the church walls, is soon sound asleep.

I am not equally careful, but merely putting a little wooden footstool—(which I hunt up in one of the pews)—under my head to raise the apology-for-a-pillow, and spreading the horse-rug over me, I close my eyes and try hard to sleep, alas! without success. My legs project a considerable distance beyond the bottom of the bed, which is barely long enough to accommodate me as far as the knees. The rug, though probably one of the best our hostess has to give us,—like Nanny’s sark in “Tam o’ Shanter”—“in longitude is sairly scanty,” and the consequence is that, unlike Nanny, I feel far from “vaunty.” The wind whistles and howls round the little wooden building, finding its way in through a hundred unseen cracks and crevices, and attacking me in front and rear. My feet numbed by the long ride, and by the wetting they have received a score of times in consequence of fording rivers without riding boots, are cold as ice. These discomforts and a constant succession of shivering fits prevent me from enjoying the rest I so much need.

After four hours of troubled dozing, broken every five minutes by a convulsive start, I rise about seven o’clock, and threading my way among the green mounds that mark the last resting places of many who after “Life’s fitful fever are sleeping well,” stroll down to the river and there perform my ablutions.

Having completed our toilette we procure hot milk and boiling water from the house, unpack our provisions, and sit down in one of the narrow straight-backed pews to breakfast under the very shadow of the pulpit. The good lady has provided neither plates nor knives nor forks, and only a single spoon, so we are compelled to make considerable use of our fingers and begin to appreciate the old saying that “fingers were made before forks.” Gudmundsen’s jack-knife is found useful as a sardine-opener, and a few scraps of newspaper do duty for plates. Our menu includes cocoa,—sweetened with dirty sugar candy,—dry biscuits, hard boiled eggs—brought from England, for eggs are scarce in Iceland,—and sardines à l’huille. These delicacies are discussed with an appetite sharpened by two days’ hard riding.

Before we leave I take “a last fond look” at our ecclesiastical domicile, which presents a curious spectacle. It is a small building about thirty feet long, fifteen feet broad, and twelve feet high, constructed of weatherboard, with three windows on each side, and a little belfry over the door. On entering I almost touch with my head the floor of a loft which extends half way into the church. This loft, reached by a rickety stair, on the left of the entrance, contains some old saddles, a little lot of wool, a spinning wheel, and several heaps of lumber. At the further end of the church is a railed altar on which stand two common brass candlesticks each containing a half-burnt tallow candle. The space under the altar has been converted into a cupboard. Right and left of this are our beds and bedding, and from the walls are suspended not only ecclesiastical vestments but sundry other nameless garments belonging both to men and women. On the left of the altar as we face the door is the pulpit, once as gaudy as red and blue and yellow paint could make it, though its glory has evidently long ago departed. Fifteen pews, with perpendicular rail-backs and narrow knife-board seats about seven or eight inches broad, occupy the remainder of the edifice, and fill me with pity for the unfortunate Christians who are obliged to receive spiritual consolation under such uncomfortable conditions. An elaborate brass chandelier depends from the centre of the ceiling, and a large pewter plate, used to receive the collection, hangs significantly on the wall behind the pulpit. A curious notice-board, apparently specifying high-days and holidays, is affixed to a beam in front of the altar, and the ends of two or three of the pews are decorated with our overcoats, a pair of stockings, and sundry other articles of attire placed there last night to dry.

Having packed up our traps, saddled our ponies, and paid all charges, we commence our journey to Hengill by way of the Geysirs, which can be seen steaming furiously at a short distance on the other side of the river. On reaching the tents, previously referred to, we are welcomed by our two compagnons de voyage who hospitably entertain us while we wait a few hours in the hope of seeing “the Strokr” spout. The old farmer, who is making a fortune by cutting turf to throw into it, tells us that we may expect it to go off in about three-quarters of an hour. After waiting more than twice that time in the vain, but momentary, expectation of seeing it erupt, our friends order a second load of turf to be thrown in, which is accordingly done. Then we retire into the tent for lunch, keeping our eye anxiously fixed meanwhile upon the hole where the sulky Strokr is bubbling furiously, and sending up great clouds of steam; but alas! no column of boiling water. Having satisfied our appetites we again moon round the edge of the crater for a couple of hours, but there being no appearance of an outburst, my friend and the guide decide to ride on, leaving me to follow in the course of an hour, as I am anxious to get a photograph of the Strokr in action. I am compelled, however, to follow my companions without being more successful than themselves.

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PLATE VI.

1 The Upper Fall of the Oxara, Thingvellir.
2 The Lögberg.—3 View of plain at Thingvellir.—4 The Parsonage.
5 The Church.—6 Execution Pool.—7 Train of pack-ponies.
]

While we are refreshing ourselves in the tent, the parson, who is fond of a joke, observes that he wishes the Strokr, like a reformed betting-man, would “throw up the turf.” Pardoning the pun in consideration of the cup of good tea which he has just brewed for us with water boiled in one of Nature’s own kettles, we take advantage of the delay to inspect the great Geysir, which is a large circular pool of water seventy-two feet in diameter and four feet in depth, with a shaft in the centre from four to nine inches in diameter, and according to Professor Bunsen from sixty to seventy-four feet deep. The temperature, according to the same authority, varies, but the maximum is 270 deg. Fahrenheit, or 58 deg. above boiling point, and is given by other scientific observers at from 168 deg. to 188 deg. Fahrenheit on the surface. The water is green in colour and wonderfully clear.

The basin of the Strokr is about eight feet in diameter at the mouth, with a shaft in the centre forty-four feet deep and about ten inches in diameter. The turf sinking into the shaft clogs it up at the narrowest part, and thus excites the violent action which results in a fountain of hot water.

Burton mentions that in 1770 the great Geysir spouted eleven times, and in 1814 only four times, per day of twenty-four hours. It is now quiescent for much longer periods. The height it attains is variously stated by different observers at from 60ft. to 360ft.; but the mean height, according to the best authorities, is 80ft., which is exactly equal to that of the “Great Fountain” at Versailles.

To any one who has visited the Wonderlands of Rhotomahana in New Zealand, and the Yellowstone Park in the United States of America, the Geysirs of Iceland seem by comparison unimportant. One misses, for instance, the Paints Pots or pools of boiling mud of various colours, the curious formations, the roaring steam-vents, the Obsidian cliffs, and more than all these, the wonderful Terraces, up which the traveller may climb from ridge to ridge, till he reaches the top where the Geysir is bubbling and steaming furiously in the centre of the crater, and whence he is able to look down upon a succession of receding alabaster shell-like basins, each carved by Nature’s hand with the most delicate fret-work, and filled with water so exquisitely blue in colour that no description can convey even a faint idea of its loveliness. For these substitute an extensive wilderness dreary barren and treeless, and bordered by distant hills. In the centre of this waste on the summit of a silicious mound, imagine several holes in the ground of greater or less size, filled with pure or dirty boiling water, which is sending up clouds of steam, and you have a picture of the Geysirs of Iceland before you.

Not far from the Great Geysir there is a little mud hole, which our reverend friend nicknames “The Grumbler.” He says, that it reminds him of a man who on seeing the ocean for the first time remarked “Do yon be always a-troublin’ itself like that?” I may mention here that “Geysir” is the Icelandic for “Gusher.” Would it be very wrong to apply it, in this sense, to some of the spouters who are now wooing the new constituencies?

On resuming my journey I put my pony on its mettle and overtake my companion a mile or two from the Bruara, where we halt to rest the ponies. Again pushing on we stop for tea about eight p.m. near a farm house on the plain, a mile or two beyond Efstaydalr, and in the course of the following hour, as we ride on our way to Laugerdal, have a series of splendid views of Hekla from the top of the highest of its three peaks down to the point where its slopes appear to touch the intervening hill. There is no time when the scenery of Iceland is seen to such advantage as during the summer nights when the light of the midnight sun bathing the landscape in softened radiance, and deepening the tint of the clear blue sky, causes the dark fire-scarred crags and snow-white cones of the mountain ranges to stand out with marvellous clearness and photographic minuteness, tingeing them at the same time with ever-varying hues that change with its own intensity.

As we ride along amid a silence that is unbroken, I am reminded of the words in which it is said of Heaven that “there shall be no night there,” and realise, perhaps more than ever I did before, the depth and fulness of their meaning.

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