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Title: Ultima Thule; vol. 2/2

or A Summer in Iceland

Author: Richard F. Burton

Release Date: May 23, 2019 [EBook #59585]

Language: English

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CONTENTS
INDEX.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
(etext transcriber's note)

ULTIMA THULE;
OR,
A SUMMER IN ICELAND.

[Image unavailable.]
From a Photo.
DANISH FISHING COMPANY’S STATION AT BERUFJÖRÐ.
M‘Farlane & Erskine, Londⁿ. Edinʳ.
 ULTIMA THULE;
OR,

A SUMMER IN ICELAND.
BY
RICHARD F. BURTON.

With Historical Introduction, Maps, and Illustrations.

VOL. II

WILLIAM P. NIMMO.
LONDON: 14 KING WILLIAM STREET, STRAND;
AND EDINBURGH.
1875.

EDINBURGH:
PRINTED BY M‘FARLANE AND ERSKINE,
ST JAMES SQUARE.
 CONTENTS.
PAGE

CHAPTER VI
The Press-Visit to the Latin SchoolLibraries and Collections-
1-23
Gunnlaugsson’s Map-Note (Natural History and Anthropology),
CHAPTER VII
24-
Tourists and Tours-Guides and Horses-Horse Gear, Traps, and Tents,
43
CHAPTER VIII
Excursions about Reykjavik-The Islands-The Laug or Hammám-The 44-
Southern Laxá or Salmon River, 59
CHAPTER IX
Further Afield-Ascent of the Esja and the Skarðsheiði-The Hof or Heathen 60-
Temple of Kjalarnes, 83
CHAPTER X
84-
Northwards Ho! To Stykkishólm and Grafarós,
129
CHAPTER XI
130-
To Hekla and the Geysir in Haukadalr,
211
CHAPTER XII
212-
On Human and other Remains from Iceland,
220
CHAPTER XIII
221-
To Eastern Iceland-We reach Mý-vatn,
278
CHAPTER XIV
Three Days at the Solfatara of Mý-vatn, 279-
 302
CHAPTER XV
303-
Return to Djúpivogr and End of Journey,
328

APPENDIX—

On Sulphur in Iceland, by Henchel, Sir G. S. Mackenzie, Mr Consul

329-
Crowe, Captain Burton (Notes on Mr Vincent’s Paper), and C. C.
377
Blake,
378-
Leasing Contract—Report of the Althing,
389
390-
Sulphur in Sicily,
400
400-
Sulphur in Transylvania,
402
402-
Sulphur in Andaman Islands,
404

405-
INDEX: A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I, J, K, L, M, N, O, P, R, S, T, V, W, Y, Z
408
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

VOL. II.
PAGE
Danish Fishing Company’s Station at Berufjörð, Frontispiece.
The Basalt Hammer and the Stone Weight, 21
The “Pretty Guide,” 28
Inventory of Reykholt Kirk, 70
Snæfellsjökull from the North, 86
Hafnafjörð, which ought to be the Capital of Iceland, 88
Snæfellsjökull from the South, 94
Sukkertoppr and Líkkista (Sugar-Loaf and Coffin), 99
The Amulet, 118
The Krísuvík Mines or Sulphur Mountains, 138
The Sulphur Spring, 140
Solfatara of Krísuvík, 146
The Rural Scene, 156
Lögberg and Almannagjá, 195
Human Clavicle, 217
The Broad-Shouldered, 265
Plan of Leirhnukr and Krafla Springs, 279
Reykjahlíð Church, 286
Map of the Mý-vatn and Vatnajökull District, 314
View of the Vatnajökull from the Southern Slope of (Eastern)
320
Snæfell,
Stone-Axe in Museum, Reykjavik, 328
 ULTIMA THULE;
OR,

A SUMMER IN ICELAND.
 CHAPTER VI.
THE PRESS—VISIT TO THE LATIN SCHOOL—LIBRARIES AND COLLECTIONS—
GUNNLAUGSSON’S MAP—NOTE (NATURAL HISTORY AND ANTHROPOLOGY).

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 vivâ 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:
 “But of the teeth
Of the two (children),
He (Völundr, or Wayland Smith[16]) breast ornaments made.”

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.”

[Image unavailable.]
THE BASALT HAMMER. THE STONE WEIGHT.

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.
 CHAPTER VII.

TOURISTS AND TOURS—GUIDES AND HORSES—HORSE GEAR, TRAPS, AND TENTS.

PRESENTLY the steamers left Reykjavik, and the torpid little community
hybernated once more: it will awake and buzz for a while when the next mail
comes. In the meantime—
“The skies they are ashen and sober,
The streets they are dirty and drear.”

The weather makes the faintest struggles, even in mid-June, to be fine, but a
tolerable day appears always to exhaust its efforts, and to be followed by a
violent break. The Reykjavik climate is essentially fickle, and the invalid can
rarely neglect, till late summer, the warm overcoat of which the cicerone at St
Petersburgh persistently reminds his charges. A bitter north-easter, with high
cirri, and
“The shrieking of the mindless wind,”

remind us that we are in high latitudes. All the thoroughfares are deserted, and
the houses are fast closed against the roaring, screaming blast.
We were the first batch of the year’s tourists, arriving, however, only one day
before the “Diana,” which brought with it sundry others. Whilst I remained at
the capital to continue my studies, Messrs B. and S. determined to “do” the usual
trip as soon as possible. A five days’ delay, without books or some definite
object, makes the headquarter village a purgatory to strangers. Most of them
bring out an Eton Latin grammar, under the impression that, by its good aid, with
a course of Matthæus Corderius, they will make themselves at home amongst the
learned. But the English pronunciation is impossible, and too often a total
neglect of the “literæ humaniores,” persistently distributed over long years, has
swept away all memory of musa, musæ, and of hic, hæc, hoc. Consequently,
second-hand Anglo-Latin grammars are cheap and plentiful at Reykjavik.
Those who would save time in travelling can hardly expect to spare their
expenditure. My companions wisely called in the head guide, Geir Zoega,
pronounced Sögha, and frequently simplified by the Briton to “Goat-sucker.”
The classical Italian name (De Origine et Usu Obeliscorum, etc.) shows his
origin, but the family has drifted through Germany, and, as his grandfather
settled in Iceland, he has wholly thrown off the Latin aspect. A tall, robust man,
with harsh Scotch features, high cheek bones, yellow hair, and blue eyes, in
earlier days he would have been most useful to explorers; now, however, he has
waxed rich: he is farmer and fisherman, cattle-breeder and capitalist, boasting of
house, boats, beasts, and other symptoms of wealth. These may represent a
capital between £500 and £700, and almost unincumbered by expenses—a
century and a half ago the same fortune would fully have contented a master-
cutler at Sheffield. Consequently, Geir Zoega will only engage for short trips,
and, despite rumours of $15,000, he refused to accompany the two young
“Counts d’Elbe,” who came with the intention of spending some six weeks in the
interior. Having business of his own in the east, he undertakes the tourists as far
as the Geysirs, but he positively refuses Hekla, forage being still wanting there.
During the bargain he amused me by certain points of resemblance with the
Syrian dragoman taking command of a party of youngsters: the same covered
and respectful contempt of greenhorns, the same intense objection to innovation,
the same unwillingness of experience to be guided by “bumptious” inexperience,
contrast curiously with the pliability of the Italian courier or cicerone, who
thinks only of his bill.
Finally, Hr Zoega agreed to supply a tent, absolutely necessary for the
Geysirs, a change of horses for each rider, and three baggage animals,
moyennant a total of $14 per diem—his own fee being a daily $5. Moreover, the
travellers were to feed their nine beasts at the rate of a mark each per march.
This confirms Mr Newton’s opinion that, on the whole, travelling in Iceland is
not more expensive—perhaps he might have said much cheaper—than in most
parts of Europe.[19] Yet we find Professor Melsted, an Icelander, describing his
native land to Metcalfe as “the most difficult and expensive country in the
world.” During one day on the Congo, I have been asked, for simple permission
to pass onwards, three times more than the cost of a three months’ tour in
Iceland.
Mr S. being a barrister, drew out a written agreement, which the guide
signed: the precaution, however, is of little value, as the stranger is completely in
the native’s power, and a threat to drive away the horses will bring the most
recalcitrant Griff to absolute submission. If you turn off your leader, as a certain
traveller did, he will assuredly sue you in damages at Reykjavik; and for one
who cannot speak Icelandic, or at least Danish, to be guideless is to be cast
naked upon a desert shore. It is only fair to say that Hr Zoega gave ample
satisfaction, and we only regret the more that the deceitfulness of riches has
spoiled a thoroughly honest and intelligent guide.
 My companions found no difficulty in starting: the dilatory Icelandic
movement, of which old travellers complain so loudly, is now a thing of the past.
The weather improved, as usual, after they left Reykjavik, and there were only a
few showers to gladden the peasant’s heart. The birds were hatching, so they did
not shoot: the water, cold, and clear as crystal, wanted vegetation, without which
even gold-fish cannot live, consequently there was no fishing. There had been
scanty reason to complain of what the Brazilians call “immundicies”—the
smaller animal creation—but a Neapolitan might have recited every morning the
popular song
“Quando mi cocco a letto,” etc., etc.

They lamented only one thing, not having taken a pack of cards, or a cribbage
board, to while away the long, slow hours of halt.
The next that effected his escape was a young painter, who came out for the
purpose of sketching Iceland scenery, and who wisely chose the seldom-visited
south coast. Thus he was able to imitate the Conte di Haga, che molto vede e
poco paga; and all his expenses during forty-two days were limited to a couple
of florins per diem. He resolved to buy ponies, and laid out £17, 10s. upon three,
expecting after return to sell them for two-thirds of the outlay, whereas the usual
hire would have absorbed $126. And he was successful. But travelling in this
way becomes exceedingly slow, as the animals must be the first consideration, if
at least they are to fetch anything like cost price at the end of the journey. He
secured a guide, of whom more presently: the fellow at once became painfully
familiar, “independent” would be the polite word, and stuck to his victim like a
leech.
Captain J. and Dr S. of the Indian Army allowed themselves six weeks for a
sporting tour, which was a dead failure. Unfortunately they fell into bad hands.
Metcalfe advises the traveller to engage some student by way of interpreter; and
I found it a good plan in the eastern country. Moreover, even at Reykjavik, good
guides are procurable. But they lent a willing ear to a certain Helgi Magnússon
of the Latin School, half-brother to an Icelander, who, after two years’ study at
the Latin School of Reykjavik, went to England for the purpose of translating
Icelandic documents, and managed, no one knows how, a good appointment at
Cambridge. People here inquire if the great English university is so destitute of
talent that it must come to Iceland. In reply, I can only plead British eccentricity;
the same curious policy which made the late Colonel Sykes advocate the
employment of the brothers Schlagintweit, when a dozen Anglo-Indian officers
were as well fitted for, as they were ambitious of, being so employed. The
following is Hr Helgi’s signalement: tall, spare, blond, and clean shaven, except
the long mustachio, which is in the habit of being pulled. He claimed to know
English, meaning he was able to pronounce articulately a few sentences; the
answer, however, was an idiotic stare, and an ejaculated “No,” invariably
introduced. He began by finding fault with everything, and by telling his
employers that they must cook, make beds, groom, saddle, and unsaddle for
themselves. Presently he scented English provisions—feeding amongst these
people is all-important as to the Bedawín—and the discovery greatly modified
his tone. They did not, however, come to terms; and he amused himself by doing
all he could to hinder the tourists. The same worthy called upon us, proposing an
exchange of sovereigns, not for our benefit, a form of annoyance recognised by
previous travellers; he also brought a cow’s horn, very badly cut, for which he
modestly asked a pound sterling.

[Image unavailable.]
THE “PRETTY GUIDE.”

After maundering about for several days in despair, the travellers engaged
one Haldór Johannsen, a saddler, and certainly one of the ugliest saddlers in the
world. He began by objecting to the English ropes, of which they had brought a
store, and he could not travel without Iceland gear, which stands about as much
work as twisted straw. He proved himself a perfect Mark Tapley on the road; but,
on his return from the first trip, he so abandoned himself to the cultus of Bacchus
that he could not be re-employed. This party lost time and money in purchasing
nags, at first they were asked £10 for animals worth at most £4. They bought,
after weary bargaining, three animals, for £7, £8, and £9, and the consequence
was that two out of three came to grief. They also brought out a very extensive
“kit,” which they flattered themselves would readily sell after return to
Reykjavik—it fetched the liberal sum popularly called “half nothing.” They
made two trips, one to Hekla viâ Krísuvík, and the other to Surts-hellir, praised
the fishing, and found the shooting a farce.
As will be gathered from the following pages, the Icelandic Fylgimaðr
(“fugleman” or guide) is still in a rudimentary stage. He is apt either to lag
behind like the African, or to gallop ahead like the Gaucho of the Pampas,
utterly reckless of his charge. He is sure not to be cunning in those details of
country which save so much time and which, ignored, so often lead to grief. As a
rule, old paths have been broken up by weather, and only those on the spot can
know the later lines: when, therefore, you see the least doubt, engage a
temporary assistant for a few marks, which are not wasted. He has one great
merit: his language is not foul, and he does not “exhort the impenitent
quadruped” with the emphasis of his brother bipeds elsewhere; he believes that
swearing will cause his tongue to become black-spotted. In point of
conservatism he is a Hindu; wain-ropes will not move him from settled “use and
custom.” Those I found of most account were Páll Eyúlfsson, Sigurð Jonasson,
who accompanied Lord Dufferin; Einar Símonsson, and Bjarni Stefansson, the
two latter speaking a little English.
And now to add a few remarks about Iceland ponies,[20] concerning which
gross exaggeration prevails: one traveller, who is generally remarkable for
sobriety, would ride them “over the ruins of Westminster Abbey.” The origin of
the horse, as of the man, is Norwegian; these “norbaggers” reminded me of the
little hay-fed nags of the Continent, and of Wrangell’s Siberian travel. In
Scandinavia, however, breeding has done something, here nothing. No signs of
an indigenous horse, like the zebra-shaped Hipparion of Europe, Asia, and
America, have yet come to light, but the old bones dug up in several parts of the
island show a much larger animal. The “troops of wild Icelandic horses, which
shift for themselves even in the severest winters, when they perish in large
numbers,” is a traveller’s dream, like tales of wild camels. Traces of the pony
breed are found in Ireland and the Scoto-Scandinavian archipelago, not to
mention New Forest; the Asturiones, or small mountain-ponies, which were so
called, says Sir James Ware, because imported from the Spanish Asturias, waxed
scarce during the end of the last century, and now they are well nigh extinct. The
sheltie of Hjaltland has been wrongly derived from Iberian blood: it is also
becoming rare, and, curious to say, though enjoying a much milder climate, and
a comparatively plentiful forage, it is more stunted and of lighter build than
those in the more barren north. The Orkney “garron” was an admirable animal,
and, pur sang, like the old Norman, which I have seen in the “haras” of
Abbeville, fine-limbed and high-spirited as an Arab. The common “garron,” a
mixed breed, was short and ugly, but an excellent roadster, like the Tartar Yábú,
which we have allowed to become obsolete in India: ten years ago it fetched £5;
the race has been ruined by breeding for size, the sires being big hammer-headed
stallions from Aberdeen. The Færoese, unlike the Icelanders, have sold off all
their best animals, and it is hardly fair to judge from the refuse. I would back
against any Icelander, a New Forest pony or a Maharatta “tattoo;” and my
Kurdish Rahwán at Damascus would have knocked the wind out of any in the
island.
It has been shown that the total of horses in 1871 was only 3164 over the
number assigned to 1804. The reason is not hippophagy, which is almost
unknown, but which might have been practised with advantage save for an
obsolete superstition: as a rule, also, those classes are most particular about their
diet who can the least afford it; and the obsolete Mosaic Code, so well adapted to
its day and latitude, has not yet been exchanged for the sensible omnivorous
system of China. Thus, it is now said, while horses are eaten in France, they eat
us up in England. The three commandments issued by Christianity to her
proselytes were, “Marry only one wife, expose not your children, and feed not
on horse-flesh.” These were accepted by all parts except the southern coast,
where hippic meat, like the Giftessen (arsenic-eating) of mountainous Styria,
ensured a good complexion; and it is well known that in the Far West men prefer
“three-year-old mustang” to bison or common beef. But Hrosseitr became a
word of reproach, and Iceland gave up what was supposed to be unhallowed
flesh offered to idols; the horse being, as in the Aswamedha of the old Hindus, a
great and ceremonious sacrifice. The Devil always “scratches his writing on a
blighted horse’s bone;” the heathen swore by the “shoulder of a horse and the
edge of a sword;” and the horse’s head formed a “nithing-post” of peculiar
efficacy. The truth is, that the Icelander wants every blade of grass and hay for
his cows and sheep; he, therefore, either “traded off” his colts, or cut their throats
and sold their skins. Under the influence of a ready market, breeding will again
be resumed.
The export was caused by the rise of prices elsewhere; the New Forest nag
advanced, for instance, from £5 to £12. But the Icelander has had the sense to
part with inferior animals, jades fit only for the knacker and the kennel. He has a
curious idea that ponies used in the English mines are first blinded, like decoy
singing-birds upon the shores of the Mediterranean.
In 1770 the horse fetched $3 (rixdollars, say half-crowns). During the early
part of the present century Mackenzie and others paid $6 where we now disburse
pounds sterling. In 1862 a picked animal sold from $12; this price, in 1864, rose,
as has been shown, to £5, 5s. a head. The Consular Report of 1870-71 says, “The
price for a good horse averages at present from £2 to £4.” During my visit, the
mean sums paid by the steamers were £3 to £4. Baggage ponies for travellers
commanded £5 to £6, and good riding-nags £7 to £9. Perhaps no article in
Iceland has run up so rapidly as horse-flesh, and the resident feels it as well as
the traveller. This, however, is, as I have shown, probably a provisional
grievance; and, despite the inconvenience, the trade is perfectly legitimate.
Happily for Iceland, no class corresponds with our small fund-holder, who is in a
fair way of finding life in England impossible, and who must disperse, like the
large British colony of small rentiers in Paris, when income became stationary
and outlay became imperial.
Henderson (i. 19) and other travellers make the “Hross”[21] average from 13
to 14 hands. If this be true they have fallen off since the beginning of the
century, which is improbable as the degeneracy of peaches recorded in “Gil
Blas.” Baring-Gould says 14. I should lay down a high average between 12 and
13: out of a number which were measured the shortest was 10·3; and only one in
a dozen barely reached 13. The curious fact that the climate least fitted for the
horse, and the land where it fares worst, produces larger and stronger animals
than the southern islands, can be explained only by the superior size of those
first introduced. After a time the eye becomes accustomed to the stunted stature,
at least when not contrasted with a tall rider. The best specimens are shaped
somewhat like the Suffolk “punch,” with big barrels, thick necks, and short,
stout legs. They have round noses of the Norman type, bearded chins, well-
opened eyes, ears short and pretty, erect manes, and the square box-head which
appears in the classical horse of medals and statuary. The strong points of the
fubsy little animals are the manes and tails; the former even when hogged
conceal the crest like a lion’s crinière, and if not cut would hang to the knees; the
latter would be ornamental but for the local fashion of thinning them at the roots,
and of tying up wisps of hair in small knots.
The horse in Iceland is an inevitable evil, the climate being too cold to breed
mules. The beasts show many signs of falling off besides size, and we should
wonder if it were otherwise. Stallions are allowed freely to run with the mares;
and the evil of inbreeding is exaggerated by the small number—sometimes a
parish will not have more than one. In the classical days of Iceland men rode
entire horses, and a favourite festal pastime was a fight: the Hesta-thing (“horse
meeting”) suggests the champion camels which bite each other at Smyrna. It
seems to have been a brutal custom, as the animals had to be flogged, like the
older sort of Chinaman soldier, to the fray; what a contrast with the Indian “man-
eater,” which safely faces a tiger! The Sagas also mention racing as a popular
amusement: this, also, is apparently obsolete, at least I never saw it. Stallions are
now considered too fierce for general use, and yet, like all the animals in the
country, they will be found exceptionally free from vice: mares also are rarely
ridden, and the people tell you that they are incapable of hard work, of course, an
utter prejudice; in fact, geldings, as with us, are the rule. The Arab, it is well
known, mounts the mare because she has more endurance and is less given to
neighing at times when surprises are intended: the Spaniard preferred stallions,
and to show his contempt for the Ishmaelite, put the jester and the buffoon upon
the mare—this custom has prevailed throughout South America, though its
origin is now forgotten, and “Yeguas” are still slaughtered in thousands for their
hides and fat. And there are superstitions about marks and colour which remind
us of complicated Arabian system; for instance, a horse marked with a cross will
never drown you.
The effect of promiscuous intercourse appears in wall-eyes, locally called
“glass-eyes,” which are painfully common, and in coats of many colours, fit only
for the circus. The noble bay, chestnut, and iron-grey are rare: many are
skewballs, and the piebald, which in Texas would be called “Paint,” and in the
Brazil Jardim (a garden), are perhaps considered the best. Some writers declare
that the white are most esteemed, and the black least—I found both exceptional
as in the Arabian breed. The foals often wear long fleecy coats, and here the
renowned Mr Barnum might have bought many “woolly horse,” real, not
manufactured; but whether the few would have lasted in the latitude of New
York, deponent sayeth not. Of course they are hardy and sagacious from mode of
life. In winter none but favourites are stabled and fed on hay; the others are left
out to fare as they best can, on the refuse of the cows and on offals, such as fish
bones and heads.[22] At last, when it becomes a matter of life and death, the poor
brutes are put under shelter, and fed with a few handfuls of fodder. On the other
hand, they are perfectly free from the dire cohort of equine diseases produced by
the close and heated stable.[23] Like the sheep, they thrive upon the many and
plentiful fuci that line the shore; a similar necessity teaches the horse in the
interior of the Brazil to paw open and eat the cactus flesh. Thus the price is
nearly all profit to the breeder. During the cold season Icelanders ride very little,
if at all: where the snow is deep and hard they use sledges and rough-shoe their
nags. They are ready for travel in early June, although I was told the contrary in
England by those who should have known better; but the razor-backs at this
season require carefully-padded saddles. From that time they get into better
condition; they are best in July, but in August again they are soft and blown out
by too much green meat. All are shod, and very badly shod; the stones are sure
to injure the frog, and Arab plates would be a great improvement. The only
remedy known for sore backs and saddle galls are cruel setons in the breast: the
Raki of Syria and the Caxaça of Brazil, applied when the saddle is removed,
would prevent much of this evil, but spirits are too precious for “uso esterno.”
The ears are cut off, not to prevent the Pasha impounding them, but as a mark;
and the nostrils are slit with the silly idea of improving the wind. They never see
grain, which they must be taught to eat, and salt is not regularly served out to
them. From perpetually licking one another’s skins, they supply fine specimens
of Œgagropiles, the light and polished balls of hair, the Tophus Ovinus of
Norway, so commonly found in the stomachs of Brazilian cows. Broken wind is
common, and cow-houghs are the rule.
The domestic animals of all countries bear testimony to the character of their
owners: reason, or the result of a developed brain, acts and is acted upon by
instinct, or the imperfect brain produce, the two being different in quantity, not
in quality. Man and beast learn to resemble each other much after the fashion of
Darby and Joan: the servants of menageries, like those of mad-houses, become
peculiarly brute-like, whilst animals educated by men have an unspoken
language which it is not difficult to understand. In Iceland the horse has learned
much from his master. The hardy and hard-working little brutes are, like other
quadrupeds and bipeds too, curiously headstrong and self-willed. Their obstinate
conservatism is offended by anything savouring of innovation: I tied a bell to the
leader, and he showed his resentment by all the pettishness of a spoiled child; as
a rule, they appeared rather frightened than pleased by the music so attractive to
the Spanish mule. Each has his own peculiar likes and dislikes: one shuns the
puddles, objecting to wet feet, another avoids rock, and all hate loose stones: the
lazy tread in preference upon the tops of the grassy mounds, bog-trotting like
humans; and these are the least safe; others step in the hollows, as the trusty
Brazilian mule in the “caldeirões.” They resemble the riders in their dislike to
beaten paths, probably from experience of cracks and holes; they will at times
resolve to go no farther, and they have been known to stand in the same position
until killed by the cold. Upon bogs and swamps they seem to feel the surface, to
walk with the head down, and noses depressed, smelling the ground. They
change pace and swerve, as if starting, when they come upon crevasses, with a
suddenness and an agility which has unseated many a traveller; and like mules
and asses, they are unwilling to part company—another sure sign of ignoble
blood. Those over nine years old are much preferred, because more prudent and
experienced: they are even better when nearly double that age, and they live
from twenty to twenty-five years.
The best roadsters are natural pacers (Skeið hestar, or Vakur-hestar), moving
like the camel and the elephant, two legs on one side, instead of traversing: this
is the well-known Paço, introduced into Southern Europe by the nearer East.
Many have a false amble (að valhopa), cantering with the forehand, and bog-
trotting behind: this the people like because it easily covers six miles an hour.
They are utterly untrained to trot and canter (að stikkva); consequently, all go
false: I cannot but think the trot proper a purely artificial pace; in the so-called
wild horse it serves only to connect the walk and the canter, and it is never kept
up for long distances. This does not apply to the amble or shuffle of the Barb and
his American descendants: the former was driven to this specialty by the
necessity of raising the forelegs to clear rough, thorny ground, and the
peculiarity has been artificially developed. If you attempt to make them back,
they will probably, like Argentine animals, tangle their legs and fall; few are
accustomed to leap, and the smallest ditch makes them spring like buck-jumpers
when put to it. They might be expected to prove surefooted, yet systematic
tripping and stumbling on easy ground are inveterate evils; the people blame the
rider when the pony breaks its knees, and the arms ache with the exertion of
holding the brute up. I once tried, for experiment, giving my nag its head upon a
tolerable road, and it came down with me three times in a few hours’ march: my
military saddle, however, was unusually heavy; and, of course, increase of
weight requires exceptional animals.
It is a good plan for the first day or so to use spurs, which, as I have said, are
now all but unknown to the people. The only instrument of punishment is a whip
with short handle and strap, the latter always coming off, and if this be absent the
animals become utter slugs. The comfortable traveller brings with him an
English whip, and the long thong is very useful for driving. Education is
confined to making the animal stand still when the reins drawn over the head are
thrown upon the ground: the custom is general throughout Australia and the
Argentine Republic; and I should recommend it to cavalry where the thongs are
not always liable to be wet and dirty; they are great at climbing mountain-paths
and hopping from rock to rock; they ford rivers well, walking crab-wise with
heads up stream, and in the “scour,” violent shallow water, they kneel to their
work. The worst footing for them is the boulder-paved bed. If they happen to fall
in fording, the best way is to slip off on the current side, to hold the rein firm,
and to steady one’s self by pommel or cantle till the shore is reached. Those
taken to England soon sicken under change of diet and climate; some have done
well as ponies for children, and I saw a neat pair driven at Edinburgh.
There is an art in riding these little mustangs, and an Icelander will get more
work and better pace out of them than a stranger. Of course the slowest gives the
rate to the caravan, and this will sometimes not exceed three miles an hour—
making the journey an écœurante corvée. All assure you that they never kick;
you hear the same in the Argentine Republic; you believe, and sooner or later
you are kicked: two Englishmen of my acquaintance suffered in the flesh, and an
Iceland pony suddenly did its best to knock out my teeth. Rearers and bolters are
rare, and I saw only one biter; the people are not brutal to their beasts, but only
careless. Temper never shows so much as when they are loaded; the worst are
the riding animals, which lose all manners, apparently feeling insulted by the
proceeding. They will never keep Indian file like mules, they rush past one
another, bumping and striving to destroy the traveller’s traps; if a load happens
to become loose or to shift on one side, there is a grand scene of plunging, of
lashing out, especially at pots, kettles, and kegs, and of running away till
everything is strewed on the ground. About evening when hunger becomes
imperious, and especially where forage appears, they wax wild as antelopes.
“Omnis commoditas sua fert incommoda secum;”

but this is an inconvenience worse than anything that I have seen, even when
travelling with half-broken Brazilian mules.
The people boast that their shaggy, long-backed, short-legged poodles equal
the noble blood of Arabia, cover 100 miles a day, and carry 300 lbs.—Uno Von
Troil says 400. The Thingmannaleið, the recognised march to the Althing,
however, is from twenty to twenty-five English statute miles, and I have found
100 lbs. to be a full baggage-load.[24] By proper management, the Lest (caravan)
may be pushed on at a pinch some thirty-five to forty miles a day, but every third
march should be followed by a halt. On one excursion we allowed three rests in
twenty days, but the nags did not recover for many a week. They must not start
before ten or eleven A.M., after they have had a good morning feed. They are
allowed to drink when and where they please, but only after the chill is off the
water. The Icelander seeing a fresh, green grazing, generally dismounts to let his
animal have a bite and stretch its limbs, like a dog fresh from sleep. A careful
man will walk up and down the heaviest places. About three or four P.M. there is
usually an hour’s halt and, during the summer, as the nags suffer greatly from the
sun, night-travelling, if we can so call it, where all appears one night and one
day, is the rule. Straying is also an inveterate evil, especially in bad weather; the
hobbles are rotten cords or withers fastened by bits of sheep’s shanks. Side-
hobbling must be attended to; if only the forehand is tethered or knee-hobbled,
the beasts have learned by practice to hop as fast and as far as kangaroos, and
they will easily waste the best part of an afternoon. Like the Norwegian nags,
they are exceedingly fond of rolling in the sand, and consequently the saddle
suffers. The shoes should be inspected after every march; in the country parts
they may generally be replaced for $1 the pair.
Icelanders ride from the days “when they first see the blood upon their teeth;”
their foot gear and the nature of the country incapacitate them from walking, yet
with our shoes they would soon learn to climb well. There is a fashion in these
things. The Mamlúk Bey would never cross even the street except upon his
mare; and the Brazilian church-goer will send many miles for his horse to ride
the same number of yards. A walker in Iceland is a low fellow, like the
“Zalamah” of Syria. The islander mounts as often on the wrong side as not—of
course every cavalry-man should be trained to do the same. His long back and
short legs make him a curious contrast with his dwarf monture, and apparently
he is easily dislodged—I have seen men come off even when the animals are
only bogged. Another element of grotesqueness is the perpetual hammering of
the unarmed heel against the animal’s ribs; this “devil’s tattoo” keeps the feet
warm, and the horses will lag without it, as the Egyptian Fellah wakes when his
water-wheel ceases to creak and groan. The effect is an indescribably loose and
shambling seat.
Although cavalcades look tolerably well from afar, individuals are ungraceful
and unhandy riders compared with the Gauchos: an Englishman observed to me
that the latter will do in the dark what would puzzle the former in the light. The
general seat is somewhat like the English, a kind of juste milieu never adopted
by purely equestrian races. The Eastern horseman, take the Tartar for a type, sits
his horse with “crumpled legs,” as if upon a chair. The Western, that is to say, the
peoples of the New World, without exception, stand, as it were, upright with legs
apart, riding by balance alone. The Oriental style was probably suggested by the
greater steadiness of aim, with bow or gun, obtained by rising upon the shovel-
iron stirrups clear of the animal’s back. The Occidental seat was evidently the
result of long weary marches over monotonous prairies and pampas, and it never
leads to rupture like our cavalry seat; riders carry little weight, and their waists
are not tightly buckled down so as to press upon the part most likely to give way.
It is a spectacle likely to be remembered, the shoeing of Iceland ponies by the
farrier, who is almost always unprofessional. Five men, without including half-a-
dozen spectators and advisers, bodily engage in the task; one holds the cruel
twitch, two hang on to the several limbs, one or two hold up the hoof, and
number five plies the hammer. And the result is that in travelling you must
always expect your animals to be pricked.
The traveller should take out with him a comfortable pony bridle, if he
intends to ride far. An Iceland bit is horrid to look at, but the long, heavy mass of
brass is never cruel; the chain is not tightened, often, indeed, it is absent, and
sometimes a bit of cord does duty. Happily for the horses, they have no curbs,
and I have many a time wished that we in England could unlearn the use of
them, or rather learn to use them only when required. Nothing more unpleasant
than to see both sexes in Rotten Row worrying their animals into perpetual
fidgets, and making them throw up their heads like giraffes on the run. And this
is not confined to Hyde Park: at Edinburgh I saw an escort of one of our best
cavalry corps so pulling at their curbs, that every charger seemed to be upon
wires. A light hand is not given to every rider, but all can spare the mouth by
using the snaffle.
Upon the whole, I should say, hire your nags. Buyers no longer sell for a
song, as the foreign horsedealers are ready to pay fairly for good animals; yet
besides the risk of being jockeyed—and in the matter of horseflesh the Icelander
is quite the peer
“Of a Yorkshireman hippodamoio”—

the owner, as has been said, will be obliged to travel slowly, and he will incur
additional troubles where the inevitable amply suffice. Tolerable riding beasts
(Rið hestar) may be hired for $1 (= 2s. 3d.) a day, and baggage-animals (Puls or
Klifia hestar) for four marks. The hire should be paid after return. The guide is
sure to take the best, in order to whip up stragglers, and he will be the more
careful of his monture if he be its owner. Formerly, dogs trained to bark and to
keep the Indian file straight, always accompanied caravans: now they are rare
and dear. The use of the Madriña, or bell-mare, is utterly unknown—what does
Henderson mean by making the Arab’s bell-camel go last in the line instead of
first? An extra baggage-animal, besides remounts, is always necessary: the day
of the Hesta-kaup is long past when you could exchange a lame or tired-out
animal at any farm-house.
The Iceland saddle (Hnakkur), well stuffed and provided with a sheepskin,
can be bought at Reykjavik at prices varying from $15 to $50, but the old
campaigner will prefer a roomy old English hunting saddle, duly prepared for
“razor backs.” The woman’s saddle (Söðull) costs from $40 to $80: it is a kind of
arm chair, fronting the near side, and covered with brass ornaments: the feet are
supported by a piece of board; and the whole affair is very dangerous—M.
l’Abbé Baudouin saw a woman drowned when crossing a not very rapid river by
the fault of her riding gear.[25] The lower classes ride à califourchon like the
hautes et puissantes dames of the old noblesse de Campagne, and roll off like
bundles of old clothes. However unseemly, the straddling style is ever the safest,
and I should strongly advise the seat en cavalier in countries where the side-
saddle might lead to accidents. The form of riding should be that of the Libanus,
with a long arm and a short bridle, always ready to hold up the animal, but never
attempting to check it. And those disposed to vertiges should look at the bank,
never at the fast-flowing water.
The baggage will be a perpetual trouble. I deposited at the rooms of the
Anthropological Institute a specimen of the Klifberi (crook-saddle), the Klibber
of the Shetlands, with its pegs of reindeer horn, so useful for fraying everything
they touch. This article will cost the stranger $3 to $6. There is, however, a
modern and improved form, which is far worse; the arch, banded with iron, rises
some five inches above the animal’s back, and effectually destroys whatever
rubs against it. If the people could be induced to adopt the Otago pack-saddle,
used by the transport trains in the Abyssinian expedition, and commended by
Messrs Freshfield (Caucasus) and Stanley, it would be invaluable. I also
exhibited specimens of ropes with horn circlets, for making fast the luggage;
they are expensive as useless, and $3 buys a very small supply. Finally, I showed
the popular “namdah” of the island, two heavy slabs of turf, not unlike a very
thick mat: they are the fibrous roots of the buck bean or marsh trefoil
(Menyanthes trifoliata), in books called Hor-blaðka, but here known as
Reiðinga-gras. The damp heat produced by this article acting upon chafes causes
back-sores, which are sometimes fatal: the Færoese smoke and chew the leaves
of the “Bukka Blaa” as tobacco, and hold that in infusion they cure scurvy. In the
pagan days of Iceland, strips of buck-bean turf made a yoke under which
criminals were compelled to walk; and when two men swore brotherhood or
foster-brotherhood, they passed through an arch of three long sods, whose ends
were attached to earth, and whose centre was raised by a spear.
The Iceland box is very like that which old-fashioned Brazilians use for mule
travel: it admits wet; it readily falls open; and, when tourists are numerous, it is
not easily found at Reykjavik. Mr Shepherd, of North-West Peninsula fame, had
a model pair made by Silver & Co., which own but one disadvantage—being
“un-Icelandic,” the guide will object to load them. One writer sensibly advises
travellers to pack up and to roll everything down the staircase; if the cases stand
this test, they may be passed with approval. Still everything will by degrees be
smashed and spilt: cartridges will be crushed or shaken loose; salt and sugar will
be mixed; oil and spirits will swamp books and flies; and collections of botany
and geology, unless inspected every day, will be lost or damaged; strong tins will
be crushed like paper; even cast-iron would not be safe. The scene on unpacking
for the first time after a march is “a caution:” Iceland in this matter reminded me
of Blá-land (Blue Land, i.e., Blackland), where the ingenious negro managed to
split a Papin’s Digester, making me “marvel how.” Saddle-bags are hardly fair to
the ponies, and carpet-bags and canvas-bags being strange luxuries, will be
stowed away over the boxes, and will be worn through by the hide-lariats which
assist the rotten woollen ropes. Though bred to loading from his childhood, the
Icelandic guide has neither the skill nor the appliances of the Iberian or Brazilian
“Arriero;” anything like a miscellaneous load will at once be shaken off by the
rough jog-trot of the ponies; the girths break, and the halts for reloading become
hourly, and even bi-hourly. There are two ways of conducting a caravan: one is
to drive the animals loose (að reka hestar), the other is to lead them (leiða hestar
í taumi, i.e., in team); the latter is generally done by the care-taker (Lestamaðr)
when approaching the farmhouse-tún, and halters are fastened to tails in a way
that would surprise a Syrian thoroughbred into the height of misbehaviour. This
“cringing,” as Shetlanders call it, is also the tether for short halts, and it proves
effective enough, as they can only wheel round in a narrow circle—vicious
withal.
The traveller will find a tent necessary in the interior, but only on account of
the rain. During their September excursions, when the farmers ride considerable
distances to collect sheep from the distant pastures, they camp out like Bedawin:
as amongst the Canadian Indians, this change from the superheated atmosphere
of the house grows a plentiful crop of colds, rheumatisms, and lumbagos. When
they travel with baggage, they carry tents like miniatures of the East Indian
“pál,” and the large inmate rising from the minimum of space suggests a “Jack in
the box.” Two uprights, four or five feet high, are connected by a cross-pole of
five to six feet, and over this frame is thrown the cover of coarse white Wadmal,
braced by cords at the edges. The flaps have small holes for wooden pegs,
generally three behind, and the same number on each side; when these are lost,
stones and turf (Siberian fashion) do duty for them. Goods not likely to be
injured are piled outside as a “break-wind” and, even when the fore-flap is
closed against rain, two men will stow themselves away inside. My friend, Mr
Robert Mackay Smith, kindly lent me a little bell-tent, which had already seen
service in Iceland, and which proved uncommonly useful. A mattress is usually
held a necessary, but I found a Syrian Postín of black sheepskin spread upon a
caoutchouc, by far the most satisfactory article. The traveller, however, must
beware of “waterproof blankets,” which are sadly apt to belie their name in an
Iceland “shower.”
Writers who know Oriental travel only by books are fond of finding
reflections and resemblances in the far north; the differences, however, are far
greater, and the general likeness is soon destroyed by the details. The horse, the
tent, the bivouac, and the desert are salient points of similitude; the want of life,
of colour, and of picturesqueness, the main accident of the East, soon break the
spell. And the traveller in Iceland will miss many things of which he has read, as
the “kiss of peace,” the pulling off boots, etc., by the daughters of the house, and
the parting salute by way of good night. These things may survive on the rarely
visited south coast; on the beaten tracks they are of the dead past—at least I
never saw a trace. Civilised coarseness and polite vulgarity have made
Icelanders deny that the custom of public undressing ever existed: they are
wrong to be ashamed of it. The removal of muddy boots, wet stockings, and
drenched garments, without any sense of the “sho’king,” was a sign of
innocence; the action was without any sense of impropriety, even as the
primitive matrons and maidens of St Veran thought it uncivil to leave the room
before the guest was fairly in bed.
CHAPTER VIII.
EXCURSIONS ABOUT REYKJAVIK—THE ISLANDS—THE LAUGAR OR HAMMAM—THE
SOUTHERN LAXÁ OR SALMON RIVER.

THE weather appears to be that of the Inferno-circle, especially rich in—

“La piova
Eterna, maledetta, fredda e greve.”

However, we take heart of grace to visit the islands. A boat is readily found at
the Bridge-House pier, the centre of industry. Here are knots of fishermen, who
might be in Leith, save that they are a wee bit rougher; and the stout young
women labouring with coals and rolling up barrels of spirits, reminded me of the
Teutonic emigrants to Rio de Janeiro, where each one would girth double, and
probably weigh treble, the average Brazileira. At times there is a lively scene
when ponies are shipped, an operation managed very rudely, not to say brutally:
the animals are dragged or driven down the slimy, slippery plankway, and are
forced to spring into the nearest barge; they are accustomed to ferries, but not to
this kind of embarkation, which barks the shins and wounds the hind legs. At
times a little animal is jostled off the narrow gangway, but instead of falling or
leaping down, it clings like a cat with the forelegs, and holds on long enough for
men to run down and catch it in their arms. The most amusing scene was when
an Englishman inflated a waterproof cloak, the Halkett-boat, and another, taking
in hand two apologies for paddles, began a series of astonishing gyrations. All
Reykjavik flocked to the pier, possibly under the stimulus thus poetically
recorded:
“Pull him out! pull him out! he fell from yonder boat,
We shall either get a sov’reign or a one-pound note.”

They were disappointed, however, for the Britisher gallantly held his own, and
taught the spectators “a thing or two.”
A few minutes of sharp sailing placed us at Engey, meadow-islet, the central
of the three largest which defend the Rade of Reykjavik. It projects to the south-
east, a long spit of loose rocks, covered, as usual, with fucus[26] and seaweed:
here two huge ravens are hung up as scarecrows to keep off their kind, and to
frighten away the great Erne or cinereous eagle (Falco albicilla): this determined
enemy of the eider duck sometimes haunts the Laxá mouth. The “beneficent
palmipède” is about two feet long, and weighs 6-7 lbs.: it swims the water
gracefully as a swan, and is a strong and straight-flying bird, giving excellent
sport: the drake’s plume is silver, tipped with jet; the duck is much more
modestly clad. The Æðr has a good time of it in Iceland. Their homes are, like
those of olden commerce, the islets near the coast; they will not build, as some
travellers have related, in inland lakes, and they are rarely seen ashore,
preferring damp rocks, where they can feed on seaweed and insects. From its
haunts dogs and cats are carefully excluded. No salute must be fired at
Reykjavik for fear of frightening “somateria mollissima.” The drake is
sometimes poached after the breeding season in August and September: I never
tasted it, but should imagine that the flavour must admirably combine fish and
sea tang. The people declare the flesh to be excellent eating, worth all the other
game put together, but fine and confiscation of the offending weapon await the
poaching gourmand: the amende is a rixdollar per shot, and if the offence be
repeated, confiscation of the gun. How we longed to see this happen to our
Cockney friend!
The landing-place is the normal natural pier, a horrid mass of slimy, slippery
boulders near a small curing establishment, whose rich aroma made us hurry
frantically past, kerchief over nose. Here the islet is a strew and scatter of cods’
heads, cods’ bones, and cod’s sounds: they would be the best of compost if
systematically used. Hopping from hillock to hillock of fishy grass, we reached
the large and prosperous-looking farm-house, which occupies a domed rise to
the north-west. The owner, Hr Christian Magnússon, was superintending his
eider-down: he lives too near Reykjavik to ask us within his doors.
We then walked over the tussocky ground to the west, where the warm
exposure has special attractions for the brown mothers. Our companions were
troops of noisy peewits and terns: the former are spoil-sports, as in the Brazil,
where I have often been exasperated into giving them the benefit of a barrel; and
the latter, here termed Kría (plur. Kríur), whence our “Cree,” sweep down upon
the intruder in resolute style, screaming furiously, and sometimes administering
a vicious peck. Possibly Sterna hirundo knows that its egg is delicate food for
man, and becomes a winged Timon accordingly. In places these birds seem to
have fled the sea, and are found hovering over the fields in search of food: they
should not be shot, as they serve to keep down the earth-worms, and here the
lumbricus is a pest, as in the Færoe Islands. Poultry would be useful for the same
purpose, but it causes trouble, and is seldom seen in the interior. It will be
remembered that the ancient Britons kept fowls only “voluptatis causâ,” which
some understand “for the sake of cock-fighting.”
Travellers describe the eider as a very wild bird in winter, but a mere barn
door during the summer season, so tame that, like the frequenters of the gull-fair,
Ascension, or of the Lage near Brazilian Santos, it can be taken up with the
hand. We found that they scurried away from us, uttering a hoarse “crrr,” and
only one showed mild fight in defence of her flappers. Nor did we see more than
a single monogamous duck in each nest, despite the reported Mormon
arrangements, strange if true. The usual number of eggs was two, proving that
the first lay had been plundered; three was not, four was, rare. At this time (June
12) a few hardly-fledged ducklings appeared, and some could just follow the
mother’s flight. The old ones teach their young the art and mystery of
swimming, by leading them to the shore, bearing them on their backs a few
yards out, and slipping from under them—a process which the tutor of my
childhood unconsciously imitated. The nests, which are always near water, for
facility of feeding, are built in hollows, like dwarf arm-chairs, or the old fur-cap
of Istria: in the centre is a thin saucer-shaped lining of brown, grey, or mouse-
coloured fluff, exceptionally unclean. About mid-July all these matrons will
become frisky, gadding about the Fjörðs and river mouths.
Another pleasant excursion is to Viðey (wood-holm), the largest and
easternmost of the three great breakwaters. In some thirty-five minutes we ran
before the stiff breeze to the little landing-place, a hole in the Palagonite rock.
As we approached the islet, it appeared double, connected, like the defunct
Siamese twins, by a band which was bright green with grass, and which carried a
few wild-looking sheep. We had seen M. Gaimard’s atlas, and we had read of the
“beautiful pillars of basaltic lava,” but we did not find them. The formation
generally is that of Arthur’s Seat: in places the stone is sub-columnar; here and
there it is quaquaversally disposed, the effect of lateral pressure, and in most
parts it can hardly be distinguished from the amorphous. The basalts on the south
of the island, and adjoining the remnants of a crater to the west, are best worth
seeing, but again—bad is the best.
A rough path leads to the tall wooden-barred gate and weather-cock which
defend the property of good Magnús Stephensen, Chief Justice of Iceland, the
friend of “Baron Banks,” and far-famed for his hospitalities in the olden day.
Though travellers say that he rented it from the Crown, he was the owner of the
islet which still remains to his family; and about 1820 he died at the satisfactory
age of eighty-two. The house is a large and substantial building of stone and
lime, with ten windows facing the south, a counterpart of the smallpox hospital
at Laugarnes. The characteristic remnant of the monastery, which was founded in
A.D. 1226, is the chapel to the west of the mansion, a solid box of rough basalt,
squared only at the corners, with rude arches over doorway and windows; the
dwarf “campanile,” a shed perched upon the roof, shelters three bells. In the
massive red door was a huge iron key, which may date from the days of the
ghostly owners. The roof is supported by heavy solid rafters, and the furniture is
older and more ornamental than usual; the benches are carved, and the colours
are the tricolor, blue, red, and green.
As in many country churches, the tall pulpit stands behind the humble altar
which Lutheranism in Iceland has not reduced to a table, but converted into a
safe for priests’ vestments. The confessional still lingers in the shape of a tall-
roofed chair, like that of a hall porter; it is now used by the Prófastur
(archdeacon) when he makes his visits, but the people no longer confide their
sins to the ecclesiastical ear. Metcalfe (p. 317) seems to think that Icelanders are
shrieved before they communicate. The only “Reformed” remnant of the old
Catholic custom is the practice of seating the expectants round the chancel, when
the parson exhorts them in set phrase to repent their sins, and to amend their
lives. They do so, or are officially supposed so to do, and absolution duly
follows.
We looked into the western room of the old monastery where the printing-
press was wont to work; the rubbish lay in admired confusion, almost as bad as
the sacred hill-town of Safet can show, after parting with its typographic reliques
to the curious and the collectors of Europe. The owner, lounging about, hands in
pockets, prospected us more carefully than courteously. Here the neighbourhood
of Reykjavik is not the only cause of inhospitality: the son of the old Chief-
Justice was notoriously unhappy in his family; and the heir to the “antiqua
domus” is locally famed as an animal, in the French and Spanish senses of the
term. So we wandered over the island, much to the confusion of the terns and
sheep, and enjoyed a charming bath in the sea to the north: the walking was foul
as usual, the swamplets have not been drained, nor have the grass tussocks been
levelled during an occupation of a thousand years. Of course, in Wood-isle no
wood exists, but near a farm-shed upon the western half there is an eruption of
turf-stacks, which show what has become of the name-giving growth.
The tract behind and about Reykjavik is an epitome of Iceland, which we can
see in a day’s work; it admirably combines the quaking bogs of Ireland with the
Pantanaes of the Brazil, the rock-slides of the Kasrawán and the metal domes
and boilers of the Haurán.
“God made the country and man made the town” is a poor poet’s sentimental
say, which has passed into a truism, whilst every traveller knows its falsehood.
The country wants the hand of man almost as much as the town does.
Hereabouts, where the surface lies comparatively unbroken, the absolute absence
of trees gives the dreariest impression. We do not feel the same want amongst
the labyrinths of serrated ridges, where the vapours break like seas in the
morning, and which are transfigured by the evening mists into glimpses of
purple and golden glory; nor amongst cataracts, “tumbling in a shower of water
rockets” over the perpendicular strata of basaltic rock; nor when fronting the
inverted arches of the Fjörð-mouths, where the sweeping lines of mist and cloud
are worthy the inspired pencil of Gustave Doré. And, though throughout the
island there is not one spot which “smiles with corn,” the stretches of bright
green pasturage, with spangled flowers, relieving the blackness of the trap, serve
passing well in the artistic eye to take the place of cultivation. In these places we
escape from the eternal black and white, white and black, which sadden the eye
in the interior.
The lakelet south of the capital drains large bogs and peat-mosses at its upper
or inland end. It is poor stuff, which, however, like that of the Brazil, burns
without chemical treatment, and it contains, as in the Færoe Islands, large
quantities of birch trunks and bark, proving, if proof were wanted, that the land
was not always bare of trees. Although the first colonists found the country
wooded from the sea to the hills, here, as elsewhere, first colonists regarded a
tree as a personal and natural enemy, to be annihilated with fire and steel.
Consequently the land became bog, the centuries deepened and added to it, and
now it is absolutely irreclaimable. Under the blessing of St Blazius, however, it
supplies the people with fuel. The turf-digger uses a rough instrument, a straight
bar of wood, with a side projection for the foot, and shod with a crescent-shaped
iron: it is the toysker familiar to the Shetlanders.[27] The material is stacked in
early June, and by September it is ready for use; almost every family has its own
turbary, where a fortnight’s hard work would collect an ample supply for the
whole year. Yet the absence of fire is one of the characteristics of the Icelandic
farm-house, in which the people prefer to “pig” together for animal heat, like the
lower creation, rather than take the trouble of cutting, stacking, and carrying in
their peat. But here probably inveterate custom perpetuates what arose from
simple indolence.
The Landnámabók (De Originibus Islandiæ Liber), corresponding with our
Domesday Book and the Book of Joshua amongst the Hebrews, tells us that in
A.D. 1231 the plough was drawn by oxen and slaves. The Aryan implement,
never invented by the African nor by the “red man” of the Western Hemisphere,
is now simply impossible. The surface is either quaking bog, where man is easily
mired and “laired;” or covered with runs and boulders of basalts and lavas,
porous and compact, grey, brown, red, and black; the grey being of course the
oldest. This has never been cultivated, and probably never will be. The grass
land reminds you of a deserted country churchyard. Many of the warts which
garnish it are originally formed like “glacier tables,” those pillars of ice bearing
tabular rock, which protects their bases whilst the sun melts the surrounding
matter. The scattered boulders keep the lump firm, whilst the ground about it is
washed away: mostly, however, the tussocky warts are formed, as on the Irish
bog, the Scotch moor, and the flanks of Ben Nevis, by the melting of spring-
snows and the heavy rains which carry off the humus from the sides; and they
show us on a small scale the effects of weathering upon hills and mountains. The
water, here and in the bogs and peat-mosses, is a “gilded puddle,” rich in
diatomaceous silica and iron: as in parts of Ireland, it readily converts adipose
and muscular tissue into a saponaceous matter like spermaceti, and it forms the
“precious medicine Múmiyá” (human fat) once so highly valued for fractures
and pulmonary complaints.
These warts are exaggerated by the treading and grazing of cattle in the
depressions. Not a few travellers have asserted that the people, forgetting that
grass grows perpendicularly, leave the knobs in situ, because a curve affords
more surface than a plane. To a similar prejudice, also, they attribute the use of
the toy scythe, which shaves round the lumps, wasting much time, and exposing
the precious crop to be destroyed by rain or snow. The real cause, of course, lies
much deeper. Firstly, there is the want of hands; secondly, there is the expense of
day labour; and thirdly, a man must be certain of tenure before he is justified in
undertaking such a task as levelling the surface of his field. The turf must be
carefully removed from every knob, the latter must be planed away with the hoe,
and lastly, the grassy covering must be replaced: after a few years the snows and
showers will require the operation to be repeated. Meanwhile, the result is a
short thin turf like that of England, but exceptionally springy to the tread, as if it
had no solid foundation—in fact, something like a water-bed. A little top-
dressing brings out a goodly crop of grass, and although we must despair of
seeing even oats and rye, yet roots like potatoes and turnips might become much
more common than they are. But then—the landlord would raise the rent.
A favourite walk with foreigners is to the Laug (pronounce Lög), the reeking
spring, lying about two miles from and nearly due east of the town. The only
bathing-place, especially on fine Sundays, between church-time and dinner at
two P.M., it is the haunt of many washerwomen, and yet, during the last
millennium, no attempt at a decent path has been made. You leave the town by
the Krísuvík, more properly the general eastern, road, passing the fine new
prison, which is rising rapidly from the ground: the exceptionally thick walls are
made of hewn and unhewn trap, with an abundance of imported lime, blackened
by basaltic sand. There are apartments for the officials, and ample
accommodation for all the criminals in the island; indeed, if the interior only
equal the exterior, its superior comforts may act, it is feared, like our old
transportation system, and offer a premium for breaking the law. On the right,
you leave the Skolavarða,[28] or school mark, so called because it was built for
the College. This “observatory,” as foreigners call it, is a two-storied building,
ascended by two sets of double ladders: the view from the green-painted
hatchway which defends the opening above lays the land before you like an
embossed map. The lower story is foul in the extreme, and there are scandals
concerning the uses to which it is normally put. The wooden building of old
charts has clean disappeared. No place could be worse adapted than this for an
observatory, at least, if magnetic instruments are to be used. The French
expedition found that the surrounding volcanic rocks gave the most discordant
results, for instance, 2° 32´ to north, and 11° 15´ to south, upon the same rhumb.
M. Lottier (p. 35) offers the following comparison of magnetic declinations:
1. At Reykjavik, 43° 14´.
2. ” Thingvellir, 40° 8´.
3. ” Geysirs, 45° 50´.
4. ” Selsund, 40° 49´´.
He remarks that the first is probably correct on account of the care with which
the site had been prepared, two granite blocks having been laid down upon the
hard ground below the turf. The second was vitiated by a huge coulée of lava;
the third by the looseness and Plutonic nature of the soil, whilst at Selsund the
Hekla massif, distant only a mile to the north-east, must have exercised a
disturbing effect.
Striking to the left, we pass the detached farm-houses, and hit the shingly and
rocky margin of the shore, which here and there shows heaps and scatters of sub-
columnar basalt. Presently, after treading the pebbly bank and stony tracts, well
garnished with mud, we reach the mouth of the little stream, or rather the place
where it should mouth. Here, as on many parts of the coast, where not protected
by islands to windward, or where the rock does not come down to the water’s
edge, a high bank of sand and shingle is thrown up, and retains the water in
pools of various extent. Mostly, these basins are briny, being affected by the
percolating tide which ebbs and flows regularly inside: they explain the presence
of the upper bog; the matted roots of the vegetation prevent free drainage; and
the want of slope would probably render even deep-ditching ineffectual.
We cross the streamlet higher up, and ascend the right bank, where walking is
better than on the left, wondering the while that during so many centuries of use
the feet of the washerwomen have not worn a way. Here at length is some sign of
life. “The lady-hen sings to the riv,” as the Shetlanders say of the lark, but her
carol is at the gate of a milk-and-water heaven. The curlew and the whimbrel
scream their wild lay in the lower air; the snipe rises with a peculiar twitter; the
snippet bathes where the water is warm; the water-rail (rallus) courses before us;
the true sandpiper (tringa), accompanied by a purple congener (T. maritima),
with brown back, white waistcoat, black colours extending over the eyes and
crest, with long red beak and legs, forages busily for food; whilst waterfowl,
including the ubiquitous eiders, male and female, float lazily off shore. In many
places the sandpiper behaves like the Brazilian João de Barros, alighting before
the traveller, and apparently enjoying the fun of narrow escapes.
A number of ponies, awaiting transportation to the mines of Great Britain,
were grazing about, and bolted as we drew near. The few cows, almost all
hornless, had small straight bodies, and large udders, which are said sometimes
to give from ten to twelve quarts of milk per diem, and 3000 per annum; the
proportion of butter being 1:16. Wretched bullocks, not weighing more than a
Syrian donkey, were fattened for foreign markets: surely the roast beef of Old
England never appeared in meaner form. Presently they will be lashed to ponies’
tails, and afford much amusement to the gamins of Reykjavik by springing over
the little drains with such action as the Toro at Ronda attempts the barricades.
The ewes, dull-yellow, straight-eared, and thin-tailed, some with coats, others
sheared, or rather plucked, in Shetland parlance “roo’d,” were at a distance to be
mistaken for goats; in June most of them are accompanied by lambs, singlets or
twins, looking extra innocent. They yield a couple of quarts of milk per diem, or
about fifty per annum, and their fat is said to contain an unusual proportion of
stearine. Merinos have been tried, and to them many people attribute the
dreadful scabies which has raged since 1855. The goat, once so common, is
extinct in this part of the island, at least I never saw a specimen in Iceland: this
destructive animal could not have been much at home where there is so little
wooded land; and it was proscribed for climbing upon the turf roofs, and doing
other damage. The happy mean has been hit by Istria, which issued laws in early
ages de capris non tenendis, and which now allows goats only in the wildest and
stoniest parts. It will be a fortunate day for the Libanus and Syria generally when
the graveolent there falls into like disfavour.
The comparatively fertile banks, clothed with the Lecidea Lindleyana grass,
shows us, for the first time, the pretty Icelandic flora in full bloom; and the
general effect is yellow, as that of Palestine is red: this arises from the large
proportion of buttercups (Icel. Sóley) and dandelions. The properties of
Leontodon taraxicum in hepatic disease, either as coffee or as salad, are here
quite unknown; the Icelanders call it Unda-fill, and the Færoese Heeasolia. Its
flowers are used in the southern islands for yellow dye, and the leaves are eaten
in spring: after that time they become bitter. There is an abundance of golden
liverwort (Parnassea palustris) and cross-worts (galiums) of many kinds, locally
called Maðra and Kross-maðra; of Alpine saxifrages (S. hircula and
oppositifolia), of azaleas (A. procumbens), pretty red flowers, loved by sheep; of
lilac-tinted butter-worts; and of the yellow ranunculus, common in the Pyrenees
and Alps. The wild thyme (T. serpyllum), which preserves a strong perfume,
whilst the four violets have lost it, is termed Blóðlýng by the people, and, mixed
with other leaves, is extensively used in ptisanes to “thin the blood.” An orchis,
an equisetum with small stiff leaves, and a “fox grass,” as the fern is locally
named, faintly remind us of the tropics—ferns always have this effect. Very
familiar to the eye are the daisy (in the Færoes, Summudaar), the white
chickweeds (Stellarium and Cerastium vulgatum), locally called “Musar-eyra,”
(mouse’s ear); the forget-me-not (Kattar-auga), which flourishes everywhere;
the white cardamine (C. pratensis); the common bitter cress, which Icelanders
call Hrafna-(pron. Hrabna) klukka, or raven’s bell; the other pretty little
crucifers, and the rhododendron (laponicum, Icel. Kalmanstúnga), with a
delicate red flower. The Iceland heath (Erica vulgaris) here becomes a valuable
plant: the people say that sheep cannot die where it abounds, and they use it with
peat and brushwood to smoke their meat. The geranium (G. silvaticum) is
common, especially the malva, known as Ljons-kló or-löpp (lion’s paw), a name
evidently given by those who had never been presented to King Leo. The Fífa, or
cotton-grass (Epilobium or Eriophorum polystachion), with bright white pods,
which extends from Iceland to South Germany, and which fattens sheep in
Dumfriesshire, will haunt us in every swamp: it is a much maligned growth, and
it serves to make the bog far more solid and less like a rolling carpet than the
“Serbonian” feature otherwise would be. The less familiar plants are the
crowberry (Empetrum nigrum), eaten by Corvus in Scotland before the grain is
ripe; the red cowberry (Vaccinium vitis-idæa), which mostly affects the hills, and
is preserved for pancakes; the grass of Parnassus (Icel. Mýra-sól-ey); and a
moonwort, rare in the British Islands.
The deep, narrow ditch winds through the plain, with bulges here and there,
which make good bathing-places: what little steam there is, generally courses
before the wind down the valley. The old centre of ebullition is denoted by a
small green mamelon or tumulus on the right bank, supposed to be the site of a
large spring once boiling: hereabouts poor, brown, and fibrous peat is stacked,
and on week-days it is the meeting-place of a dozen Baðkonur (washerwomen),
[29] of all ages, from grandmother to small girl. A baylet in the right bank shows
the present focus of ebullition, though a little below, on the left side, the water
above a dwarf rapid is scalding hot: at the former, the thermometer (F.) readily
rises to 175°, and soon cools down stream. Higher up again the little ditch,
coloured with bog iron, and with strongly chalybeate taste, is icy cold: as at the
celebrated Snorri’s Bath, all degrees of temperature can here be combined, and
whilst one hand is parboiled, the other is chilled.
The water after traversing heated substances, evidently pyritic, effervesces
from a bottom of dark-grey mud; and when the stone is exposed, we find heat-
altered bazalt covered with a whitish incrustation, silica, the chief ingredient,
being deposited in a gelatinous state. There is a strong smell of sulphuretted
hydrogen, so commonly remarked in dormant springs, and the offensive
presence should recommend it to skin diseases, especially where the Sarcoptes
scabiei is present. From the muds and deposits of these waters none of the rarer
earths, like yttria, glucina, and oxide of cereum, have been found, though traces
of cobalt occur: lime and magnesia abound; manganese, iron and silica, soda and
sulphuric acid, also exist in considerable proportions. Dr Murray Thomson has
carefully analysed the produce of the Laug.[30] Eels are mentioned by travellers,
but we never saw them: in the lower course there are shell-less snails and a
variety of worms (pupæ?).
Broken bottles and fragments of the “Constitutionnel” show the favourite
place for bathing: formerly here, as at Thingvellir, a wooden shed was set up;
now every inch of it has disappeared. It is no joke to dress and undress in the raw
high east winds and the bursts of storm, but the exceptionally healthy nature of
the climate asserts itself under these unpleasant circumstances. As there are
traditions of a French sailor having died of pleurisy after a bath, common
prudence would suggest a sunny afternoon. The amount of refreshment derived
from the “Hammám” is immense. Strangers in Iceland often attribute to other
and less cleanly causes the sudden eruption of Lichen (misnamed Tropicus) or
prickly heat, the nettle rash which the Danes call “Red Hound:” it seems to be as
common about the poles as throughout the tropics, and many of my English
acquaintances suffered severely from it in Iceland without recognising it.
From the bath we walked over the stony bog to the nearest Bær, which is
generally deserted: it is occupied by the caretakers of the Laugarnes Hospital.
The two-storied whitewashed house is built of irregular and unsquared basaltic
blocks: the frontage is south of west. Each of the two floors has three windows,
and the wings two on the east and west, but none to the north. Formerly the
episcopal palace, it was last occupied by Bishop Steingrímur Jonsen: the present
dignitary has always preferred the town. It has now been converted into a
smallpox hospital: two patients died there this year (1872); since then, as no
cases have come in, the doors are locked, and the attendants are engaging
themselves elsewhere. In olden times it was connected with the town by a
chausée, a causeway somewhat like the remains of the Saracen, miscalled
Roman, roads which cross the flat country south of Damascus. Bad as it is, the
fragment teaches a useful lesson—never, if possible, to quit an Iceland road.
“Follow the highway tho’ it winds,” say the Tartars.
A Scotch gentleman, well-known in Iceland as a firm and hospitable friend to
Icelanders, proposed to buy Laugarnes for a summer residence, to pay $3000,
and, moreover, to conduct the water in tubes to Reykjavik, where it might lead to
a habit of Russian baths. Unhappily, it belongs to a company, or rather to half-a-
dozen proprietors, who have added Klepp, the adjoining property: they showed
their unwisdom by asking $4000 for the original estate, and now their terms
fluctuate, according to chances, between $8000 and $14,000.
From the Hospital we follow the shore to the Laxá River East. On the way
there is a deposit of very light blue-grey hydrate of iron, cellular and globular,
and rich in water, and phosphorus: it is supposed to result from the
decomposition of titaniferous iron, contained in the underlying dolerite. Close to
the sea, and conspicuous to those who sail by, is a classical spot, the Haugr,
howe or cairn of Hallgerða, the fair-haired with the thief’s eyes. That lady, so
famous in Iceland legends, virtually murdered three husbands; the last was the
“peerless Gunnar,” who, some years before, had slapped her face. She lived upon
this farm, which she inherited from Glum, her second victim; she died in A.D.
996, and she was buried with all the honours of her rank. The tumulus always
remains green, doubtless a token of Heaven’s approval bestowed upon one of the
strongest-minded of her sex. Should Mary Stuart succeed in being sanctified, the
abominable Hallgerða surely has a chance: at present she is known to local fame
chiefly from the beauty of her locks, which hung down to her waist. She is one
of those women in history whom one would like to interview.
Another tract of stone and bog led us to the Laxá River, which discharges into
the usual broad Fjörð, fronting Viðey, and bounded on the east by the low,
chapelled point of Gufunes (screw naze). The name, often written Danicè Lax[31]
(salmon) Elbe or Elve (river), is common in the island, which may contain a
dozen Laxás: there are four near Reykjavik, each distinguished by some local
affix. Henderson erroneously calls it Hellirá, river of caverns, from the many
holes in its lava bed; others prefer Hellurá, river of slabs: so Newfoundland was
first called Hellu-land. The classical term, however, is Elliðaá, from the ship
“Elliði,” which Ketilbjörn Gamli (the old) caused to be dragged through river
and lake. It rises in the Elliða-vatn (Ellwich-water), a circular lake with tuff
walls, showing an extinct volcano: this place, about one hour’s ride south-east of
Reykjavik, is a famed place for picnics, and is much affected by men who go a-
fishing. The stream, or rather torrent, rushes fiercely between tall and rocky
banks, flares out at the mouth, and finds rest in the broad bosom of Reykjavik
Bay.
Presently we reached the salmon ground, which is now but a shadow of its
former self, doubtless the result of “barring” with weirs, traps, dams, and nets.
Until the beginning of this century it was held by the Crown, and tradition
declares that sometimes 3000 head, with a maximum weight of 40 lbs., were
taken in a single afternoon. It was first rented to Hr Scheele, a Danish merchant
at Reykjavik, and was afterwards sold in perpetuity to the father of the present
Hr Th. A. Thomsen. The sum mentioned is $1200, a poor bargain for the local
Government, as the yearly revenue is said to be $1000. The owner has placed six
common box weirs, with crates, allowing the fish to work up stream, but not to
return; and stone dams, which are removed before the ice sweeps them away in
autumn—salmon and trout here spawn in October. They might be placed a little
higher up for the convenience of the fish, but at any rate they are better than the
standing nets, with which a Scotch contractor “barred” the very mouth of the
river.
I saw the boxes opened about mid-July; but rain had been scarce, and the
whole take was 15 salmon, the maximum being 5 lbs., and the average under 4
lbs.: we heard, however, that some weeks before, one box had yielded 63, and
the six a total of 179. They are readily sold in the town for 22 skillings per lb.,
and in the country the price falls to 12 or 13. By an arrangement with Hr
Thomsen, the traveller might be allowed to fish for salmon and trout in the lower
stream, and in the upper waters he can so do gratis. At the same time he must
keep well out of the owner’s limits, or there will be work for the lawyers.
 CHAPTER IX.
FURTHER AFIELD—ASCENT OF THE ESJA AND THE SKARÐSHEIÐI—THE HOF OR HEATHEN
TEMPLE OF KJALLARNES.

RIGHT opposite Reykjavik rises an interesting block of mountains. Bearing due

north is Akrafjall, bluff to the sea and sloping with a long dorsum inland; it is the
western steeple of the long Hvalfjörð, one of the many digitations, carved by
wind and water in the western coast. The eastern is the Esja, which means a
“kind of clay;” some travellers miscall it the Esian or Essian, with the definite
pronoun suffixed,[32] and sounding much like “the Alcoran” to an Arabist. The
southern flank of this precipitous buttress, gashed with deep ravines and still
spotted and streaked with snow which will not disappear before mid-August, lies
north-east and across the baylet of Reykjavik: in fine weather it looks as though
you could see a man upon the summit. Between the two pilasters of the inverted
arch, forming the apparent bound of the far vista, is a third, a smaller and a more
precipitous block, Skarðsheiði—heath of the col[33]—with five buttresses,
waxing whiter and whiter as they leave the warm western aspect. The view is
fine albeit somewhat sinister, and you miss it like removing from the Chiaja to
the interior of Naples. All this, we must remember, is only a corner of the great
south-western Fjörð, whose northern limit is the Snæfellsjökull and whose
southern is the Skagi (point) of Suðrnes: it is called Faxafjörð, from Fax,[34] the
Scot, who believed it to be the estuary of a mighty stream; the same kind of
mistake gave a name to glorious Rio de Janeiro.
The eastern or inland view from Reykjavik on a fine day is not less
picturesque. The clear cut basaltic line of mountains, here and there broken and
jagged, stretches from north-east to south-west. In the former direction it appears
a mural range, in the latter the blue wall breaks up into detached features, the
regular cone of Helgafell, or holy hill, the pyramid of Keilir, “the wedge,” so
well known to sailors, and the four hillocks called the Trölladyngjur,[35] or
giantesses’ bower. Again this feature reminds me of the Jebel Haurán, and we
shall find it beautifully displayed from the several mountain-tops.
On June 12 I set out with Major B. and Mr S. to try our prentice-hand upon
the Esja. The vehicle was a two-oared boat redolent as usual of fat, fin, and
feather; the hour was 6.45 A.M., and the north-easter was biting cold—at this
season travellers should prefer post-meridional excursions, as the afternoon
wind, during fine weather, invariably shifts to the genial west. The terns and the
large Iceland gulls were hurrying home to the several islands, each showing the
economical value of early birding.
After adding prospects of Geldinga Ness, Therney, and Lundey to our
repertory, and covering in two hours the six miles’ sail, we landed at the usual
place on the northern bank of the dwarf Kolla Firth. It showed farm-houses
scattered around and a few fishing craft carefully drawn up; a very necessary
precaution when the tide is going out. On the left was Esjuberg, where Örlýgr
Hreppson, converted by Patrick, Bishop of the Hebrides, built the first Christian
chapel, and dedicated it to St Columbkille, Apostle and Thaumaturgus of the
Picts. Farther off lay another farm upon the site of the celebrated pagan temple
known as the Hof of Kjallarnes—we shall visit Keel-ness by and by.
It is perfectly true in Iceland that
“The sea is wet as wet can be,”

but we cannot say that

“The land is dry as dry.”

Throughout the lowlands Nature, organic as well as inorganic, seems never to be

free from moisture: like tropical man it always sits in a damp skin.
Having hauled up our boat we crossed the moss towards the great gash in the
hill-flank, the Caldera, so conspicuous from Reykjavik; as usual the ground was
shaky bog, and in places like an exaggerated Turkey carpet. The cause is that the
shore, formed either of shingle or of vegetation decayed to humus is, as we have
seen, higher than the interior, and the people content themselves with dykes for
roads, and with trenches never deep enough for thorough drainage. We passed
two small farms composed of the normal dwelling-places, stables, byres, and
outhouses; plans and elevations of these abodes have been given by every
Icelandic traveller who has used pencil as well as pen. Suffice it to observe, that
throughout Iceland the dwelling-place, like the “skip,” has seen better days, and
that both are now hopelessly degenerate.
At the second farm lived the guide, who was absent in the fields, and we
vainly attempted persuading the sailor lad, a regular “lazy,” to accompany us
with the provaunt-basket. An English youth would have been delighted with the
chance of a climb, but these fainéants about the capital, timid and apathetic, will
do nothing for sport or adventure, and move only when need drives.
After forty-five minutes’ walk we entered the great gorge, which discharges a
shallow stream, winding in many veins over its broad and rocky wady: it must
be a furious torrent during the thaws of spring. We should have crossed it and
ascended a sharp, rocky, zigzag on the right-hand jaw, but we had no reason to
regret the error, as the deep section gave us an excellent view of the Esja’s
internals. The formation of the mountain is still a disputed point; some hold its
base to be basaltic pierced by more modern trachyte, whilst others believe in the
greater antiquity of the trachyte. As will be seen, when travelling to Mosfell, or
south-east, we found trachyte on a level with the Esja’s foundation and, when
coasting along the western flank, we saw Palagonite sandstone, dyked with trap,
and underlying as well as overlying the later igneous formation. The sequence,
therefore, appeared to be Palagonite, trachyte, and trap. On the Kollafjörð also
there is a line of carbonate of lime running from north-east to south-west, and
strongly affecting the water: hence it is judged that Iceland spar may be found
there.
After a few minutes we came to a place where the gorge was split by a tall
chine of rock, and where overfalls and deep inclines rendered the two beds
impassable. We climbed up this hogsback, remarking, as others have done before
and since, how dangerously brittle is the rubbishy stone which comes away in
large fragments under the foot. The same observation constantly occurs in
travels through Greenland and Spitzbergen, and the cause is doubtless that which
strews the upper heights of the Libanus and Anti-Libanus with natural Macadam
—fracture by alternate expansion and contraction. In Iceland, moreover, the
débris lies in dry heaps, loosely attached to the surface and not based upon or
secured by vegetation or tenacious humus, while the sharp angles of the material
produces many a rocking-stone. Hence large masses giving way readily beneath
the tread, somewhat surprise the inexperienced. We then fell into a long stiff
slope of rock and yellow humus, puffed up under the sun; there was an
abundance of water stagnating even on the sharpest declivities, and doubtless
percolating from the snow strips above. Where the surface was tolerably level,
rough grasses upon which a few sheep were grazing were sprinkled with mosses
and with raised patches of bright green studded with pink flowerets (Diapensia),
faintly resembling the huge Tabbán pin-cushions of the Hermon. Animal life
appeared to be exceedingly scarce.
Presently the guide, who had followed us, was seen crossing the left-hand or
western ravine, and only his Iceland shoes enabled him to do so. Of course, he
wore gloves, for what reason we could not divine, except to keep his unwashed
hands white; and his alpenstock was an iron stick, some three feet long, with a
ring at one end and a half barb at the other. He waddled like an ant-eater when
showing his vigour by spurts of running up and down, and his bent and affaissé
form was a considerable contrast to that of the mountaineer generally. He was
like his brethren, the very rudiment of a guide, utterly disregardful of the guided;
and in case of difficulty or accident, we expected him at once to skedaddle.
When he whooped “ho!” it was the screech of a sea-fowl.
Arriving at the stiffer part of the ascent, about 2400 feet above sea-level, we
should have bent to the west towards the largest patch of snow, where the angle
is exceptionally easy. But our guide followed us with African docility, as we bent
eastward under the tall scarps of submarine trap, which from Reykjavik appear
to stand up like a wall. There were several couloirs to cross, mostly slides of icy
snow: in August they will appear like broad yellow gutters polished by frost.
Here we picked up specimens of red jasper, crystals of lime, and stones whose
drusic cavities were charged with calcaire.
Then began the climb up the crest. The stairs, about eight or ten feet high, run
with tolerable regularity, whilst breaks here and there allow easy ascent: at the
base is kittle débris, where falling blocks may be expected. However hopeless
may appear these trap walls, whose copings, straight and regular as if built by
man, form the characteristic feature of maritime Iceland, they are generally
climbable by creeping along the ledges below the several grades till gaps offer
an opportunity of swarming up to the higher tier. If, however, a profile view
shows that these traps dip instead of tilting seawards, the normal disposition,
attempts will be in vain. Cryptogams were thinly scattered over the blocks;
lichens appeared to be rare, and the mosses had not revived from the winter
burning—as regards muserlogia there is still much to be done in Iceland.
After a walk of three hours, we stood upon the level summit,[36] about 3000
feet above sea-level, and the ascent was according to the rule of the Alpine Club,
a thousand feet per hour. Here rose a number of Varðas or old men. We crossed a
dazzling névé, following the guide, who probed as he went on, for here as
elsewhere,
 “The snow o’erlays
The hidden pits and dangerous hollow ways.”

I narrowly observed its behaviour. The ground about it was so soft and slushy
that even stones would not support our weight, and the shallow edges were icy-
hard, the effect of increased evaporation. On sloping surfaces the same effect is
caused by pressure, like squeezing a snow-ball, and gelufication is prevented by
the little runnels which the sun sets free to trickle down the gorges. The material
was glacious rather than flaky or niveous, and promised firm foothold. We have
read of travellers sinking to the shoulders, especially in the snow of August, but
it is doubtful if this ever takes place above a certain altitude, especially in dry
weather, when Iceland snow wastes away in the wind like camphor.
The “raking view” from the summit was a fair physiognomical study of
treeless Thule. To the north the mountain is a mere section, a shell with
perpendicular falls and steep steps of loose stone, which demand rope ladders.
Before it the lowlands fall to the Hvalfjörð, beyond which the Akrafjall dorsum
slopes inland, or to north-east, till suddenly arrested on the other side of the
smooth green sea-arm by the five buttresses of the sister formation, Skarðsheiði.
The latter looks as though a few hours, instead of two days, would reach it; and
our friends at Reykjavik showed their belief in the wondrous transparency of the
atmosphere by trying to detect, with their opera glasses, our small bodies
creeping up the slope at the distance of at least six direct geographical miles. At
Quito, under the equator, a horseman’s white poncho may, according to
Humboldt, “be distinguished with the naked eye at a horizontal distance of
89,664 feet, and therefore under an angle of thirteen seconds.”
Turning southwards, we found the Esja summit flanked to the east by three
regular buttresses, like artificial earthworks, with stepped projections and
horizontal lines of the whitest névé. Farther down were couloirs filled with a
brown snow, in lines too steep for crossing. The highland before us reminded me
of the Paramos or deserts of the Cordillera, and the view generally was a
wondrous contrast with European ideas of spring beauty. The lowlands at our
feet were sprinkled with lakelets and tarns, the Vaud and Soe of Norway, the
largest being the Hafravatn and the Elliðavatn. The formation of the Fjörðs lay in
panorama, a network of fibres and threads converging to form a main
embouchure; whilst the several bays had those hooks and “sickles” of sand,
which the “Rob Roy” canoe places in the Sea of Galilee, but which my lamented
friend Tyrwhitt-Drake and I were not lucky enough to find. We have already
remarked this wealth of “oyce” in the Scotch firths, and Elius Corvinus declares
the same to be the case in Dalmatian streams:
“Danubio et Nilo non vilior Ombla fuissit
Si modo progressus possit hebere suos.”

From south-east to south the prospect is bounded by the snow-dotted Hraun or

lava-run, which in places appears as two parallel ranges. It completely hides the
Thingvellir Lake, but in far distance, peeping over the summit to the east, rises
the bold and rocky head of the arch-humbug Hekla. The range terminates to the
south-west in Laugarfell, a buttressed crest like the Esja, beyond which the
Vestmannaeyjar archipelago floats in little lumps below the cup-shaped horizon.
The eye rests with pleasure upon the Helgafell cone and the pyramid of Keilir,
perfect as the pigmies of Egypt: this shape is common in Iceland, and forms the
best of land and surveying marks. Beyond the long, thin point of Reykjavik
(Seltjarnarnes) and its scatter of volcanic islets, the dwarfed projections of Skagi
and Reykjanes fine away into mere streaks of black upon the pale blue sea.
Presently a cloud came over the sun, and the cold air warned us to keep moving.
Ugh! how raw it was; the wind seemed to pierce every joint in our harness. We
descended by the picknicker’s path, showing the unnecessary trouble we had
taken: the line ran between the great gorges or rather rents in the flanks, which
gave excellent sections of the interior, stratified beds of newer red and older
grey-blue lavas remarkably distinct. At the foot of the mountain the
thermometer, placed in reflected heat upon the snowy ground, showed 82°(F.),
hardly to be expected in Iceland.
Reaching the guide’s house, we were kindly received by his wife, who gave
us coffee, biscuits, and excellent milk, which mixed with Korn-schnapps, even
the “water-bewitched” of Reykjavik, is a most satisfactory beverage. We
dropped a rixdollar, by way of being “delicate,” into a child’s hand. Two months
afterwards, our cicerone wrote to Geir Zoega that he had guided (unbidden be it
said) three Englishmen up the mountain, and had given them coffee, etc.; that his
fee was $3, whereas they had left only $1 with a servant girl, from whom he
could not take it. This little trait—one of many—would not be worth quoting did
it not show that the unsophisticated age of the island has, in these parts at least,
passed clean away.
It speaks volumes for the excellence of the climate that next morning no one,
even after ten months of London life, complained of stiff muscles. We had been
baked, chilled, and baked again, yet there was not a trace of “cold catching:” the
latter, to resident foreigners, is not unfrequently the result of the glacier winds,
but they never seem to adopt such simple precautions as a hareskin or a Manus
Dei (poor man’s plaster).
A most interesting part of the Esja mountain is the north-eastern section,
where two regularly-shaped cones of golden colour, sharp towering in the milky
blue air, attract the eye from Reykjavik. They are conspicuous in snowy caps,
which they long retain, whilst the basalts and the dark Palagonites assist the
thaws. I was anxious also to inspect the head of the celebrated Hvalfjörð, to
ascend Skarðsheiði, and to call upon the Reverend Thorvaldr Bjarnason, who
had hospitably invited me to Reynivellir, his parsonage. The excursion took
place about mid-July, but I again sacrifice the unity of time to that of place. My
companion was Mr Martin Chapman, of New Zealand, now domiciled in the
Temple: we had already made the trip to Hekla, and his good gifts as a traveller,
his energy and his imperturbable good temper and sang froid, made him an
excellent companion. We again secured as guide Páll Eyúlfsson, of whom more
presently. Each had a remount, and a single baggage animal was judged
sufficient.
We set out merrily by the eastern road, through a country now familiar to the
reader, and soon covered the four miles between the town and the ford of the
Laxá (Elliðaá). On the way were many signs of glacial action, grooving as well
as slickensides, caused by the friction of two rock surfaces: the ice-dressings
which I had last seen on Arthur’s Seat are everywhere around Reykjavik. At Hr
Thomsen’s farm, Ártún (river “toon”), we left the inland or Geysir road and
turned towards the sea. About Leiruvogr (mud bay) and the mouth of the
Leiruvogsá the floor was of trachyte, which appeared even in the stream-beds:
the material was heat-altered and discoloured by oxides. The little black church
of Mossfell (moss-hill), a common name in the island, was the half-way house;
and thence we rode up the Svinadalr (swine-vale), to the white pass of Mó-
skarða hnjúkr, also called Há-hnjúkr. Here, after travelling three hours and forty-
five minutes, we dismounted and prepared for the ascent.
On our left hand was a rough tooth, or aiguille, a conspicuous object rising
perpendicularly from the rapid slope: the lower ground was the usual mixture of
bog, moss, and water. This was soon exchanged for an angle too steep for
vegetation; yet even on the summit, we picked scattered flowers, and the
peculiarity of Iceland in the eyes of an African traveller again repeated itself.
Here we find not only genera abnormally numerous compared with species, but
also no change of growth from the tropical to the temperate and the polar, as, for
instance, on Camarones Mountain. The same flora everywhere appears, the
paucity of vegetable corresponding with the poverty of animal forms: only in the
upper regions it is of course dwarfed by height and by the comparative thinness
of the aqueous vapours which screen the lowlands; and for the same reason it
grows and dies later in the year.
The surface of the mountain was purely trachytic, but the one material was
Protean in shape and colour. The prevailing tints were red and golden yellow. We
recognised the slate of Hekla and the heat-altered material near the great Geysir.
As we neared the summit the metal became flaky, like the limestone of the
Syrian mountains. After forty minutes of rough climbing over slopes of rubbish
—the smaller it was the firmer it proved to the tread—we reached the apex,
about 2000 feet above sea-level: like the western Esja, it had the sharpest face to
the north, and the crest was a saw, a spiked arête, palisaded and bristling with
teeth and jags like the many-bladed knife of the cutler’s shop.[37]
Returning to our horses, we descended one of those staircases of earth and
stone now so familiar, and fell into the valley of a northern Laxá, called for
distinction, “of Reynivellir” (the sorb-apple plains). The surface, so fair to sight,
is swampy, despite its main-drain, and must be traversed by earthen dykes. The
lower part is protected to the north by the Reynivallaháls (neck of Reynivellir),
and to the south by the Miðfell (mid-mount) and other outliers of the Esja. Here
many houses are scattered about; we recognise the sweet scent of hay; and the
dock-fringed plots of potatoes and cabbages look exceptionally flourishing. In
winter all freezes, but as the grass never protrudes from the ice, however
shallow, the neighbouring farmers visit one another on skates, which are those of
Europe generally.
At eleven P.M. we reached the parsonage, which showed three gables pointing
southwards, and a fourth to the east. A cart and a wheel-jack gave signs that
improvements were not unknown. The hour was unusual for calling, but Iceland
knows nothing of these fine distinctions: the house dogs bayed the alarm; the
host awoke the household; and, before turning in, we supped comfortably at the
parsonage.
On the next day Síra Thorvaldr could not accompany us, having service to
read. The only son of a widow, he entered the Church at her desire, but his heart
is book-hunting at Copenhagen, and, as his Sanskrit volumes show, his delight
would be Orientalism. But what can be done so far from the haunts of learning?
and at thirty-four he sees life gradually slipping away from him. Meanwhile he
takes pupils, he farms, he flirts with botany, and he refreshes himself by an
occasional visit to Reykjavik. He kindly gave me a copy of the
Reykholtskirkjumáldagi, the Authentic Inventory of Reykholt Kirk, facsimile’d
by the Icelandic Literary Society:[38] the three specimens bear no date, but the
Sagas fix the time between A.D. 1143 and A.D. 1222.
 About ten A.M. we were en route and, worried by swarms of flies, in forty
minutes we walked up the great ugly prism, Reynivallaháls, whose winding way
was hardly visible from below. The summit is dotted with Vörður, to guide
travellers and church-goers through the snow. The descent turned eastward, and
showed us in front the familiar forms of the horned and snow-streaked “Súlur,”
the massive umbo of Skjaldbreið, and the white dome of the Ok Jökull: to the
left (north) was Skarðsheiði, veiled in clouds. The lower gullies, where the
heavy cold air settles, condense their columns of warmer air into clouds, which
simulate water-spouts: at times these vapours, wonderfully resembling smoke-
pillars, have been mistaken for a rain of erupted ashes. At our feet lay the head
of the Hvalfjörð, looking unusually picturesque in the still, blue air. Great double
buttresses pushed peremptorily from behind. The Múlafjall (mull-hills)[39] and
Síldarmannafjall (sillock-fisher or herring-catcher’s hill) are separated from
Reynivallaháls and from each other by Botnsdalr (bottom-head dale), and by two
green vales, Brynjudalr, where the brindled cow was once lost. The river-like
surface of the firth was exceptionally tranquil, and a dwarf islet, shaped like a
Strasburg
THE “REYKHOLTSKIRKJUMÁLDAGI”,
(INVENTORY OF REYKHOLT KIRK) AND TWO OTHER DOCUMENTS
DATE BETWEEN A.D. 1143 AND A.D. 1222.

[Image unavailable.]

pie, rose from its own reflection. There were other islets, and boats, and eider-
ducks temporarily separated a mensâ et thoro, screaming “crees,” peewits,
plovers, and the usual accidents of a firth-view in Iceland.
At the foot of the descent we struck the Fossá farm, and rode along the
northern counterslope of the Reynivallaháls. The path ran over swamp and rock;
it was the malus passus of the whole line, but by no means dangerous as
described by Geir Zoega. Fortunately the tide was out, and we easily forded the
mouths of the Brynjudalr and Botnsdalr; on our return we exchanged the bad
line for two long detours rounding the forked head of the firth. We then ascended
to a farm situated under the Thyrill, or egg-kipper, the stick for whipping eggs,
milk, or porridge. This remarkable feature forms the westernmost head of the
Síldarmannafjall, and resembles nothing so much as two towers flanking the
gateway of a giant’s castle, built after the fashion of Normandy; the
superstructure is basalt, and time seems to have tilted it a little awry, as if the
proprietor had long been an absentee. This Thyrill takes its name from the
mountain gusts which hurl men from their horses, threaten caravans with
destruction by frightful whirlwinds, and raise sheets of sea-water high in the air,
tearing them to pieces like snow. To look at the peaceful innocent scene we
could hardly imagine that it ever lets angry passions rise, or that it had been led
to the excesses and atrocities described by Ólafsson and Von Waltershausen.[40]
The farm-people leaned against the walls, sunning themselves like Slavs
under similar circumstances; there was no want of church-goers riding to and
fro, and generally the travellers were more civil than upon the beaten paths.
Iceland mostly reverses the rule of the world, the country folk being less amiable
to the stranger than the town folk. From the Thyrill to the Ferstikla farm, a
distance of an hour and a half, there are two paths. The short cut lies along the
shore of heavy dark sand and rocky points of black basalt studded with white
shells; the porous material is in parts full of almonds of lime, hence the white
coating which we here observe, as in the Wadys of the Haurán. The inner line is
the usual mixture of warty surface, swamp, stone, and shaking bog. At Ferstikla,
where a path strikes north for Reykholt, we found some grass and rested the
ponies.
A couple of hours finished the ride. We turned left, over a shallow divide, the
Ferstikluháls, whose northern counterslope is wooded with birches fully two feet
tall, yet hardly equal to the task of pulling us from our saddles. We then fell into
another Svínadalr (swine-dale), with three lakes disposed north-east to south-
west, along the southern base of Skarðsheiði, and drained by another Laxá.
There was no lack of farm-houses, a sight which cheered the nags whilst
floundering through the deep mud-bog. A guide whom we had engaged pro tem.,
pointed to the cone of the Blákoll, a comparatively low formation to the right;
but the vaunted mountain with its stepped bluffs is everywhere easy, and
“climbing for climb” always suggests to me the African’s “drinkee for drunk.”
After a pleasant but very slow ride of seven hours, we made, at 7.30 P.M., the
Skarð farmlet. After the muggy morning with a “rain-sun,” followed by a chilly
evening which threatened a down-pour, we were not sorry to be lodged in the
cow-house of a “Sel”[41] and to sleep upon sweet-smelling hay, far preferable to
the animal heat of the foul cubicula.
This day we have passed over the Iceland terminus proposed by the Danish
telegraph line. Despite the fearful whirlwinds, described as capable of breaking
“tegulas imbricesque,” and the rocky bottom of the Whale Firth, it is perhaps the
best; it is absolutely free from icebergs (Fjall jakar), floes, and field-ice (Hellu-
ís): Arctic ice appears in the Faxa Fjörð and about Reykjavik only about once a
century, the last time being 1763. Here the bay-ice is reduced to a little brash-ice
and shore-ice, which are of scanty importance. It is a lee-land defended by the
south-western projection and by the north-western digitations from the berg-
bearing currents; and the bottom, until the Hvalfjörð is reached, appears to be
sand and mud. As Forbes remarks, there is no “eligible spot” for a station
between Portland (Dyrhólaey) and Reykjanes; whilst the submarine volcanic line
of rocks, the passage of steamers, and the shallows of Reykjavik, render that port
impossible. The Vestmannaeyjar again are too far from the capital, and the east
coast is simply not to be thought of.
The project is part of the “north-about line” of Atlantic telegraph, as opposed
to the “south-about,” viâ the Cap de Verds, St Paul’s Rock, and Brazilian Cape
St Roque. Many of us remember hearing it ably advocated some dozen years ago
by Colonel T. P. Shaffner of Louisville,[42] Kentucky, who took it up in 1853;
travelled to Labrador, Greenland, and Iceland; advertised, expended time and
capital, canvassed, obtained concessions from Denmark, Sweden, and Norway,
and published and lectured before the Royal Geographical Society, in order to
raise a fund of £400,000. The time was propitious. The first attempt of 1857-58
had broken down after sending some 400 messages: in 1860 the longest sub-
aqueous circuit was 750 miles. No. 2 cable (1863), carried by the “Great
Eastern,” had also failed; and Mr Faraday objected his “retardation” and “return
currents,” even to an air-line of a thousand miles. The bankruptcy of
Transatlantic telegraphy was therefore confidently predicted; nor was it believed
that any section of 2000 miles could possibly be made to last. Presently, by way
of a practical jest upon scientific hobbies and croakings, the third cable (1866)
succeeded: then came the Valentia-Newfoundland in the same year; and lastly, in
1868, the Brest and New York, or French line. Now (1872) a fourth is talked of,
and the next half-a-dozen years may see another half-dozen.
Colonel Shaffner, who is well remembered in eastern Iceland, proposed to
cross the Atlantic by four stations, none exceeding 700 miles—namely, Scotland
to Færoes (225-250), to Iceland (240), to Greenland (600-700), and to the coast
of Labrador (510); a maximum total of 1700, afterwards reduced to 1645 miles.
The project, however, contained two elements of unsuccess. Firstly, it proposed
an air-line from Djúpivogr (east coast) to the capital: I do not know what my
friend Dr Rae, who was sent to inspect the route, reported; but the universal
opinion of Icelanders is that no telegraphic communication of the kind could
resist a single winter-storm, not to speak of earthquakes and eruptions. “How
repair the damage?” they ask: “how even carry the posts?” The second objection,
the state of the ice about the Greenland coast, was perhaps even more fatal. Thus
the scheme gradually fell into oblivion, not, however, before it had done right
good service in exploring Newfoundland—a very paradise for anglers, where
trout weigh 6 lbs. and where salmon sells at 4 cents. The persevering Danes still
cleave to a connection with Iceland, and that is why we saw the gun-boat “Fylla”
on her surveying cruise.
On the next morning, as the peasantry rose at three A.M. to ted their hay, we
began preparations for ascending Skarðsheiði (scarf-gap-heath) by observing the
aneroids.[43] Rain evidently threatened, as at A.M. 7.15 we attacked the slope of
débris, green only where two trickling streamlets played hide-and-seek under
moss and stones. After an hour’s walk we reached the first ridge, and found in
front of us a broken plateau about 2000 feet high, with five lakes and ponds
distributed at different altitudes: the waters are all sweet, percolation taking the
place of drainage. On our right rose a tall precipitous wall of receding steps,
which at a distance resemble string courses and stories. The precipice is streaked
with couloirs, very well disposed for falls and cannonades of rocks: high up
there are two broad Palagonite bands in the trap, which may sometimes be seen
from Reykjavik. Our guide the farmer did the honours of the echo.
We now circled to the north, winding round the grim wall, up and down ridge
after ridge of moraine-like débris, and over moss-clad boulders, among which
we occasionally sank up to the knees. Here the most conspicuous growths were
reindeer moss and Fjall-grös (“mountain grass”), the Lichen Islandicus, of which
Felligrath sings:
“Old, even in boyhood, faint and ill,
And sleepless on my couch of woe
I sip this beverage, which I owe
To Guper’s death and Hecla’s hill.”

In Iceland I never heard—as old travellers relate—of its being dried, put in bags,
beaten, and worked into flour by stamping. Usually it is boiled, and eaten with
barley like burghoo, or it is infused in milk, as cacao and maté sometimes are: it
gives a light tinge of green, and a very pronounced mucilaginous flavour. The
simple old days used it as coffee, but it could not stand its ground against the
intruder which arrests the waste of tissue, as well as warms the blood. “Iceland
grass,” however, is still valued at home as a jelly for poitrinaires; and the last
time I saw it was on the Campo-grosso or Dolomite mountains of Italian
Recoaro (Vicenza).
After a second hour we reached the north of the bluff. On our left hand was a
red and cindery mound, the Stellir,[44] justly famed as a landmark for sailors:
ahead, and to east, rose the detached Skessuhorn, which seemed to present no
difficulties: it was not till our return that we heard it described as a local
Matterhorn, often attacked, but attacked in vain, and still awaiting its vanquisher.
Turning to the right, we worked up the quoin by a passage between stone walls
of Nature’s make, and in another half-hour we climbed up the stiff slope of
decayed trap. Our guide required some little management: he pointed in alarm to
the mists rolling up from the north, with a cruel rush of cold air, and though the
line was marked with stone-men, he ejaculated “Thoka!” (fog). “Lost in the
mists” is often a conclusion to a “tale of Iceland’s Isle.”
The summit of Skarðsheiði, about 3000 feet above sea-level, resembled that
of the Esja, and afforded a view quite as extensive, though not now so novel. To
the north, under our feet, ran the winding Hvitá and its outlying waters, draining
to the Borgarfjörð, here a grisly “spiegel,” dotted with black reefs. North-
eastwards lay the bare sulphurous grounds of Reykholt (reeky hill), while far to
the north-west, bounding the north of the Faxa Fjörð, the knuckles of Snæfell
and the caldrons popularly known as Katlar, the kettles, formed the land horizon.
Southward the view ranged clean over Reykjavik, and showed the easiest route
to Skarðsheiði: this would be by boat to Saurbær, north-east of Akrafjall, whence
a walk of five miles places the traveller at the Skarð farm.
The ascent and descent had occupied four hours: we then mounted our
horses, and returned before night to Reynivellir.
A delightful morning (July 23), when the air was so fine, so clear, so bright
that
“It seemed a sin to breathe it,”

a morning when one really would have been sorry to die, sent us to bathe at the
Reynivellir brook, regardless of slugs and snails, moths and flies. The Reverend
left, after a copious breakfast of mashed salmon, with a promise to meet us on
the road. He had just lost a parishioner. Since July 11th there has not been a
shower, and the sky was that of Italy for a whole fortnight. This abnormally fine
weather is equally fatal to the very young and the very old: seven or eight deaths
had just taken place at Reykjavik, a large proportion out of an annual average of
sixty; and three successive days saw three funerals: the causes are “pituita,”
malignant catarrh, and influenza.
We were threatened with a mal pas, and again found it remarkably good.
From Reynivellir the path ran down the Laxá valley; and where we crossed the
stream, it was clear as crystal, and abundant in trout. Here, again, turf has
invaded lands once forested; and now we look in vain for a specimen of the
sorb-tree, which named the parsonage. Chemin faisant, the Reverend lectured us
upon the botany of his native vale. The Dutch or white clover (Smári)[45]
flourishes: that red-headed cannibal the Lambagras, moss-campion or dwarf
catch-fly (Silene acaulis), which rises upwards of 11,000 feet on the Swiss Alps,
here prefers the drier soils. The lower lands are covered with the Gúnga-gras
(“bag grass,” Bursa pastoris), everywhere common, with the meadow-sweet
(Mjaðurt = οἰνομέλι, Spiræa ulmeria), which yields a yellow dye, and a grateful
perfume in hot weather. The pride of the plain is the thrift or sea-gilly-flower
(Statice armeria), with downy stalk and pale pink heads, which the people call
Geldingahnappar, “gelding,” that is to say, wether, “button.” The richer and
damper grounds are grown with the marsh marigold (Caltha palustris), the Solia
or Solveia of the Færoes, here called Lækja-sóley or hóf-sóley, from its hoof-
shaped leaf; cattle will not eat it, save as a pis-aller; the small green flower-buds
when pickled resemble capers, and the inflorescence lasts from early May to the
end of summer. It is a congener of the carnivorous Caltha dionæafolia. There is
an abundance of the Engja-rós, eyre or meadow rose (Epilobium augustifolium),
forming a pink carpet—there are many rosaceæ in Iceland, but roses are
deficient, as in the southern hemisphere, only one having been found;[46] and the
traveller must not expect to find the beautiful little “Ward” of the Libanus.
Another common growth is the leguminous Um-feðmingsgras, “holding grass,”
the tufted or creeping vetch (Vicia cracca), whose cirri fasten upon neighbours;
hence the Færoese call it Krogyogras, from Kroya, to cling. The solitary
Andromeda hypnoides, a small creeper, with heather-like white flowers, acts lily
of the valley. We are again reminded of Syria by the chamomile-like Baldursbrá
(Anthemis cotula), whose snowy petals suggest the White God,[47] Baldur the
Beautiful, and whose circular yellow centre assimilates it to the solar orb—it is
too bad to call it “stinking camomile.” The common sorrel (Rumex acetosa,
locally known as Valla, or Korn-súra) is a social plant that prefers the
neighbourhood of farms, and flourishes in newly-manured túns: the other species
are the kidney-shaped mountain sorrel (Oxyria reniformis) and the sheep’s sorrel
(R. acetosella). In the more southern islands, where the root gives a red dye, the
leaf is said to grow a foot and a half long; it is used to flavour bird soup, and is
eaten with meat. An anti-scorbutic, pleasant withal, it should here be used every
day, as tomatoes are in the southern United States; but if you advise the Icelander
to correct his blood with sorrel, he will probably reply that it is food for cows.
After an hour’s ride, including the inevitable short cut of wrong path and
turning back, we reached the Miðfell farm, which faces cosily west, and is
backed by its little range of trap so degraded that it seems to be forming humus.
Fronting it is the Miðfellsvatn lakelet, which drains the north-eastern Esja: it
swarms with the Sílungur trout, but there was no boat for the convenience of
fishermen. Whilst the Reverend went to his funeral, we sat upon the grassy
warts, and enjoyed the view of Snæfell, bluish-white in the flickering air. The
thermometer stood at 86° (F.) in the sun; and the ghost of a mist tempered, like
the glazing of a master-hand, the raw colours and rough forms of the scene. The
prospect suggested Tempe, not the grisly defile of reality, but the picture painted
by poets—Greek Greece and Syrian Syria contrast wonderfully with the features
which naturally form themselves in the northern mind. We argued that a couple
of pleasant summer months might be spent at Miðfell, but that such æstivation
would involve building a fishing-box and stocking it with friends.
Not the least picturesque part of the prospect was the cavalcade of some
thirty men and women returning in Indian file from the funeral. At last, wearied
with waiting, we rode up the ugly rough ravine of Eilifsdalr, and turned to the
right between the Esja and its northern outlier, Eyrarfjall. The latter showed sub-
columnar and fan-shaped basalt in the foundations, with Palagonite, here yellow,
there dark, overlying and underlying trap, whilst striated rocks everywhere
appeared. On the left hand, or under Esja, were mounds mightily resembling
moraine:[48] they were probably formed by the streams of frozen mud which
carried with them boulder fragments, and either strewed them upon the plain or
swept them out to sea. The most conspicuous of the natural tumuli, and crowned
with a stone, is called, ‘Róstuhóll,[49] “battle holt,” or, as Hooker has it, “duel
hill:” here Búi Andriðsson, for whom see the Kjalnesinga Saga, kept his foes at
bay, and slew half-a-dozen with a sling.
We then forded the streams, and crossed the nasty swamps and the stony
patches of the brook which flows to the Hvalfjörð. Farms were scattered
everywhere about the sheltered valley. After two hours and a half of slow
progress, we were joined by the Reverend, who, gallantly mounted, rode straight
as a fox-hunting parson of the last generation, and we soon reached the ladder of
red and green lavas which overlooks the firth. The immediate banks show the
feature locally called Melarbakki,[50] horizontal lines bare of earth, regular as if
heaped up by man, and generally with inclines too stiff to retain vegetation. We
shall see the feature well displayed at Borðeyri and Grafarós. In Canada, and
New England also, where the snow covering, which prevents radiation of heat, is
blown away by winds, and the ground is frozen for a depth of two feet or more,
the surface remains brown and barren throughout spring and summer.
Here we dismounted to collect the “Yaspis,” for which the place is famous,
and which we had found scattered over the Esja range. The colours are bright
red, blue, and blue-green, often prettily striped and branched; the sharp edges cut
like obsidian, and the whole appears as impure opaque masses of quartz.
According to Dr Hjaltalín, it remarkably resembles that of Hungary, and the dark
spots upon the surface are oxide of copper, copper glance, or argentiferous
copper. Zeolites were abundant, so were almonds of lime in basalt; chalcedonies,
milk-white, red, yellow, green, and dark-brown, passing into cachalong and
grades of chalcedony and quartz, “cloisonnés” with crystals of carbonate of lime,
and superficially clad with capillary mesotype. We often heard in Iceland of the
noble opal, which might be expected in a volcanic land—as at Aden, there are
whole sheets of it, but none is noble. The Færoese consider it to be a transition
between zeolite and chalcedony: I was told of fine specimens found there, but
failed to see them.[51]
We then trotted merrily past Saurbær (sour mud or dirt-farm; perhaps farm of
Saur), and were shown the Tíða Skarð (tide or hour col), so called because the
congregation riding to mass could be seen when an hour distant. The path along
the shore was tolerable, and we had to dismount only at a single swamp. After a
total of four hours’ slow progress from Miðfell, we reached the main object of
our journey, the celebrated Hof of Kjalarnes (Keel-ness), in the Kjósar or
“choice” Sýsla. It was the great place of assembly in the south-west, and the
chief of the twelve provincial “Things” before A.D. 928, when the Althing was
removed to the confiscated estate of Thingvellir. We expected interesting ruins
after reading of “Kialarness, remarkable for the remains of a Hof or idolatrous
temple erected towards the close of the ninth century” (Henderson, ii. 3). The
Crymogæa of “Arngrim Jonas” speaks with admiration of two Hofs in the north
and south of the island. Each had an inner sacellum, or holy of holies, where the
victims were ranged in semicircle about the idol-altar (Stalli): the latter was
plated with iron, for protection against the pure, flint-kindled fire, which, as in a
Parsee temple, perpetually burned there: it supported a brass bowl (blót bolli) to
contain the blood, sprinkled with the blood-twig (blót grein) or asperges upon
the bystanders. There hung up, likewise, a great silver ring, which they stained
with blood, and which whoever took an oath on these occasions was required to
hold in his hand. The “Baugr,” we are told, weighed two ounces, and was at
times worn by the priest: it possibly symbolised Odin’s magic “Draupnir,” made
by Brokkur, most skilful of the dwarfs. Till late years a specimen was to be seen
at the Reykjahlíð churchlet. The “oath on the ring” was taken by dipping it in
blood, often human, and by saying, after the solemn adjuration of heathen old
Scandinavia, “So help me Freyr and Njördr, and that almighty Áss!” (ok hinn
almáttki Áss, i.e., Thor);[52] and Norsemen of rank were buried with the Armilla
sacred to Odin. “In one of these temples there was also, near the chapel, a deep
pit or well into which they cast the victims.”
 Mallet, and other trustworthy authors of his day, assimilated the ancient
Scandinavian places of worship to those of the Persian Guebres and the old
Teutons, who would not offend the gods by immuring them, or by roofing them
in, which is not correct. The Hof was an enclosed building, whilst the Hörg, in
whose centre stood the huge sacrificial stone, was open above. The Scandinavian
temple, even that gold-plated wonder of the North, the fane of Thor at old
Upsala, was nothing but a long wooden hall to contain the worshippers, with a
sanctuary at one end, the true Aryan Estika,[53] where the “Blót,”[54] or pagan
sacrifice, was performed by the priest or pontiff (hof-goði). The same was the
case with the Kjalarnes temple, a rough timber building, burnt by Búi
Andriðsson, the slinger.
The situation is right well chosen for effect. This Hof stood at the base of a
stony land-tongue separated by swampy ground from the iron shore, lined and
faced with diabolitos, or cruel little black rocks. Opposite sleeps the tranquil bay
of Reykjavik, backed by its picturesque blue hills—a veritable Sierra, the
backbone of this part of Iceland, all cones and pyramids, notches and saw-like
teeth, resembling the sky-lines of El Safá. To the right is a rough rise of lava
pushing out jagged points, and to the left towers the Esja pile, with its network
of dykes and slides, an extinct Vesuvius faced by white cliffs. Farms and hay-
fields are scattered about, probably occupying the same positions which looked
upon the ancient heathen gods, with whose departure prosperity left the land.
There is not a trace of the building, but the pasty-faced peasants showed us,
below the rise, a bit of deep swamp covered with marsh-marigold, and this they
called the Blót-Kelda, or victim well—possibly where men and beasts were
sacrificially drowned.
After inspecting this humble marvel, we shook hands with the Reverend, and
took boat for Reykjavik, where we arrived at 9.30 P.M.
I afterwards was shown the traditional site of the Thór Hof near Stykkishólm;
and the utter absence of sign made me neglect to visit that of Vopnafjörð, whose
door was translated to the church, the Hörg, at Krosshólar; and the fane of
Goðaborg, with its sacrificial stone where “David of the wilderness” dwelt. In
1770, Uno Von Troil (Letter XVI.) offered a tempting list of northern antiquities,
some of them possibly pre-historic or proto-historic.[55] But except in cairns,
tumuli, and the kitchen-middens mentioned in various places, especially that
near Snorri’s bath at Reykholt, I should expect little yield even from the spade.
The older Edda (Sigrdrífumál, st. 34) speaks of cairns—
 “Let a mound be raised
For those departed;”

and we shall pass not a few during our journeys. It would be interesting to know
if any of them have the long adit, the vestibule, and the separate chambers for
the dead, which are characteristic of the Mongolian tomb-temples, and of which
a splendid specimen is found at Maes Howe.
 CHAPTER X.

NORTHWARDS HO! TO STYKKISHÓLM AND GRAFARÓS.

PART I.—STYKKISHÓLM.
WE are very anxious to leave this
“Tivoli del mal conforte,”

where,
“O piove, o tira vento, o suona a morte.”

The “Jón Sigurðsson,” Captain Müller, ran into Reykjavik on June 26, and
next day we set out to prospect Hafnafjörð, the Haven Firth, distant two bays
south of the capital. Threading the now familiar islets, we doubled the beaconed
point of Suðrnes, and passed Bessastaðir, Besse or Bear-stead, a place not
undistinguished in island story. It was built by the turbulent and traitorous
“Herodotus of the North,” Snorrí Sturluson, grandson of Sæmund the Wise, born
at Hvamm, in A.D. 1178, and author of the “prose Edda;” he died “in his
shoes”—murdered as was the custom of the day. Long years afterwards the place
of “Meister Petz”[56] became the Latin School, and now it belongs to a congenial
soul, Hr Grímr Thomsen. Followed Garðar, also on the Alpta-nes (swan-ness)
peninsula, where a fringe of farms

[Image unavailable.]
R. F. B. delt.
SNÆFELLSJÖKULL FROM THE NORTH.

and houses, each with seven gables or more, ranged in line, not massed together,
fronts the faint-green land, and prospects the glaucous northern seas. After a
couple of hours, which covered two Danish miles, we steamed down a deep and
sheltered sinus, facing the north-west, with double entrance: here a red buoy
made us independent of pilot; the tides inflow by the south and race round and
out to the north.
The scenery of Hafnafjörð, which Scotchmen compare with that of
Scalloway, is peculiar and somewhat grotesque. Like all the south-western parts
of Thule, the formation is a hopeless lava-field, bristling with shrublets and
patched with green: the outline of frontage consists of points divided by bays of
dark-grey sand, and the habitations are perched between the knobs and turrets of
the several Hrauns, old and new. The land is comparatively level, backed by a
veritable Sierra—the dorsal spine of this part of Iceland—jagged, notched, and
vertebral, extending from north-east to south-west. Four brigantines and a lugger
were anchored in the clear water, off the five pierlets, the usual planks and
caissons, that denote the corresponding comptoirs, one patch of building to the
north, another to the south, and a third at the bottom of the bay, whilst an
extensive farm-house rose from a dorsum of green, the Hval-eyri or whale
strand.
Whilst the steamer discharged her salt and iron pans, we hailed an old, blunt-
snouted punt, and paid for the service two marks: the latter process evoked a
stare of surprise and a vigorous shake of the hand. I note this proceeding because
it is not unusual on the coast of Iceland; it certainly distinguishes the boatman
from his hateful brotherhood in more genial lands; especially on the “Hesperian
strand.” We landed at Flensburg, about the bottom of the bay, the establishment
of Hr Johnsen, and walked round to the buildings on the north. All are timber,
coloured grey or black, with white windows and slate roofs; each flies its flag,
Danish or Norwegian. The latter belongs to the Bergen Company, which has
lately taken the place of the Scotch house at Reykjavik, with branch agencies
here and at Stykkishólm and Seyðisfjörð. At a little bridged stream women and
boys were busy with the corpses of cods, cutting gills, tearing out gullets,
splitting bellies to their ventral fins, extracting livers and sounds, and tossing the
trimmed carcases into heaps—they were jolly as Italian peasants at the
Vendemmia. Some of the lads were fishing with sinkers of stone, floats of
driftwood, and bait of cod. Beyond the stream a new road to Reykjavik was
being made, by blasting the lava—as will be seen, it is much wanted. On the
north of the bay we inspected the remains of Hr Sivertsen’s dry dock, which
looks like a line of groins to keep the shore in situ. A couple of eaglets were
shown for sale; they had lately been taken from a crag in the lava-run to the
south-east: the chickens, hardly six weeks old, were about the size of Cochin
fowls; their skins showed bare through the growing plume of grey and dark-grey,
contrasting with the bright yellow cere, and they opened threatening gapes at the
stranger. The price had lately risen to £3, whilst ten shillings a head were asked
for the fierce little graveolent foxes.
As usual we had time for a walk inland to the Varða, or landmark, bearing
magnetic east of the ship, and distant about thirty minutes: I was anxious to see
the behaviour of the lava. Travellers in Iceland everywhere speak of vast
outpours which, instead of showing any decided point of origin, appear to have
sweated from the soil. They especially quote the lands about Mý-vatn and
Krafla, where the contrary is the case: the same has been observed in other
volcanic countries, e.g., by Mr Porter in Syria; by Messrs Tyrwhitt-Drake and
Palmer in Moab; and by those who have studied the Quito platform. Here,
however, we distinctly traced three craters, and it became evident that the mouth
which discharged the oldest torrents may have been obliterated by subsequent
eruptions. The principal lava-bed[57]
 [Image unavailable.]
From a Photo. M^c.Farlane & Erskine, Lithrs., Edin^r.
HAFNAFJÖRÐ, WHICH OUGHT TO BE THE CAPITAL OF ICELAND.
Vol. II, Page 88.

showed in section a shallow dome between two lateral fissures, where

contraction of the edges, and perhaps a less solid foundation, had caused the
sides of the stone-river to fall away and form dwarf “Gjás,” or longitudinal rifts
—we shall see the same action on a grander scale at Almannagjá. The dorsum
was broken by sharp edges, the tall crests of split and splintered blisters, the
bubbles of the earth where lava overflowed wet ground; coils like tobacco-rolls
and ropy corrugations, ripple-marks and plications, showed where the hardening
clinkers had been compacted together, and everywhere yawned tunnels and
caverns. Yet the field was crossed by a horse-path.
The normal high shingle-bank of the shore formed an inland bog, and the
result was a subtending lagoon, as usual without outlet. Farmlets were scattered
about, all apparently on made ground. There was a tolerable turbary haunted by
whimbrels and loud-voiced terns; the lava-fields belonged to the Snjotit-lingue,
snow-flake or snow-tit (Emberiza or Plectophranes nivalis); to the Stein-depill
or wheat-ear (Motacilla ænanthe); and to the Máriátla or Mary-bird, the white
wag-tail (Motacilla alba). The three latter were exceptionally tame, and like
Joâo de Barros in the Brazil, amused themselves by flirting with the unfeathered
biped.
I have described Hafnafjörð at a greater length than it perhaps deserves. Here
not a few travellers have declared that the capital of Iceland should be, and
undoubtedly it will become the sole place of export for the Krísuvík sulphur-
fields. The harbour is exceptionally safe, sheltered from all winds: the climate is
better than that of Reykjavik; and the sky is often clear when heavy clouds invest
the northern heavens. But unless ground is made, there is little or no building
room. On the other hand, for an exporting port, Hafnafjörð is perfect. In the early
sixteenth century the British corsairs, numbering some 360 souls, had formed a
regular colony at Haven Firth—let us hope that the complaints of Christian II.
will not call for renewal, when the English miner shall spread himself over the
land.
As the sun fell towards the horizon the air became cool; the thermometer on
deck showed 58° (F.), and the day gradually assumed a worn and faded look, like
a maiden when the sun breaks upon a ball. Before midnight we were once more
at Reykjavik, to start north on the next morning.
 The “Jón Sigurðsson” (det Islandske Handelssamlag’s Dampskib) belongs to
a Norwegian company, who bought her at the high price of $60,000. An iron
hull, her draught is 9 feet, her tonnage 460, and her horse-power 80, which can
be raised to upwards of 100: she must burn 12 tons of coal during the twenty-
four hours to average less than 8 knots, and this combined with cheap passages
prevents her paying.[58] Her good point is the possession of two donkey-engines,
the simple Cornish, with 6-inch stroke, which do all the work. Her
accommodations are not complete; we occupy the seven sofas in the aft saloon,
and of the four cabins three are taken by the officers, including the agent. Broad,
tubby, and high out of the water, she catches the wind with her “gawky”
telescope funnel, a survival from the days of Watt; she has little sailing power,
and she is hardly safe off a lee-shore; in August she was beaten back when
attempting to make the Færoes.
The want of punctuality again is a serious disadvantage to “Jón.” The
departure will be fixed for any hour between six A.M. and two P.M.; you will be
hastily summoned on board at nine A.M., and yet not start till noon. There are
stated hours of feeding, but they are not regular enough for passenger ships; and
provisions, as well as liquor, often run short, because the “restauration” is not
obligatory. The delays are ever recurring; covered lighters being unknown, and
rye, with other perishable goods, cannot be landed during rain. Again “Jón” is
over-officered. Besides captain and two lieutenants, we carry double engineers
who speak English; an agent and commissaire; steward, stewardess, and assistant
steward. The commander, A. W. Müller, is a young lieutenant of the Norwegian
navy, which wisely allows its unemployed officers to take charge of postal and
passenger steamers. We find the advantage of this arrangement in every part of
the establishment. The brasses are bright; the decks are washed; the “squeejee”
is used; the offices are clean, and even the spittoons are garnished with fresh
heather; whilst the natty little steward and the white-clad cook are pleasing
contrasts with the state of affairs on board English craft of the same kind. And
we were all charmed with Captain Müller, whose bonhomie and obliging
disposition made every passenger right sorry to part with him.

June 28.
Steamed out at seven A.M. under Italian skies, and over seas smooth as
mirrors, which promised ample enjoyment of this day’s “lion,” Snæfellsjökull,
capping the northern land-arm of broad Faxa Fjörð. As we crossed the
Hvalfjörð-mouth, the lay of the land suggested a mighty leaf; the water-line
being the midrib, with Esja and Akranes representing the up-turned sides. On the
south-western slopes of Skarðsheiði, we were shown the streamlet and farm of
Leirá, “Rivière de la Vase,” which once owned the printing-press; and beyond
the broad Borgarfjörð (burg firth)[59] lay the low alluvial flat Mýra Sýsla. The
unromantic name, “mire county,” becomes ridiculous when Mýra-maður (mud-
man) is applied to the dweller: the comical wrath which it excites reminded me
of Varnhagen’s indignation about the Corcovado or Hunch-back mountain of Rio
de Janeiro. Far over the fen-tract, streaked by its three main streams, appeared a
suggestive prospect: the long perspective of Jökulls; Ok (the yoke), Geitland’s
and the northern Skjaldbreið, not to be confounded with the “Broad Shield” on
the road to Hekla: this chaos of ice-deserts and volcanoes was ranged in long
dorsa, dish-covers, or antediluvian Twelfth-cakes, flattened at the summit,
backed by pearly mists of their own growing, with crests rose-tinged by the sun,
and feet streaked with transparent blue shadows. In vain we strained our eyes to
catch a sight of Baula, the cow, pronounced somewhat like (the land of)
“Beulah;” its pale-grey trachytic columns, though 3000 to 3500 feet high, were
hidden by intervening buttresses: even Eld-borg, the “Tower of Fire,” though
quite near the coast, refused to show its grand circular crater and flanks too steep
for snow. Here begins the northern Skarðsheiði, which, passing through the
Hnappadals (button-dale) Sýsla, anastomoses with the broken cones called
Katlar (the caldrons), and with the great Snæfellsjökull, the Snebels Hokell of
Pontanus, and the “Western Jökull” of our maps. The long thin tongue of land,
mostly trachytic, has been mightily exercised by the fire below. Here, upon a
naked Tenerife, rises a tall grey cone, fronted by a little extinct volcano, flushing
angry red; there a wall of brown lava is built upon a base of ruddy cinders and
scoriæ, which have assumed the natural angle. It is a land of chimneys and
spiracles rising from cinders and other rejectamenta; of Öl-keldr or “ale”
(mineral) “waters;” of cascades, silver fibres dashing into kieves of snow; of
jagged sugar-loaves and saddle-backs; of craters either whole or half torn away;
and of Klettar or precipices stripped of the snows which encompass them.
Our attention was directed to the Búða-klettar, or cliffs of Buðir, the
celebrated centre of eruption which sent forth the Búðarhraun; and at their base,
ending the Jökullháls, the long ochraceous slope that falls from the eastern ridge-
flank of Snæfell to the settlement of Búðir (the booths), far-famed for chalybeate
springs. Huts for invalids have been run up at this well-known “Kur-ort,” but the
accommodation is described as rough in the extreme. A little westward again,
showing its basaltic pillars, lies “Stapi,” the steeple-formed rock, a local Staffa,
suggesting memories of Fin M’Coul.
 All eyes now fix themselves upon Snæfellsjökull: as the break of the sea
upon the shore told us, it rises within three miles, and the accidents of weather,
though apparently determined to conceal the calotte of snow, combine to form an
admir-

[Image unavailable.]
R. F. B. delt.
SNÆFELLSJÖKULL FROM THE SOUTH.

able setting for the imposing scene. The clearness of the heavens had gradually
changed to light mists, which hung mid-way upon the hill-sides: whilst
“mackerel’s-back” flecks the upper air, woolpack, growing from the snow
wreaths, forms dark-grey columns, perfectly simulating a burning coast, and
puffy white cumuli cast a shadow distinct as if drawn by a painter’s hand. About
one P.M. the northern breeze becomes a south-easter, bringing with it a decided
freshness and a few drops of rain. The brown and dun coloured cirri, before
floating high above the wool-pack, now girth its middle, and there is a grand
contrast between the here and the there. Around us a few cats’-paws fan the
waters, which, under the lee of the land, stretch smooth as oil, and the air is mild
and kindly. In the upper regions rages and roars “Satan’s weather;” the cloud
chariots rush forward in solid line against the wind, dashing and clashing as they
course and career over the battlefield of virgin snow; they are torn to pieces by
the artillery of the Storm-Fiend; the troops whirl away in headlong flight, veiling
now one cusp of the crater, then another. The westerly peak is connected by a
deeply-gashed synclinal slope, a kind of broken saddle-back, with the eastern
horn, or rather horns, which appear in the shape of a “Thríhyrningr,” while
below them, on the oriental outline, a star of jetty basalt shines radiant in the
dazzling white. Below the western peak also the binoculars show a broken
quoin, a long, black dyke, and a multitude of dark dots protruding from the névé,
as if men were ascending. The apex has never been reached, and we at once see
the reason why: it is—
“Like a jagged shell’s lips, harsh, untunable;
Blown in upon by devils’ wrangling breath.”

M. Gaimard declares the eastern pinnacle to be “frisée comme des têtes de

choux-fleurs:” it appeared to me umbrella-shaped, with under ribbings of frozen
snow. M. Jules Verne was not so happy as usual in making “Sneffles” an
entrance for Arne “Saknussemm;” nor could we learn anything about
“Scortaris.”
 The southern front below the névé is a steep incline of contorted lava; and a
multitude of “hornitos” and parasitic craters, apparently fallen in or choked up,
run down almost to the water’s edge, where they form a wall of contorted and
caverned layers. Above the cliff a gentler slope has a faint tinge of rainbow-
green; and the steeper acclivities are bare, red and yellow, brown and black. As
we hugged the shore, I carefully looked for the snow-drainage, and saw none:
had there been any, the sea-scaur must have shown it. Henderson rightly reports
the general belief that the water set free by the sun passes by underground
tunnels to the sea; and, all along this peninsula, the people hold to subterranean
connections. But the explanation somewhat savours of the Congo Yellala
(rapids), where the mighty mass of the upper stream, “above the ghauts,” is
supposed to pass through an invisible channel. Herðubreið afterwards taught me
that Palagonite allows no surface drainage in the dry season; and this I hold to be
the true explanation of a remarkable phenomenon often seen in Iceland.
So striking a feature as Snæfell, whose shadow may be traced in the air, could
not fail to engender a variety of tales and legends. Some declare, with the old
Sagas, that it is within sight of Hvítserk in Eastern Greenland. Certes its height
(4577 Danish feet) is very far from affording a vision ranging over 200 direct
geographical miles; but here we are little more than a degree from the Arctic
circle, and it is hard to limit the magic powers of refraction.[60] When the bishop
declared that it was unassailable by reason of “Dominus Bardus Snæfellsás,
cujus sine auspiciis mons Snæfell vix, ac ne vix quidem, superari potest,” he
alluded to a superstition still preserved. In Hitárdalr,[61] farther east, is shown a
huge feminine face carved in stone, and said to represent Hít, the Ás or guardian
goddess of the dale: a “Plutonic affection” exists between her and Bárð or
Snæfell’s Ás, whom Mackenzie calls a tutelar saint, and whom Charles Forbes
uncivilly converts from Dominus to demon. He represents right well the Spirit of
the Glacier. Curious to say, the same tale concerning the “Loves of the
Mountains” is told in far New Zealand, where Messrs Tongariro and Taranaki
(Mount Egmont) are jealous as they are amorous of Mrs or Miss Taupo.
The earliest climbers seem to have attempted the ascent from the east and
south-east, where the snow-line extends much lower. Such were Eggert Ólafsson
(1755); Mr, afterwards Sir, John Stanley (1789); and the three Britishers who
“wrote their mistresses’ names in the snow—the emblem of their purity.” Sir
George Mackenzie (1810) remained below, and Drs Bright and Holland went
stoutly up: the latter tells us (p. 55, Recollections of a Fast Life) that a snow
bridge gave way during the descent, and one leg sank through the arch: he was
saved by the poles of the two Iceland guides, but ever after he sought to shun the
remembrance. They were followed by Henderson (1814), by Gaimard (1835),
and by Forbes (1859).
Of course, none reached the very summit. The Frenchman sensibly attempted
it from the north, and found the slope easy: we shall presently see his line of
march. Remains only to try the west where the snow lies much higher up, and
where the angle does not apparently exceed 25°: here also the distance to the
cusps or peaks is notably shorter. The Beruvík farm appears to be a good
starting-place. But Alpines who love “climbing for climb” must remember that
without ropes and ladders, perhaps kites also, and very likely with them, it will
be impossible to do more than has been done by their predecessors.
The accidents of the shore-line preserve their interest: the lone rock Göltr (the
deer)[62] and the twin Lón-drángar (sea-inlet drongs), donjons of lava 240 feet
tall, the north-western appearing as if standing inland, where a red rock acts
castle. Beyond it, amongst the conical and degraded craters, we remark the
Tröllakyrkja, Kirk of the Trolls, or Giants, who here have a diocesan as well as a
governor. They have been busy on and off this coast, as shown by the Trölla-
botn, Giant Bay, the Polar Sea between Norway and Greenland; the Trölla-börn
(chimneys), or volcanic “hornitos;” the Trölla-hlað, the Giant’s Causeway, or
colonnade of basalt; and the Trölla-dyngjur, or Giantesses’ bowers, the
mamelons near Reykjanes, which erupted in A.D. 1000. And that the dwarfs have
not been idle we see by the Dverga Kamarr, their hollowed chambers in the
basalt. We run by Dritvík (guano bay), along the caverned cliff, built in various
layers, here frosted like silver, there dotted with white points, which prove to be
birds. At Öndverðarnes (fronting naze), after an hour of thorough enjoyment,
thanks to Dominus Barðr, we turn the corner, the north-westernmost projection
of Snæfellsjökull, which the pilot calls Svarta-lot, from the steps protruded by
the swart sea-wall; we open the Breiði Fjörð, and again we find waters smooth
as a silver plate.
Not that Broad Firth is always so well behaved: at times he rages with frantic
violence, mixing sea and sky till the general view is like a well-shaken basin of
soup, and confusing all the elements in a chaotic matter, which justifies the
much-maligned Pytheas. Many have been drowned when crossing the dangerous
sea, amongst them Ólafsson, the Icelandic traveller, in 1767; shortly after he had
“addicted himself to the study of revealed religion.” During the winter of 1873-
74, it was completely invested by the Greenland ice; congelation extended as far
as the eye could reach from the highest hill-tops; and drifted bears were
slaughtered by the peasantry. There are traditions of skating across the broad
bay, of seals being killed, and of ships’ anchors being blown away by the furious
wind. At least, so says Mr Clausen, who has now taken us in charge. The
grandson of a Danish merchant mentioned by Henderson, he has married a wife
from Bonnie Dundee, and he has spent some four years at Melbourne, which
have opened his eyes to auriferous quartz-reefs, to large deposits of iron, and to
other minerals in his native island.
We delay for a while at the mouth of the big bay to swing the ship and prove
her compasses, a precaution never to be neglected. The “Jón” then runs at a
respectful distance along the northern shore of the Snæfellsjökull tongue, which
is not less interesting than its southern coast. Our cicerone points out Enni or
Ennisfjall, “forehead mountain,” la montagne de front,[63] where those who
would avoid a long detour inland must pass over an Úfæra or “don’t travel” path
—sands liable to frequent bombardments from the red bluff 2500 feet high.
Henderson tells the exaggerated tale of its horrors, quaintly wondering how they
were not felt by the young girls who rode with him. Mr Clausen then introduces
to us Ólafsvík, his ancestral home, two slate-roofed houses, with surrounding
huts, nestling in a sheltered bay; and, by way of urging his hospitality, he nobly
makes us “free of the cellar.”

[Image unavailable.]
SUKKERTOPPR AND LIKKISTA (SUGAR-LOAF AND COFFIN).

The eastern point of the “Vík” is Búlandshöfði (farm-land head), of whose

road Forbes has given a sketch, which verily makes the reader “squirm.” From
the sea, it appears a cone some 2000 feet high, shelving towards the water,
composed of many couches, said to belong to old basaltic formations, rich in
zeolites: between them are ledges and débris of the columnar type. All own the
road to be dangerous for the side-saddle; but also Mr Clausen had travelled over
it in winter, cutting steps for his nags in the icy snow, and holding on to his
pony’s tail.
An adjoining headland to the east showed us the quaint features called the
Coffin (Líkkista, the lich or corpse kist) and Sukkertoppr (the sugar-loaf), both
rising from a transparent sea, and backed by slate-coloured walls and snow-
dotted peaks. The former is an elongated dorsum, with a shallow dome above,
steps around its neck, and lower slopes of a brownish-red. The Pão de Assucar,
thinly greened, and laterally barred with grey rock, seen from the north-east, is a
regular cone, like the Sugar-loaf of Sutherland; and over all hangs, like a halo,
the glorious presence of Bárðr’s home, whose snow roof stretches far lower than
on the southern side. As the sun slants towards the west about 10.30 P.M., his last
fires light it like a noble opal in a shining bezel of sleety blue, the glow waxing
brighter and brighter till the snow, all aflame, dims every other object of earth,
sea, and sky. At last the fire burns slowly out, a tall white spectre, the ghost of
the morning’s scene, towers in the upper air, and the world becomes once more
cold, dull, and pale—by contrast colder, duller, and paler than ever. It had been a
“thing of beauty,” even though the incomparable scenery of Magellan’s Straits,
rendering me not a little fastidious, was still fresh within my brain.
As we steam eastward we are shown the red Hraun of the Berserkir,[64] two
light-coloured knobs thrown out by the red and broken forms of the
Drápuhlíðarfjall. It has been asserted that Dr Backmann dug into the Bersekja-
dis, and found two skeletons, but men on the spot know nothing about these
fouilles. The story of their acting Macadam is too well known to repeat, since it
appeared in the Eyrbyggia Saga; we may observe, however, that it has every
characteristic of the normal Icelandic legend. There is the unavoidable woman in
the case, Asdisa, “a young, haughty, fiery, and robust damsel.” The chief actors
in the tragedy, Halli, Leiknir, and their destroyer Arngrim, surnamed Víga Styr
(the stirrer or restless one), are all poets; and the latter characteristically boasts of
a foul and cowardly assassination, as if it were a deed worthy of a Bayard. The
highly honourable nature of murder pure and simple, unaccompanied by aught of
risk or gallantry, belongs to a certain stage of society, and the Eastern reader
finds many instances in the career of Arab, Persian, and Hindu heroes.
And now, in the cold, fierce wind, we run past a scatter of islets, especially
noting Elliðaey (Ellwich Isle), the private property of the bishop, whose fair
daughter is on board. The light-green surface, effect of summer growth, supports
a few wrack-eating sheep; and the dark masses of subcolumnar basalt, bluff to
the north, and pierced with black caves, are silvered over by troops of birds.
About eleven P.M. we turn sharp to starboard, and sight our destination,
Stykkishólm, not Stockholm, not arène de morceaux, but “holm of sticks,” that
is, bits of pillared stone: the settlement’s name is taken from one of the three
rock-islets to the north, Stykkisey. Leaving tall Súgandisey (wind-gush isle) to
the east, and the larger Landey to the west, we presently find ourselves in a well-
defended, dock-like inlet, with a landing-place above high tide. The comptoir
was of more importance than usual, Stykkishólm being then the capital of the
Western Quadrant: a schooner, two brigantines, and a smack lay at anchor; seven
flags were flying; of the eight houses two were double-storied, and the
parsonage boasted of a white belvedere. Crosses on the rock-dyke, one looking
from afar like the ancient Irish, suggested a non-existing Calvary. The oldest
tenement was that occupied by the Amtmaðr, or high sheriff.
My first care at Stykkishólm was to see the Hr Administrator A. O.
Thorlacius, agent of the steamer: he came on board with his son, but,
unfortunately, we were “barbarians to one another.” The father has taken
meteorological observations once per diem, at noon, since November 1845: in
1866 he was provided with instruments by the Board of Trade, and his labours
have appeared in the journal of the Scottish Meteorological Society.[65]
Early next morning we set out, mounted on rat-ponies, and guided by Mr
Sýslumaðr Skúli Magnússon, to see the curiosities of Thórsnes, the little
peninsula which was once a hot-bed of heathenism. Some cantonniers were
working at the path, which combined the Brazilian pleasures of slippery plank-
bridges, foul causeways, and corduroys of slush; we were compelled to round
the long inlet Vésvágr or Vé-vágr (holy bay), because it cannot afford a ferry:
here broken bottles showed a habit of picnicing. Turning to the south-east we
sighted Helgafell (holy hill), a common name, as we have seen about Reykjavik.
This lump of subcolumnar basalt, perpendicular to the north and east, and falling
with an easy grassy slope to the south-west, after being honoured as hillock
never yet was, was chosen for one of the earliest Christian churches; and people
still pray at the dwarf chapel on the “Mount of Immortality,” because the habit is
800 years old. It still preserves intact the memory of Snorri Goði (the priest of
Thor), “who was good to his friends and grim to his foes:” the Eyrbyggia Saga
tells the tale of his intrigues, cruelties, and murders, Arnkell, whose tumulus is
hereabouts, being the “Charles” or good boy of the story. We were shown the
Munkrskarðr, where the holy men bade farewell to their beloved monastery, a
kind of Arctic “Last Sigh of the Moor”—an illiberal English sacerdos adds,
“their heart, doubtless, was with their treasure, buried in a hill-side.” Monks, you
see, are not like other men; they must always be either almost superhuman, or,
that failing, subhuman.
Thence we turned to the east, where Thórsnes lies, and whence the old
Thunderer looked out upon Hofsvágr or Temple Bay.[66] Here, in A.D. 883,
Thórolfr Mostrarskegg (of the big beard), following the pillars of his high seat
round the head of Snæfellsjökull, took possession of the ground with burning
firebrand, as was the significant custom of the day. The good guide, being utterly
guiltless of all local knowledge, led us up to a substantial farm-house, at whose
door stood a blear-eyed old franklin. Our nags, which attempted to crop a few
blades of grass, were incontinently seized and tethered to a long cord—after the
open-handed hospitality of the Syrian peasant, who, however poor, supplies your
animal with barley and bruised straw, I was struck by the change for the worse.
Usually the people are to be pitied; they would, perhaps, be hospitable, but they
cannot afford it where every ounce of fodder is wanted. Even in the wealthier
age of paganism the guest who outstayed his three days was said to “sit,” and
was held to be a cosherer or vagrant. This “bonder,” who had 200 head of sheep
in his “rétt,”[67] and 300 elsewhere, evidently had better use for his grass than the
pauper. Moreover, there is far more ceremony in hyperborean than in sub-
tropical lands. If the farmer be absent, an Icelander will not enter the house; the
women know nothing, and prefer running away from strangers. When the master
is at home, the guest is too shy to ask for what he wants. After a sufficient
experience, I ended by dismounting, walking up to the door, offering a pinch of
snuff and a drain from my brandy-flask, and roundly explaining my general
requirements, to be paid for, bien entendu. A stranger may do this, but the
natives have a punctilious regard for one another’s feelings, an admirable but
uncomfortable quality, which prevents their taking or tolerating any such
liberties.
The steamer was to start at ten A.M., and the garrulous old man was
determined to extract every item of European news from the guide, whilst Mister
Sýslumaður could not disappoint a constituent—the average dawdling is worse
in Iceland than in Peru. At length he sent with us his son, and this nice-looking
lad led us to a shore fanged with hideous stumps of basalt, grey rocks wetted by
the perpetual wave, and long muds foul with wrack, which resembled cods’
sounds. It had a certain weirdness of aspect, especially its background, the torn
and tormented flanks of Drápuhlíð,[68] an extinct volcano to the south, famed for
minerals and alternate strata of trap and ropy lava. The only remains of the Virki
(“work”), where the local Thing met, were vallum-like lines of green sod; and
the Dóm-hringr, doom’s ring or judgment circle, was a triangular shape, with the
base facing the shore. Not a sign of the Hof was to be seen; the Blótsteinn, or
sacrificial stone, was asked for, but beyond legends of buried treasure, nothing
was known to the incurious peasants.
On our return to Stykkishólm, we called upon the Amtmaðr (high sheriff), Hr
Bergr Thorberg, who, fortunately for us, spoke good French. He assured me that
Hr Skuli Magnússon had found the Blótsteinn, and we again accompanied him
to sketch it. After thirty minutes, a boat placed us on the eastern side of the little
peninsula, and we landed upon the broken basalt, weedy and slippery as ice. This
shore is still known as Thórsnes, and the place as Thingvellir. After vainly
seeking information at a cottage, inscribed T. (Teitur) G. S. Guðmundsson, 1869,
we found a shepherd lad, who steered us through the swamps to a rise on the
west, a site marked by a Varða of rock. The “Stone of Fear” was a bit of basalt,
six feet long by six feet two inches broad, and half buried in the ground: at least,
such was the article shown to us. South of it lay the Doom-ring, a circle of rough
rocks, twenty-five feet in diameter. Between the two were buried the criminals
whose backs had been broken upon the stone.[69]
In these forensic and sacrificial circles the judge, still called “Deemster” in
the Isle of Man, faced eastwards, with his back to Holy Hill, at which man might
not look without ablution. On his right, the direction of Múspellheim, the place
of honour, from the profound popular reverence for the sun, stood the accuser.
The accused was on his left, in the line of Niflheim, the nebulous north, a scene
of horror and guilt, which the old Germans called midnight. The twelve
doomsmen occupied the space within the Dóm-Steinar, where benches, here
probably of turf, were provided for them. The sentences delivered from the
“Circle of Brumo” were almost poetical in their ferocity. The old pagan
Scandinavian was the incarnation of destructiveness. His was not the fickle
pugnacity of the Kelt, who would fight and shake hands within the hour; nor the
feeble pride of the classic, who only battled to “debellare superbos:” he was a
Shiva, satisfied with nothing less than absolute annihilation. The blood-men
were warned lest “weak pity step in between crime and its fitting punishment.”
The following was the form of outlawry sentence: “For this we judge and doom
thee, and take thee out of all rights, and place thee in all wrongs; and we
pronounce thy lawful wife a lawful widow, and thy children lawful orphans; and
we award thy fiefs to the lord from whom they came, thy patrimony and
acquired property to thy children, and thy body and flesh to the beasts of the
forest, the birds of the air, the fish in the water. We give thee over to all men
upon all ways; and where every man has peace and safe-conduct, thou shalt have
none; and we turn thee forth upon the four ways of the world, and no man shall
sin against thee.”
And this doom was to extend “wherever Christian men go to church and
heathen men sacrifice in their temples; wherever fire burns and earth greens;
wherever mother bears child, and child cries for mother; ship floats, shield
glitters, sun melts snow, fir grows, hawk flies the long spring day and the wind
stands under his wings; wherever the heavens vault themselves, the earth is
cultivated, the gale storms, water seeks sea, and men sow corn. Here shall the
offender be refused the Church and God’s house, and good men shall deny him
any home but hell.”[70]
And the old Scandinavian punishments were sanguinary and atrocious as
those of the Thulitæ, of whom Procopius spoke. Criminals were cast to wild
beasts, burned and boiled alive, flayed and impaled, to say nothing of mutilation
and such a trifle as tarring and feathering.[71] Cowards were drowned or
smothered in mud. Forest burners were exposed to the fire till their soles were
roasted. Barkers of trees had their internals nailed to the injured bole, and were
driven round it till their bowels took the place of the despoiled coat. Removers
of boundary-stones were buried to the neck and ploughed to death with a new
plough, drawn by four unbroken horses, and driven by a carle who had never
before turned a furrow. And so forth.
The aspect of the Dóm-hringr vividly reminded me of the old theory held by
Sir Walter Scott, to mention no others, that Stonehenge and similar buildings
were Scandinavian courts of judicature, in which criminals were doomed and put
to death. One of these fora was fitly described by Olaus Wormius as “Undique
cautibus septum”—hemmed in on all sides with stones equal to rocks, and
usually disposed at a bowshot from the centre. So Camden says of Stonehenge it
is a “huge and monstrous piece of work such as Cicero termeth ‘insanam
substructionem:’ ” his sketches make it like a dance of giants (choir gaur or
chorus magnus), justifying Walter Charleton’s “Chorea Gigantum, vulgarly
called Stone-heng” (London, 1663), which he also restored to the Danes. Mr
Fergusson’s anti-Druidical protest was anticipated as far back as 1805 in the
“History of the Orkney Islands” (Longmans, London), by the Rev. George Barry,
D.D., who justly observes, “These extraordinary monuments have, like almost
all others of the same nature, been supposed Druidical; but with very little
reason, since there is not the least shadow of evidence that that order of men was
ever within these islands;” while Coxe justly calls the Druids a “favourite order
of men, under whom we are apt to shelter our ignorance.” Stonehenge and its
chiselled, tenoned, and morticed trilithons and cronets, though finished with
more art, are evidently the same class of building as the Standing Stones of
Stennis; and both would appear to represent in comparatively genial climes and
populous regions the rude Doom-ring of Iceland. I need hardly notice the
opinion of the Rev. Isaac Taylor, who, in a wild and ignorant book (p. 43,
Etruscan Researches; London, Macmillan, 1874), converts to Turanian
sepulchres the monuments which covered the Wiltshire downs, and who
considers the stone circle a survival of the weights which kept down the skin
tents. Though bones have been found within such buildings, and without the
rings, the sepulchral use may have been of later date.[72]

PART II.—TO GRAFARÓS.

Our next station was at Flatey, on the other side of the Breiði Fjörð, one of a
vast archipelago which we were slowly to thread. Like the “cedars of Lebanon,”
three things in Iceland cannot be counted—the lakes, or rather ponds, of
Arnavatnsheiði; the hillocks of Vatndalshólar, and the islands of the Breiði Fjörð.
Similarly it is said no Laplander has lived long enough to visit all the islands in
Lake Enara, and no Swede has touched at the fourteen hundred of the Malar
Lake. The holms lie mostly at the bottom and on both sides of the Broad Firth,
and, being girt by broad reefs, they demand no little prudence. Some are private
property, but the greatest part belongs to the parsonage of Helgafell, whose
incumbent lives at Stykkishólm. These quaint forms, the birth of upheaval and
the toys of earthquakes, all show traces of columnar and subcolumnar basalt: the
colour is chiefly black, whitened by gulls and sea-fowl; some are dimly green
with a house-leek bearing a pale flower; and here and there a Húshólmr supports
a homestead. We remark the “wash” dry at ebb-tide; the shoal, the dot, the knob,
the drong, the “cow and calf,” the dome, the pinnacle, the “gizzard,” like the
Moela of Brazilian Santos: the nub, the skerry, the shield, the line, the ridge, and
the back: castellations are common, and one at the mouth of the Hvammsfjörð
(comb-firth) bears two dwarf cones passably resembling broken turrets.
Our signals failed to attract the pilot, who lives at Bjarneyjar, and thus we
were forced to rely upon ourselves: the grey weather and spitting rain were,
however, far less risky than sleet and snow. To starboard lay the Dala Sýsla, a fat
lingula of land, bounded south by the Hvammsfjörð, and north by the Gilsfjörð.
In the latter direction a neck of about five miles broken by a lake, leads to the
Húnaflói (bear-cub floe),[73] opening upon the Polar Sea, and a canal like that of
Corinth would save rounding the great three-fingered palmation, the work of
west winds[74] and Greenland ice, which forms the north-west of Iceland. Once
upon a time a Troll, we are told, attempted to anticipate the specialité of M. de
Lesseps, but he was caught by the sun before his task was done, and, after the
fashion of those days, he was incontinently turned to stone: so travellers are still
obliged to ride across the neck. Hvammfjörð (comb-firth) is a fair specimen,
says Munch, of how trivially local names arose; the Landnámabók (ii. 16) tells
us that here (Kambsnes) Aud Ketilsdottir pectinem suam amisit. But Hvammr
also means Convallis, a place where several dales meet, or simply our “combe.”
The Dale-County peninsula ends westward in the Fellströnd highlands, whose
chief height is called Klofi or Klofningr (the cloven), because it separates the
two inlets; from the north its profile, projecting the lowlands of Dægverðarnes
(daywards naze) reminded me of bottle-nosed Serafend (Sarepta) as seen from
the Sidon road. Off this headland we sighted a couple of small whales: in the
early part of the century we read of a school numbering some 1600, but now-a-
days the long-fibred Medusæ seem to be a waste of cetaceous provaunt.
At length the south-easter brought up heavy rain, veiling the shore, and
compelled us to turn for occupation to the study of our fellow-passengers. At
Stykkishólm we had shipped a Dr Hjörtr Jónsson, an Icelander who spoke a little
Latin and English, and who was very civil and sea-sick. He had studied under Dr
Hjaltalín at Reykjavik, and had finished himself by a year at Copenhagen. The
feminine part of the “old lot” has at once thrown off the civilised hat and adopted
the ridiculous Húfa: the black or the grey shawl is sometimes worn over the head
with something of the grace that belongs to the ornamental mantilla and the
useful reboso. All are in leathern bottines which show the toes carefully turned
in when walking or sitting. First-class and second-class of the ruder sex are
distinguished by boots and “Iceland shoes:” so the railway clerk in the Argentine
Republic ranks you by your spurs, the larger they are the lower you go. We
distinguish the Danish-speaking by a perpetual recurrence of “Hvává”—hvad
behager, s’il vous plaît?—from the Icelandic-speaking by an ejaculated “Há,”
explosive, aspirate, and nasal enough for Vikings and Berserkir. There are half-a-
dozen students with bowie-knives and long canes, like officers of the United
States navy. The signs of Burschdom are noise, inquisitiveness, republicanism,
hard drinking, and consequent “hot coppers,” especially in those who are “unco
heavy on the pipe.” They gather together, singing Luther’s hymns and national
Norwegian airs, whilst not unfrequently they intone in chorus—
“Doolce reedentem Lalagen” (pronounce Lala-ghen) “amábo
Doolce loquentem.”

They gather round us, forgetting the venerable axiom, “Manners makyth man;”
they pester us, and ask in roaring voices about the English “hestar,” for they
naturally hold us to be horsedealers, and, as the universal bow-legs show, all are
“horsey” from babyhood. Their luggage consists mainly of old saddles and
bridles, and of nests of sealskin riding-bags. They talk politics, they regret the
old Iceland republic, and they hope to see it once more—this must be expected
from students, and we find it even in the law-abiding Brazil. Two of them are
never sober, and huge horns of spirits acting bottles supply the de quoi: all drink
hard at each landing-place, which leads to the “stool of repentance” next
morning. Their heartiness, not to say their roughness, is dashed with a curious
ceremoniousness: they never omit pulling off their hats, an uncomfortable
practice perhaps less common in England than elsewhere; they shake hands
whose warts cause a shudder; and, when they exchange the parting kiss, it is
with deliberation—first prospecting the place, then planting a “rouser” upon
each cheek, and finishing off full upon the mouth.
The Coryphæus of the band is a little rather reverend, freshly ordained and
stationed at some hole in the Skagafjörð, which elicits not a few mild witticisms
connecting his domicile with purgatory. Sir Guttormr, who violently objects to
his name being translated “Dei vermiculus,” makes the serious mistake of
disputing on Old Testament subjects with Mr Levi, a Norwegian Jew, whom I
had at once diagnosticised and drawn out by a “Shalom lach:” Apella is now
going to try the north, last year he and his partner “did” the south. Their business
consisted in women’s hair, especially the tints which command such large prices
in the southern marriage-marts; and, unless report greatly belie them, they
collected their booty by “screwing” husbands and brothers up to the cutting point
with spirits.
Two hours’ steaming through the maze of rocks placed us at Flatey. It
occupies nearly the centre of the Eyja-Hrepp (island parish), and it is connected
in trade with the Svefneyjar or Isles of Sleep—ah! how different from
“That happier island in the watery waste”

which lodged the lotus-eaters. Flat-isle is, of course, not flat, but rolling ground,
trending east-north-east to west-south-west, with a dwarf bluff in the former, and
a high basaltic rib in the latter direction. The length is at least a mile, by about
three-quarters of utmost breadth, though Henderson (ii. 91) gives it only one
mile in circumference. Curious to say, the little rock has a name in literature,
through the “Codex Flateyensis,” or annals of the Norwegian kings.[75] In A.D.
1183 its monastery was transferred to Helgafell, and, during the Reformation, its
ninety-six farms were duly secularised and annexed by the Danish Crown. At
present about a quarter of the island belongs to the Church; and thus the
clergyman is no longer obliged, like Sira Andreas, to “follow the original
employment of Zebedee’s children,” and be “particularly dexterous in catching
seals.”
We landed on the north-western side of the island, about its middle length, at
a regular dock fronted by a natural breakwater of basalt, upon the usual scatter of
slippery wrack-grown rocks backed by a few yards of black sand. A rude
causeway, not made by man, leads up to the settlement, half-a-dozen houses, one
wholly wooden and double-storied; the rest of the normal ground-floor type,
overgrown with the white-flowered weed. The huge vats and oil-tuns were not
wanting: there was a windmill like that of Reykjavik for grinding imported rye,
and higher up stood the church. A wooden box like those of the old Saxons, it
had a long coffin for a deceased clock, a steeple of two stages, each with a
white-framed window staring out of the black tar: where the apse should be, the
outline was stepped after Iberian fashion. The cemetery lay around it, with a few
monuments and railings neglected and broken down, and this being Saturday, of
course the building was closed. We walked to the north-east over the wet grass
and warty ground, and then turned south-west towards a sloping and time-
wrecked cross, crowned with an old billy-cock and a fragmentary stocking. This
is not intended for irreverence, but to show that the place is to be respected by
hawks, ravens, and strangers; the utilitarian idea comes from Norway, where,
indeed, we must go for explanation of many Icelandic peculiarities. The eiders,
here and in Stykkishólm, float about the harbour tame as horse-pond geese; at
times a Skua causes the duck to bolt with prodigious cackling, followed by its
young, piping their plaints. The turf is shaven and hollowed to make the nests,
which affect the wrinkles and pock-marks of the surface, and the places are
marked by pegs; as at Engey, some show eggs, others ducklings, whilst others
are abandoned with the down carelessly left to decay.
We returned on board in a greasy boat, with huge hooks fastened to wooden
bars, and baited with flesh of the sharp-biting puffin. The “sea-parrot” nests in
the sand, making holes two to three feet deep, and clinging to one another when
dragged out. The head and feet, wings and entrails, are often mixed with cow-
chips for fuel, whilst the breast is salted. On this occasion, and many others, I
remarked that the sailors prefer turning sunways or to the right (deasil or dessil),
the left or “widdershins” being held uncanny. The superstition is rather Aryan
than Semitic, the former affecting Pradakhshina, whilst the Tawáf of the latter
presents the sinister shoulder. So in the marriage ceremony of the Russian
Church, bride and bridegroom thrice circumambulate the temporary altar.

June 30.
During the night we had steamed along the bold bluffs of Barðaströnd in the
Sýsla of that name: now we prepare to double the great north-western projection
of Iceland, which somewhat resembles south-western Ireland. The country
people extend the right hand horizontally: the thumb forms the length, whose
nail is Snæfellsjökull; the hollow between pollex and index represents the Breiði
Fjörð, and the other fingers are the digitations of the annexe, North Cape being
the ring of the little finger.
The day broke frosty but kindly, like a fine November in England, with a
sharp north wind, and an oily sea under lee of the land: stationary cirri stood
high in air, and westward gleamed a clear stretch of green-blue sky. After
Patriksfjörð, another remnant of the Írar or Eriners, and Tálknafjörð (whalebone
firth), both of small importance, we open Arnarfjörð (Erne firth), the most
important in the north-west after the Ísafjörð. Each greater massif is jagged into a
saw-blade of minor peninsulas, forming shallow arcs, probably the work of
ancient glaciers meeting the Greenland icebergs, and every valley is now
bisected by its own drain, set free from the upper snow-fields. There is similarity
but no sameness in the wild view. The cliffs give the idea of having been shot up
their present height perfect and complete; the tableland, some 2000 feet high,
and, of course, snow-covered, appears evenly upraised, yet laterally split in all
directions by jagged rifts. Seen in profile, the cliffs form a long perspective of
headlands, quoins, and bluffs, ranging between 500 and 1500 feet in height; and
the strata appear to be horizontal, or little inclined. The bluffs, when faced,
represent trap-ladders alternating with layers of reddish tuff: when distinctly
stepped, they often fall steep and sheer to the unfathomed sea; in other places
they are footed by a talus of débris. The former shape appears most commonly
in the southern projections; in the northern tongues the Plutonic spines occupy
far less area than the verdant lowlands which depend upon them, and these
shallow slopes and plainlets are the sites of homesteads. The bleak table-lands
above the bluffs are barely grown with hardy shrubs and gramens; the snow
gradually increases as we go northwards; the patches and powdering become
long streaks, and at last they touch the water’s edge, where every wave
besprinkles them. Thule is here fairly Snowland.
All these projections culminate southwards in the great Gláma (clatter)
system, and northwards in the Dránga Jökull, these two being the only important
masses in the north-western corner of the island. They are said by those who
have ascended them[76] to be becoming one great glacier, but as yet there are no
exact data whereby to calculate either the measure or the periodicity of abnormal
glacier action. The Gláma throughout our cruise was capped by clouds, which
occasionally burst, and showed the slope and shoulders of the great hunchback.
We then opened the long and winding sea-river known as Dýrafjörð (wild-
beast firth),[77] at whose northern bend rose the ridge of Gnúpr (Cacumen
montis), foreshortened to a regular cone. A few farms were scattered about; and
behind Gnúpr lay Mýrar, the northern station of the French frigate. The sea was
by no means desert, we saw at the same time a schooner and half-a-dozen
luggers, Gauls and Danes, the latter mostly confining themselves to the
Arnarfjörð and the Ísafjörð. This must be a good line to attack the western horn
of the Gláma, upon which Gunnlaugsson places a trigonometric mark, with
farm-houses and “Skóg” (forest) extending eastward to its very base.
The next feature was the Önundarfjörð (Önundr’s firth), whose tenants are
famed for wearing the longest beards on the island. The Súgandafjörð is
distinguished by its deposits of Surtarbrand or lignite, which the people
throughout this part of Iceland declare to be found on the headlands, not where
we might expect it, in the bays. Fine specimens were sent to England last year
(1871), and it is believed that a foreign company will take the semi-mineral in
hand.
We were now approaching our third station, and shortly after mid-day we
turned “Jón’s” head east. Isafjarðardjúp,[78] the deep of the ice-firth, and the
largest of the north-western inlets is so called because when first sighted by
Flóki it was filled with polar icebergs,[79] merits the terminal, as no bottom can
be found at 300 fathoms, and it gives a name to the northernmost Sýsla. There is
a curious contrast between the shores of the great bay—the northern side,
Snæfjallaströnd, is lee land, whose snowy heights are subtended by a smooth,
straight shore-line, whilst the southern is jagged and hacked by currents, floes,
and the violent north-wester. To starboard before we round the corner crouches
the fair, green vale of Skálavík (hall bay), dotted with farms, and flanked
eastwards by Stigahlíð, the “stair-ledge” or slope, whose reddish trap produces
abundant Surtarbrand. Opposite the upper jaw of the mighty gape is Grænahlíð,
streaked with thin verdure, and striped, despite southerly frontage, by snow
descending to the sea. The central projection of Snæfjallaströnd, representing the
tongue of the gape, is tipped by Bjarnagnúpr, the bear’s knoll, where the “old
man with the fur coat” has often landed from his floating home, weak and
famished, a ready victim to gun, club, and scythe. He is always the white ice-
bear; the other two kinds known in Norway are strangers to Iceland.[80]
A green bulge, an impasse between two mighty blocks, with a little stream in
the middle, shows us the farms of Hóll—fishing-boats on the shore, and houses
built upon tumuli, to guard against the periodical ragings of the brook. These
settlements upon the western and northern shores assume somewhat the aspect
of villages; in the interior, however, here as elsewhere, they diminish to scattered
farms. The path from Hóll to Eyri. is a noted “ú-færa:” one would hardly suspect
danger unless warned; yet during the course of the day we saw a land, or rather a
stone, slip from the loose trap cliffs. Where the strand is barred by rocks the line
runs up and down the débris; in other parts it lies upon the sands, and here the
traveller pricks as fast as he can.
Presently we turned south into the Skutilsfjörð (“shuttle,” i.e., harpoon, firth),
where the scenery became even more impressive. The bottom of the bay was
split, and the two forks, separated by a central buttress, formed amphitheatres
hoar with snow above and each traversed by its own runnel. The breadth of the
mouth may be ten miles, and the twin cliffs of trap rose at least 1200 feet. Many
streamlets dashed and coursed down the slopes; here and there they started from
the ground, these features are always pointed out as curiosities, but they simply
result from the drainage of the couloirs and snow wreaths disappearing under the
rocky ground and reappearing, perhaps, hundreds of feet below. We hugged the
eastern side of the picturesque firth, Arnanes, a flat tongue grown over with
farms, in order to avoid a fronting spit or shallow. The continuity of the wall was
broken by a deep “corrie,” or curved scarp, at whose mouth stood homesteads
with scattered sheep, apparently waited upon by ravens. We then rounded a
shallow that continues the sandspit of Eyri, and the clear way was hardly the
length of our steamer. There is a pilot for this bay, but Hr Wydholm is “very stiff
and proud,” demanding, for half-an-hour’s work, the unconscionable sum of ten
rixdollars specie. So we did very well without him; likewise did a plucky little
Norwegian cutter which followed “Jón” into the inner harbour. Fortunately the
weather was fine: in last May Captain Müller had been delayed two days by the
snow.
Eyri, in the maps, is popularly known as Ísafjörð. The former term,[81]
throughout the island, means a sandspit, in places equivalent to the Greek
“Zankle:” it is applied to the sickle-like banks of sand and shingle, which we
first noticed from the Esja summit; the effect of confluence, influent meeting
effluent. Here the line sets off from the western shore and bends first to the
south-west, and then to the south-east, in the shape of an inverted letter S,
forming a close dock, seven fathoms deep, along shore: as we glided in, a perfect
calm succeeded the cold and violent rafales outside. This Eyri may be 600 feet
broad at the base; here are a few scattered hovels, a neglected grave-yard and a
wooden church and steeple, with the general look of a card-house. About the
middle it thickens to a quarter of a mile, forming the body of the settlement, a bit
of enclosed meadow-land and a rough square, the houses being independently
oriented, but mostly facing north. The top fines off into a spit sixty feet across,
and prolonged under water: it carries a single establishment of five sheds, an
incipient windmill, and tarpaulin-covered heaps of dried cod—we shall take in a
small cargo of heads for Grafarós. The streets are made simply by removing the
stones; we count five flags, all Danish; the old houses are faded black and white,
the new pink, grey, and yellow, and there are three roofs of very bright pigs-
blood, such as delight the Brazilian eye. A single landing-place and several
abortive attempts at piers show private not public spirit. The settlement has been
sketched by Mr Shepherd, whose frontispiece makes the Eyri far too narrow;
also our view of the same was by no means so romantic and startling in colour as
his.
After feeding we ascended the eastern precipice, which shows two distinct
steps and a broken coping. The new comer would expect a dry walk over the
grass growing below the shunt of rubbish; we now know it to be a quaking bog,
the effect of retentive fibrous roots, even upon the rapid slope. Murmuring
runnels, which from the shore appear mere threads, become deep gullies,
garnished on either side with rocks and boulders, shot down from the
perpendicular cliffs. The weather was that of August in England, fostering a
pretty little vegetation, yet we soon reached a deep patch of snow. The drainage
flows into the Fjörð, and the sea-water tasted almost sweet.
After a bird’s-eye view of the settlement we returned on board. In all these
places flaps of whale and porpoise meat hung out to dry, and huge vats and tuns,
reeking with high shark-liver, diffuse an odour distinctly the reverse of spicy and
Sabæan. The deck was crowded with open-mouthed sight-seers, who walked
round us as if we had been lately floated over from Greenland, and who,
between cigar-puffs, loudly asked one another, “What can they be?” In the
evening they will be “fou” and fond. On our return we were fortunate enough to
meet Hr Thorwaldr Jónsson, son of our friend Hr Guðmundsson of Reykjavik:
he speaks French, as Médecin d’Isafjörð on his card shows, and he kindly gave
me an amulet of Surtarbrand, engraved with “runes”—the form is not found in
Baring-Gould’s collection.
 [Image unavailable.]
THE AMULET.

But neither he, “nor any other man,” could enlighten my curiosity as to the
island which Pontanus, or rather his mapper, Giorgius Carolus Flandrus, places
off the north-west coast. All being mere drongs and skerries, I was forced to the
conclusion that “Insula Gouberman” is only the Gunnbjörn Skerries of Ivar
Bardsen forced hundreds of miles to the east.
It was nearly ten P.M. when we steamed out of the Ísafjörð. We passed a
number of shallow-branched firths, combining to form the Jökulfirðir, which
well merits its name; at the bottom to the south-east rise the roots and outliers of
the Dránga snow-dome. After some two hours’ steaming we turned to the east
and entered the “Cronian Sea,” where old Saturn, planter of the vine, lies
sleeping in his pumice cave. There was a solemn charm in this end of the world
of men. An arch of golden gleam in the west threw a slanting light upon the
noble bluff of Kögr (the “dogger”); and the giant range of trap bluffs which faces
the Pole, forms a worthy barrier to the icy ocean. The profile showed a thick
ribbed curtain, topped by chevaux de frise, sharp-topped pyramids, sheer to the
fore, as we might expect on a shore exposed to the whole fury of the north; the
front view separated the three shells of cliff by hollows, with a dreary attempt at
verdure. The Horn[82] was signed by a knob or chimney below the highest point;
all present who knew the two, preferred Icelandic Cap Nord to the Nord Cap of
Norway, though the latter lies far nearer to the Pole (N. lat. 71° 10´ 15´´). As we
gazed our full, a solid wall of sea-fog, which to the north wore the semblance of
an island, and to the south-west mimicked an ice-floe, rose from the horizon and
gradually wrapped in its grey pall the golden glories that clothed the splendid
cliffs. The last look at the three waving heads sent me berth-wards to dream of
the limestone billows of Syrian Blúdán and Marmarún.

July 1.
The culminating point of excitement had now passed. We were tired with
craning necks backwards, and in the chill and cheerless weather of the next
morning we cast languid glances at the coast. But for “earth’s period,” the Horn,
we might have admired the tall and bizarre form of Kaldbakshorn (cold hill-
peak) and the remarkable pyramid of Sandfell. We were now running down the
great gulf Húnaflói, bounded west by the Stranda Sýsla and east by the long
tongue of Húnavatn’s Sýsla, which separates it from the Skagafjörð (naze firth).
The shores are garnished with a multitude of unimportant islands, and cut with
secondary firths and creeks, the western side being again much more torn and
frayed than the eastern shore. At two P.M. we entered the narrow Hrútafjörð
(ram’s firth); the dreary low-banked sea-arm looked like the estuary of a mighty
stream, yet it conducts only the mildest of streamlets draining the smallest of
lakes. “Go to Hrútafjarðarháls!” I may mention, is here equivalent to sending a
man to Jericho or—Halifax. The bluff eastern point rejoices in the short and
handy name of Bálkastaðaneshöfði, head of the naze of Bálkastaðir or Balk-
(bulk-head) stead.[83] On the western of the two dwarf holms, Hrútey, appeared a
cross, warning us to respect the eider-duck; both belong to the Sýslumaðr, whose
Bær is on the left bank opposite. From a little hollow in the right bank curled the
thin blue vapour of the Reykir (hot springs), and south of it stood Thóroddstaðir,
a house with five gables and large tún.
After eighteen hours’ run we anchored in rapidly shoaling water, over a
bottom of deep mud outlying black sand, at Borðeyri, the table-spit, so called
because that article of furniture was found there: a miniature copy of our last
Eyri, based upon the western side, projects a few yards to the south-east. Three
plank-pierlets without caissons and removed, as usual, in winter, outlie two
establishments; in Messrs Shepherd’s (1862) and Baring-Gould’s day (1863)
there was only a single shed, deserted when the season ends. One is salmon-
coloured, the other yellow-white; one flies a flag; both are double-storied, and
both are surrounded by peat-houses. The scene is wonderfully animated; this is
the opening of the “Handelstid,” or annual fair, attended by all the country-side;
one long day’s ride brings men from Stykkishólm, and in forty-eight hours they
can make Grafarós. Strings of ponies, somewhat better grown than usual, are
descending the hills, and groups of farmers and peasants flock in to the two
comptoirs, buying and selling for the year. They exchange rough greetings, stand
on the shore staring with intense inquisitiveness, and scramble, like climbing
bears, over the laddered sides of the two Danish brigantines, which have affected
the place during the last nine years. This, with a considerable amount of hard
drinking and loud hymn-singing at night, form the only visible humours of the
foire in the far north. The stations of the Spekulants or shop-ships, and their
length of stay, are fixed by law, and all are Danes, the Icelanders have too little
spirit for this work: the primitive system reminded me of the banyans at
Berberah and of the trade-boats on the Amazonas. The holds are fitted up like
shops, with desk and counter; the stores supply all the wants of a primitive
people—dry-goods, clothes and caps, saddlery, wool-carders, querns of basalt,
and spinning-wheels; sugar, grain, tobacco, and, especially, the rye-spirits, with
which all purchasers, male and female, are copiously drenched. These, and a
multitude of notions, are exchanged for wool and eider-down, dried-meat, salt-
fish, and a few fox-skins.
We landed, for nearer inspection, in a dingy propelled by a single scull aft; a
common style called Rempe Ruðir, which the little Reverend, who has a queer
manner of “wut,” translates “progressio podiciana.” On shore the violent flaws
and grains were stilled, and the sun shone with a genial warmth. The Sýslumaðr,
in gold-laced cap and uniform buttons, made acte de presence, to keep order.
The peasant women wore white headkerchiefs over the usual black fez, and
instead of shawls short fichus, which reached only to the waist; they managed
their baggy petticoats with some art as they swarmed over the gunwale of the
store ships; and their side-saddles had unusually elaborate foot-boards, with
backs of worked brass. Dry meat hung in plenty, but it was very like donkey, or
the roast-beef of Sierra Leone. Heaps of wool lay upon the ground for sale; it is a
very poor article, half-rotten before it is plucked off: after “gathering,” it is
scalded, or rather boiled, in caldrons, placed in frames, rinsed with cold water,
and dried on stones or turf. The owners asked one shilling per pound, and
consulted us about the chance of making money at Hull: a more likely spec. here
would be to import wool.
We then strolled up country, beginning with the bare Melbakki, so common
along the shores of these northern Fjörðs, a low dorsum of earth and stone, from
which the snow has only just melted; too steep for turf, and kept bare by the
furious winds. Often, as in this case, it is the bank of an old torrent-bed. To the
north-west the land again seemed to offer a fair walk: “old Experience” had
taught us that we shall have to bog-trot from tussock to tussock, to paddle
through ankle-deep waters, and to cross turf-fens, which look solid and yet admit
you to the calf. The drainage of these hills would supply a little river, but, as
usual, it sinks, or rather lies. The turbaries, so deadly to the growth of trees, were
judged by the French expedition the only safe stations for observations of
magnetism; elsewhere the cellular dolerite, containing oxydulated titaniferous
iron, deflected the needle 1° to 1° 30´. Upon the slope we found what appeared
to be a Lögberg (law-mount), artificially raised above the swamp; partly revetted
on the top with turf, which had been stripped off for use, and encircled by a
remnant of similar vallum. Ice appeared at the foot of the basaltic rises.
The summit, denoted by the usual “Varðas,” commanded the nearer Heiði, a
desolate land, a scatter of moor-ponds and bogs, everywhere alternating with
heaps and swathes of stone, and with dark mounds wearing cravats of névé. To
the south-south-east was a grand view of amphitheatral snow mountains; the
western flank rose in a shallow dome of purest white: we judged it to be the
Eyriksjökull, whose romantic and, of course, murderous tale has often been told;
while to the east Balljökull (hard Jökull?), a lower elevation, showed dark-blue
rocks, which had worn their winter garb to strips. These outliers were backed by
a radiant semicircle of peaks, which, in the slanting sun, assumed splendid
rainbow hues.

July 2.
The “Jón” made a long halt at Borðeyri; she found only two shore-boats for
discharging goods, and these were dingies towed by a rope: it was past two P.M.
before we steamed out into the great Húnaflói. “Skyey influences” appear to be
peculiarly capricious on the shores of the Cronian Sea. Morning; cloudy, with
southerly wind, and clear with north-easter, suggesting a “lady’s passage.” Noon;
thermometer in sun 81° (F.), in shade 60°, although snow is upon the shore; with
the sea, as at Granton, in alternate stripes of deep-blue and silvery azure.
Afternoon; a Mediterranean, plus the normal long roll, and a biting breath from
the north; and, later still, the sea-fog and a return of warmth under the protection
of Skagafjörð. At five P.M. we had turned the point Vatnsnes,[84] a long low
projection from a high talus of stepped rock: hence we sighted the southern
Jökulls towering above the lowlands and inlets of the shore—mighty masses of
solid cloud, with true cloud floating above and around them. To the north-west,
over the teeth and pyramids which jagged the shore of the Húnaflói, rose the
Dránga Jökull, apparently supporting the firmament, Atlas-like, upon its vaulted
head.
We then doubled at a respectful distance the long peninsula of Húnavatn,
which, hilly and broken at the root, thins out into a cliffy point, and projects near
Rifsnes the dangerous reefs of Skalli (the scald or bald head). Two French
schooners from Dunquerque sailed leisurely by, with their rigging a mass of
drying fish: after safe return these cod-fishers will pilgrimage to Nôtre Dame des
Dunes. The behaviour of the ice-fog gave us some concern, we were now in N.
lat. 66° 10´, and this was the only night that would offer a chance of enjoying the
midnight sun. The mist came up in a white transparent line raised by the
abnormal heat, and at times a low, solid bank, precisely imitating floe-ice in all
points except being stationary, threatened, as is its wont when the light of day
lies low, to invade the land.
As time neared the noon of night, the burnished circle, utterly shorn of its
beams, seemed almost to stand still: when suspended about a diameter and a half
above the ocean, it changed to a long oval, to a mushroom with distinct
columella, to half a sovereign, and finally to a fragment of golden egg, which
seemed to indent the blue horizon. In the latter phase it held its own till the bell
struck, when the light of night began to rise once more. The spectacle was a
lecture upon such Eddaic and Skáldic phrases and periphrases for the precious
metal, as the Eld Særar, “ocean or water flame;” the “sea’s bright beams,” or
“lowe of the waves;” the “swanbath’s rays;” the “ore of the Rhine” (any river);
and the “resplendent radiance of the flood.”
This was our farthest northern point—
“Sistimus hic tandem, nobis ubi defuit orbis.”

We failed to sight inhospitable little Grímsey, which employs its spare hours in
adorning porridge-pots with the Runic knot or snake.
When abreast of long, high, and broken Málmey (Malm or sand isle), bluff at
both ends, we had fairly entered the Skagafjörð, which my classical friend
translates “Sinus qui eminet;” he is less happy with Grafarós, ostium sepulturæ;
Gröf, as in “Grafar-lækr,” here means the deeply-encased bed of a stream. A
little farther we left to starboard a triad of islands classical in Iceland story. The
northern rock-needle bears the common name Karl (old man), whose hip, the
Kerlíng (carline), to the south, suggests a ship under sail. The middle, and by far
the largest, feature is Drángey, an area of 800 square yards, rising steep-to some
600 feet high, and inaccessible except on the south, where the cliff breaks, and
where adventurous cragsmen swarm up to rob birds’ nests. It is one of the richest
of its kind, and it is known far and wide as the last refuge of Grettir
Ásmundarson, popularly “Grettir the Strong.” The millennial lithograph simply
says of this strong man, “outlaw for twenty years, and died in this capacity.”
While telling the tale of his well-merited death, the Icelandic speaker’s eyes, to
my wonder and confusion, filled with tears: I could not but think of my poor
friend James Hunt, who died of a broken heart because “Anthropology” was not
welcomed by the “British Ass.” The “Oxonian” abridges the prodigious long
yarn spun by the Gretla, and shows the “William Wallace of Iceland,” as the
outlaw is called by the admirers of muscular un-Christianity, to have been, pace
Mr Morris, even for Iceland, a superior ruffian. With few exceptions, we may
say the same of the Saga heroes generally, and it is ethnologically interesting to
contrast their excessive Scandinavian destructiveness with the Ishmaelitic turn of
the Bedawin—the reader has only to glance at the pages of Antar, translated by
Terry Hamilton. But the Arab, though essentially a thief and a murderer,
boasting that blood is man’s only dye, and that battle is to him like manna and
quails, has a soft corner in his heart which the Iceland poet lacked; he was
chivalrous as a knight-errant in his treatment of women; he was great upon the
subject of platonic love, whose place in the hyperborean north is poorly
occupied by friendship, however tender and true; his poetry was inspired by the
sun, not by eternal ice and snow; and, like all the peoples of the glowing south,
his fiery savagery is gloomed by a peculiar and classic shade of sadness. Witness
this address of the dying Bedawi to his fellow-clansmen:
“O bear away my bones when the camel bears his load,
And bury me beside you, if buried I must be;
And bury not my bones ’neath the burden of the vine,
But high upon the hill, to be sighted and to see;

“And call aloud your names as you pass along my grave,

For haply shall the voice of you revive the bones of me.
I have fasted with my friends during life and in my death;
I will feast with you the day when the meeting shall be free.”
.......

We may compare the sentiment with that of the Roman epitaph,

“Hic propter viam positus
Ut dicant prætereuntes
Lolli, vale!”

And one might quote by the score such inscriptions as—

“Have, anima dulcis!”

which breathe only the most tender melancholy. This sentiment, apparently
unknown to the rugged and realistic soul of the north, is felt deepest in the
brightest climates, for instance, amongst the Hindús, and generally the races
which inhabit the “Lands of the Sun.” Nor amongst the Arabs do we find the
abominable heroines of Scandinavia; “the grimmest and hardest hearted of all
women,” adulteresses all and murderesses, justifying the Norsk proverb,
“Woman’s counsel is ever cold (cruel).”
The eastern shore of the Naze Firth then showed Thórðarhöfði, a majestic
headland of black lava, coiled and writhed, whose central hollows are striped
with yellow clay washed from above; whose upper crags lodge the eagle and his
brood, and whose base is caverned by the ceaseless onslaughts of the waves. At
first it seems an island, backed by its lakelet, the Höfðarvatn, but it is connected
with its mainland by strips of natural causeway to the north and south, not unlike
Etruscan Orbetello. Wild strawberries are said to flourish in the well-sheltered
hollows. From about Grafarós it wears the aspect of a couchant lion, and
doubtless it was of old, like Helgafell, a Holy Hill. The Thórðr who gave it a
name was an “illuster and vailzeand compioun” of Irish blood and fifth in
descent from Ragnar Loðbrok (hairy-breeks),[85] one of the most unpleasantly
truculent persons in Scandinavian myth. His epicedium or death-song, of course
composed for and not by him, the only refrain of whose twenty-nine stanzas is—
“We hewed with the hanger” (Hiuggom ver með hiaurvi—Pugnavimus ensibus),

very adequately represents his sentiments and his career: it reads as if it had been
inspired by the Destroying Angel. The sooner this style of literature, which deals
in every manner of—— cide from parricide to vulpecide, becomes obsolete in
Iceland the better. Imagine a decent, respectable Protestant paterfamilias, by way
of whiling away the long winter evenings, reading out these revolting and
remorseless horrors to his wife and daughters: I should feel as if treated to the
Curse of Ernulphus.
The next feature was Hofsós, a scattered settlement, with its chapel, first a
pagan temple and then a Catholic church; it is marked by a hill rising bluff above
the Unadalr (“Wone” or dwell vale), a little stream which accounts for the term
“oyce.” A mile or so farther south lies Grafarós, and here we anchored, after a
pleasant cruise of fourteen hours from Borðeyri. This comptoir, chosen by Mr
Henderson of Glasgow, is very badly placed: the norther raises a surf which can
make landing impossible for a fortnight, and, as we could see, the south wind at
once breaks the Skagafjörð into dangerous waves. Surely safe ground could be
found under the lee of the grand Thórðar-head.

July 3.
Apparently the rule in Iceland is, that a fine day brings foul weather, and July
3 was no exception. As we rose, a solid bank of rain stood high in the north, and
presently the Storm-King rode forth, beating down the white heads of the angry
billows. It was Ahriman waging eternal war with Hormuzd; the battle of Osiris
and Typhon; the war of Baldur and Loki. In the course of the day, the gale forged
round almost to the south, and the alternations of mist, drizzle, and bright
sunshine formed an Ossianic framing highly appropriate to the picture: like the
Scottish Highlands, it would have looked ridiculously out of place under an
Italian sky.
The Skagafjörð is held to be one of the most picturesque, as well as fertile
and populous, districts in Iceland, wanting only the “hair of the earth animal”—
wood. The firth, a riverine sea-arm, ten miles broad, is the embouchure of that
formidable stream the Jökulsá Vestri (western), which, like the Blandá or
Blandwater, drains the central Hofsjökull—the southern face, Arnarfellsjökull,
discharging the much more important Thjórsá. Flowing from south to north,
before feeding the bay, it bifurcates, forming a delta known as Hegranes (Hern-
naze) Island, and famed for beauty. On both sides, rugged and precipitous shores
are divided by ravines and valleys which, after an hour’s rain, pour turbid yellow
streams into the dull-green receptacle. The southern part of the western bank is
subtended by the Tindastóll (peak-host), a well-known name: older travellers
talk of “precious stones, probably opals,” being found in abundance among its
ravines, of onyx, zeolite, and chalcedony, and of “caves containing curious
crystals.” To the north and south, the wall-coping is broken and jagged; the
middle length shows straight and regular lines, with numerous strata
symmetrically piled.
The eastern shore of Skagafjörð, near the anchorage-ground, is of black sand
and shingle, with columnar basalt in places, and capped by a long bare
“Melbakki” some seventy feet high: its background rises in detached hills and
lines of bluff, counter-parts of the Tindastóll in miniature, and copiously streaked
with snow. The regular steps and stratified lines here dip to the north.
The bottom of the firth disclosed a grand landscape of sky. Now a glint of
sunshine settled upon snowy top and glaucous slope, then a white mist robed and
capped the shadowy mountains, catching the reflection of Bifrost, the bridge of
the gods, a fragment of gaudy rainbow. Anon a span of pale-blue firmament
contrasted with the mackerels’ backs and mares’ tales to windward; whilst to
leeward the dark curtain of purple cloud, hanging in rugged edges over the red
and black hills, made the distances dim, dimmer, and dimmest. The inevitable
accompaniments of this feature were the ghostly forms of pale birds fighting
with the wind; the âmes perdues which attract the voyager’s eye on the beautiful
Bosphorus.
We landed to inspect the “one-horse” settlement of Grafarós, which consists
of a small temporary landing-place, a tarred store, sundry stone-and-peat huts,
and a double-storied red house flying a flag; a few farms are scattered about
inland, as well as on the shore. A single schooner lay at anchor. North of the
comptoir, and forming a bay in the bare raised bank, is the “ostium” of the
Deildardalr (dole-dale)[86] river, a tenth-class Icelandic stream, which, despite its
low degree, can look first-rate in violence. There is a ford near the settlement,
but elsewhere the water courses over a succession of steps and ledges, which
would deter anything but that wild horse who is known to swim the wilder flood.
By this time we had seen enough of “Hofs,” and we contented ourselves with
strolling up the warm and genial valley, a bed of violets.
Grafarós was formerly, and is still at times, frequented by English smacks in
search of whale and seal oil. These cockle-shells, manned by four and five men,
the “little friggits” of our ancestors, not larger than the Icelandic “sharker,” work
their course by dead reckoning and often come to grief. It is the terminus of our
voyage, and we could only regret that the “Jón” had not orders to make a circuit
of the island—regrets tempered, however, by the thought that we had seen by far
the fiercer and the more interesting half. No better or easier way than this to
form a general idea of the formation; it requires only supplementing by a few
cross-cuts through the interior.
The students had all left us, and here our now pleasant party broke up. The
bishop’s daughter and her two friends had the choice of riding some twenty
miles round the Skagafjörð head, or of crossing it by boat, an easy process
which, however, did not seem to have charms for them. We bade affectionate
farewell to Síra Guttormr, whose beat is from Rípr (the crag) in Helganes to Keta
near the north-eastern extremity of the Húnavatn peninsula—he seems to look
upon it as a mean place. The reverend has no pay, properly so called, and his
“living” is expressed by the contributions of his parishioners: truly a man must
have a vocation for such a life!
Late in the afternoon the “Jón” turned his head northwards, and on July 6
steamed into Reykjavik harbour. We shook hands with our excellent captain, and
heartily wished him every success, and bade an adieu which was destined to be
an au revoir.
 CHAPTER XI.

TO HEKLA AND THE GEYSIR IN HAUKADALR.[87]

THIS is indeed a Cockney trip, but a visit to Iceland without it would be much
like Dante’s Commedia with the Inferno omitted.

SECTION I.—TO KRÍSUVÍK, THE WESTERN SULPHUR-FIELD.

Mr Chapman and I determined to secure comparative novelty by a “hysteron
proteron,” beginning with the “Cope” and ending with the Gusher and the
Thingplain Lake.
We hastily collected the small quantity of harnoys de gueule absolutely
required—man eats less when travelling, and more when voyaging. Our stores
represented a ham, one serving for one mouth per month; a couple of sausages,
to be avoided when thirst is threatened; four loaves of rye-bread (each 6 lbs. =
one man per week); snuff, cigars, and pigtail for friendship; small change for £5;
and, lastly, two mighty kegs of schnapps, the load of one-twelfth our carriage.
The Fylgjumaðr (leader) was Paudl (Páll) Eyúlfsson, before mentioned as the
“French guide;” our Lestamaðr (“last” driver) was “Smalls,” alias Sigrbjörn
Björnsson, fourteen years old, and four feet nothing: we are careful to see that
they do not monopolise the very best of the eight riding-horses. We ourselves at
once become Martednn (Marteinn) Kaupmansson and Ríkarður Burtonsson; and
thus having borrowed as much local colouring as possible, we leave, nothing
loath, the hard-soft bosom of semi-civilisation.
Spurring hotly over ground now familiar (July 8, 1872), we delayed a few
minutes at Foss-vogr to inspect the “sedimentary and sandstone stratifications,”
found so interesting by older travellers in a purely volcanic island. They
suggested, in early times, to daring spirits that granite might not be Plutonic, and
they made the devil-may-care doubt even the eruptive origin of basalt. The
travels of Von Waltershausen have settled Foss-vogr and its Palagonite.
There was nothing to keep us at Hafnafjörð, after a longing glance at the “Jón
Sigurðsson,” which lay in harbour. A man happened to mention that the one herd
of reindeer still haunting this part of the island had been lately seen; it was not
our fate to sight them.
At four P.M. we inspected the Kaldá—an exceptional feature. Rising from a
little tarn in the northern flank of the lone hill Helgafell, it winds westward down
a shapely river-valley. Half of the stream suddenly disappears in a hollow of the
right bank, a little below the farm crossed by the high road or path, and the
remainder follows suit about two miles farther down. The feature suggested a
limitation of the accepted dictum, “Calcareous rocks are almost the only ones in
which great caverns and long winding passages are found.” This is true of water-
made passages, where carbonic acid has dissolved the limestone; the cooling of
the upper lava crust has the same effect in Plutonic formations. The course of the
Kaldá is very badly traced in the great map; nor does the latter show where the
lower stream reappears.
The next feature of importance was the Lángahlíð, a stepped and buttressed
block of trap like Esja, the Akrafjall, and the Skarðsheiði. A tolerably regular
triangle to the south-west, it acts bastion to the great lava-plateau which extends
from the Thingvallavatn, and our morrow’s ride will subtend its southern flank.
Immediately below the western slopes, which are regular, lies the Kleifavatn
(cliff-water),[88] a lake of intensely gloomy shore. The dark waters, ending south
in a swamp, were lashed by the wind into mimic waves, and the shores were
grisly masses, standing and fallen, of dark Palagonite, a conglomerate of small
and large breccia, easily washed into gaps and clefts, arches and caverns. I could
not but remember the Lake of Hums so similar, and yet so different, under the
glowing Syrian sky; the picturesque contrasts of cultivation and desert
contrasting with the lava-bound water, and the memory-haunted stream which
once found a mouth at Rome—
“In Tiberim defluxit Orontes.”

Cutting across a hill-brow we sighted a tall, white plume whose fibrils,

causing many a cough, suggested the end of this day’s march. The Icelandic
traveller who has not read “The Great Sulphur Cure” of Dr Robert Pairman,
often lands with the idea that inhaling sulphur-vapour is unwholesome, as the
sulphuric acid and the sulphuretted hydrogen are decidedly unpleasant: he soon
corrects the impression, finding the people of the two great brimstone centres
exceptionally healthy. The Krísuvík diggings are upon a line of volcanic hills,
running from north-north-east to south-south-west, and their irregular and
tormented flanks contrast sharply with the monotonous Lángahlíð wall, rising
opposite them. The “Ketill” (caldron) of Krísuvík, a huge “corrie,” whence the
puffs come, lies high up: the four “Brennisteins Námur” are low upon the eastern
flank, with the little blue pond, Grænavatn, farther to the south. The scene is that
of solfataras generally, a distempered land of disordered cuticle, bright red,
brass-yellow, slate-grey, pink, purple, pale green, brown-black, and leprous
white; the water is milky and slimy, and even the dwarf willow and juniper cease
to grow. “Exhalations of sulphurous acid, sulphuretted hydrogen, steam, and
sulphur, burst in wild disorder from the hot ground.”[89] Martednn looked at
Ríkarður, and vice versâ; both had expected not a single block, a mere patch, but
a sulphur region to be measured by many square miles.
We passed two huts, one of iron, the other of wood, with ore-heaps lying
around them, and, scrambling through a bog, we rode up to the Krísuvík chapel
and the three-gabled farm-house of a little widow, Mrs Ingveldr Hannesdóttir.
The district is tolerably populous; on the flanks of the various rises we counted
five farms, fringed with haystacks, under sticks and turf, and white ponies dotted
the long, swampy expanse, between the Krísuvíkfell, a lump north of the chapel,
the Arnarfjall to the south-east, capped by a spitz or bec, and the long slope
leading to the Krísuvíkurberg, the precipice some 200 feet tall which boldly
faces the Deucaledonian main. Unhappily Henderson’s fine port is utterly
absent; on the other hand, it is said that an easy line of tramway has been traced
from the head of the Kleifavatn to Hafnafjörð.
The day’s work surprised us, we had not yet realised the shortness of the
distances travelled over. This mild march also has been called a “maniac
ride”—“one of the wildest in the world.” It is, however, only fair to own that we
took the lake road, which is not laid down in the map, and that a few yards on
either side of the way would offer as many difficulties as the horseman, however
ambitious, could desire.
The steepleless chapel, which was not worse than that of Blúdán, had lost its
key, and when the latter was found, the cabin proved a store and a lumber-room:
clothes hung to the seats, milk stood to cream, and salt barrels cumbered the
floor. A coffin, unfurnished, also stood on a beam: the idea underlying this
premature precaution is that it prolongs the owner’s life. Here the chapel is the
“mountain-stove” of Norway, the Indian traveller’s bungalow, and the Sind
mosque in which Kafirs ate pork and drank wine. We pitched the tent near the
byres, where broken bottles showed the habits of civilisation, and slept despite
the normal evil, cold feet caused by riding in a hard head-wind. The frequent
weary halts to adjust pack-saddles should be utilised for restoring circulation.
“Les picotements sont plus incommodes que le froid lui-même,” justly remarks
M. Gaimard’s expedition; and the French doctor advises the feet to be gradually
warmed, or they will swell and cause demangeaisons, which prevent rest. Above
all things avoid the Brazilian wrinkle, so valuable against damp in tropical
climates—a glassful of spirits poured into the riding-boots. We must not leave
the sulphur-field without some notice of the supply.
 From Captain, now Commodore, Commerell’s Reports, dated Leith, July 9,
1857, we learn that “the mines of Krisuvik were worked from 1723 to 1730, with
considerable profit; during that year, all the sulphur consumed in Denmark and
Norway and the Duchies was obtained from there, but one of the owners, who
had also been the director in Iceland, dying, the mines were abandoned in
consequence.
“In 1833, a merchant of Copenhagen, a Mr Kenidzen, obtained one large
cargo of sulphur from Krisuvik; the affair was managed through an agent or
factor, whose mismanagement was the principal cause of failure, since then only
a few tons having been taken by the peasants for home use.
“The actual extent of the sulphur beds it is quite impossible to calculate; but
from Krisuvik to Hengill (the mountain mass south-west of the Thingvallavatn)
forty-seven have been discovered, the distance of the latter (former?) place to
Havnefiord (Hafnafjörð) is from fourteen to fifteen miles, but the road is much
more hilly. The deposit of sulphur I personally saw at Krisuvik must amount to
many thousand tons; hitherto the sulphur taken away has been reproduced in two
or three years, all the mines, or nearly all, being in a living state. Sulphur in a
pure state, I have little doubt, could be supplied at Havnefiord for £1 per ton.”
We are also told that “Dr Hjaltalín, an Icelander and mineralogist, who was
ordered by the Danish Government to report on the sulphur beds, informed
Captain Commerell that those at Krisuvik could be worked very easily,
producing a large amount of sulphur, and as a speculation would pay very well
indeed.”
I need not here enter into the history of the Krísuvík diggings since the date
of Commander Commerell’s report, or during Mr Bushby’s concession. Suffice
it to say that the concession has now been granted to Englishmen, and that
Messrs Randall and Thorne, Curtis and Seymour, are the actual owners. Until
1873, I believe, nothing has been done in the working line—we shall hope to see
more activity soon.
After expressing my surprise, as bound to do, at the smallness of the Krísuvík
area, it is only fair to own that Commander Commerell’s third paragraph, if
correct, is most hopeful. The supply which is puffed away in air can be
controlled by walls and roofs, upon which the vapour would be deposited, and
thus the period of renewal would probably be reduced from two or three years to
the same number of months. As regards Dr W. Lauder Lindsay’s assertion that
whilst crude Sicilian sulphur contains 80 to 90 per cent, of pure ore, and that of
Krísuvík from 96·39 to 98·20, I am unable to pronounce judgment; but my
suspicion is that severely picked specimens were used as averages.
 Since my return from Iceland, Mr Charles W. Vincent, F.C.E., published in
the Journal of the Society of Arts (January 17, 1873), a valuable paper “On the
Sulphur Deposits of Krisuvik, Iceland.” It is here reprinted with his express
permission: the importance of the subject will excuse its length, and the reader
will exercise his undoubted right of “skipping.”
“The canton of Krisuvik, in the south-west corner of Iceland, has long
attracted great interest, on account of its boiling mud caldrons, hot springs, and
above all, its ‘living’ sulphur mines; these are all arranged in lines, evidently
corresponding to the great volcanic diagonal line stretching from Cape
Reykjanes to the Lake of Myvatn.[90] At the present time the greatest amount of
volcanic activity is manifested at the southern end of this line.
“In the last century it was the northern end of the volcanic diagonal, near
about Myvatn, where, according to the Icelandic records, the kind of pseudo-
volcanic action was most vigorous, by which the boiling springs are set in
operation and the sulphur deposits are formed; but a violent eruption of the mud
volcano Krabla, to a great extent buried the then active strata beneath enormous
masses of volcanic mud and ashes, so that the energy has been probably
transferred along the line southwards.[91]
“The Krisuvik springs are in a valley beneath some high mountains. They are
reached by a track, so narrow that there is no more than room to enable horses to
pass along it—across the brink and along the side of a vast hollow, termed the
‘kettle.’ Following this rude track, the ‘Ketilstip,’ the summit of the range of
hills, is reached which overlooks Krisuvik. In the midst of a green and extensive
morass, interspersed with a few lakes, are caldrons of boiling mud, some of them
fifteen feet in diameter, numberless jets of steam, and boiling mud issuing from
the ground, in many instances to the height of six or eight feet. Sir George
Mackenzie (who was accompanied by Sir Henry, then Doctor, Holland, now the
President of the Royal Institution), in his justly-celebrated ‘Travels in Iceland, in
1810,’ gives a vivid word-picture of the scene. ‘It is impossible,’ he writes, ‘to
convey adequate ideas of the wonders of its terrors. The sensation of a person,
even of firm nerves, standing on a support which feebly sustains him, where
literally fire and brimstone are in incessant action, having before his eyes
tremendous proofs of what is going on beneath him, enveloped in thick vapours,
his ears stunned with thundering noises—these can hardly be expressed in
words, and can only be conceived by those who have experienced them.’[92]
“On the other side of the mountains subterranean heat is also manifested, and
hot springs, accompanied by sulphur beds, are also found; but they have not
been as thoroughly examined
 [Image unavailable.]
THE KRISUVIK MINES
OR
SULPHUR MOUNTAINS

as those in the valley, and are represented as being less active.

“Mr Seymour, who has spent many months at Krisuvik, tells me that the
sulphur beds on this side have been submerged by the clays washed down by the
winter rains, and are, for the most part, now completely overgrown with grass.
On digging beneath the surface, however, the sulphur earth is found to be only a
short distance down, and on analysis the percentage of sulphur in one bed, 116
yards long, running up the side of the mountain, was discovered to range
between 64 and 65·5. Here the earth was completely cold, and all further
deposition of sulphur appeared to have ceased.
“In the valley itself the springs are not always visible at the surface, being so
completely covered by the earth that it is only by piercing through the crust of
indurated sulphur earth, that their presence is discovered. Sometimes the
explorer is made unpleasantly aware of the insecure nature of his footing by
falling through, and thus opening up a fresh thermal spring. The late Sir William
Hooker, when visiting this place, in endeavouring to escape a sudden gust of
strongly odorous vapour, jumped into a mass of semi-liquid hot earth and
sulphur—and but for his presence of mind, in throwing himself flat upon the
ground, would have sunk to a considerable depth; as it was, the difficulty of
extricating himself was very considerable.
“The surface of the ground is covered in many places with a crust of two to
three feet in depth of almost pure sulphur; and in the valley, where the steam jets
are protected from the extreme violence of the wind, the sulphur is deposited
tolerably evenly over the whole surface. If it were not for the ever-varying
direction of the wind, the sulphur would, Captain Forbes is of opinion, be
precipitated in regular banks, but it hardly ever falls for twenty-four hours in one
direction, the wind capriciously distributing the shower in every direction.
“It has been suggested by those who wish to utilise the immense sulphur-
producing power of this wonderful locality, that chambers should be erected (Sir
George Mackenzie), or walls built up (Dr Perkins), by which means the force of
the wind being broken, the sulphur would be quietly floated to the ground,
instead of being carried up the sides of the hills, and thus more widely
distributed.

[Image unavailable.]
 THE SULPHUR SPRING.

“With little variation the general appearance of the ‘solfataras’ over the space
of twenty-five miles along the volcanic diagonal is much alike: an elevation
about two feet high and three feet in diameter, which is composed of a dark-
bluish-black viscid clay, forms a complete circle round the mouth of a medium-
sized spring. The water is sometimes quiescent, and sunk about two feet within
the aperture; at other times it is ejected, with great hissing and roaring noise, to
the height of from five to eight feet. At all times clouds of steam, strongly
impregnated with sulphuretted hydrogen and sulphurous acid gas, issue from the
orifice, both of which, during an eruption of the water, are greatly augmented in
quantity. From the dark coloured and elevated margin of the fountain the yellow
crust of crystallised sulphur extends a great distance in every direction. Columns
of steam ascend from numberless points in the whole district, which are thus
impregnated; and thus it is that, apparently for ages past, sulphur has been
gradually heaped up in this locality till there are actually hills, which, as far as
they have yet been pierced, show sulphur earth to be their main constituents.
Hence they have acquired the name of the Sulphur Mountains.
“The soil is of different colours, but most generally white. It is, in the vicinity
of the springs, a viscid earth, less plastic than clay, and more readily broken.
“When excavations are made into this earth, it is found to be composed of
multitudinous layers, of different colours or shades of colour, each layer being
quite distinctly divisible from those above and below it, though frequently no
more than an inch or two in thickness.
“It is much to be regretted that the good example set by Olafsen and Povelsen
of investigating the nature of the earth’s crust round about the solfataras, by
piercing the soil, has not been more frequently carried out. In the summer of last
year one of the suggestions which I made for the instruction of an expedition to
this place, was that boring implements should be taken out and extensively used;
but accident prevented the necessary appliances being forthcoming at the right
time. I believe, however, that one of the chief features in the expedition which is
to set out in March, will be the thorough examination, to as great a depth as
practicable, of the strata in various parts of the Sulphur Valley.
“The spring chosen by Olafsen and Povelsen as the subject of their first
experiment, was one which had made its appearance since the preceding winter,
and which was just beginning to be surrounded by other mud springs and jets of
steam. The ground was still covered with lovely verdure, and charming flowers
were abundant, even at the very verge of the caldron of hideous hue and odour. A
short distance from this opening they established their boring apparatus. The
sequence of the layers was as follows:
“1. Three feet of reddish-brown earth, of a fatty consistence—of the ordinary
temperature; at the bottom heat was perceptible to the touch.
“2. Two feet of a firmer kind of earth, nearly the same in colour as the first
layer, unctuous to the touch.
“3. One foot of a lighter kind of soil.
“4. Five feet of a very fine earth of different colours, the first two feet being
veined red and yellow, with streaks of blue, green, red, and white intermingled.
The lower portion of this earth was somewhat firmer than that which covered it.
The heat of this thick bed was so great that the soil extracted by the auger could
not be handled until it had been for some time exposed to the air.
“5. One foot of a compact greyish-blue earth.
“6. In tapping this bed, which was four feet nine inches in thickness, and
consequently at a depth of about twelve feet, water was first met with. It was
found by comparison that the level of the water in the boiling mud spring
coincided at this time with that of the water thus discovered. The heat was now
very great, and a constant hissing and bubbling could be heard as proceeding
from the bottom of the hole which had been made.
“7. Nine inches of greyish-blue earth.
“8. One foot six inches of a similar unctuous earth, containing many small
white stones. This was the hottest layer of any yet pierced; the buzzing,
humming noise was now much louder than before.
“9. Three feet of the same kind of clay, but much harder and more compact;
this layer was also full of small, round, white stones.
“10. Six inches of a violet tinged earth, very greasy to the touch. In this bed
the heat sensibly diminished.
“11. One foot six inches of red and blue clay intermingled. The heat
continued to diminish very fast.
“12. One foot of reddish-looking clay, the temperature remaining about the
same.
“13. Six inches of yellow and red clay.
“14. One foot of a greenish coloured earth, much less coherent than the
previous layers. Here the heat again began to increase.
“15. One foot six inches of blue clay, filled with small pieces of white tufa.
This bed was much hotter than either that above or that below it.
 “16. One foot three inches of soft blue clay.
“17. Nine inches of an earth, easily pulverised when dry, which, whilst moist,
was of a violet colour; on exposure to the air, however, this rapidly changed to a
chocolate brown. The heat was again augmented as the centre of the bed was
approached.
“At thirty-two feet the full length of the boring implements was used up; but
from the set of the country in the vicinity, the experimenters believed they were
close upon basaltic rock, when the heat probably ceased.
“In digging for the peculiar kind of brown coal which they call ‘surturbrand’
(a kind of fuel very much resembling Irish bog-oak, which can be used for like
purposes), the inhabitants frequently go as deep as twenty-eight feet. They report
that before reaching this depth they frequently pass through three or four beds of
blue, yellow, and brown clay, and almost invariably find that the layers of blue
clay are much hotter than any of the other strata.
“A second trial of the soil was made in the neighbourhood of some recent
springs, farther to the east. The activity of the agencies at work here appeared to
be greater than in the former case, and to have been longer in operation. The
whole surface was thickly covered with sulphur, in a finely-divided state; there
was much gypsum, and a large efflorescence of feathery alum. Thousands of
very minute holes were discoverable on close examination, through which
continuous jets of steam, sulphuretted hydrogen and sulphurous acid gases were
emitted.
“An attempt was made to dig with spades; but the soil was found to be so hot,
whilst the footing was at the same time so insecure, that it could not be persisted
in. A spot some distance farther off was therefore pitched upon, where the earth
was firmer and colder. The borer pierced through six feet of blue clay with great
facility, the lowest portion being extremely hot. After this depth the earth
became rapidly softer, at the depth of seven feet the same peculiar bubbling
noise before noticed was heard. Continuing to bore, the bottom of the hole
appeared to be in a state of ebullition, a boiling liquid being ejected in the
narrow space around the handle of the auger with extraordinary violence, and no
sooner was the tool withdrawn than a thick black fluid was ejected from the
orifice to the height of several feet. A short time afterwards the jet ceased, the
subterranean fire appeared to have expended its fury, but it soon recommenced
with redoubled activity to dart forth fresh jets of steam and black, muddy water,
continuing to boil and dance with but slight intermission. It appeared, therefore,
evident that the result of this experiment was the premature formation of a fresh
hot spring, which would otherwise have been, perhaps, a considerable time in
forcing its way to the surface.
“It is somewhat to be regretted that no one amongst the numerous eminent
men, men accustomed to experimental investigations and acute observers, who
have since traversed this region, should have investigated the question of the
origin of these hot springs and sulphur deposits from the point of view which
was thus displayed by these careful and painstaking philosophers.
“The phlogistic theory being generally accepted in their day, and the
chemistry of the earths and metals being in a very undeveloped state, we cannot
now accept to its full extent the explanation they put forth of these phenomena;
but the facts they disclose appear to me to be of the highest value, and to afford a
clue which, if carefully followed, may lead to discoveries of much importance in
the domain of volcanic energy.
“The conclusion they drew from their investigation is, that the hidden fires of
Iceland dwell in the crust of the earth, and not in its interior; that the boiling
springs and the mud caldrons certainly do not derive their heat from the depths
of our globe, but that the fire which nourishes them is to be found frequently at
only a few feet below the surface, in fermenting matters, which are deposited in
certain strata.
“By their theory the gases from the more central parts of the earth penetrate
these beds by subterranean channels, and so set up the chemical action,
producing fermentation and heat, these channels also forming the means of
intercommunication between the separate sites of activity, and equalising and
transferring pressure.
“To return to their facts. They further observed that the heat is invariably
found to be greatest in the blue and bluish-grey earth; that these earths almost
always contain sulphuric acid; that they contain also sulphur, iron, alum, and
gypsum; and lastly, that finely-divided particles of brass-coloured pyrites are
visible throughout the whole of the beds when heat exists.
“Sulphuric acid is found in the hot beds above and below that which is the
hottest, but this latter manifests no acidity that is sensible to the taste.
“Sulphuretted hydrogen is continually evolved from the clays containing the
brass-coloured pyrites. Silver coins dropped into a hole made in these strata
become rapidly reddened, and brass becomes quite black if held over it for a
short time.
“Lastly, not only does the heat increase and diminish in various successive
layers of the earth, in the neighbourhood of the active springs, but the locality of
the heat, as might be expected from their previous observations, travels very
considerably in different years.
“The solfatara of Krisuvik, with the mountains about it, is shown in the
accompanying sketch by M. Eugène Roberts. It appears from afar to occupy the
place of an ancient crater, but, as we have already seen, it is not near the crater,
about the centre of the drawing, but at a considerable distance from the old
volcanic centre, that the thermal springs and sulphurous exhalations have their
present origin.
“Wherever they may have been previously, the springs are now situated
between two mountains, the one Badstofer, on the right, originally composed of
lava, the other, Vesturhals, on the left, of basaltic formation. Both, by the action
of the thermal springs, are undergoing a process of disintegration and
reconstruction.
“The kind of hills which form the solfataras, properly so called, increase in
extent day by day; by the addition to the disintegrated rock of sulphur and of
sulphurous and sulphuric acids.
“The yellow sulphur earth contains about four per cent. of free sulphuric
acids; sometimes a little free hydrochloric acid, and a variety of sulphates, as
might be supposed. Treated with distilled water, the filtered solution reddens
litmus strongly; on addition of acetate of lead a flocculent precipitate is
produced, which, when heated with carbon, disengages sulphurous acid.
 [Image unavailable.]
SOLFATARA OF KRISUVIK. From a Sketch by M. Eugène Roberts.

“The sulphur is found in many different conditions, but for the most part in
the same finely-divided, whitish-yellow form in which it is precipitated from
sulphuretted hydrogen solutions. Where it assumes other states, crystallised in
tears on the surface of the rocks, or coagulated in veins, it is on account of its
having undergone subsequent heating. Of its primary origin by the
decomposition of sulphuretted hydrogen, there is in my opinion no doubt.
“Professor Bunsen visited Krisuvik in 1845; his opinion is that sulphurous
acid is evolved from the earth’s interior, which, oxidised either at the surface by
the atmosphere, or at subterranean depths by atmospheric oxygen dissolved in
cold water, is converted into sulphuric acid. The sulphuric acid thus generated is
diffused among the constituents of the decomposed beds. This process represents
the first stage of the fumerole action, which is manifested in the namar or
solfatara of Krisuvik.
“Sulphur is now generally regarded as emanating from the stage of
intermittent lethargy of a volcano, and the sulphides of iron, copper, arsenic,
zinc, selenium, etc., fall in the same category as sulphur; they are secondary, not
primary, formations. In the stage further off we have the host of sulphates
produced by the oxidation of the sulphur into sulphuric acid, and its subsequent
reaction on the metals and earths with which it becomes associated.
“The description of the Sicilian sulphur beds coincides so very exactly with
that of the Icelandic mines, that one might pass very well for the other.
D’Aubigny pictures nearly the whole of the central portion of Sicily as being
occupied by a vast bed of blue clay or marl, in which are numerous and thick
beds of gypsum and sulphur, and a combination of this mineral with iron and
copper. The natural process by which they have been formed must, I think, be
the same in each case. At Krisuvik copper has been found only in small
quantities, but that is probably because it has not been sought for below the
surface. Carbonate of copper, associated with sulphate of lime, is of frequent
occurrence; and native copper has to a limited extent been discovered.
“A district in America, very similar in most of its characteristics, has recently
been explored. The great hot-spring region of the sources of the Yellowstone and
Missouri Rivers, in the United States, has, on account of the wonderful natural
phenomena there manifested, been set apart by the United States Congress as a
great national park for all time.
 “The whole of this district is covered with rocks of volcanic origin of
comparatively modern date. At present there are no signs of direct volcanic
action going on, but the secondary kind of action, resulting probably as at
Krisuvik, from the disintegration and decomposition of beds of volcanic origin,
is in full progress. Boiling springs, mud-caldrons, and geysers are found in all
parts of the region, and the description given by Mr V. Hayden, of the
Yellowstone Lake and its vicinity, in every respect coincides with those of the
geysers, mud-caldrons, and hot-springs of Iceland.
“In all cases there was found to be free access of water; free sulphur was
widely dispersed, and the steam-jets were invariably accompanied by large
quantities of sulphuretted hydrogen. The subterranean action in this country does
not appear to have continued long enough to produce beds of sulphur and
sulphur-earths, but has, nevertheless, been of sufficiently long standing to build
up geyser tubes of so great a length that the internal pressure has formed other
vents, rather than lift the immense column of water above it.
“The water of the springs contains sulphuretted hydrogen, lime, soda,
alumina, and a slight amount of magnesia; some of these are only occasionally at
the boiling point, and these, when the temperature is reduced below 150° Fahr.,
deposit great quantities of the sesquioxide of iron, which lines the insides of the
funnels, and covers the surface of the ground wherever the water flows. If the
reaction consists in the decomposition of iron pyrites, and the sulphur is carried
sufficiently far off to prevent its re-combination with the iron to form iron
sulphate, the formation of the iron sesquioxide is fully accounted for.
“As a rule, the groups of hot springs are, as in Iceland, in the lower valleys,
and either along the margins of streams, or nearly on a level with them. The
grand area where they occur is within the drainage of the Yellowstone, where a
space of forty miles in length, with an average width of fifteen miles, is either at
the present time, or has been in the past, occupied by hot springs.
“That the quantity of sulphuric acid here produced is very large, is proved by
the immense quantity of alum which is found, for the streams, the mud, the earth
are thoroughly impregnated with it. The funnel-shaped craters from which the
boiling mud is ejected, are so similar to those of the Krisuvik that the figure on
page 140 will answer for both places. The circular rim varies from a few inches
to several feet in diameter. Sometimes these are clustered close together, yet each
one being separate and distinct from the others.
“The foregoing are the most prominent facts connected with the development
of sulphur from the earth in the elementary state. The full explanation of all the
phenomena accompanying it appears to me to be the key by which the great
secret of volcanic energy may he ultimately unlocked. At present it appears to be
doubtful whether the sulphur results from the decomposition of metallic
sulphides, by heat and water combined, or by sulphuric acid formed by the
oxidation of sulphurous acid. In the one case, the whole action is so far within
our reach, that it should not be an insurmountable difficulty to establish the point
as to whether the whole action does not depend on the percolation of water into
beds of pyrites surrounded by other beds which are non-conductors of heat.
“The other view, viz., that the sulphur proceeds as sulphurous acid from a
lower depth, is on account of the more complicated action required, far from
being as satisfactory to my mind as the more simple supposition above.
“Until boring experiments have been made, conducted with great care, and to
considerable depths, no positive conclusion can be arrived at. It is also an
element in the question of much importance, to discover whether the beds
penetrated by the water are already heated, whether the water is heated before it
reaches the sulphur-bearing strata (the clays containing pyrites), or whether both
are not alike cold till they have been for some time in contact.
“Less than a quarter of a mile from the hot springs is a lake, Geslravatn,
formed by the filling up of an extinct crater. This the inhabitants describe as
being fathomless (Mr Seymour, last year, found no bottom at five and twenty
fathoms). The depth is, at any rate, very considerable. Although so close to a
spot where the ground is, even at the surface, scorching to the feet, the water in
this lake is ice-cold. Sir George Mackenzie also remarked a somewhat similar
fact. On the side of the Sulphur Mountain, amidst the seething, steaming hills of
almost burning earth, a spring of clear cold water was met with. To my mind
these facts are most in accordance with the view that the action is local and self-
dependent.
“The Krisuvik sulphur mines have been worked at various times, but want of
proper roads, and ignorance of the proper method of extracting and refining the
sulphur, have prevented their proper development. The Sicilian mines can be
worked at a considerable profit, where, more than 390 feet below the surface,
beds are met with containing only 15 per cent. of sulphur. At Krisuvik,
absolutely on the surface, clays are met with which contain from 15 to 90 per
cent. of sulphur. Under proper and careful supervision, their future should be
prosperous.
“Two German gentlemen, under the auspices of the Danish Government,
worked these mines in the early part of the last century, and so much was
exported to Copenhagen during the time the excavations were carried on, that a
sufficiently large stock was laid up to serve the consumption of Denmark and
Norway from 1729 to 1753.
“Horrebow describes the sulphur mines as being actively worked from 1722
to 1728, to the great advantage of the inhabitants, who reaped much profit from
its extraction.
“By his account of their mode of prosecuting this enterprise, the sulphur does
not appear to have been refined in the island, but exported in its crude state. The
less active mines were chosen for cutting into. He says: There is always a layer
of barren earth upon the sulphur, which is of several colours, white, yellow,
green, red, and blue. When this is removed, the sulphur earth is discovered, and
may be taken up with shovels. By digging three feet down, the sulphur is found
in proper order. They seldom dig deeper, because the place is generally too hot,
and requires too much labour, also because sulphur may be had at an easier rate,
and in greater plenty, in the proper places. Fourscore horses may be loaded in an
hour’s time, each horse carrying 250 lbs. weight. The best veins of sulphur are
known by a kind of bank or rising in the ground, which is cracked in the middle.
From hence a thick vapour issues, and a greater heat is felt than in any other part.
These are the places they choose for digging, and after removing a layer or two
of earth, they come to the sulphur, which they find best just under the rising of
the ground, when it (the sulphur) looks just like sugar candy. The farther from
the middle of the bank, the more it crumbles, at last appearing as mere dust. But
the middle of the bank is an entire hard lump, and is with difficulty broken
through. The brimstone, when first taken out, is so hot that it can hardly be
handled, but grows cooler by degrees.
“In two or three years these veins are again filled with sulphur. The death of
the person at Copenhagen who had the sole and exclusive privilege of exporting
sulphur from Iceland put an end to what had promised to be a very thriving
industry. The inhabitants continued to collect the sulphur earth for some time
after its exportation had ceased; and many of them lost considerably by it, large
quantities having been gathered which they were never able to dispose of.
“According to Dr Perkins, the sulphur mines were again worked by the
Danish Government for fifteen years, but the method of purifying adopted was
very imperfect. The sulphur earth was heated in iron boilers, and when the
sulphur was melted, fish oil was added, and the whole mass stirred up. On
allowing the mixture to stand for a time, the earthy matter formed a soap on the
top of the molten mass; this being removed, tolerably pure sulphur remained
behind.
“In 1832, these mines were visited by K. von Nidda, the celebrated geologist,
by whose advice a Danish merchant, named Kenidzon, purchased them. He only
worked them for a short period. The sulphur earth was collected without much
regard being paid to the relative richness of the beds. It was taken on the backs
of horses to Havnafiord, and thence shipped to Copenhagen. The cost of
transport brought the sulphur to too high a price to render the undertaking
successful.
“In 1857, political matters caused the attention of Her Majesty’s Government
to be directed to finding a new source of sulphur supply. Commander J. E.
Commerell, of her Majesty’s ship ‘Snake,’ was sent to Iceland by the Lords
Commissioners of the Admiralty, to visit and report upon the capabilities of the
mines of Krisuvik and Husavik. He found that the nearest safe port to the
Krisuvik beds was Havnafiord; this port is fourteen miles from the sulphur beds
by the present roads, and nine miles from Reikjavik. The harbour is well
sheltered, with good anchorage of seven or eight fathoms three cables’ length
from the beach; it at present enjoys as much traffic as Reikjavik. The road from
Krisuvik might be much shortened, and a tramway might also he laid down.
During the past year a survey has been made, and plans drawn for a railway or
tramway to Havnafiord.
“The actual extent of the sulphur beds it is quite impossible to calculate;
forty-seven have been already discovered. The deposit of sulphur Commander
Commerell personally saw he describes as amounting to many thousands of tons,
and, all the mines being in what is called a ‘living’ state, the sulphur taken away
is reproduced in two or three years. He considers that sulphur in a pure state
could be shipped at Havnafiord for £1 per ton.
“The sulphur at Myvatn, though great in quantity, is, he considers, at too
great a distance from a port of embarkation to permit its extraction being carried
on with any chance of competing with that from the Krisuvik mines.
“No further steps were taken in the matter by the British Government, the
political complications which led to the expedition having been removed; but the
attention of English merchants having been drawn to these rich deposits by the
highly favourable character of Commander Cornmerell’s remarks, renewed
attempts are being made to render commercially available the immense sulphur-
producing power which the Krisuvik solfataras undoubtedly possess. To some of
these gentlemen I am greatly indebted for much valuable information, put at my
disposal for the purposes of this paper, and amongst them I have specially to
tender my thanks to Mr Ramsdale and Messrs Thorne, of Gracechurch Street,
and particularly for the use of numerous and carefully-selected samples of the
sulphur earths which were freely placed at my disposal. These samples I hope to
make the subject of a future paper.
 “Since writing the foregoing paper, I mentioned, in the course of conversation
with Sir Henry Holland, the conclusions which are derived from the examination
of all the trustworthy facts relating to the sulphur deposits. This led him to
examine entries in his unpublished diary, made at Krisuvik in 1810. The theory
which he then conceived so thoroughly agrees with all that has been learnt
respecting the phenomena in question, that I, with his kind permission, print an
extract from his note-book:
“ ‘The theory of these sulphureous springs (if springs they may be termed) at
Krisuvik is an interesting object of inquiry. They are situated in a country
decidedly of volcanic origin. The high ground on which they appear is composed
principally of the conglomerate or volcanic tufa, which has before been noticed.
The source of the heat which can generate permanently so enormous a quantity
of steam must, doubtless, reside below this rock; whether it be the same which
produces the volcanic phenomena may be doubted, at least if the Wernerian
theory of volcanoes be admitted. It certainly seems most probable that the
appearances depend upon the action of water on vast beds of pyrites. The heat
produced by this action is sufficient to raise an additional quantity of water in the
form of steam, which makes its way to the surface, and is there emitted through
the different clefts in the rocks. The sulphates of lime and alumina, appearing
upon the surface, are doubtless produced, in process of time, by these operations.
In corroboration of this view, it may be observed that the quantity of steam
issuing from the springs at Krisuvik is always greater after a long continuance of
wet weather, and that whenever earthquakes occur on this spot, it is during the
prevalence of weather of this kind.’
“The learned and now aged author expressed the highest gratification that the
views which he formed at twenty-two years of age should possess so much value
so many years after.”

The visit of the two engineers, Messrs Shields & Gale, has also been
elsewhere alluded to. Finally, Mr R. M. Smith informs me that the prospects of
the Krísuvík diggings now look brighter. The project of tramways, or
locomotives, seems to have been abandoned in favour of carts and ponies plying
on a good road, about sixteen miles long, between the Sulphur Mountain and
Hafnafjörð.

SECTION II.—TO HEKLA, AND UP IT.

The next morning’s work began with a path which introduced us to the mud-
bog, as opposed to the turf-bog. This pleasant feature led to lava, whose three
main torrents and many secondary streamlets could be seen spilling over the trap
wall of Lángahlíð. There were the two normal kinds, the soft and cindery,
caverned and friable, which makes good paths: it degrades to the dark red and
yellow-red humus which is here, as in the Haurán, the general colour of the
ground. This variety is clad with two lichens; the grey with black scutella (L.
calcareus?), and the pure white (L. Tartareus?) which makes the ejections of the
Safá near Damascus simulate limestone. The other is intensely hard, ruddy black
or brown-grey, and in places solid as if poured out yesterday; the reason
generally given is the presence of olivine in this trachytic or silicious form. M.
Durocher’s theory is, that being lighter than the doleritic and augitic (basic), it
therefore floats separately, and thus he would explain how lava floods of
different composition may proceed from the same locality.[93] The plications of
this hard lava, looking as if hogs-heads of honey had been poured upon stone,
the domes and the drops, not to speak of the sharp-toothed mouths and
crevasses, make the traveller suffer for the sufferings of his nag.
At the end of the first great lava-stream was the farm of Herdísarvík; now not
a “vik” but a “vatn”—we looked around for sulphur, but in vain. Hard by our
right the fierce seas burst and roared upon a coast cruel and harbourless as that
of Kafir-land; whilst in the smooth distance a few catspaws suggested shoaly
islets. The Hlíðarvatn (lithe or slope water) is not like its neighbour a misnomer,
but the supply is brackish, ebbing and flowing with the tide, like wells in the
valley of the Thames. The only birds seen were wild geese, crees, gulls, curlews,
young snipes, and ravens which especially affect this warm part of the island.
During the halt we especially noticed a number of web-less hunting spiders,
whose little nests were full of young—the peasants still preserve the old Köngur-
váfa (web-weaver) which the citizens hold obsolete, preferring Könguló or
Konguló. There are spider-stories, too, like the Gold Coast “Anansesem;” a
small red species, for instance, kills when it bites.
From Litlaland, which we reached whilst the sun was still high, we enjoyed a
pleasant view. Beyond the rise of Thorlakshöfn lie the “Irish Islands,” tall and
picturesque, fronted by the great alluvial plain of south-western Iceland. It has
been called Tempe, Arcadia, and Vale of Enna, though utterly unlike the grim
defile of Peneus, the stern limestone mounts of the Peloponnesus, and the
waterless slopes of Sicily. The “Pastorale in A flat,” as Thomas Hood, sen.,
would have called it, a raw northern facsimile of the Lagos Lagoon, as it
appeared to me, gains dignity by the eastern background of eternal snows, the
flat top of Eyjafjall, the long ridge of Tindafjall, and the sharp point of
Torfajökull. And it is “classic ground.” From a commanding site we can prospect
Ingolfsfjall, where Iceland’s first settler is supposed to be buried, and the
Bergthórshvoll farm in the delta of the Markarfljót; behind it lies Hlíðarendi,
where the “peerless Gunnar” sleeps in the Tverá Holm.[94]
There is—for Iceland—rare pathos in this description of the hero’s tomb.
“They cast a cairn over Gunnar, and made him sit upright in the cairn.”
“He sang in the cairn which opened, and he turned himself and looked at the moon, which was shining
clear and bright. And men thought they saw four lights burning in the cairn, and none of them cast a
shadow. He sang a song, after which the cairn was shut up again.”

The next morning led us to Reykir. As we rode up the valley of the Ölfusá we
could mark the features of the scene. In front the river was a lake, and the green
expanse of the water-veined delta was scattered over with south-facing farms,
not acknowledged by Gunnlaugsson and Olsen. Eyrarbakki, so called from the
host of islets which line the shore, is the only port till Berufjörð on the eastern
coast, and it was wholly occupied by two ships. Mr William Hogarth of
Aberdeen, who owned the establishment, has not been here, we were told, for
years; lately, however, some English visitors had excellent fishing in the river,
and were hospitably entertained by Hr Thorgrimsson, agent to M. Lefolii, a
Danish merchant. All this greenery was set off by the barrenness of the
buttressed Lángahlíð hard on our left. The regular horizon of trap-wall had been
succeeded by a sharp slope of Palagonite conglomerate, which evidently
underlies the whole block. On the summit is a desert where no man dwells,
broken by pyramids which are evidently lava-cones, Skálafell (scald or bald
hill?) being the chief feature; upon the lips of the plateau are gushes of modern
lava, and on the low levels appears an ancient sea-beach, scattered with rounded
blocks like giant rocs’ eggs.

[Image unavailable.]
THE RURAL SCENE.

“Hjalli,” which we reached about noon, was somewhat peculiar—instead of

being a single farm, four establishments clustered round the black chapel. It had
its rivulet where the girls comb their yellow hair o’ mornings; the Lavapés
(wash-feet) of the Brazilian country town; it had also its Paradís, a poetical name
for the grassy combe, where men bask i’ the sun. The males were clad in pastoral
attire, the old native dress deemed somewhat too marqué for town and comptoir.
The chief items are a shirt, a waistcoat, and a tight, very tight, flannel culotte,
braccæ gartered below the knee and ending in stockings and Iceland shoes. The
stranger’s first impression is that harlequin, without his spangles, has forgotten
his overalls. This primitive toilette of the non-Roman races,[95] which gave birth
to our civilised attire, still lingers in parts of Europe, notably in the Cicería of
Istria, where the charcoal-burners (Cici) will adopt no other costume. And what
can be more ridiculous than the Hungarian footsoldier wearing his drawers,
when we know the wide Turkish Shalwar to be his national terminations?
“Reykir!”[96] ejaculated Páll, pointing triumphantly to a little yellow splotch
on the far side of the broad valley. As we progressed towards the Reeks, we
found the forage improving, and the soil becoming damper; this is commonly the
case, because the western frontage enjoys the most sun. Of five springs clustered
upon either bank of the little Varmá, the largest lies on the left, where Palagonite
breccia forms the base of a ruddy spine, projected by the northern outliers of the
Ingolfsfjall massif. The usual motley colours of a solfatara are set off by a more
brilliant green than usual, and by a silver-tinted moss (Trichostomum canescens),
which makes the turf-carpet feel soft as velvet.
Reykir is known as the Litlé Geysir, or “the Geysir in Ölfus.” In 1770 Uno
Von Troil declared that it used to rise sixty to seventy perpendicular feet, in fact,
as high as the Great Geysir of 1872, but that an earthquake, after cutting off a
few feet (fifty-four to sixty), made it spout sideways. Nothing can be meaner
than the modern display, and my companion compared it disadvantageously with
that “furious fountain” of the guidebooks, the Sprudel of Carlsbad. The chief
well to the north has built for itself a party-coloured mound like a nest of African
termites, and puffs only vapour with the sumph of a donkey-engine. A hundred
yards or so to the south is a younger spring with double boilers, in which the
water may rise at times a foot and a half high: the “hell broth” slithers through a
soft and soppy circle, down a foul channel of burnt pyrites and silica-clothed trap
to the bubbling Varmá. This stream shows from a height, three branches draining
from the north-west, where are other sulphur springs.
A whole generation of travellers has complained of the farmer of Beykir, who
is said to have charged one man $52 per diem. We can only speak of him as we
found him; his demand for forage was extremely moderate, and we attributed the
fact to having an honest and thrifty guide.
A swampy ride in the afternoon led to the ferry of the Ölfusá or lower Hvitá.
The ground was spangled with Fífa or cotton grass (Eriophorum), a weed with a
bad name. It is more common here than in the southern islands, Scotland, and
Germany, and it is supposed to haunt the worst and most dangerous bogs, where
water sinks instead of flowing. “Avoid cotton grass ground” is the advice of
every traveller: unfortunately you cannot, and you must make the best of it. But
why call it the “treacherous cotton grass,” when it at once tells you the worst?
On the other hand, buck-bean (Hor-blaka, or Menyanthes trifoliata) is praised
because it shows the surface to be safe.
After three hours we reached the ferry, a busy scene for Iceland. Caravans
charged with imported boards and fish to be exported, lay unloaded on either
bank. Amongst the travellers was the Bishop of Iceland with a party of six; he
had ridden from Reykjavik to Reykir in nine hours, and as he sat waterproof’d in
the sun, he complained sadly of fatigue. A couple of two-oared boats, big and
small, with a third high and dry, did not tend to expedite transit—nothing would
be easier than to establish a wire rope and a ferry with lee-boards, thus making
the current do all the work.
Rain threatened, and we lodged, as Abyssinians might lodge, in the church of
Laugadælir, after duly admiring the farmer’s chef d’œuvre, a brass chandelier.
All was very grotesque; the Psalms were chalked up on the wall, a Mambrino’s
helmet acted font, and the altar-piece showed bow-legged Mattheus, with
Marcus, Lucus, and Johannes to match. Around the fane lay the churchyard,
where the peasant
“lies at peace with all his humble race,
And has no stone to mark his burial-place.”

It was the usual reverse of gardenesque or picturesque. Sheep grazed upon the
weeds that “had no business there,” and the railings were utilised for drying
socks and small-clothes.
The fourth march proved peculiarly unpleasant. When the weather is bad at
Reykjavik, here it is detestable. The display of water-works seemed the effort of
the old Polynesian giants, who submerged the greater part of earth—Terrible-
rain, Long-continued-rain, Fierce-hailstorm, and their progeny, Mist, Heavy-
dew, and Light-dew. In plain English it was a “jolly wet day.” The horses very
sensibly bolted up stream, and refused to be caught till noon, when the men
returned dripping as loons or roaches. The delta of the two great streams is said
to be, in fine weather, one of the fairest pastoral scenes the island can show; but
we saw it at its worst, sadly deformed, and we gathered practical experience of
what a few hours of downfall can do in this semi-saturated region. The paths
were “dead,” or rather, they were shown only by lines of puddle; the sloughs and
quagmires admitted our ponies to the hocks; the drains overflowed like little hill-
races, and the labour of rounding the deeper fens was immense. A few peaks
which lay but a little distance to the north seemed immeasurably removed, like
“Far-off mountains turnèd into clouds.”
 About mid-afternoon we came upon the Thjórsá, “fluviorum rex Eridanus” of
Iceland: even at this upper part it looked like an estuary, split by sandbars, piles
of basalt, sandbars and basalt again. We pushed hard over the few good places;
and moist, mouldy, and malcontent, we were right glad to find ourselves in the
strangers’ room of the ferryman’s house: 20 feet long by 14 broad and 7 high:
dated 1848, it was an omnium gatherum of the family goods, and it boasted of
one four-paned window, which has never opened, and which never will. The
features denoting wealth were huge wooden lockers, like seamen’s chests, of
bright colours, painted with flowers and arabesques of still brighter tints: I could
not but remember the pea-green and gamboge box which carried to Meccah the
drugs of a certain “Haji Abdullah.” The soiree ended with a distressing banality.
Fair visions of girls who kiss the stranger on the mouth, who relieve him of his
terminal garments, and who place a brandy bottle under his pillow, and a bowl of
milk or cream by his side, where are ye? Icelanders have allowed their pleasant
primitive fashions to be laughed away by the jeering stranger, who little thought
how much the custom told in favour of the hosts. The naïve modesty of
antiquity, when Nestor’s youngest daughter laved, anointed, and dressed
Telemachus, and when the maids of Penelope had a less pleasant task with the
elderly Ulysses, has departed with the public bathings, in angelic attire, of
Iceland, of Sind, and of Japan, and the kiss given to the guest by the young wife
or the eldest daughter of the Morlacchi house. This sublime impudeur was
possible only amongst a pure race: the sneers of a single civilised savage suffice
to demolish this “heureuse absence du ‘schoking.’”
Next morning, while the horses were grazing, we ascertained that the farm
had its therma: a jet of steam issuing from the ground near the river had been
turfed over, with room to stand; and thus a Turkish, or rather a Russian, bath was
possible on bath-day. We then walked down to the Thjórsá, an especially grisly
spectacle. Its breadth, 250 yards, was occupied by white glacier water, with a
sulphury tinge, rendered more ghastly by the black sand, rocks, and islets
studding the bed above and below the ferry. The right bank showed a wall of
conglomerate, and on both sides “cachociras” dashing over the stones gave
pleasant reminiscences of San Francisco. The left bank is of Hekla lava, either
compact or very porous containing crystals of lime. We found a natural hatchet
and quantities of pumice, many-coloured, but mostly yellow: it floats in water,
and it is useful for holystoning the skin. The velocity was three knots, and the
temperature 52° (F). The ferry creeps up from the stone-head acting pier on the
right bank, swings across below the break, and lands you in water on the far side.
The conduct of ponies at the ferry is always amusing. They are driven in by
the shouts of lads and lasses, by tossings and wavings of the arms, by sticks and
stones, and by the barking and biting of curs. They sidle, jostle, step in daintily,
smell the water, and, after trembling on the brink for a time, some plucky little
nag takes the lead. He is followed by the ruck, but there are often cowards ready
to hark back: these must be forced on with renewal of stick and stone, and by
driving those that have crossed up and down the bank. In dangerous narrow
beds, it is often necessary to tow over shirkers one by one with a rope. The
swimmers gallantly breast the flood, which breaks upon their crests; and they
paddle with heads always up stream, dilated eyes and nostrils snorting like
young hippopotami; the best always carry the back high. As they reach the far
end, they wade slowly to shore, and fall at once to grazing. They took four
minutes thirty seconds to cross the Thjórsá, and as usual they were drifted far
down.
We then pricked fast over the little pampa which lies between the Thjórsá and
the Hekla-foot, making, I know not why, for Stóruvellir. Here we were received
by Síra Guðmundr Jónsson, a gentlemanly man, who has accompanied several
travellers, notably the “Oxonian,” up the volcano; he showed the Iceland
peculiarity of “walking the quarter-deck;” and his handsome blue-eyed daughter
wore the sternest of looks, apparently engendered by semi-solitude. He indulged
in wild archery about the dangers of the climb, which, over biscuits and coffee,
sounded truly awful. After leaving the parsonage, we enjoyed our first fair view
of Hekla: during the earlier ride it had been buried in clouds, and hidden by the
chapel block, Skarðfjall.
The Hekla of our ingenuous childhood, when we believed in the “Seven
Wonders of the World,” was a mighty cone, a “pillar of heaven,” upon whose
dreadful summit white, black, and sanguine red lay in streaks and patches, with
volumes of sooty smoke and lurid flames, and a pitchy sky. The whole was
somewhat like the impossible illustrations of Vesuvian eruptions, in body-
colours, plus the ice proper to Iceland. The Hekla of reality, No. 5 in the island
scale,[97] is a commonplace heap, half the height of Hermon, and a mere pigmy
compared with the Andine peaks, rising detached from the plains; about three
and a half miles in circumference, backed by the snows of Tindafjall and
Torfajökull, and supporting a sky-line that varies greatly with the angle under
which it is seen. Travellers usually make it a three-horned Parnassus, with the
central knob highest—which is not really the case. From the south-west, it shows
now four, then five, distinct points; the north-western lip of the northern crater,
which hides the true apex; the south-western lip of the same; the north-eastern
lip of the southern crater, which appears the culminating point, and the two
eastern edges of the southern bowls. A pair of white patches represents the
“eternal snows.” On the right of the picture is the steep, but utterly unimportant,
Thríhyrningr, crowned with its bench-mark; to the left, the Skarðsfjall,
variegated green and black; and in the centre, the Bjólfell, a western buttress of
the main building, which becomes alternately a saddleback, a dorsum, and an
elephant’s head, trunk, and shoulders.
We came upon the valley of the Western Rángá[98] at a rough point, a gash in
the hard yellow turf-clad clay, dotted with rough lava blocks, and with masses of
conglomerate, hollowed, turned, and polished by water: the shape was a
succession of S, and the left side was the more tormented. Above the ford a
dwarf cascade had been formed by the lava of ’45, which caused the waters to
boil, and below the ford jumped a second, where the stream forks. We then
entered an Iceland “forest,” at least four feet high; the “chapparal” was
composed of red willow (Salix purpurea), of Grá-viðir, woolly-leaved willow
(Salix lapponum),[99] the “tree under which the Devil flayed the goats”—a
diabolical difficulty, when the bush is a foot high—and the awful and venerable
birch,[100] “la demoiselle des fôrets,” which has so often “blushed with patrician
blood.” About mid-afternoon we reached Næfrholt (birch-bark hill),[101] the
“fashionable” place for the ascent, and we at once inquired for the guide. Upon
the carpe diem principle, he had gone to Reykjavik with the view of drinking his
late gains; but we had time to organise another, and even alpenstocks with rings
and spikes are to be found at the farm-house. Everything was painfully tourist.
In the evening we scaled the stiff slope of earth and Palagonite which lies
behind, or east of, Næfrholt: this crupper of Bjólfell, the Elephant Mountain,
gives perhaps harder work than any part of Hekla on the normal line of ascent.
From the summit we looked down upon a dwarf basin, with a lakelet of fresh
water, which had a slightly (carbonic) acid taste, and which must have contained
lime, as we found two kinds of shells, both uncommonly thin and fragile. Three
species of weeds floated off the clean sandstrips. Walking northwards to a
deserted byre, we found the drain gushing under ground from sand and rock,
forming a distinct river-valley, and eventually feeding the Western Rángá. This
“Vatn” is not in the map; though far from certain that it is not mentioned by
Mackenzie, we named it the “Unknown Lake.” Before night fell we received a
message that three English girls and their party proposed to join us. This was a
“scare,” but happily the Miss Hopes proved plucky as they were young and
pretty, and we rejoiced in offering this pleasant affront of the feminine foot to
that grim old solitaire, Father Hekla.
Before the sleep necessary to prepare for the next day’s work, I will offer a
few words concerning the “Etna of the North,” sparing the reader, however, the
mortification of a regular history. It was apparently harmless, possibly dormant,
till A.D. 1104, when Sæmund, the “Paris clerk,” then forty-eight years old, threw
in a casket, and awoke the sleeping lion. Since that time fourteen regular
eruptions, without including partial outbreaks, are recorded, giving an average of
about two per century. The last was in 1845. The air at Reykjavik was flavoured,
it is said, like a gun that wants washing; and the sounds of a distant battle were
conducted by the lava and basaltic ground. The ashes extended to Scotland.
When some writers tell us that on this occasion Hekla lost 500 feet in height, “so
much of the summit having been blown away by the explosions,” they forget or
ignore the fact that the new crater opened laterally, and low down.
Like Etna, Vesuvius, and especially Stromboli, Hekla became mythical in
Middle-Age Europe, and gained wide repute as one of the gates of “Hel-viti.”
Witches’ Sabbaths were held there. The spirits of the wicked, driven by those
grotesque demons of Father Pinamonti which would make the fortune of a
Zoological Society, were seen trooping into the infernal crater; and such facts as
these do not readily slip off the mind of man. The Danes still say, “Begone to
Heckenfjæld!” the North Germans, “Go to Hackelberg!” and the Scotch consign
you to “John Hacklebirnie’s house.” Even Goldsmith (Animated Nature, i. 48)
had heard of the local creed, “The inhabitants of Iceland believe the bellowings
of Hecla are nothing else but the cries of the damned, and that its eruptions are
contrived to increase their tortures.” Uno Von Troil (Letter I.), who in 1770,
together with those “inclyti Brittanici,” Baron Bank and Dr Solander, “gained
the pleasure of being the first who ever reached the summit of this celebrated
volcano,” attributes the mountain’s virginity to the superstitions of the people.
He writes soberly about its marvels; and he explains its high fame by its
position, skirting the watery way to and from Greenland and North America. His
companions show less modesty of imagination. We may concede that an
unknown ascent “required great circumspection;” and that in a high wind
ascensionists were obliged to lie down. But how explain the “dread of being
blown into the most dreadful precipices,” when the latter do not exist? Moreover,
we learn that to “accomplish this undertaking” they had to travel from 300 to
360 miles over uninterrupted bursts of lava, which is more than the maximum
length of the island, from north-east to south-west. As will be seen, modern
travellers have followed suit passing well.
The next morning (July 13) broke fair and calm, reminding me
“Del bel paese la dove il sì suona.”
 The Miss Hopes were punctual to a minute—an excellent thing in travelling
womanhood. We rode up half-way somewhat surprised to find so few parasitic
craters; the only signs of independent eruption on the western flank were the
Rauðhólar (red hills), as the people call their lava hornitos and spiracles, which
are little bigger than the bottle-house cones of Leith.
At an impassable divide we left our poor nags to pass the dreary time,
without water or forage, and we followed the improvised guide, who caused not
a little amusement. His general port was that of a bear that has lost its ragged
staff—I took away his alpenstock for one of the girls—and he was plantigrade
rather than cremnobatic: he had stripped to his underalls, which were very short,
whilst his stockings were very long, and the heraldic gloves converted his hands
to paws. The two little snow fonds (“steep glassy slopes of hard snow”) were the
easiest of walking. We had nerved ourselves to
“Break neck or limbs, be maimed or boiled alive,”

but we looked in vain for the “concealed abysses,” for the “crevasses to be
crossed,” and for places where “a slip would be to roll to destruction.” We did
not sight the “lava wall, a capital protection against giddiness.” The snow was
anything but slippery; the surface was scattered with dust, and it bristled with a
forest of dwarf earth-pillars, where blown volcanic sand preserved the ice. After
a slow hour and a half we reached the crater of ’45, which opened at nine A.M. on
September 2, and discharged lava till the end of November. It might be passed
unobserved by an unexperienced man. The only remnant is the upper lip
prolonged to the right; the dimensions may have been 120 by 150 yards, and the
cleft shows a projecting ice-ledge ready to fall. The feature is well marked by the
new lava-field of which it is the source: the bristly “stone-river” is already
degrading to superficial dust. A little beyond this bowl the ground smokes,
discharging snow-steam made visible by the cold air. Hence doubtless those
sententious old travellers “experienced, at one and the same time, a high degree
of heat and cold.”
Fifteen minutes more led us to the First or Southern Crater, whose Ol-bogi
(elbow or rim) is one of the horns conspicuous from below. It is a regular
formation about 100 yards at the bottom each way, with the right (east) side red
and cindery, and the left yellow and sulphury; mosses and a few flowerets grow
on the lips; in the sole rise jets of steam, and a rock-rib bisects it diagonally from
north-east to south-west. We thought the former the highest point of the volcano,
but the aneroid corrected our mistake.
From First Crater we walked over the left or western dorsum, over which one
could drive a coach, and we congratulated one another upon the exploit. Former
travellers, “balancing themselves like rope dancers, succeeded in passing along
the ridge of slags which was so narrow that there was scarcely room for their
feet,” the breadth being “not more than two feet, having a precipice on each side
several hundred feet of depth.” Charity suggests that the feature has altered, but
there was no eruption between 1766 and 1845; moreover, the lip would have
diminished, not increased. And one of the most modern visitors repeats the “very
narrow ridge,” with the classical but incorrect adjuncts of “Scylla here,
Charybdis there.” Scylla (say the crater slope) is disposed at an angle of 30°, and
Mr Chapman coolly walked down this “vast” little hollow. I descended
Charybdis (the outer counterscarp) far enough to make sure that it is equally
easy.
Passing the “carriage road” (our own name), we crossed a névé without any
necessity for digging foot-holes. It lies where sulphur is notably absent. The hot
patches which account for the freedom from snow, even so high above the
congelation-line, are scattered about the summit: in other parts the thermometer,
placed in an 18-inch hole, made earth colder than air. After a short climb we
reached the apex; the ruddy-walled north-eastern lip of the Red Crater (No. 2):
its lower or western rim forms two of the five summits seen from the prairie, and
hides the highest point. We thus ascertained that Hekla is a linear volcano of two
mouths, or three including that of ’45, and that it wants a true apical crater. But
how reconcile the accounts of travellers? Pliny Miles found one cone and three
craters; Madame Ida Pfeiffer, like Metcalfe, three cones and no crater.
On the summit the guides sang a song of triumph, whilst we drank to the
health of our charming companions and, despite the cold wind which eventually
drove us down, carefully studied the extensive view. The glorious day was out of
character with a scene niente che montagne, as the unhappy Venetian described
the Morea; rain and sleet and blinding snow would better have suited the picture,
but happily they were conspicuous by their absence. Inland, beyond a steep
snow-bed unpleasantly crevassed, lay a grim photograph all black and white;
Lángjökull looking down upon us with a grand and freezing stare; the
Hrafntinnu Valley marked by a dwarf cone, and beyond where streams head, the
gloomy regions stretching to the Sprengisandur, dreary wastes of utter sterility,
howling deserts of dark ashes, wholly lacking water and vegetable life, and
wanting the gleam and the glow which light up the Arabian wild. Skaptár and
Öræfa were hidden from sight. Seawards, ranging from west to south, the view,
by contrast, was a picture of amenity and civilisation. Beyond castellated
Hljóðfell and conical Skjaldbreið appeared the familiar forms of Esja, and the
long lava projection of the Gold Breast country, melting into the western main.
Nearer stretched the fair lowlands, once a broad deep bay, now traversed by the
network of Ölfusá, Thjórsá, and the Markarfljót; while the sixfold bunch of the
Westman Islands, mere stone lumps upon a blue ground, seemingly floating far
below the raised horizon, lay crowned by summer sea. Eastward we distinctly
traced the Fiskivötn.[102] Run the eye along the southern shore, and again the
scene shifts. Below the red hornitos of the slope rises the classical Three-horned,
not lofty, but remarkable for its trident top; Tindfjall (tooth-fell) with its two
horns, or pyramids of ice, casting blue shadows upon the untrodden snow; and
the whole mighty mass known as the Eastern Jökull, Eyjafjall (island-fell), so
called from the black button of rock which crowns the long white dorsum; Kátlá
(Kötlu-gjá), Merkrjökull, and Goðalands, all connected by ridges, and apparently
neither lofty nor impracticable.[103] I venture to predict that they will succumb to
the first well organised attack.
The descent, in three hours, was as fast as the ascent had been slow. We soon
saw the last of our fair companions who, mounted and attended by their train,
rode gallantly back to Stóruvellir. Amongst the party was Síra Guðmundr’s son,
a sharp youth of eighteen, and if there was not something under his waistcoat
buttons which was beating at an accelerated pace, I am much mistaken. We felt
demoralised by this unusual dissipation; we cooled our blood with Skyr; we
bathed in the Lavapés, and we tried throwing a line, but came back with a hook
behind, as the people say.
The reader will probably determine that this account of Hekla is a trifle
hypercritical. But after a single day spent upon the volcano, which has so often
been ascended, what can man find to explore except the labours of his
predecessors? Nor would it be fair to leave unnoticed this excellent specimen of
exaggerated writing upon the subject of Thule, which perhaps culminates on
Hekla.

SECTION III.—TO GEYSIR, AND AT IT.

I would willingly have spent another day on Hekla, but the seething hot
morning (82° F., at nine A.M.) had animated the flies with a more than normal
“cussedness.” The scene was unusually “Arcadian.” Betimes the dogs folded the
ewes with loud barkings, re-echoed by the backing ridge; and mother and
daughters went to milk them, the “help” carrying a pair of pails fended by a
square hoop. Meanwhile the lads drove the cows towards the womankind, and
accompanied the horses to pasture. Even the hyæna-striped cats, bastard tortoise-
shells, crept towards the fields, as if intent on grasshopper-hunting. About the
house hung only the mankind, too dignified for labour; and the grandmother here
is, like the grandfather, an institution; the bearded, mustachioed “old soldier,”
with huge fez and hair cut boy-fashion, wanted to “swop” with us for spirits: all
the males, middle-aged or old—the latter plutôt vieillis que vieux—appeared cut
in the same pattern. Their necks were swathed as if lately recovering from
diphtheria; their coarse heavy limbs were displayed by the flannel “tights;” their
unshaven faces with loose lips, open mouths, and noses embrowned by preeing
the sneeshing-mull, looked stolid enough when blear-eyed; when not so the hard
optics had a cunning rat-like expression, showing that abundant selbstgefühl and
a strong brain lie behind that unpromising mask. Such in some points was, in
days we have read of, the rude Carinthian boor, now most polished of peasants.
This day’s march, between Hekla and the Geysir, is one of the most
unpleasant in civilised Iceland. Travellers going eastward complain of it, and we
found it worse for horse and rider, as the progress was from good to bad. A
clerical friend subsequently divided the iter into three: between Næfrholt and the
Thjórsá it was “bonum,” “mediocre” from the river to Hruni, and thence to the
end “malum”—“pessimum.” As it is Sunday, the ferry lacks ferryman, and
delays us for some time. The peasants are all endimanchés, and they stare at the
stranger, expecting him to bow first. The Brazilian Caipira bends to the best
mule, the Styrian to the black coat, but these men have no standard, and a rough
nod is the extent of their recognition. They remind me much of what was said
about the Siebenburgers of Transylvania: “The people are shrewd and intelligent,
and, thanks to the national custom, they possess a fair amount of knowledge. But
the peasant’s demeanour imposes at first, and all would be adelig. After this it
rather tells against him than otherwise, for when you come to measure him, you
involuntarily do so by a higher scale than you would apply to another in his
position of life. Then, if you find discrepancies, you are apt to judge him over
severely, but this is partly his own fault, for it was solely his air and manner
which caused you to apply the standard you have chosen.” On the other hand,
the unpromising figure that rides by with a glare in Iceland may be a man of
substance, possibly even a vestryman.
We saw Hekla more than once on both sides of the Thjórsá, and now, aided
by experience, we could explain the varying of the apices. About mid-afternoon
we came upon the Laxá, for which Páll condescended to make certain
preparations. An old man mumbled some directions about the ford, but they
were utterly unintelligible. A mark persuaded a barefooted woman to leave the
house: after spitting, as did the gentlemen of Beaux before they drank, she led
the way, knitting and talking at least a quarter of an hour, to impress upon us the
necessity of making for that rock. Crossing the broad bed was quite easy, and the
view was unusually picturesque. The goodly stream was girt on both sides by
spoil banks of red and white earth, suggesting hot springs; there were green side-
gorges ready for homesteads, and the upper part was a rugged brown ravine,
somewhat like what may be seen on the higher Arno.
After fording we rode up to the Sólheimar farm, a large and comfortable
establishment; its approach was the usual avenue which wants ditches and drains
instead of turf walls. The churlish owner detained us till the horses were strung
together and sent, under the charge of his son, outside the “tún.” He gave us
some skimmed milk, and we paid him half-a-mark. The idea of a gentleman
farmer, or even humble Giles, taking twopence for a glass of small beer!
We sat, after reaching Hruni, amongst the graves, which had just been utilised
by mowing. Seeing our forlorn plight, the Prófastr, Síra Johann Brím or Briem,
came out of his house, kindly greeted us in Latin, and did the honours of his little
church. On the right of the entrance was the small library, containing the oldest
Icelandic translation of the New Testament[104]—not bad pro pauperie nostrâ.
Better still, he led us to his home and, enlarging upon the mal paso before us, he
adhibited a most copious feed of Hvítá salmon, smoked beef, cheese, biscuits,
and white bread, with golden sherry and sundry cups of café au lait. And as we
mounted with many vales and gratias agimus, he insisted upon a final Hesta-skál
(stirrup-cup) of distilled waters. I afterwards learned that we were not the only
travellers whom the good Prófastr has sent on their way rejoicing: he extends a
similar hospitality to all strangers.
Mightily refreshed, we looked forward with pleasure to the novelty of a really
vile Iceland path, and to fording a river with a notably bad name. The line was
certainly foul, a succession of ugly swamps: in this part of the island the
meridional routes are good, not so those running east to west, and striking the
streams at right angles. The Hvítá proved itself a barking dog; the muddy white
water, like the discharge of a gutter, was split into six veins, and swashed round
the sand-holms, bright with the island-rose. The worst were Nos. 1, 4, and 6, the
latter nearest the right bank. Páll’s nag came to grief over a round stone, but he
cleverly dismounted; and our stout little animals, now waxing sadly tired,
mustered courage to spring goat-like up the steep side. In the Morea this Hvítá
would be called Gaidaropnictis, or the donkey-drowner.
We travelled along the right-hand valley of the White Water, which here
assumes a menacing, sinister aspect, and the frequent ferries, above and below
the ford, prove that it can be really dangerous: when the spring-snows melt, the
scene must be imposing. The current, like that of the Congo, boils and swirls
through a deep gorge, a trough of perpendicular rocks which wholly ignore
landing-places. A number of “old men” showed the desolation of the land, all
gorges and dykes, and the sheep followed us, as young bisons do, for company’s
sake. We remarked, for the first time, that the sun really set, and that in Iceland
there is such a thing as a moon: this simulation of night without a dawn before
one A.M. was comforting. Still in the brassy northern sky rose the weird forms of
the Jarlhettur, the earl’s hats—and we wearily wondered who the hatter might
have been. A tower and a rampart, jagged into a saw, form a castellated wall
defending the south-eastern glacis of Lángjökull. About ten P.M. we fell into a
long descent, clothed with birch forest, and we idly discussed how long it would
take a rhinoceros to graze it down. Mr Bryson could not trace any birch or bush
nearer than thirty miles from the Geysir: he might have found them within five
miles to the west and seven to the east. A big column of white vapour on our
right, and others scattered over the distance, again and again deluded us, and we
neglected the real thing, two humble puffs, to the left or west.
A short colloquy at a farm-house made Páll sure of his direction, and he
hurried us on to the goal through villainous bog and splashing streams.
Disappointment at once awaited us. A large party of travellers had, we heard,
pitched tents at the water-works, stubbornly resolved to wait an explosion. The
hay, the firewood, the broken bottles, the scraps of newspaper, and the names
fresh-graved upon the sintery saucer told their own tale: the Gusher had gushed,
we afterwards learned, on the 13th, and might not gush again for a fortnight. In
melancholy mood we pitched the “pal,” open towards the basin, and under the
shadow as it were of the steam, which we could hear, see, feel, touch, and smell.
The guide went off to sleep at Haukadalr (hawk dale), a farm dimly looming to
the north; but the traveller is, to speak figuratively, tied by the leg, chained to the
Geysir. Unless Fate favour him with a display, he can neither visit the home of
Ari Fróði nor St Martin’s baths, whose miraculous cures of the lame and the
leper have ceased with the child-like, trusting faith that caused them.
Once or twice during the remnant of the night we heard a growl, when
 “Fell Geyser roared and struggling shook the ground.”

Each time the rumble and the crepitus caused a rush from the tent, but beyond
the pleasing mobility of the vapour-clouds there was nothing to see. The cold
morning air showed the puffs and sheets of steam rising from the Geysir-ground
to great advantage.
St Swithin’s Day “in the morrnin’,” began with a visit from Páll, who brought
an old woman to make coffee at the boiling spring, and Haukadalr cream which
savoured strongly of civilising influences—Hr Sigurðr Pállsson’s family has
evidently learnt “a thing or two.” Came also the spade de rigeur, which a
generation has used for worrying the Strokkr; it lets for $1 per diem, and by this
time it must have proved itself a small silver mine.
The day broke cold and cloudy, with a wind from north and north-west, and
the air was not swept clean till the afternoon, when a strong north-wester set in.
We found to the west of the Geysir a bath, lately made with turf and stone; its
unconscionable heat drove us farther south. An excellent therma might easily be
cut in the silex; and as for warm and cold water, they can be turned on ad
libitum. The element has a slimy feel, the effect of silica (?), which reminded me
of Central African frog-pools; it has no appreciable taste nor sediment, yet
clothes washed in it are tainted with sulphur; and we can swear that it tinges
“Schnapps” with a rich horsepond hue.
After the holystoning required for comfort, we proceeded to the serious study
of the emplacement. It has been perfunctorily described by all travellers, even by
Baring-Gould, and worse by the venerable Lyell. The latter makes “the Geysers”
rise through lava which may have been erupted by Hekla, distant only thirty
miles, which is impossible.
The site has been compared with the Vale of Siddim (the gushers?), where a
certain “sad catastrophe” took place, and where general volcanic action exists
only in the brain of M. de Saulcy. Nothing can be more unlike. These pocket
“Campi Phlegræi” cover a few square yards, a patch probably overlying pyrites,
upon the left or western plain, which gently slopes towards the Túngufljót. The
“Tongue”[105] or Mesopotamian “flood” winds snake-like through the moorland
of dull-yellow clay, rhubarb-coloured humus, and bog, alternating with green
vegetation: here it is hid by high banks; there it shows its vertebræ in streaks and
dots of silvery stream, flashing in the sun. Houses and farms unknown to the
map vary the surface. The readily-flooded river-valley, of old a sea-arm, trends
with almost imperceptible fall from north-north-east to south-south-west; and at
this point it may be nine miles wide: in the former direction it drains the
Haukadalsheiði, and ultimately the Lángjökull. Up stream the eye ranges from
the azure saddleback of Bláfell, an extinct volcano, they say, to the lumpy cones
and denticulated crests, rocky and snowy, known as the Hrútafell, the
Hrefnubúðir, the Brekkja, and the Hreppfjall. Down stream the glance rests upon
a number of little mounds dotting the various alluvial Doabs of the ancient Fjörð,
especially the Hestfjall, backed by the taller Örðufell, lying south-east of
Skálholt. The eastern bank is a regular line of rolling hill, separating the main
artery from the Hvítá, the snow-streaked peaks of Gelldingafell: the
Berghyllsfjall, and the coffin-shaped Miðfell are the principal eminences. The
western flank is formed by the major range of the Laugarfjall, which is not
named in the map; this line is backed by the Bjarnarfell, the Sandfell, and the
lava-stream known as Uthliðshraun.
But the intricacy of the site, a valley within a valley, is not yet ended. On the
west of the Túngufljót there are still two influents, badly shown in the map,
which form a watershed of their own, flowing down troughs which often obscure
them from sight, parallel with and eventually feeding their main stream. This
secondary feature is bounded eastward by a dwarf divide, a shallow arch of
ground, and westward by the Laugarfjall, an insulated node of degraded
phonolite and heat-altered trachyte, which has been driven through the
Palagonite.[106] This rock islet, a few hundred feet high, with its two green
knobs, is divided by a stony precipice, and by a low, marshy, stream-cut valley
from the western range (Laugarfjall), of which it is an outlier; and it curves with
its concavity open to the rising sun.
On the eastern slope of the trachytic pile and extending round the north of the
rock-wall are the Hvers and Geysirs. Nothing can be meaner than their
appearance, especially to the tourist who travels as usual from Reykjavik;
nothing more ridiculous than the contrast of this pin’s point, this atom of pyritic
formation, with the gigantic theory which it was held to prove, earth’s central
fire, the now obsolete dream of classical philosophers and “celebrated
academicians;”[107] nothing more curious than the contrast between Nature and
Art, between what we see in life and what we find in travellers’ illustrations. Sir
John Stanley, perpetuated by Henderson, first gave consistence to popular idea of
“that most wonderful fountain the Great Geysir:” such is the character given to it
by the late Sir Henry Holland, a traveller who belonged to the “wunderbar”
epoch of English travel, still prevalent in Germany. From them we derive the
vast background of black mountain, the single white shaft of fifty feet high,
domed like the popular pine-tree of Vesuvian smoke, the bouquet of water, the
Prince of Wales feathers, double-plumed and triple-plumed, charged with stones;
and the minor jets and side squirts of the foregrounds, where pigmies stand and
extend the arm of illustration, and the hand of marvel.
In this little patch, however, we may still study the seven forms of Geysir life.
First, is the baby still sleeping in the bosom of Mother Earth, the airy wreath
escaping from the hot clay ground; then comes the infant breathing strongly, and
at times puking in the nurse’s lap; third, is the child simmering with impatience;
and fourth, is the youth whose occupation is to boil over. The full-grown man is
represented by the “Great Gusher” in the plenitude of its lusty power; old age, by
the tranquil, sleepy “laug;” and second childhood and death, mostly from
diphtheria or quincy, in the empty red pits strewed about the dwarf plain.
“Patheticum est!” as the old scholiast exclaimed.
It is hardly fair to enter deeply in the history of the Great Geysir, but a few
words may be found useful. The silence of Ari Fróði (A.D. 1075), and of the
Landnámabók, so copious in its details, suggests that it did not exist in the
eleventh century; and the notice of Saxo Grammaticus in the preface to his
History of Denmark proves that it had become known before the end of the
thirteenth. Hence it is generally assumed that the volcanic movements of A.D.
1294, which caused the disappearance of many hot springs, produced those now
existing.[108] Forbes cleverly proved the growth of the tube by deposition of silex
on the lips,[109] a process which will end by sealing the spring: he placed its birth
about 1060 years ago, which seems to be thoroughly reasonable; and thus for its
manhood we have a period of about six centuries.
In 1770 the Geysir spouted eleven times a day; in 1814 it erupted every six
hours; and in 1872 once between two and a week. Shepherd vainly waited six
days; a French party seven; and there are legends of a wasted fortnight. The
heights are thus given by travellers:
Ólafsson and Pállsson (1770-72), 360 feet.
Von Troil (1772), 92 ”
Stanley (1789), measured with a quadrant, 96 ”
Lieutenant Ohlsen (1804), mentioned by Henderson, also
212 ”
with a quadrant,
Hooker (1809), upwards of a 100 ”
Mackenzie (1810), 90 ”
Second visit, above
Henderson (1815), 60-80 “
200 ft.
Barrow (1834), 80 ”
Pliny Miles (1854), 70-72 ”
Forbes (1860), 60-100 ”
Symington (1862), 200 ”
Baring-Gould (1863), 90-100 ”
“as high as Scott
Bryson (1864),
the Monument.”
measured
Robert Mackay Smith (1864), 100
feet.

Thus the mean of the best authorities would be 80 feet, exactly equal to the
Grandes Eaux of Versailles. The artificial maximum is popularly laid down at 90
feet. But torpedo experiments with 100 lbs. of picric powder have lifted a 2000-
ton column 53 yards high; and we hear of pillars 50 feet thick reaching 123
yards. The Giant Geysir, a silicious spring near the head of the Firehole River,
according to Dr F. V. Hayden, propels an 8-feet shaft by steady impulses from
150 to 200 feet from the orifice.
The shooting action of the Geysir, an affair of 700 horse-power, has been
explained in four distinct and several ways: by a reservoir, by a straight tube, by
a bent tube, and by no tube at all. Furthermore, one experimenter applies fire to
the centre of the tube, another cold, whilst a third heats the angle. Mackenzie
suggested the “hypothetical subterranean cave” which was adopted by all the
writers of his day; by Scrope, Dufferin, the Napoleon Book, and many others.
They all forget that the reservoir and the syphon would produce regular and not
intermittent action.
The epoch-marking visit of Professor Bunsen proved, by soundings, the
Geysir to be a regular tube, 60 to 74 feet deep, with a diameter of 10 feet 4
inches: he found the temperatures by termometres à deversement varying to a
maximum of 270° (F.), or 58° above boiling point; and Mr Bryson (1864)
verified these observations, making the bottom of the pipe 240°, and the centre
270°. Superheated water loses the cohesion of its particles with the expulsion of
air, and, if pressure be removed, “flashes into steam;” this well-known fact at
once suggested the chemist’s explanation. Thus M. Müller was able to make an
artificial Geysir; M. Douay of Ghent corked a straight brass tube, and caused
explosion by heating it at the bottom and at half length; and Professor Tyndall
followed with his pipe of galvanised iron, 6 feet long, surmounted by a basin,
and girt about the centre with burning gas. Even the detonations were imitated;
those of the model were explained by steam being condensed in the saucer,
whose diameter is 52 to 60 feet, and whose contents are cooled by abundant
evaporation—the same phenomenon on a small scale will be observed if water
be heated in a bottle. Whilst the far-famed Werner held that volcanoes were
caused by the burning of coal-beds, George Stephenson, a great and original
mechanical genius, more Wernerian in this point than the master himself, was so
impressed by the rhythm and regularity of movements as he first sighted a
volcano that he at once referred them to steam and superheated water.
But presently observers raised the valid objection that if air were liberated in
large quantities, the Geysir surface would be ever boiling like that of the
“Strokkr.” Hence Baring-Gould suggested that an angle in the pipe is sufficient
to produce all the phenomena, and he calls the following experiment “merely an
adaptation of Sir George Mackenzie’s theory.” Bend an iron tube to 110°,
making one arm half the length of the other; fill with water, and place in the fire.
For a minute the liquid will remain quiet; presently it begins to quiver; steam
generated in the shorter section causes a slight overflow, without signs of
ebullition, till the bubble turns the angle: the column of the longer arm is then
suddenly forced high in the air, and a jet of eighteen feet can be produced with a
tube, whose long arm measures two feet, and whose bore is three-eighths of an
inch. The bending pipe is given by Forbes (p. 252), but he has drawn no
conclusions from it.
Finally, Dr Hochstetter (Revue Hebdomadaire de Chimie), whose highly
interesting experiments throw much light upon volcanic action, can almost
dispense with a pipe. When sulphur is melted under water, with a pressure of
forty-five pounds to the square inch, the mineral absorbs part of the fluid, and as
the former cools, the latter is driven out as steam accompanied by explosions.
When the quantity of sulphur is excessive, upheavals take place, craters are
formed, and melted brimstone is ejected.
Evidently the several theories require reconciling. A friend wrote to me:
“Your suggestion of emptying the Geysir can be done only by a force pump. The
long arm of a syphon would require to measure upwards of a hundred yards to
find a lower level than the bottom of the tube, which lies eighty-six feet below
the upper basin-rim. And even if you succeed, we shall learn very little more
than what we already know, or we have reason to assume.” I rejoin that the
position of the spring which fills the Geysir after each explosion, and which
keeps up the constant flow over its saucer, is a matter of the greatest importance.
Ólafsson produced a new “Gusher,” by simply piercing through eighteen feet
of sulphur ground at Krísuvík; and in Tuscany there are artificial soffioni, one of
which has been driven 168 metres into strata showing 145° (Centig.). In the
present state of science we evidently need not despair of being able to create a
Great Geysir upon the grandest scale: these eruptions come from earth’s skin not
from her intestines; and the subterranean laboratories of metallic bases are
readily opened to oxidation.
Remains now only to walk over the ground, which divides itself into four
separate patches: the extinct, to the north-west, below and extending round the
north of the Laugarfjall buttress; the Great Geysir; the Strokkr and the Thikku-
hverar to the south.
In the first tract earth is uniformly red, oxidised by air, not as in poetical Syria
by the blood of Adonis. The hot, coarse bolus, or trachytic clay, soft and
unctuous, astringent, and adhering to the tongue, is deposited in horizontal
layers: snowy-white, yellow-white, ruddy, light-blue, blue-grey, mauve, purple,
violet, and pale-green, are the Protean tints; often mixed and mottled, the effect
of alum, sulphuric acid, and the decomposition of bisulphide of iron. The saucer
of the Great Geysir is lined with Geysirite (silica hydraté), beads or tubercles of
grey-white silica; all the others want these fungi or coral-like ornaments. The
dead and dying springs show only age-rusty moulds and broken-down piles,
once chimneys and ovens, resembling those of Reykir, now degraded and
deformed to couthless heaps of light and dark grey. Like most of the modern
features, they drained to the cold rivulet on the east, and eventually to the south.
The most interesting feature is the Blesi (pronounced Blese), which lies 160 feet
north of the Great Geysir. This hot-water pond, a Grotta Azurra, where cooking
is mostly done, lies on a mound, and runs in various directions. To the north it
forms a dwarf river-valley flowing west of the Great Geysir; eastward it feeds a
hole of bubbling water which trickles in a streak of white sinter to the eastern
rivulet and a drip-hole, apparently communicating underground with an ugly
little boiler of grey-brown, scum-streaked, bubbling mud, foul-looking as a
drain. The “beautiful quiescent spring” measures forty feet by fifteen,[110] and is
of reniform or insect shape, the waist being represented by a natural arch of
stone spanning the hot blue depths below the stony ledges which edge them with
scallops and corrugations. Hence the name; this bridge is the “blaze” streaking a
pony’s face. Blesi was not sealed by deposition of silex; it suddenly ceased to
erupt in A.D. 1784, the year after the Skaptár convulsion, a fact which suggests
the origin of the Geysirs. It is Mackenzie’s “cave of blue water;” and travellers
who have not enjoyed the lapis lazuli of the Capri grotto, indulge in raptures
about its colouration. North-west of the Blesi, and distant 300 feet, is another
ruin, situated on a much higher plane and showing the remains of a large
silicious mound: it steams, but the breath of life comes feebly and irregularly.
This is probably the “Roaring Geyser” or the “Old Geyser,” which maps and
plans place eighty yards from the Great Geysir.
The Great Geysir was unpropitious to us, yet we worked hard to see one of its
expiring efforts. An Englishman had set up a pyramid at the edge of the saucer,
and we threw in several hundredweights, hoping that the silex, acted upon by the
excessive heat, might take the effect of turf; the only effects were a borborygmus
which sounded somewhat like B’rr’rr’t, and a shiver as if the Foul Fiend had
stirred the depths. The last eruption was described to us as only a large segment
of the tube, not exceeding six feet in diameter. About midnight the veteran
suffered slightly from singultus. On Monday the experts mispredicted that he
would exhibit between eight and nine A.M., and at one A.M. on Tuesday there was
a trace of second-childhood life. After the usual eructation, a general bubble,
half veiled in white vapour, rose like a gigantic glass-shade from the still surface,
and the troubled water trickled down the basin sides in miniature boiling
cascades. Thence it flowed eastwards by a single waste-channel which presently
forms a delta of two arms, the base being the cold, rapid, and brawling rivulet:
the northern fork has a dwarf “force,” used as a douche, and the southern
exceeds it in length, measuring some 350 paces.
We were more fortunate with the irascible Strokkr, whose name has been
generally misinterpreted. Dillon calls it the piston, or churning-staff; and Barrow
the “shaker:” it is simply the “hand-churn” whose upright shaft is worked up and
down—the churn-like column of water suggested the resemblance. This feature,
perhaps the “New Geyser” of Sir John Stanley and Henderson, formerly erupted
naturally, and had all the amiable eccentricity of youth: now it must be teased or
coaxed. Stanley gave it 130 feet of jet, or 36 higher than the Great Geysir;
Henderson, 50 to 80; Symington, 100 to 150 feet; Bryson, “upwards of a
hundred;” and Baring-Gould, “rather higher than the Geysir.” We found it lying
275 feet (Mackenzie, 131 yards) south of the big brother, of which it is a mean
replica. The outer diameter of the saucer is only 7 feet, the inner about 18; and it
is too well drained by its silex-floored channel ever to remain full. A funnel or
inverted cone, whereas the Great Geysir is a mound and a cylinder, it gives the
popular idea of a crater: the upper bore is 8 feet 4 inches to 9 feet, the depth 44
to 49, and about half-way down it narrows to 11 inches. The surface is an ugly
area of spluttering and even boiling water. A “fulminating dose” of twenty-four
turfs and stones, with three by way of “bakhshísh,” brought on the usual tame
display of “bouquets d’eau in sheaves, gerbes, lanceolations, and volutes,” the
highest rising at most 40 feet: travellers give twelve minutes for the operation,
others see it “almost instantaneously;” we had to wait more than an hour. Bryson
explains (pp. 44, 45) the action of turf by its organic matter causing violent
ebullition, like the mucus or albumen of eggs, which make the pot boil over, or
like the vesicles in foam or custard-confining atmospheric oxygen. But a second
experiment with stones only, and the want of suddenness in the outburst, made
us fall back upon the homely old theory, namely, that stopping the narrow tube
enables the water to overcome the pressure of the upper column. The French
expedition, after duly “activising it,” fired a shotted gun at the surface of the
Strokkr, which is said at once to have ceased boiling.
The most interesting part to us was the fourth or southern tract. It is known as
Thikku-hverar, thick caldrons (hot springs), perhaps in the sense opposed to thin
or clear water. Amongst its “eruptiones flatuum,” the traveller feels that he is
walking
“Per ignes,
Suppositos cineri doloso.”

There are at least fifty items in operation over this big lime-kiln; some without
drains, others shedding either by sinter-crusted channels eastward or westward
through turf and humus to the swampy stream. It shows an immense variety,
from the infantine puff to the cold turf-puddle; from Jack-in-the-box to the cave
of blue-green water, surrounded by ledges of silex and opalline sinter (hydrate of
silica), more or less broad: the infernal concert of flip-flopping, spluttering,
welling, fizzing, grunting, rumbling, and growling never ceases. The prevalent
tints are green and white, but livelier hues are not wanting. One “gusherling”
discharges red water; and there is a spring which spouts, like an escape pipe,
brown, high and strong. The “Little Geysir,” which Mackenzie places 106 yards
south of the Strokkr, and which has been very churlish of late years, was once
seen to throw up 10 to 12 feet of clean water, like the jet of a fire-plug. The
“Little Strokkr” of older travellers,[111] a “wonderfully amusing formation,
which darts its waters in numerous diagonal columns every quarter of an hour,”
is a stufa or steam-jet in the centre of the group, but it has long ceased its
“funning.”
Here we tried our final experiment. The small spring farthest to the south-
west, and about 310 feet from the Strokkr; raised upon a little platform of
silicious laminæ, and draining southwards, has two distinct issues, one nearly
circular (1 foot by 10 inches), and the other long-oval (1 foot by 6 inches),
distant 2 feet 2 inches, but apparently communicating; the depth is 11 feet, after
which soundings are prevented by irregularities. We blocked up both apertures
with well-tamped turf. The northern remained closed. After forty minutes, the
southern began to play; it threw up gerbes some 30 feet, which showed
fragments of “Geysir rainbow,” and this lasted at least an hour and a half, after
which it was completely exhausted; its earths were stopped next morning, but
during six hours there were no results. Simultaneously with this eruption, and
reminding us of Horrebow’s sympathetic water, the Red Mouth, a dwarf basin
some 440 feet to the south-east, into which we had also thrown stones, began to
play. This experiment suggested considerable doubts as to the general
applicability of all existing theories. Another point which still remains for
inquiry is that of the Salses or cones emitting slime and hydrogen. In the United
States it is supposed that these “mud-puffs” begin as clear Geysirs, or as boiling
springs, and that they become thicker and thicker till the heat dies out, when the
fetid matter no longer appears. As far as I know, the theory has never been
applied to Iceland.
I cannot but hold the Geysirs, in their present condition, to be like Hekla,
gross humbugs; and if their decline continues so rapidly, in a few years there will
be nothing save a vulgar solfatara, 440 by 150 yards in extent. But, luckily for
the sight-seer, facilities of travel increase in still greater proportion. A few will
visit the jetting boiling water near the beautiful Lake Roto-ma in New Zealand,
made known to us by the Curse of Manaia. Many will picnic to the “Grand
National Park” of the Yellowstone, where, as in the new hemisphere generally,
every feature, lakes and cataracts, forest and cañon, is on a scale unknown to the
old.[112] Here the Mud Geysir (Firehole Basin) is a greater Strokkr; the Mud
Puffs are the Thikku-hverar en grand; and the silicious mound of the “Giant
Geysir” is so broken that its sinuous orifices expose the boiling water forty feet
below, and its paroxysms have lasted three hours.
After this depreciatory notice of another “Wonder of the World,” it is only
fair to the reader that he should be supplied with a description of it by a more
enthusiastic pen.
“I was particularly fortunate,” writes a friend from Edinburgh, “in witnessing
two grand eruptions of this magnificent fountain: the first from its
commencement till its close.
“By the favour of the Danish Government, the 18-gun ship ‘Thor’ received
six travellers on board in Leith Roads on the 18th of June 1855. My friend the
late Dr Robert Chambers, in his ‘Tracings of Iceland and the Faroe Islands,’
gives an interesting account of our voyage, of a boat trip with him and a friend
through the Faroe group, and of our ride to the Geysers.
“We arrived at Reykjavik on the 27th, having difficulty in getting a pilot to
come on board the monster that could sail against wind and tide, the ‘Thor’
being the first steamer that had appeared in Iceland waters.
“After a ball at the Governor’s on the evening of the 28th, we started in the
morning for Thingvellir, accompanied by Captain Raffenberg, three officers of
the ‘Thor,’ our kind host and entertainers, and by young Count Carl Trampe, son
of the Governor, with forty-one horses, and arrived on the field of the Geysers in
the evening of the 30th. Shortly before, as we were descending to the ford of the
river, a column like smoke was observed in the distance before us; this, as we
afterwards learnt, was from Geyser—one of his great displays.
“A little tent pitched near the great Geyser was not proof against the pelting
rain, but I was glad to get a friend to share it, the rest of the party taking refuge
at the neighbouring farm-house.
“The night was dark, with heavy rain. Geyser (as he is emphatically called by
the Icelanders) gave no sign.
“The first of July was warm and bright.
“There were several eruptions during the day, making me familiar with his
operations, but there were none of them to any great height, lasting only for two
or three minutes: the basin not quite emptied.
“Several eruptions of Strokkr were witnessed, two of them by giving him a
dose of turf: the prescription discovered by Henderson. These were a series of
violent explosions, without any warning; the first burst went up like a rocket
fifty or sixty feet, followed in such quick succession lower and higher that
frequently the ascending mass passed through the descending waters, falling
outwards on all sides. During the ten minutes they lasted, a stream of boiling
water was given off only inferior to that of the Great Geyser.
“The last shoot into the air was generally the highest.
“It is not quite safe to be near this fellow in his spasmodic pranks, but they
cannot be looked upon without amazement. The action is altogether different
from that of the orderly majestic movements of the great King of all the Geysers,
with whom he has evidently no connection.
“In his normal state, eight feet down from his not very pretty mouth, the
water in Strokkr is always in violent ebullition.
“The estimate we formed of the extreme height of the sheaves of water was
above 100 feet. In order to assist in the computation, we had measured that
distance to the ground where we stood. The more practised eyes of the naval
officers agreed in this estimate.
“It was now eleven P.M.; the sky as clear as day.
“With the exception of my tent friend and a companion, who had gone to visit
the Little Geyser, the rest of the party had left for the night.
“Standing on the edge of the basin to windward, assisted by the Hoffmeister
in measuring the line I had stretched across it at different points, several heavy
thumps were felt under our feet, followed by earthquake movement, and the
rolling sound, so often described, coming from a distance to the south. My
assistant had thrown down the lines and fled.
 “The water in the basin was as smooth as glass, the slight vapour rising being
carried to the south-west, when suddenly in the centre of the basin over the well
or pipe (10 feet 4 inches in diameter, as afterwards measured) the water rose,
through the water in the basin, to the full circumference of the pipe (31 feet), to
the height of about 3 feet.
“The column appeared for an instant as if a solid body, immediately falling
into the basin, and ruffling its surface with a series of waves.
“Lord Dufferin, in his charming ‘Letters from High Latitudes,’ in happy
illustration of this phenomenon adds in a foot-note:
‘As if an angel troubled the waters.’

“Again, the water rose 5 or 6 feet, falling as before, creating a little storm in
the basin, and rushing out at the two openings in the rim, the one on the north-
east, the other on the east. By the third and fourth rise of these columns,
following each other with increasing rapidity, the boiling water came tumbling
like a cataract over the basin and down the mound on all sides. Compelled to
retire a little distance, columns of water were now dimly seen following each
other with loud noise, as they rushed through the tube into the air, each
succeeding column higher than the one before it. These were now a series of
explosions, giving off enormous clouds of steam, black from their density.
“My two friends then joined me and witnessed this rare sight in all its
grandeur. The display lasted for about seven minutes from the commencement.
“Immediately after the last and highest explosion, the flow down the sides of
the mound suddenly ceased, and running up and into the basin, we found it
empty, and the water standing some ten feet down, the tube gradually filling
again.
“The Hoffmeister of the ‘Thor’ had returned, and throwing some stones into
the well, myriads of steam bubbles were disengaged, and rose to the surface,
making him run again for his life from the wrath of the demon he had thus
provoked.
“2d of July.—Fast asleep in the tent at six in the morning. I was roused by the
underground thundering to the south: my friend, who was up, had looked out and
thought it was only an abortive attempt; the noise continued, accompanied by the
sound of rushing waters near us. Following my friend, I lost him for a minute or
two in the dense mass of steam, which smelt of sulphur, but he speedily joined
me in my former position; and before the explosions had attained their highest
elevation, the whole party were near us. Their opinion was, that the height the
explosions had attained was quite as great as that of Strokkr on the previous day.
I was much too near to form any adequate opinion. Rising above the dense
clouds of vapour, the water in columns was distinctly seen opening out at the top
into separate shoots at varying heights, the lower curving outwards, the higher
shot up perpendicular, and shattered into diamond drops, sparkling in the sun.
The well opens up trumpet-shape into the basin, the diameter of the curve being
about 2 feet 6 inches. To this it appears to be due that most of the water falls
outside its margin.
“From one of the last columns about a third broke off, and, bending between
me and the sun, left his image quite black upon the retina.
“Prepared for the close, we had reached the basin in time to see the last
portion of its contents running into the well, leaving the basin burning hot, and
not a drop of water in it. The well was standing about 12 feet down, the water
slowly rising, and taking about 15 minutes again to fill the basin.
“During these eruptions the rush of boiling water never ceased; but uniting to
the east of the mound, it flowed down to the river in a continuous stream, in
some places 20 yards in breadth.
“Taking the average height of the columns of water at 45 feet, and eight
shoots in a minute during a period of eruption of 7½ minutes, the discharge is
1,410,600 gallons; or take one column 80 feet by 10 feet 4 inches diameter, gives
41,797 gallons at one discharge; a shot weighing 186 tons 11 cwts. 3 qrs. 17 lbs.
from this great gun, to which the Woolwich Infant is but a babe.
“To the eye, so far as could be seen, the pipe was quite cylindrical; and,
plumbed all round, no irregularity was discovered, except at the bottom, which
was very irregular, giving to my line a depth of 80 feet on one side, 82 on the
other. My tent companion and friend, the late Robert Allan, in a paper read at the
meeting of the British Association at Glasgow in 1855, and published in its
Transactions, gave the depth 83 feet 2 inches. The diameter of the basin from
two points—72 feet 6 inches, 68 feet 1 inch: my four measurements taken twice
on the surface of the water gives the average of 66 feet.
“Assembled round the basin, which had now filled, the water smooth and
bright, with a thin screen of vapour carried to the south, a curious discovery was
made. Standing with his back to the sun, and looking into the basin, the spectator
saw his face and head clear as in a mirror, surrounded by a halo of bright
prismatic colours. The coloured rays extended round the head to the distance of
2 or 3 feet, forming two-thirds to three-fourths of a circle, the lower portion
wanting. The observer could only see his own likeness, not that of his neighbour.
 “The temperature of Geyser at rest varied from 180° to 188°, but no
perceptible difference was noticed before or after the explosions.
“The heat of the water may be ascertained very nearly by observing the
amount of steam given off.
“During eruptions the water was expelled at a temperature far above the
boiling point, as the dense masses of steam clearly showed.
“There was no steam from Geyser, which was not given out from the water
itself, during the explosions.
“On examining the basin, little ripple markings were found all over its
surface, similar to what are left on the sands of the sea by the retiring tide.
“It was unbroken by sacrilegious chisel and hammer, then busily employed
by all three in collecting specimens.
“On my visit three years after, in 1858, some of these rejected specimens
were found so firmly cemented in the place they were left that my hammer could
not disengage them without tearing up a portion of the rock to which they
adhered.
“In the little pools on the sides of the mound films of pure silica were
discovered; and on the edge of the little falls of the stream towards the river I got
some good specimens of calcedony in process of formation, but they were too
brittle to carry safely away.
“On my second visit to the Geysers I was congratulated by Captain Verron of
the ‘Artemise’ of being sure to witness a grand eruption, seeing he had been two
days there without one; but, storm-stayed for four days, and never out of sight of
my tent, I was disappointed. The incessant rain had so subdued the motive
powers of action that the Great Geyser seldom rose near half his former height.
Strokkr growled, making some praiseworthy efforts, and the smaller Geysers did
their best under such adverse circumstances.
“Among the preparations made I had for ascertaining the temperature of the
well of the Geyser:
“1. A cord repeatedly shrunk in hot water, then stretched, and marked every
ten feet.
“2. Another to span the basin with a ring in the centre, through which No. 1
was passed.
“The thermometer being attached to No. 1, was let down into the tube every
10 feet successively, and with the help of two assistants on opposite sides of the
basin, bringing it home to note the temperature.
 “Unfortunately, a Negretti by Stevenson, though in a case, and well protected,
got injured during the operation; one of the screws which fastened the glass tube
to its case was out, and a bit at the upper end broken off. The injury I found, after
all, would not have amounted to more than a difference of 5° to 6° Fahrenheit in
temperature, but I had lost confidence in it.
“So far as observed, the temperature rose very nearly in proportion to the
depth of the well, from about 188° at the top to about 260° at the bottom.”
The following are the temperature measurements at the Great Geyser, taken
on August 6 and 7, 1874, and given on April 29, 1875, at the Royal Society of
Edinburgh by Robert Walker, Esq., a Fellow of the Society:
Depth in feet from surface. Observed temperature (Fahr.).
0 = 187°
10·5= 190°
18 = 197°
27 = 211°
36 = 243°
39 = 247°
45 = 250°·5
49·5= 254°
54 = 256°·5
58·5= 254° (?)
67·5= 259°·5
77·5= 257°
“As an example of change in these springs: on the first visit, a pool was
found near the Little Geyser, from which a stream ran eastwards, the temperature
on the surface was 168°; adhering to the sides thick fleshy leaves of Algæ of a
greenish-brown colour were floating. The spot was marked, and three years after,
the Algæ were gone, all but a little on the sides, the temperature reduced to 139°,
the water had sunk down, and the stream had ceased, leaving its former course
quite discernible by the grass which covered it being of a lighter green tint than
that on each side of its course. To the west, steam issued out of a minute hole: a
stroke of the hammer disclosed a little pool in ebullition, but the temperature was
only 184°. Is this little fellow destined at some future day to rival his
companions?
“Between the Geyser and the beautiful caverns often described there is an
ugly hole about 8 feet diameter, most dangerous, and horrible to look at; unlike
all the rest, containing the purest water, it is filled to within 4 or 5 feet of its
mouth with a silicious paste of a dark-brown colour, of the consistency of
porridge, alternately popling and boiling furiously.
“Visiting Reykir in 1858, we were informed by the pastor that the period of
its Geyser was just six hours, so we had but an hour to wait. True to time, the
water gradually rose with a continuous flow, rising higher and higher during a
space of twenty minutes, until it had reached a height of 38 feet. A little
instrument, designed by the Astronomer Royal for Scotland, with the aid of a
friend from Bo’ness, was sufficient to give this close approximation.
“The charm of the Geyser at Reykir could not be exceeded; the shafts, as they
rose, curved outwards all round in perfect symmetry, a tree of live water,
throwing off steam, but not sufficient to obscure its marvellous beauty, as the sun
played and sparkled among its branches.
“It is difficult to account for these various phenomena.
“Place a glass tube half filled with water over a lamp or gas light. After the
water is boiled, it will be ejected by successive spurts; and looking at the bottom
of the tube, an air space will be seen, expanding as the water is ejected. This is
the explosive material so often referred to, and it is upon this operation that the
diminutive Geysers have been constructed to so far explain the action and time
of these water volcanoes.
“The observations made upon these two visits led me to the following
conclusions as to the phenomena accompanying the eruptions of the Great
Geyser:
“The cavity of Sir George Mackenzie, or boiler, as I shall here term it, I
would place from 200 to 230 yards to the south of it, not far from the little
Strokkr, from which the sound of underground ‘artillery’ is heard to proceed.
Here it is that the explosive force—highly superheated steam—is generated.
Connected with it and the underground passage to Geyser is the reservoir of hot
water.
“These underground caverns are numerous over Iceland, Surseitler being the
most famous; in it the sides of the cave, a mile in length, are smooth and rounded
to the ceiling, evidently formed when the lava was in a plastic state—blown out
like the molten glass under the hands of the bottle-maker. From the roof large
blocks had fallen, rendering the passage extremely difficult.
“It seems highly probable that the cause of the sharp rattling noise heard
during eruption is due to such loose angular masses of lava rock being driven
against each other with the force that propelled the rush of waters to the Geyser.
The explosive force unequal at first to impel more than a portion of water up the
tube, the resistance becomes less as the reservoir gets emptied by its escape up
the tube, and so the water is propelled higher and higher to the last. The
explosions cease by the steam in the boiler being suddenly condensed, and the
vacuum thus created drawing back the water from the passage, and from the
basin, and in part from the well. The premonitory thumps were probably caused
by the first waves of the rushing mass of water striking against a wall of rock
close to the bottom of the well.
“Numerous Geysers worthy of note are scattered all over Iceland, the joint
production of water and the subterranean fires which underlie them.”

SECTION IV.—TO THINGVELLIR AND BACK TO REYKJAVIK.

The next morning (July 16) saw our departure. The breeze had chopped
round to the north, and, perhaps, this change of wind produced the general
excitement which we noticed in the springs. Both yesterday and to-day several
parties of Icelanders came to see the sights, the women shawled to the ears,
despite the hot sun, and with bodices unpleasantly tight-laced by lines of eyelet-
holes across the breast. Formerly the people “never passed the Geysir without
spitting into it; or, as they say, utí Fjandans munn—into the Devil’s mouth.” We
set off at eleven A.M., passing south-south-west to the Laug farm, where some
travellers have slept and “lost the eruption,” and crossing the filthy swamp,
where sheep graze and curlews scream, we forded the little stream which drains
between the Laugarfjall and its trachytic outlier. The approach to the thermæ
from the south is even meaner than the eastern, a dwarf slope of bright-coloured
ground trending from the concave lump to the Túngufljót.
Most of this march is only fit for the itinerary. The path in places becomes
like the hollow ways of the Brazil, whose gullies spread over a hundred yards of
ground, and the “forest,” as on the Anti-Libanus, shows more root than hole, the
tree hugging earth, as it were, to save itself from being blown away. The first
chapel farm gives an extensive view of the coast features and of the highly
picturesque formations, the Jarlhettur rampart, the twin bluffs and spines of
Hagafell, and the grim, black isolated castellation of Hljóðufell, outlying the
Lángjökull. At about half-past one P.M., warned by a rustling which was mistaken
for that of the forest, we came “lickity, lickity, switch,” upon the planks of the
Brúará or Bridgewater: in Perthshire there is also a Bruar, so called from its
natural arch. Gaimard, carefully copied by later writers, shows a plank forty feet
long, utterly undefended by “gardefou,” and “spanning the depths of a narrow
cleft in a precipice,” where men “rush for their lives,” and where “the danger is
at least a hundred feet.” Symington was reminded of the Mósi-wá-túnyá
(Victoria) Falls, the Niagara of South Africa! The river, classical in Iceland story
for the lynching of Jón Gerikson, the Swedish bishop, here washes over a rocky
channel about 160 feet broad. There is a ferry below; higher up a gash, nearly
100 yards long, forms a wedge-shaped crevasse, opening down stream, and a
drop of half-a-dozen feet in the bed combines to make a miniature horse-shoe,
over which the blue water pours, foaming and mildly roaring. Over the gash is
thrown a bridge of twelve planks,[113] some twelve feet broad, and well guarded
by iron-cramped rails. Man must lately have suffered from “Dil. Tre.” to feel
nervous in such a place, and we went our ways laughing.
Shortly after six P.M. we sighted Thingvallavatn, the “monarch of Iceland
lakes,” an expanse of placid blue, ruffled by the pleasant south. Its two crater-
islets are Nesjaey, small and green, near the western shore, and larger Sandey, a
two-pronged lump of black stone and green turf, rising a little south of a “Lisán,”
a dark foreland projected by the eastern shore. Shortly afterwards we came
suddenly upon the Hrafnagjá, or Raven’s Geo,[114] whose “startling depths”
extend from the snow-patched Hrafnabjörg, or Raven’s Crag, about four miles
long to the Vellankatla, Bay of the Lake. This longitudinal crevasse is the
facsimile of a “Ká’ah” in Hauránic Leja or the Refuge; the long parallel lines
show corresponding angles, and there is little difference of level between the
upper and lower lips of the barranco; in fact, it is the lateral rent to be found, in a
smaller scale, upon every lava-field. The arched form is common to such
streams, and where the sides find a soft and yielding foundation, and cold
contracts the heated mass, it splits on both sides of the major axis, and thus
forms chasms, often one or more, upon each flank. Here, at least, no “collapse
theory” is wanted.
A fair causeway across the Raven’s Rift is made by the falling of many rocks.
Upon the lower slopes we found “forest,” which does not exist on the sister
formation. We then crossed the eastern or, as it is known in history, the “upper
plain;” the surface on both sides of the path is streaked with “Geos,” mostly
running parallel; we remarked one disposed obliquely to the lay, and the various
names given to us were Háflagjá, Hólagjá, and Breðnigjá. At half-past nine P.M.
we entered the Thingvellir church: the altar-piece, a Last Supper, is old; the
pulpit dates from A.D. 1683; and the loft is not, as usual, a store-room for the
farm, but a sleeping apartment for travellers, provided with pillows and
mattresses, decently clean. Prófastr Bech was happily absent: his wife sent us
forelles and Kaka,[115] thin rye cakes, but Icelandic modesty did not admit of our
seeing the lady.
The next morning was spent in prospecting the humble wonders of
Thingvellir; the Tingvold of Norway; the Dyngsted of Oldenburg;[116] the
Dingwall of Ross-shire; the Tingwall of Hjaltland; and Tynwald of Dumfries and
the Isle of Man. This assembly plain owes all its fame to history; its civilising
influence upon the race reminds us of the annual reunions of the Greeks at
Delphi, and the Hebrews at Jerusalem. Sentimentalists would restore the
obsolete practice, and transfer the legislators from their comfortable hall at
Reykjavik to this wild and savage spot—why not propose that the barons of
England meet in parliament at Runnymede?
The lake is computed at thirty miles in circumference, and the depth in places
to exceed a hundred fathoms. The aspect on a cloudless morning is that of the
humble Scotch waters, wanting only gentlemen’s seats and a small steamer:
here, however, we are in Snowland, and we see it. The depressed plain begins
with the rugged delta of the Öxará,[117] or Axewater, and runs to the north-east
about four miles each way: the limits north and south are mountains and hills,
east and west run the twin “stone-streams.” Maps and plans make all the lava
flow to the south-west from Skjaldbreið: this must be an error, as in parts it
would flow upwards. I suspect a crater behind Hrafnabjörg, whence issued the
double stream, which can be seen from Thingvellir: the two forks circled round
that burnt red cone, anastomosed, and formed the Hrafnagjá and two shorter
Geos in the eastern half of the same stone-torrent: the latter do not cut the road,
but they are visible from every height. The fiery flood west of the plain which
forms the Almannagjá (all-men or great rift),[118] is not so easily traced. A
traveller might pass a satisfactory week to himself and others by journeying to
Skjaldbreið, where a path leads, and by ascending the mountain high enough to
map the lava-sources and the streams which form the two Geos.
 [Image unavailable.]
LÖGBERG AND ALMANNAGJA.

The popular theory is, that the whole plain, an item of the pyroxenic plateau
from Reykjavik to Geysir, has bodily “dropped at once and subsided” to its
present level, leaving exposed a section of the rent rocks on either side. It
reposes solely on the evidence of the two parallel Geos, and I do not see that
they bear it out. Both of the inner sides have sunk, not from subterraneous
crevassing, but because the strips of ground which subtended them could not
bear the weight. Mr Scrope would account for the fosses, not by vertical
settlement of superficial lava into any cavity beneath, but by the “simple and
usual process, the bulk of the semi-fluid lava-stream, upon the cessation of
supply from above, having run out into the depths of the Thingvalla Lake.” The
normal operation of this movement, however, is to form a tunnel, not an open
trough, and this objection is one of the least.
The contrast of mountain and water, as usual, gives a certain picturesqueness
to the site. South-east of the lake rises the Búrfell, here a goodly presence, and
no longer the little cone seen from about Reykir; south lies familiar Ingólfsfjall,
and south-west towers the “tall hanging hill,” Hengilshöfði, famed for sulphur
springs; snow-streaked, blue-tinted, and shaped somewhat like an elephant’s
head. Wheeling round to face north-west, we see the pinnacles of Súlarfell,
bristled as with trees; the fretted peaks about Gagnheiði; the dull black heap of
Ármannsfell, so called from Orman the Irish giant, who there lies in his grave;
and the ridgelet of Jornkliff, crouching below it. There to north-east stands
Skjaldbreið, shield-shaped as its name says, ending in a snow-flaked umbo
which suggests a crater. The peaks of Tindaskagi at its foot apparently connect
with the great Hrafnabjörg; and far behind them, but brought near by the
surpassing atmospheric clearness, sparkle the snows of Lángjökull. The eastern
view ends with the quaint serrations of Dímon, which may be either lava blisters,
or the lips of a true crater, with the long buttress-like promontory of Arnarfell,
and with the background heights of Miðfell.
Dasent’s “Topography of the Thingfield,”[119] will confine our notices of
details to a narrow range. We inspected the Ell-stone or Fathom-stone, a block of
vesicular lava, 4 feet 9 inches high, opposite the church door, and planted upon a
rubble foundation. The six lines upon the east face measure 1 foot 9 inches, 11
(10·50), 8, 7, 5, and 4 inches; they may be standards, but they look like the work
of nature. We then walked up to the grassy site of the Althing, and that local
Sinai, the Lögberg or Moothill, the latter a natural stone-mound to the north.
Parliament was formerly held on an island; it was for the best of reasons
transferred here, where the public was railed off by deep chasms, and where hon.
members could be attacked only by a single gateway. So the Shetland Tingwall
(Thingvöllr) was held on a holm,[120] accessible only by stepping-stones, and the
Thing-booths were on the lake-plain. East is the Hrossagjá, and 20 yards west,
the Nikolásagjá,[121] with the smaller Brennrugjá below the latter. These
miniatures of the two great rifts, distant about a mile and a half from the lake, are
of crumbling subcolumnar black rock, varying from 16 to 40 feet in breadth, and
falling sheer some 30 feet to clear blue-green water, whose depths show
detached blocks of lava. The two former unite to the north, the second and third
to the south, enclosing a long oval with a natural bridge, a few feet wide, to the
south-east. We admired the leap, worthy of Morton and the Black Linn, by
which Flosi escaped the “blood-stone;” this article was shown to us on the
western bank of the Hrossagjá, a detached slice some 12 feet long, whence the
victim would fall into the “Geo.” Below to the west lay the lower Öxará, which
has probably changed all its features since Njál’s day. Yet the guides still point
out the islet, where holm-gangs were fought in presence of the multitude;[122]
and amongst the sand-banks formed by ankle-deep rivulets, the
“Thorleifshólmr,” upon which criminals were beheaded.
I passed the greater part of the morning examining the Almannagjá, whose
total length is about two miles,[123] and the average breadth 100 feet. Ascending
the outer or eastern edge by a slope of 20°, I found the upper strata to be ropy,
treacly, and scoriaceous lava, whilst below and inside the couches are hard and
crystalline. There is a slip in the “Topography of the Thingfield” (p. cxxvii.),
where it says, “about a mile and a half from where the great rift touches the lake,
its inner lip ceases,” and the “Enlarged Plan” makes it break off where it is very
distinctly marked. The sole was a mass of débris fallen from the sides, and good
pasture streaked with many a path. Up the chasm there are rude dry walls of
mortarless stone, the Makíl of the Syrian goat-herd, and serving as Sæters for
sheep—the guides declare them to be the Búðir of the old Thingmen, but their
booths did not extend north of the river. The upper or western wall, whose crest
is weathered into pinnacles, varies from 80 to a maximum of 100 feet, whilst the
lower ranges from 30 to 50; both are perpendicular and show stratifications
which seem to proceed from a succession of discharges.
The Axewater, above the “Geo,” is a stream like an English rivulet, flowing
through a wild and desolate Heiði. It tumbles over the western lip by a gap about
50 feet high; here the layers of lava are well defined on both sides, and it is easy
to climb up either flank of the toy cascade. This fall was sighted during the last
march, and suggested great expectations as the foot was hidden. M. Gaimard
takes the liberty of removing the screen, and showing the whole height
prodigiously exaggerated. It does not “explode in a cataract,” but falls decently
into a font-like kieve, and threads the sand and boulders of the Geo. After a few
yards it finds a gap in the inner lip, and here it dashes towards the plain with two
falls, mere steps in the rock. In the lower basin, “sack-packed wretched
females”—the author must have been dreaming of the Bosphorus—were let
down by ropes and drowned as a punishment for infanticide. Farther on, witches
were burned; less lucky than other travellers, I could not find their bones. After
thus bisecting the Geo from north-west to south-east, the Axewater runs along its
eastern base, and enters the Thingvallavatn. The latter is drained to the south-
east by the Sog (inlet) outlet, which eventually feeds the Ölfusá or lower Hvítá;
it may be reached in five hours’ sharp riding from Thingvellir, and in about
double that time from Reykjavik. Here in July any quantity of salmon-trout may
be caught; the fish lie above the first foss thick as water-plants. My informant
had taken twenty-five in one day; the heaviest was 7 lbs., and only two weighed
under 6 lbs.; but he had been almost blinded by the plagues of gnats and flies,
which covered his pony with blood-points.
In the afternoon we rode merrily “home.” The road began by fording the
Axewater, after which was a rude causeway of basalt, about thirty feet long,
ascending the eastern lip. It crossed diagonally the grassy surface of the “Geo,”
and climbed the western wall. A short ramp, paved for beasts, like a bad flight of
steps, runs between the true rampart and a slice of rock which has been parted
from it. Travellers usually sight it from above, hence we read of the “frightful
dangerous chasm,” and we are told (N.B.—not by an Irishman) that “this is
perhaps the most unique scene in the world.” The moderns compare it with the
“Devil’s Staircase” in the Pass of Glencoe. The path would hardly startle the
most nervous girl, and a Harfushi horseman would gallop his Arab up and down
it.
Beaching the summit, we spurred across the Mossfellsheiði, which those
fresh from home describe as a “horrible stony waste, bordered by lofty
mountains.” But we had met with worse things than this “ever-to-be-avoided
heiði,” where, moreover, labourers were working at the road. Seen in bad
weather, it must be grim enough, as the many “stone-men” show; hence,
doubtless, general complaints about the “mournful wail of the plover, and the
wild scream of the curlew.”[124] We found a number of these birds, besides
sandpipers, purple oyster-breakers, whimbrels, whose “soft fluid jug,” according
to the “Oxonian,” “is not unlike the nightingale’s song,” and a fair scatter of
ravens. I proposed a turkey-buzzard on a blasted tree, proper, as the arms of
Dahome, and Grip on a lava pinnacle would suit Iceland passing well.
The only interest of this day’s ride is, that it crosses the “great trachytic band”
opposed to the lesser trachytic band of Snæfellsjökull; the former made by old
writers to stretch clean across Iceland from near Reykjanes (south-west) to
Langanes (north-east). We examined a few veins of that rock, but the surface
was mainly lava above and Palagonite below. The latter is said to be remarkably
well developed in the Seljaland gorge,[125] and we dismounted to secure red
specimens, and to find, if possible, an Irish rose. This feature, I suppose, is one
writer’s “vast precipice, where there is only about sixteen inches to tread on,”
and the “deep ravine, wild, horrid, and frightful,” of another pen, whose pencil
supplies it with a herd of deer.
As we drew near Reykjavik the sun, after shimmering horizontally along the
ground, obliged us by occasionally setting behind the hills, and when it
“Burned
The old farm-gable, we thought it turned
The milk that fell in a babbling flood
Into the milk-pail, red as blood.”

The moon arose with a judicious repression of details: the silver light, the dark
purple brooding at the hill-feet, and the gleam of the golden west gave more
colour than usual to the view. The ponies, under boxes now empty, seemed to fly
as they scented home. The only difference in the familiar scene was a vast
eruption of peat-stacks, made, like hay, whilst the sun shines. Shortly before
midnight we were again at home: in Iceland there are no hours, and kind-hearted
Frú Jonassen did not keep us waiting either for supper or for bed.

ITINERARY FROM REYKJAVIK TO HEKLA AND THE GEYSIR VIA

KRÍSUVÍK.
REYKJAVIK TO KRÍSUVÍK.
Monday, July 8, 1872.
Left Reykjavik at A.M. 11.30. Rounded heads of two dwarf Fjörðs (1 P.M.),
Fosvogr and Kópavogr (seal-cub voe); turf at valley-heads.
1.45 P.M.—Hafnafjörð = 2 hours 15 min. riding; path tolerable up torrent bed;
crossed first divide of rugged ropy lava; path bad.
3.20 P.M. (= 3 hours 50 min.).—Changed horses in grassy cup-shaped hollow,
under broken wall of lava.
 3.30 P.M.—Started again; at 4 P.M. forded Kaldá (cold water) River.
4.45 P.M.—Short halt on grassy bottom at foot of Lángahlíð.
6.30 P.M. (=7 hours).—Kleifarvatn (cliff-water); path along western shore of
lake.
7.15 P.M.—Left lake; over bog and up hill.
⊙ I. 8.30 P.M.—Reached Krísuvík (Bay of Krísa, proper name of woman), 5
hours + 3.50 = 8 hours 50 min. Frequent halts and delays with pack-saddles. At
most 3 miles per hour by 9 = 27 indirect statute miles. People call the distance
“10 to 15 miles.” Road upon map, 16 direct geographical miles from Reykjavik
to Krísuvík. General direction, north to south with a little westing.
Good, grey, travelling day; no sun and no rain till night.
Paid at Krísuvík, $1, 3m. 0sk. (the cheapest).
KRÍSUVÍK TO LITLALAND.
July 9.
Left Krísuvík 10.45 A.M.; floundered over bog. Great arid plateau of Iceland
to left.
11.45.—Crossed rocky divide. Short cut over livid plain of lava; sea to right;
road along slopes.
12.45.—Entered great lava-field, which lasted with intermissions throughout
day.
1.15 P.M.—Sweet-water lakelet (not shown on map) of Herdisarvík (Her-dís,
proper name); first great lava-stream ends.
3.15 P.M.—Rode across Hlíðarvatn, at foot of Lángahlíð, now not open to sea
as in map; water brackish. Halted 1 hour near Vogsósar (voe’s mouths) farm;
gnats and flies. Rode 4 hours 30 min. = 13½ indirect statute miles.
4.15 P.M.—Left Vogsósar. Basaltic sands and shells; thin grass. Then loose
sand and old flow of lava; domes, caves, and circular blow-holes, like those of
the Haurán. Deep sand, black and red. Rocky divide; went gently over the
stones.
7.30 P.M.—Passed Hlíðarendi (not the Lithe-end, or Ridge-end) to the left
(north); farm under green slope.
Forded streamlet in swampy river-valley; rough causeway; should have
crossed at the stone-man farther down.
⊙ II. 8 P.M.—Reached Litlaland; five-gabled farm of Magnús Magnússon.
Rode 3 hours 30 min. = 11 indirect statute miles. Total, 8 hours = 24½ indirect
statute miles; on map, 19 direct geographical miles. General direction, west to
east.
Misty morn. Day like yesterday, but more sun. Wind ranged from south-east
to north. At night cirri; show clear day to-morrow.
Paid $2, 0m. 0sk.
LITLALAND TO REYKIR AND LAUGARDÆLIR FARM.
July 10.
Set out 10.30 A.M. Up rise over cindery lava.
11.30.—Road forks, right branch leading to big farm. Took path to left;
reached old beach, water-worn galettes lying in long lines. Skálafell above to left
(north-west).
11.35.—Right bank of Ölfusá (proper name) valley, higher up called the Sog.
Ölfusvatn is the old name for Thingvallavatn.
11.45.—Hjalli (a hillock, much the same as “Hóll;” Cleasby says, “a shelf or
ledge in a mountain-side”); chapel farm. Skirted tall Palagonite precipice on left.
1 P.M.—Passed through Níupat (?), filthy Bær, dunghill to pony’s knees. Up
right bank of Varmá, influent of broad Ölfusá. Wet riding, water draining and
sinking from above. Then white, smooth soil.
1.50 P.M.—Forded Varmá; easy descent and ascent; water to horses’ knees.
Left baggage animals. Reached Reykir 2 P.M. Morning ride, 3 hours 40 min. by 4
miles = 16 indirect statute miles; on map, 9 direct geographical miles. Direction,
south-west to north-east.
Left Reykir 3.40 P.M. Circled round south of hill spine dividing Varmá and
Ölfusá. Forded two small streams and trotted over causeway (Brú), here
common, with some dwarf bridges. After third stream fine riding along west and
south walls of Ingólfsfjall. On slopes and at tongue-tip fallen masses of light,
lavender-coloured Palagonite, water-worn to shape of volcanic bombs. Crossed
two causeways, down slope of Ölfusá valley.
⊙ III. At 6.45, ferry of Laugardælir; spent 1 hour 20 min. in crossing.
Reached farm of Sæmund Bjarnarson 8 P.M. Afternoon ride, 3 hours by 5 = 15
miles; on map, 6 direct geographical miles. Direction, north-north-west to south-
south-east. Total ride, 6 hours 45 min. = 30 indirect statute miles; on map, 15
miles. General direction, south-south-west to north-north-east.
Weather charming; real enjoyment. Sun clear, not hot; high north-easter; lofty
cirri and woolpack. Evening cloudy. Rain at night; wind changed to west and
south-west; heat brought bad weather.
At ferry paid $1, and the bishop paid $2. Tariff, 10sk. Danish per horse, and
12sk. per man or load. Pays well at this season; travellers by day and night.
Englishmen have been asked $20 and got off with $12 (rascality of guide?).
For lodging (church) and forage, coffee and biscuits, paid $3.
LAUGARDÆLIR TO THJÓRSÁRHOLT FERRY.
July 11.
Horses strayed. Left at noon. Over delta-like flat between Hvítá and Thjórsá
(bull’s water); to north of former, detached bills of Búrfell (a cabochon seen
from north and south, and a hogsback elsewhere), Stóraborg, and Hestfjall,
resembling dots. Bog on old lava: stone outcrops at places; wettest part often
most solid base.
1.30 P.M.—Hraungerði (lava garth) chapel; two farms 8 miles from ferry;
horses and neat cattle.
2 P.M.—Hill dividing Ölfusá and Thjórsá. Rough work; showed lake-country
below, and Thjórsá line raised by refraction. Along natural lava-dyke to dismal,
dreary moor, all knobs and hummocks. Even ravens avoid it in this weather.
4.30 P.M. (3 hours 30 min. = 18 indirect statute miles).—Halted thirty minutes
and changed horses at Lángamýri; large farm-house, one of many; wire fence,
two strands, and stripped branches for hedge.
5 P.M.—Remounted. Bad riding.
5.40.—Came upon Thjórsá. Ólafsvellir to left; ferry saves distance, but
dangerous in fierce wind. Path along stream excellent, black basaltic sand, at
times cut off corners, clay covering sand. Turned from north-east to east. Farms
and cattle. Passed Sandlækr and tall riverine islet, Arnesthing. “Rústir,” or ruins,
on right. Ponies tired; when leaving river often lost way.
7 P.M.—Country more thickly peopled.
⊙ IV. 8.30 P.M.—At Thjórsárholt ferry-house (3 hours 30 min. = 20 miles).
Total 8 hours, varying pace = 46 indirect statute miles; map, 26 direct
geographical miles. General direction, west-south-west to east-north-east.
Weather vile, unlike the finest month, July, as possible; forenoon cold;
driving rain. At noon stopped. Furious in afternoon. At times drizzle, like hoar-
frost on grass by decomposition of light. Rain again violent till end of march.
Paid $3 for night’s lodging and ferry. Tariff, 11sk. per man or pack; on return
paid $1.
THJÓRSÁRHOLT TO NÆFRHOLT FARM.
June 12.
Left Thjórsárholt 10 A.M.; up stream to ferry. Spent 1 hour 30 min. crossing
Thjórsá.
11.30 A.M.—Over turf of left (east) valley, like a dwarf prairie; 50 min. Many
farms; good land, grassy sward, two to three feet deep. Threads of lava, with
dangerous holes and sinks, sometimes covered with grass-turf. In places lava
bare and broken. Crossed rivulet.
12.55 P.M.—Stóruvellir parsonage, 1 hour 30 min. = 6 miles; map, 4 direct
geographical miles. Direction, south with a little easting. Place afflicted by
winds from Sprengisandur, distant two to three days’ ride.
2.30 P.M.—Left Stóruvellir with guide. Pastoral scene at foot of Hekla, a
pampa. Sheep everywhere; ditto stinging flies throughout the inhabited part, few
at Geysir.
3.45 P.M.—Leirubakki farm. Changed guides. After a few minutes reached
Vestri (west) Rangá (“wrong” or crooked stream), at the mouth called Ytri (outer
or uttermost) Rangá. Forded two preliminary brooks, and tethered horses
together for third or main channel, girth deep. Dwarf forest, birch and willows.
Then two streams, one a ditch, the other a “lavapés,” flowing, like lava, north-
east to south-west.
⊙ V. 5 P.M.—Næfrholt (birch-bark copse), last cottage at foot of Bjólfell,
western outlier of Hekla. Formerly travellers slept at Selsund farm, south-south-
west of Næfrholt.
Afternoon march, 2 hours 30 min. = 12 indirect statute miles. Total of day’s
ride, 4 hours = 18 indirect statute miles; map, 10 direct geographical miles.
Grey day, like the start; clouds had expended ammunition. Wind south-east.
In evening weather doubtful, wind west. Hekla misted over, good sign; travellers
often stopped by fogs, and even by snow, in July. Flies suddenly disappeared,
wings wetted; not the case with the gnats and midges acting mosquitoes.
Instruments in evening.
Aneroid, 30·24; thermometer, 58° (F.).
Hygrometer, 4° (exceptionally dry).
AT NÆFRHOLT.
July 13.
Ascended Hekla.
Left Næfrholt 8.25 A.M.
Rode down the turf lane; crossed the dwarf stream (lavapés), up right grassy
bank, and crossed again. Entered basin of “Unknown Lake”—thin strip of flat
land with holes often marked by grass and willows. All “sinks” (sink-holes) and
punchbowls, as if limestone country. Last thick vegetation 1500 feet high. Then
into dreary region, sand and cinder; powdery red cone of fine cinder on left.
Slabs of heat-altered trachyte. Obsidian of two kinds—(1.) Huge blocks of
pitchstone found from top to bottom of cone, hard and flinty (Hrafntinnu
proper); and (2.) Small pieces of “Samidin,” or obsidian with crystals of white
jasper like that of Tenerife and other places. Bombs showed furious cannonade.
Palagonite everywhere in situ and in scatters: some contained obsidian.
Made for big, rough lava-stream, rusty and in heaps; in places rapidly
degrading, and leaving only core. Ponies sank to fetlock. Hugged left of Steiná
(stone stream). After two hours’ ride, at 10.30 A.M. crossed hill, reached barren
divide too steep for horses.
Aneroid in air, 28·18 (difference, 2·06); thermometer, 92° (in pocket);
hygrometer, 2°.
Walked up slope of divide; descended very short pitch of stone and débris,
steepest bit of whole march. Crossed vein of lava (Sept. 2, 1845) like pulled
bread, all slag and clinker; pulverising above. Reached a kind of couloir, a rim
on left of lava-stream. Black sand and two large tongues of ice-based snow,
white and brown, ridged with dirty earth, and dotted with dwarf ice-tables, sable
above and ermine below. More ice as we ascended, keeping on the earthy parts.
Many halts.
12.20.—Reached crater of 1845. Observed instruments.
Aneroid in air, 26·33 (difference, 3·90); thermometer, 83° (in pocket).
Stiff ascent (15 min.) to First or Southern Crater. At 1.13 P.M. sat down upon
its western lip. Walking lasted 2 hours 45 min. Total ascent, 4 hours 45 min.
Aneroid, 25·94 (difference, 3·30); thermometer, 68° (air); hygrometer, 0°.
Passed over ridge, and reached snow; thence to north-east lip of Second or
Northern Crater, the apex. Reached highest point 1.53 P.M. Total, 3 hours 13 min.
(included halts, not bad for difference 2·56 of aneroid).
Aneroid, 25·62 (difference, 4·84); thermometer, 67°; hygrometer, 0°.
2.30 P.M.—Began descent (walked 1 hour 25 min.).
3.28 P.M.—Lowest snow.
3.45 P.M.—Mounted horses (rode slowly 1 hour 45 min.).
5.30 P.M.—Næfrholt farm. Total descent, 3 hours 10 min.
Total of ascent and descent, 7 hours 55 min. (say 8 hours).
Day clear, sun very hot; air thirsty for man and beast.
Paid guide $1, 4m. 0sk. To house for forage, etc. (two days), $5.
 NÆFRHOLT TO GEYSIR.
July 14.
Long, weary day.
Left Næfrholt 9.40 A.M. Wind drove away flies. Crossed Rangá and five other
streams.
12.10 P.M.—Reached Thjórsá, 2 hours 30 min. of fast riding—five miles per
hour. Ferried over at Thjórsárholt. This third of road good.
1.45 P.M.—Remounted; crossed flat land; two Kálfá; east fork big and west
fork small. Bad mosses; rounding foul swamps; one furlong of good path to one
mile of bad.
3.45 P.M.—Reached (Eastern) Laxá; reported bad ford; found it very good.
4.10 P.M.—Crossed Laxá valley to Sólheimar (sun-home) farm. Rounded fens
and crossed morasses. Passed a made tank for washing sheep—rare luxury here.
Foul bog of cotton-grass; deep vein along causeway.
5.20 P.M.—Hruni chapel; 4 hours 35 min. from Thjórsá, fast riding. This third
of road moderate.
6.45 P.M.—Left Hruni; road to Geysir now very bad; five fast or seven slow
hours; took guide ($1), or it would have been worse. Went north; road not on
map. Crossed ugly wet swamp to Minni Laxá (lesser salmon-river); ford not bad.
Up divide of Palagonite running north-east to south-west. Rounded and
crossed easiest part of another swamp. Causeway. Up another divide showed us
valley of Hvítá. West of us smokes of Reykholt, Laugs everywhere. Avoided
causeway, because it runs through tún of large farm, Gröf (the pit).
8 P.M.—Changed pack-horses. Ugly swamp and causeway to Hvítá River.
8.20 P.M.—Forded Hvítá stream; the heaviest, but not bad. Up right bank, a
wild gorge; guide left us. Through swamps. Entered ugly system of broken
ground, rock-walls, earth and stone, faults and dykes.
10 P.M.—Fell into long descent of birch “forest.” Long trot. Forded Túngufljót
(Tongue, i.e., Mesopotamia or Doab) River.
10.50 P.M.—Beached Geir-hóll farm, then villainous swamp for tired nags.
Crossed eastern three branches of the Árbrandsá (upper Túngufljót), all
troublesome; and two other foul, flowing fast influents of the right or western
bank.
⊙ VI. At 12 P.M. reached Geysir.
Total of this day’s ride, 12 hours 20 min., at least 50 indirect statute miles;
map, 31 direct geographical miles. General direction, south-south-east to north-
north-west.
Dew very heavy, yet plague of flies. Sweltering morn. At 9 A.M., thermometer
82° (F.). 9.30 A.M., good sea-breeze from south. Fine day. In evening cold; clouds
from east gathering, 9 P.M.; thick at night, threatened rain.
GEYSIR TO THINGVELLIR.
July 16.
Left Geysir 11 A.M. Passed Laug farm to south-west, and crossed spongy bog
and swamp in rivulet-influent of Túngufljót, passing between Laugarfjall and the
outlier. Rounded south end of Laugarfjall.
12 (noon).—Múli (muzzle, maul, mull) farm, one of the best; skirted southern
Bjarnarfell, between ugly, black, bare hills and swamp over triangle
(Biskupstúngur), formed by Túngufljót and Brúará.
12.20 P.M.—Chapel farm, Uptirhlíð (?); extensive view; sunk road. Two
rivulets, second small and boulder-paved. Forest (birch and willow) begins and
lasts with interruptions all day. See more wood in one hour than on all south
coast.
1 P.M.—Passed to left chapel farm, Úthlið, at foot of Hraun of same name.
1.40 P.M.—Crossed bridge of Brúará (bridgewater), and entered lands of
Laugardalr. Forded a fourth stream. On right, Efstidalr (uppermost dale), at foot
of black plateau, ugly, bare, and gashed with many drains. Hognhöfð pyramid to
north, rhinoceros head and horn. Left Miðdalr chapel on right, and rounded
upper swamp of Apavatn (ape or fool water, from a settler in the ninth century).
3.15 P.M.—Crossed streamlet fed by many drains and trickles; first down, then
up bed, sand-bars and islets; must be unfordable below. Rounded Laugarvatn
(lake), large farm and hot spring.
4 P.M.—Halted Laugarvatnsvellir; fine pastures. Five hours tolerably fast = 20
indirect statute miles. Good view of Hekla. Saw two snow-fonds, up which we
had walked.
5.20 P.M.—Left Laugarvatn by made road on “barmr” (edge) of low rolling
ground and humus, confining big swamp on north; Bjarnarfell hill to right, then
three peaks of Kálfstindar. Travellers and caravans.
6 P.M.—Entered old lava. Path rose to 600 feet, and showed Thingvellir Lake.
Grim hill, Reyðarbarmr (red, i.e., salmon-trout edge), to right. Road rutty. Dimon
or Tindhruni (Bryson’s Tintron), an extinct crater in shield form, rising at base of
high hill on right.
7.30 P.M.—Gjábakki farm, close to Vellankatla (boiling kettle), north-eastern
bay of lake (proper name of boiling well; Cleasby supposes it sank below water-
level), along lake.
8.15 P.M.—Hrafnagjá; eastern crevasse.
9.15 P.M.—Middle crevasse, called Háflagjá, Hólagjá, or Breðnigjá (?).
⊙ VII. 9.30 P.M.—Chapel of Thingvellir.
Second march, 4 hours 10 min. = 20 miles. Total, 40 indirect statute miles;
map, 26·5 direct geographical miles.
General direction, north-east and by north to south-west and south.
Glorious morning; cloudless; gentle breeze from north. At 11 A.M., chopped
round to south-west. At noon west, blowing dust in face everywhere except on
lava. Clouds. Few drops of rain. Presently weather recovered itself. Very fine
evening and night.
THINGVELLIR TO REYKJAVIK.
July 17.
3.35 P.M.—Left Thingvellir (paid $2, 3m. 0sk.).
Forded Öxará; up rude basaltic causeway, some ten yards long, a little south
of where Öxará escapes into plain—site of Búðir. A few yards down grassy
surface of Almannagjá. Up split in western wall. Dreary scene on summit; old
lava, grassy and moss grown.
5.40 P.M.—Last sight of Thingvellir Lake, and first view of black buttressed
Esja, with gleam of sea. Entered Mosfellsheiði; soil damp, sour, and barren;
signs of road-making, and Varðas everywhere. Left to right two ponds,
Leiruvogsvatn and Geldingatjörn, latter undrained; skirted east and south base of
Grimmansfell (ugly man’s fell); to right, steaming spring (Reykjalaug).
7 P.M.—Descent to the far-famed Seljadalr (sallow = willow dale).
7.45 P.M.—Dwarf ravine on left. Its stream finds the Hrafnavatn reservoir of
Reykjavik Laxá. Rode down grassy basin; forded stream twenty-five times,
fetlock to knee-deep.
8 P.M.—Halted to graze ponies. First march, 4 hours 25 min. = 20 indirect
statute miles.
8.45 P.M.—Remounted. Continued Seljaland valley; ponds on both sides with
and without drains. View of Snæfellsjökull. On left porcupine-shaped Helgafell.
Hill and basins. Travellers camped where forage is not paid for. Then
inhabited country.
10 P.M.—Causeway and made road to Reykir. Ponies dashed through two
branches of Laxá.
 ⊙ VIII. 11.30 P.M.—Reykjavik. Home.
Second march, 3 hours = 15 indirect statute miles. Total, 8 hours= 35 miles;
map, 24 direct geographical miles.
General direction, east and by north to west and by south.
Weather fine and clear like yesterday. Sun now sets at 10 P.M., and air grows
cold. Find people strolling at midnight. Dust in Reykjavik very bad.
Expenses of Trip for Two Travellers.
Guide (10 days at $2, 3m. 0sk.), $25 0 0
Boy (10 days at $1, 3m. 0sk.), 15 0 0
Returning horses to owners, 430
Hire of pack-saddles and boxes, 700
Twelve horses (at $1 per diem), 120 0 0
Total, $171 3 0

The extras and minor expenses, $27, 2m. 0sk.

Share of each traveller, $104, 2m. 8sk., or £12 for ten days.
 CHAPTER XII.

ON HUMAN AND OTHER REMAINS FROM ICELAND.

SHORTLY after my return to England the following letter was sent to the
Anthropological Institute:
“I have the pleasure to forward a small collection of human remains and other
articles from Iceland.
“The site of the ‘find’ will readily be found upon the four-sheet map of
Gunnlaugsson and Olsen. Cast the eye eastward of the great southern stream
‘Markarfljót,’ mark or forest flood, whose eastern delta-arm debouches nearly
opposite to Vestmannaeyjar, Islands of the Irishmen. You will see on the left
(east) of the stream the little valley of Thórsmörk, the grove of Thor, a good
sturdy old god, whose name still lives and thrives in Iceland. He was even
preferred to Odin, ‘Hin Almattki Áss,’ ‘that Almighty Áss,’ by the people of
Snowland, and in more modern days he was invoked when a doughty deed was
about to be done; the deities of Christianity being preferred only when the more
feminine qualities of mildness and mercy were to be displayed.
“The valley in question is described by the ‘Oxonian in Iceland’ as a
‘beautiful green-wooded spot,’ near which flows the Markarfljót. About eight
miles long, with precipitous sides, its site is bisected by a narrow but tolerably
deep ‘boulder-river,’ a bugbear, by-the-by, of Icelandic travel, and this must be
repeatedly forded. The map shows a green patch; the shrubs may average six
feet, whilst one monster, a rowan or mountain ash, attains the abnormal altitude
of thirty to thirty-six feet. It is one of the tallest, if not the tallest, in the island;
the two ‘giant trees’ of Akureyri, which every traveller is in duty bound to
admire, do not exceed twenty-five feet.
“Reaching, on July 16, 1872, Thingvellir (Dingwall or Thingwall), after a
Cockney tour to Hekla and the Geysir, I met a young Englishman who was
returning from a sketching expedition round the now rarely visited south coast.
From Hekla I might easily have made Thórsmörk in a day, but the depôt of
bones was then unknown to me. Mr W—— had travelled from the Eyvindarholt
farm, west-south-west of the site of the find, in some six hours of fast work, and
complained much of the road. There are only two guides, and the half-dozen
influents of the Markarfljót were judged dangerous. It is only fair, however, to
state that he had read the ‘Oxonian in Iceland,’ and he was prepared to ford the
terrible torrents, nearly three feet deep! in boots and ‘buff.’ After passing the
sites of many fine farms, now destroyed by the ever-increasing ice, he entered
the valley from Eyvindarholt by a rugged entrance, leaving the bone-heap about
half-way, and to the right of his track. The remains lie under a cliff, where much
rocky matter has fallen; above it is the ice-snout projected by the great glaciers
and névés, Merk-Jökull and Godaland’s Jökull, which rise to the north-east and
south-west, whilst the rest of the valley, where eternal winter has not
overwhelmed the woods, is the usual Icelandic green, vivid and metallic.
“The heaps evidently consist of
“ ‘The bones of men
In some forgotten battle slain,
Bleached by the drifting wind and rain.’

Social traditions assign them to the troublous times of ‘Burnt Njál.’ This must be
expected in these parts of Iceland; several of the remains, however, are described
as those of infants.
“From Bjarni Finnbogason, who, as a ‘youth of extreme usefulness,’ had
accompanied Mr Shepherd, and who, developed to a prodigious rascal, had
undertaken Mr W——, I took the cranial fragments marked A and B. Arrived at
Reykjavik, he agreed for 27 rixdollars (say £3) to ride back and bring me as
many skulls as could be found or dug up. After attempting in vain—he had taken
earnest money—to throw me over in favour of another party of travellers, he set
out on Saturday, July 20th. He was not to return till the next Friday evening, but,
wishing to secure other victims, he came back on Thursday, too soon for any
good results. Moreover, he charged me for doing nothing 32 instead of 27
rixdollars, which extortionate demand was satisfied rather than run the risk of
men saying that an Englishman had shirked payment. I have the pleasure, despite
sundry certificates obtained from various innocents, his dupes, to give him the
very worst of characters, and strongly to warn future travellers in Iceland against
him. He was familiar as the lower order of Hebrew; he would listen to every
conversation; he haunted his master like a Syrian dragoman; he intrigued and
abused all other guides; and as for his English, he understood ‘a whip with a
thong ten feet long’ to mean ‘a pony ten years old.’ The guides at Reykjavik are
not worse than the generality of their craft, pace Baring-Gould; some are better;
but Mister Bjarni—he is generally called by his English employers Blarney and
Barney—is a bad lot, who knows well how to pelare la quaglia senza farla
gridare.
“The following are the principal items herewith forwarded:
 3 fragments of thighbones;
1 large hone, 3 smaller;
1 parcel of sundries;
1 broken spindle (?) steatite (?).

“The bones, of which there is an interesting collection in the young museum

of Reykjavik, are interesting. The old world Icelanders, as Uno Von Troil, as
may be seen in the Rigsthulu, informs us, ever held it a ‘noble art to understand
well how to sharpen the instruments of death.’
“RICHARD F. BURTON.”

The following paper was read by the author:

“NOTES on HUMAN REMAINS brought from Iceland by Captain Burton. By C.
CARTER BLAKE, Doct. Sci., M.A.I., Lecturer on Comparative Anatomy and
Zoology at Westminster Hospital.
“The remains which Captain Burton has brought from Iceland are composed
of fragmentary evidences of man, hog, ox, and horse.

“I. MAN.
“There are five races of man with whom any remains which may be found in
Iceland may be compared with a view to their identification—the Norwegian,
Skrælling or Esquimaux, Irish, Lappish, and Russian. I shall briefly pass over the
chief characters of these races, and as the Norwegian is the race which forms the
majority of the Icelandic population at the present time, I shall commence with
it.
“The late Dr James Hunt, during his tour in Norway, collected an enormous
amount of statistical facts with regard to the cranial measurements of the
Norwegians, which were verbally communicated to the British Association for
the Advancement of Science at Birmingham.
“The publication of the memoir containing them was postponed at the wish
of the author, and I am consequently only able to refer to my own rough notes,
taken at a time when I examined the manuscript of my lamented friend. The
general results seem to have been that the Norwegian skull, excluding from
consideration all persons apparently of Lappish descent, was excessively short
and round, that cases of brachistocephaly were frequent, and that cases even of
hyperbrachistocephaly were to be found. The district investigated by Dr Hunt
was chiefly to the north of Drontheim, and especially the neighbourhood of
Hammerfest. The Swedish skull, on the other hand, appears to be
dolichocephalic to a degree; while the researches of Dr Beddoe on the head
forms of the Danes indicate a population whose cranial index oscillates from
85·9 to 75·3.
“The cranial characters of the Esquimaux, Irish, Lappish, and Russian races
have been so often described, that I pass over the minute comparison, and
proceed at once to the evidences on the table. These consist of the following
specimens:
“1. Fragmentary calvaria of adult human individual. The contour of the skull
has been brachycephalic, though its measurement is precluded by the fact that
the left parietal, which alone exists, has been broken off from the frontal bone.
The frontal region is bombate. Moderate superciliaries overhang a shallow
supernasal notch. The nasal bones extend forwardly, and have not the slightest
approach to the form presented by the Esquimaux, and in the ‘Turanian’ skulls
described by Dr Pruner Bey. The superorbital foramina are converted into
notches on both sides. A small piece of the alisphenoid bone exists, attached to
the right frontal, indicating that there was a normal spheno-parietal suture. The
dentitions and seriations in the coronal suture have been deep. The parietal bone
of large size accords with the frontal in all essential characters of these sutures.
“The occipital bone is in a very fragmentary condition. It is not marked with
any prominent ridges for the attachment of muscles, a fact which, coupled with
the small development of the mastoid processes, leads the observer to consider
that the present skull has belonged to a female.
“Three petrous bones, with fragmentary mastoid processes attached, exist in
the collection. The smaller size and partial relationship of two of these render it
probable that they belonged to one individual, and that the same whose cranial
vault has just been described. One large, light, petrous bone appertains to an
individual of much larger size, possibly masculine, but I regret that no other
specimens are found of this interesting person.
“A fractured palate, with two teeth in situ (the first and second molars),
leaves evidence highly conclusive as to the food of the inhabitants of
Thórsmörk. The crowns of the molars are much attrited by the consumption of
hard substances, and are in the same condition as is presented by the teeth of the
neighbouring but different race of Skrællings. The first and second molars are
both implanted by three fangs.
“The right clavicle (pl. xix.), which is found with both extremities broken
away, indicates an individual smaller in size, and with lighter and more slender
clavicles, than the Australian drawn by Owen in ‘Trans. Zool. Soc.,’ vol. v., plate
ii., figure 4, and of course more so than in the European drawn in figure 2 of the
same plate. Three long and slender femora, a right first rib, a large axis vertebra,
a fragment of shattered humerus, and a cuneiform carpal bone are found in the
collection.

“II. HOG.
“The remains consist entirely of fragmentary limb bones, and of a few teeth.
These need not be noticed in detail.
 [Image unavailable.]
HUMAN CLAVICLE.

“III. HORSE.
“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).

“IV. OX.
“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.

“DISCUSSION.
“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.”
 CHAPTER XIII.

TO EASTERN ICELAND—WE REACH MÝ-VATN.

SECTION I.—THE VOYAGE TO BERUFJÖRÐ.

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—
“So there is a new Guy, sir, in Iceland.”

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—
“Thrasi’s box is precious
Under Skogar’s force;
Whose thither goeth
Folly hath enough.”

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,
 “Projecting huge and horrid o’er the surge.”

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
“tortuous labyrinth of seas
That shine around these Arctic Cyclades.”

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,
“a coast of dreariest continent,
In many a shapeless promontory rent.”

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]

SECTION II.—AT DJÚPIVOGR.

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.

SECTION III.—TO BERUFJÖRÐ: UP THE FIRTH.

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:
 “Ho, ho, ho! said the old black crow,
For that nobody will eat him he very well doth know.”

Perhaps some survival of old paganism may preserve the “yellow footed bird in
the inky cloak,” who became black by reason of his sins: Odin’s hawk, the
“black cousin of the swan,” who appeared in the traditional oriflamme of the
Norsk Vikings, and who still survives in the lines:
“Though Huginn’s (Mind’s) loss I should deplore,
Yet Muninn’s (Memory’s) would affect me more.”[144]

Hence, possibly, the prevailing superstitions, e.g., that Ralph combines eccentric
habits with human intelligence; that he is a bird of augury; that he holds a
Hrafna-Thing (council) in autumn, to billet the several couples; that every
church has its own pair; that Grip does not plunder the farm nor fight the dogs of
those who lodge the Grips; and that he warns the owner of dead sheep. The
Raven’s Song (Krumma-Kvæði), a dialogue between “Hrafn” and a peasant, is
well known, whilst the Hrafna-galdur Öðins (Odin’s Raven Song) is a miracle of
mystery. Ralph’s croakings were and still are omens, betokening death, when
heard in front of a house, and he has appropriated a variety of proverbs. Perhaps
this sentiment prevented the Northerner “improving the subject,” as did blind
Herve in the Breton verse, “When you see a raven fly, think that the Devil is as
black and as wicked. When you see a little dove fly, think that your Angel is as
sweet and white.” Thus after St Vincent was beheaded, all the Grips that alighted
upon his corpse fell dead; on the other hand, Ravenna owes her name to the fact
that ravens, crows, and jack-daws flocked from every part of Italy to take part in
the feast of St Appolinarius. In the Færoes the bird of the “brook Cherith” has
lost all his Odinic reputation; he is easily killed when the snow drives him to the
farm-house, and four skillings are given for his beak. Perhaps instead of being
slaughtered, he might be exported to England, where he would now command
seven shillings. According to the people, he is not invincible, being often beaten
by the agile sea-pie (Hæmatopus ostralegus, the Sceolder of Shetland), and
sometimes slain by the strong-billed sea-parrot (puffin).
As we approached the bottom of Berufjörð, we could see the snows over
which our path would lie, and the “gurly flood” dashing down the broad steps of
trap. It drains the Axarvatn, the “Axe-water,” so called from its shape; it is said
to be rich in trout and fish, but Mr Pow, who was of the party, found it far too
clear and cold. After a pleasant row of twelve miles in about three hours, we
reached our destination, and the “new chums” derided the place which appears
so large upon the map. Berufjörð is, in fact, nothing but a Prestagarðr
(parsonage) and a chapel, the latter distinguished from a stable only by the white
cross, episcopally commanded; the doors hang about, and there is a sad want of
paint. In Iceland the clergyman often moves off when his church wants repair,
for he must pay the expense.
We were courteously and hospitably received by Síra Thorstein
Thorarensson, who was busy in his tún superintending the day-labourers. It is the
hay-harvest, the only harvest that Iceland knows. The men ride to and from their
work, ply their ridiculous scythes, and, besides being fed, are paid per teigr (80
square feet) 1 Fjórðung[145] = 10 lbs. of butter, here worth 2 marks per lb. An
active hand at this season can make $2 per diem, 11 marks being the average;
many farms are nude of males, and consequently guides in August are scarce and
dear. Hay, which fetches 1 mark per 10 lbs. in winter, now sells for $2 the
kapall[146] (horseload, or 240 lbs. Danish); and as the ton in Scotland costs at this
season only £1, 10s. to £2, 10s., Mr Pow scents a spec. That evening passed in
the confusion of sorting goods and sending back all articles not strictly
necessary; it was far into the small hours before we could settle ourselves upon
the rotten boards, and under the hideous crucifix which, forming the chapel’s
altar-piece, carefully avoids breaking commandment No. 2.
July 31.
Whilst awaiting the arrival of our carriage, Captain Tvede volunteered a walk
up the Berufjarðarskarð, which crosses the northern wall of the firth, and
afterwards anastomoses with the road to Thingmúli. This part had not undergone
its annual repair, and it was painfully pitted with horse-traps, deep holes. The
lower part was an avalanche line:
“Interdum subitam glacie labente ruinam
Mons dedit, et trepidis fundamina subruit astris;”

but “interdum” hardly applies to what happens annually from these

“thunderbolts of snow.” To the right lay Sóta-botn, a huge hollow, probably
formed by hydraulic pressure, the sinking of a mountain-stream, a common
feature in the Brazil. As Sóti and his wife Bera (the bearess), a name often given
to women, were riding home over this pass, their enemies raised a magic fog; he
broke his neck by falling into the pit; she broke her head as the famished horse,
to whose instinct the rider had trusted, rushed into the stable—the site of the
latter is still shown near the parsonage. Bera’s cairn lies at the top of a little
promontory at the north end of the Fjörð, where her ghost sits gazing upon the
ever restless tide.[147] The picture was diversified by an advance of white mist;
its fragments, forming a vanguard like a flock of wild geese, with abundant play
and movement presently invested the shallow cupola of Thrándar Jökull, whose
brown clouds were its own growth: at times it melted under the sun, and
presently it renewed itself in the cold wind of the firth and in the colder breath of
the snow-clad summits. Finally, it settled upon the mid-ridge, making the upper
half appear miles away from its base.
After a two hours’ stroll we reached the Bitruháls, or col, which stands over
2000 feet above sea-level.[148] On the left hand rose Kistufell, the apex where the
Danish officers placed a landmark: the summit must be at least 1000 feet higher
than the pass. Through the reek and dance of the morning air we looked down
upon Breiðdalsvík; the Broad Dale is parted into a northern and southern feature
by “Möleyri,” a great spine of trap, and the nearer section is split by three large
perpendicular Gjás. The winding Breiðdalsá, which has a fork for each valley, is
clear and limpid, very different from Jökull water; and large farms are scattered
everywhere about the soles. The northern face of the Berufjarðarskarð is even
more striking than the southern; the “Vandyke cliffs” have all the tints of
Brazilian Tauá; nowhere does Iceland show more colouring. The red, pink, dead-
white, and pale-green Palagonite follows the torrent-beds and girths the rivers;
and the singularity is increased by walls and outcrops of the hardest and blackest
hornblende, building dykes, bridging chasms, and causing the snow-streams to
breach over in cascades. Farther down there is a vein of glistening trachyte
celled with iron, probably a prolongation of the Skriða hills, which we shall pass
farther north; afar it looks like plaster fallen from a wall. The valley is scattered
over with chalcedonies and crystals of lime, the produce of geodes washed out of
the trap, and with jaspers, especially the red, green, and banded; Hr Gíslason’s
“copper ore” is probably nothing but burnt or corroded “yaspis.” Along the
stream-banks grow yellow poppies (P. nudicaule; Icel. Mela-Sól), with small
lemon-coloured flowers and large spreading roots; they extend to Spitzbergen,
and the last time I saw them was in the Desert of the Palmyrene.
Down the northern descent, which is rapid but provided with a good
causeway à tourniquet, runs the eastern road to Seyðisfjörð, firth of the Seið or
Gadus virens, the abode of many merchants, distant some sixty miles from
Djúpivogr: the western viâ the Öxarheiði (ox-heath) is generally preferred
because it crosses two instead of three great divides. The line to Thingmúli turns
to the left, repeatedly crosses the southern Breiðdalsá, and ascends by another
newly built causeway, the Breiðdalsheiði, where there is a nameless lakelet,
neglected by the map, which discharges the southern Broad Dale fork.
SECTION IV.—TO THE MÝ-VATN: THE SEVEN DAYS’ RIDE.
 July 31 ended with a “sea of troubles.” Captain Tvede and Mr Pow left us,
greatly to our regret, and no one seemed anxious to effect a departure but
ourselves. The guide skulked, the ponies came in slowly, and, worst of all, a dark
march was proposed. This always appears to me the summum malum of
travelling; it is equally injurious to strength and temper; it often wastes the next
day; and, worst of all, it gives a false idea of the country.
Our party is now formed. Messrs Lock, father and son, are attended by
Bowers, an able seaman, born in Jamaica and domiciled at Southampton. He is
to superintend the sulphur boring; he does the work of half-a-dozen Icelanders,
but he has seldom been aboard a nag; and the honest fellow is apt to forget the
adage, “astern of a sail and ahead of a horse.” Besides Gísli, the skulk, we
temporarily engage for nine marks per diem Hr Hoskulldar Guðmundsson, who
is en route for his father’s house. Hr Gíslason, wishing to attend a fair,
accompanies us for the first march. The kind and obliging parson, after feeding
us with fish, mutton fresh and dry, sharks’ flesh, and seals’ haslets—good with
vinegar, but even then somewhat too oily—and after insisting upon sundry
stirrup-cups of “Iceland wine” (schnapps), determines to start one of the most
disorderly of caravans.
We have a total of nineteen ponies all under six years, which would be four-
year olds in England, and with the nineteen never a rope. For the most part
utterly unbroken, they break away and lose our time; disgusted with their loads,
especially with the long boring-rods, they kick and bite, requiring constant
reloading. Consequently, Mr Lock misses a carpet-bag, which contains only his
money and his papers, and all our baggage suffers more in ten hours than in a
year of railways. The commercial complication was enormous; almost each
animal had its own hire; one was to be left at this place; two were to be sent on
to that; we took the wrong ones with us to Mý-vatn, and consequently we were
threatened with a lawsuit. Mr Lock (père) has a largâ manu manner, but he is
strongly imbued with the Anglo-Saxon “idee,” to wit,
“The grand idee that every man jest do what he dam pleases.”

He compels the most headstrong to obey him; he remembers the adage, “In
Iceland if you want anything, ask for it;” he takes high ground, and he “puts up
with no nonsense.” The people, gentle and simple, do not openly resent the
novelty, but they slang him behind his back, and with a certain dry humour they
dub him “Loki,”[149] the bad god of Scandinavian mythology. I can only say that
the tone answered well as in Syria or Egypt.
The disorderly party set out about an hour before midnight. We passed in the
dark a mine of magnetic iron disposed, they say, in volcanic rock. This metal
cannot be smelted for want of fuel, and its only raison d’être in Iceland is to
deflect the magnet and to make navigation and the Vatnajökull dangerous. The
ugly bridle-path running up the left bank of the Axavatn, and ascending a variety
of stony steps, divided by flats of deep moss, with a rare Beitivellir, baiting or
pasture ground, and snow-wreaths sounding hollow beneath the tread, showed
few features. Before the cold mist set in from the north, we saw at our feet the
long Berufjörð, and the spectre of Thrándar Jökull, gleaming white in the pale
and glaucous green light of an Arctic midnight; whilst the continuous roar of
foss and torrent rang in our ears.
At the foot of the fifth and roughest grade, the Öxarheiði, we halted for a
while, where the steep ascent is called, apparently in bitter derision, Vagna-
brekka, or waggon-hill. The huge mountain-walls seemed to tower straight
above our heads; on the right was the Haurar-Gil (crag-gil), and nearer the
Mannabeinafjall, or man-bone hill, where some of Sóti’s horsemen were slain.
These things the good priest tells us, and then, wringing our hands and bidding
us Godspeed, he rides home, bearing with him our best thanks. The very large jar
of rum proved too much for one of his friends; after galloping about like one
insane, changing his horse every half-hour, and drinking every ten minutes, he
lay him down to sleep comfortably upon the soft, cool snow, and lost no time in
losing his saddle and saddle-cloth, his bridle and his horse. He will walk into
camp at five P.M. next day, sadly crestfallen, if not repentant.
After three hours, during which I felt frozen hands for the first time, we stood
on the summit of the Breiðdalsheiði, and looked down upon the long valley to
the north. It was a pleasant change after our uncouth way and the panorama
maudit of the earlier night; but the sunlight, though gleaming pink and gold upon
the snow hills to the north, only saddened sleepy eyes. The path leads down the
right bank of the Múlaá in the Skriðdalr, a mad stream rolling reckless over slope
and drop, green and blue, cold and clear, here deeply encased by huge slices of
black trap, there low-banked with long streaks of red-yellow bog-iron. The left
wall was regular with gracious concave lines, ending in the lion-headed Múli,
which gives a name to the Múla Sýsla: the right was a succession of buttresses,
each owning its own Kvísl, or shallow drain, and the latter were mauvais pas,
where only the cleverest ponies could spring up and down the rocks without a
fall. As we advanced, the valley broadened out into flats of vivid, unwholesome
green, bog and swamp spangled with cotton-grass, whose pods much resemble
those of the veritable tree-wool, and which should be collected for sheep-fodder.
At 9.30 A.M. we forded the stream, and rode up to Thingmúli, much to the
edification of the mowers, men in shirt-sleeves and women half-dressed—
“All hands employed,
Like labouring bees on a long summer day.”

We were not equally edified by their unbusy, dawdling ways: so at the churn the
servant girls will work five minutes and rest fifteen.
As I expected, the Thursday was a dies non, whose only event was pancake
made by the farmer’s wife. We inspected the tall Múli, whose bare and ragged
head of trap ends the long buttress to the north-north-east: it is bounded east by
the Geitdalsá, rising in the Líkárvatn; draining, they say, the Thrándar, and
uniting with the Múlaá to form the Grímsá. We botanised at its foot, collecting
two equiseta, Elting (spearwort, or E. arvense) and Beitill (horse-tail), of which
there are many varieties; the Fjóla or violet (V. montana?); the Hrossanál, or
horse-needle (Juncus squamosus); the Blá-ber and Grænyaxlar or young
blaeberry (Vaccinium myrtillus); the bog-whortle (V. uliginosum); the blue-bell
(Bláklukka; Campanula rotundifolia, Hjalt.), which grows everywhere,
reminding us of Europe; the small, grey birch; the dwarf-willow, all catkins; the
Alpine bartsia (Icel. Loka-sjóðsbróðir[150]); the meadow-rue (Thalictrum
Alpense; Icel. Kross-gras); the fleabane (Erigeron; Icel. Smjör-gras) and the
ephemeral Veronica. There were also the bright, yellow-green reindeer-moss; the
red Alpine catch-fly (Lychnis Alp.); the usual “sun’s-eye,” or buttercup (Sól-ey);
the dandelion (Fífill); and the lamb-grass or moss-campion, still in flower; the
bladder-campion (Silene inflata); the pretty, common lyng (heather); the
mountain-asphodel (Tofieldia palustris; Icel. Sýkis-gras); and, most remarkable
of all, the pale-lemon blossoms of the mountain avens already beginning to pall.
The Kræki-lyng, the black crowberry (E. nigrum), supplied its small, red
currants, sweet and mawkish, of which Bishop Pál made sacramental wine; the
vine-like Hrútaberjalyng (Rubus ling) trailed on the sward; and the meadow-rose
(Epilobium angustifolium; Icel. Eyra-rós) reigned queen of Iceland flora. The
leafage already showed autumnal tints, yellows and reds taking the place of
greens, light and dark; and the air was all alive with grey moths (Fyrireld).
An interesting feature of the Skriðdalr, or slipping dale, is the Skriða range, a
name not in the map, but given to the north-eastern buttresses of the broken
valley as far as Sandfell. Fronted by dark traps they rise, nude of turf,
conspicuous in light-yellow skins of trachyte and Palagonite, based upon a thin
and sickly green—we learned to call them the Sulphur Range. As the long
streaks and gullies, the broad parting fiumaras, and the slides and heaps of
footing débris, show, the Skriðas are infamous for landslips and snowslips (Snæ-
Skriða), the latter overwhelming túns and houses—
“Multos hausere profundæ
Vastâ mole nives; cumque ipsis sæpe juvencis
Naufraga candenti merguntur claustra barathro.”

The sole defence against these avalanches (Skriðáfall)[151] is the Skriða-garðr, a

dry wall, built very strongly at the sharp angle facing the Skriða and the
Snjóflóð, and repaired every year.
In the evening the people began to gather for the fair, and most of them were
in that state politely called “excited.” One man made himself especially
remarkable; with one leg shorter than the other, he was dancing, roaring,
snorting fou’; his face was much knocked about; and, with his ’baccy smeared
lips, he insisted on succulently kissing every feminine mouth. Mr Lock, sen., had
a somewhat narrow escape from a venerable matron whose nostrils showed that
she was no better in one matter than our grandmothers: she advanced towards
him prognathously, when in the nick of time he turned and fled. He was much
shaken, and for some hours looked pale and weak.
The evening might have been in Tuscany; and we drank coffee outside, a
practice which excited general reprehension—here you rarely see a bench or seat
in the open air. We were lucky in engaging a superior guide, the student Sigurður
Gunnarsson, nephew of the archdeacon of Hallormstaðir; his seven years at
Reykjavik had given him a tincture of English; he was good-tempered and
obliging; in fact, the absolute reverse of Baring-Gould’s “Grímr.” Hr Gíslason, to
the satisfaction of every one, disappeared with his big dog, a cur whose only idea
of life was to chivy sheep.[152]
Our day’s march was far more interesting than usual: it lay over the long,
prismatic tongue of land, a sister formation of the Múli line, separating the
Grímsá from its ultimate receptacle, the lake. Amongst the scatter of farms lay
Geirólfstaðir, where I slept on return: the house is partly built of greenstone. The
mountain path is called, why, I know not, a “Remba,” a hard road to travel, from
“að rembask,” to struggle with, to puff one’s self up. The summit of this
Hallormstaðarháls was a mere divide, not a Heiði with level ground; and from its
altitude, about 880 feet, we looked down upon and around a most extensive
view. Below us, and stretching to north-north-east, lay the long “broad,” known
as the Lagarfljót, a milky water evidently from the snow-mountains; and on the
nearer shore, protected from the biting blasts, lay the celebrated Skógr, or forest
of Hallormstaðir, straggling some twenty miles, and composed of birch-trees,
 “If trees they may be called, which trees are none.”

Yet from afar they act pretty well as acacias, the point-lace of the forest. To the
north-east rise the nubs, heaps, and snows of Höttr, the hats or cowls, and their
frost-bound prolongation, the icy range of Borgarfjörð, and, especially, the cones
of Dyrfjöll. But every eye turned instinctively southwards when majestic
Snæfell, the northernmost outlier of the Vatnajökull, fronted by its two northern
outliers, the Hafrsfell and the Laugarfell, shoots up towards the cirri and cumuli
of the still air, its glistening glaciers and steely-blue sides making eternal winter
in a lovely garb appear.
At Hallormstaðir, our first stage, we failed to find the Prófastr (archdeacon)
Sigurður Gunnarsson, who had gone for supplies to Seyðisfjörð. His wife
received us kindly with “Yule bread,” containing raisins and other delicacies.
She must be a model housewife; her six-gabled house was being painted; her
kitchen-garden grew unusually fine potatoes; and her poultry-yard was far better
stocked than usual. We were hospitably invited to pass the night, and Gísli Skulk
looked wistfully at the comforts around him; but we were inexorable and, after a
two hours’ halt, began operations upon the next stage.
I shall not readily forget that march. The ponies, also, had apparently made
up their minds for a half-holiday, and, when refused, they resolved to revenge
themselves. Briefly, the loads were everywhere except where they should have
been, and the fight at the ford was unusually severe. The bridle-path up the right
bank, moreover, was bad, broken with gullies, rugged with rocks, and
cullendered with holes; in places we had to avoid headlands of stony teeth by
fording the waters; and, as on the skirts of Hermon, the ways were double, high
for winter, and low for summer. Student Sigurður explained Lagarfljót as a
corruption of Laugr, a bath; others translate it the “layer” or mixed water,
because composed of ice and mud. It is considered unwholesome and
undrinkable. The average breadth is one mile and a half, and the people declare
that the depth reaches sixty fathoms. It is formed by a glacier stream, the little
Jökulsá, flowing through the Fljótsdalr or Norðurdalr, a line which we shall
presently follow; and an eastern lake-stream, the Keldá, draining the Syðridalr.
The latter rises in the Keldavatn, which the map writes Kelduárvatn, the lake of
springs-water; and it is reached in a long day’s ride from the Víðivellir, or the
Klúka farm, which almost fronts Valthiófstaðir.
I had heard much of the Skógr (Shaw) of the Lagarfljót, as the most beautiful
in Iceland: it probably tempted the first settler, Hallormr, to become Hallormr of
the Wilderness. In other places, the freezing and thawing of the sap bursts the
vessels and kills the plants. Here, however, the Birkis have a backing of heights
to concentrate sun-heat, a westerly exposure, and a large sheet of water
tempering the cold. The thin birch-scrub grows on all kinds of soil; mostly the
trees are mere bushes, but the topmost twigs of the giants of the forest may reach
twenty feet, and the timber is heavy enough to make pack-saddles. All are being
felled, and none are planted; the weight of the snow is said to destroy the young
trees. Nor was the Skóg a vocal growth: I listened long and in vain for the merest
chirp.
About an hour before reaching the ferry we had a fair prospect of the
Hengifoss, said to be the tallest cataract in Iceland. It is an Icelandic copy of the
immortal Cocytus (Mavroneria) in Arcadia, with a fall six times the depth.
“Hanging-force” plunges suddenly into a huge caldron, the Hengifossárgil, and
is dashed to drops before it reaches the kieve, which is considered to lie 1200
feet below. Its wonders can hardly be appreciated, we were told, without entering
the cavity: it faces to the south-east; and, as you ride along the lake, the strata lie
exposed to sight, as in a Californian cañon. Amongst them is said to be a small
quantity of Surtarbrand.
We had sent on to warn the ferryman, and Charon, Sigfús Stefánsson, of
Bessastaðir, with fiery hair, clean-cut red whisker, and huge goggles, was the
model of a Scotch pedagogue. Remounting, we galloped ventre à terre, the best
cure for cold feet, over the turfy flat of the left bank, and found ourselves at
Valthiófstaðir, the church and parsonage of Síra Pétur Jónsson. The house was
being painted, but we found lodgings in the church: the altar candles were duly
lighted, and, after doing what little we could to make ourselves comfortable, we
turned in shortly before midnight.
August 3.
At Waltheofstede, whose name is distinctly Saxon, we reduced our stud to the
best sixteen head; we bought ropes and horseshoes; we mended the pack-
saddles; we paid off the temporary guides; and we engaged the student Stefán
Sigfússon, of Bessastaðir, who gave thorough satisfaction when he did not air his
ten words of English. Whilst these preparations were being made, I inspected the
premises. The farm is of old date, but it is not the Waltheofstede so pleasantly
mentioned in the Landnámabók (p. 100): “Tunc servi Erici ruinam villæ
Valthiofi de Valthiofstadis intulerunt, Eyolfus autem Saur (Eyólfr Saur) ejus
cognatus servos apud Skeidsbrekkas super Vatnshornum occidit, eâ de causâ
Eirikus Ejolfum Saurem interfecit, iste quoque Holmgangu Rafnem (Rafn, the
duellist) Leifskalis interemit.” Thus, in seven half Lines, we have a regular
monomachist, the destruction of a farm, and the murder of two Franklins, with
an indefinite number of thralls. We still find a Thórdísa, in memory of old days,
the granddaughter of the parson at Valthiófstaðir.
The church is somewhat larger and better, that is, more tawdry, than usual;
and justly vain of it is the district. Outside it is red-striped, with gallery, tower,
spire, finial, staff, and weather-cock: the latter bears the cross of Denmark, yet
“Odi Danicos, sperno, contemno,” is a sentiment frequently expressed in this
neighbourhood. Inside it is daubed to mock marble. The bell in the loft bears for
date 1744, and the altarpieces are truly hideous: Sanctus Peterus (sic), with key
and book, wears his glory on one side of the head, like a cavalryman’s forage
cap. The churchyard epitaphs are funny as usual. Hjörleif Thórðarson (ob. 1786)
speaks of his future prospects with a confidence which some might consider
premature, if not misplaced:
“Fluctibus innumeris adversæ sortis in orbe
Tandem transmissis, jam benè tutus ago;”

and another’s long home, a box, has become a classic “urn:”

“Qui fuit eximium gentis decus undique nostræ
Gutthormus, jacet hic tenui Hiorlerius urnâ.”

More satisfactory was the aspect of the farm, which supports 11 cows and
600 sheep. The labourers’ Hey-annir is now begun, and will last for six weeks:
they were at work “queerving” the grass, as Shetlanders say, with long thin
rakes, so that it may not dry too soon; “mixtæ pueris puellæ,” the lasses with
turned-up sleeves and the inevitable gloves: at mid-day all seek shelter from the
“torrid sun.” This essential part of Iceland “agriculture” is well and carefully
done; and the number of hands enables the farmer far to surpass anything farther
south. The “Taða,” or hay from the manured (Tað) infield, opposed to the Ut-
hey, or produce of the outfield and hills, is close-shaved, and tedded twice, and
even thrice, a day: that wanted for immediate use is carried to the house in Kláfrs
(creels or crates), articles of universal use, the Leipur of the Færoes, which also
carry peat in the Isle of Lewis; and the rest, when thoroughly dry, is stacked and
covered with turf. The implements are mere toys, mounted on rods like billiard
queues for easy packing and cheap passage. The scythe is a sickle attached to a
two-handed stick nine spans long; the blade of three spans, little more than an
inch broad, and sharp as a razor, is used here and in the Færoes because the
warty ground permits no other. The rakes are of two kinds, with big pegs and
with small teeth, both wholly of wood; and in the best farms there are always
wheelbarrows and hand-barrows.
 The venerable parson, who appeared somewhat “eld-gamall” (un vieux
vieux), consented to give us an extra guide, a student lad named Thorsteinn, from
the north country, whose circumstances had not allowed him to keep his term at
Reykjavik: he was to receive the unconscionable sum of $4 for one day’s march.
We set out in mid-afternoon, and rode down the Lagarfljót’s left bank, in twenty-
five minutes, to the ruins of Skriðuklaustr, the last priory founded in Iceland.
Two long barrows of earth and stone show the site of the church: they measure
87 feet north to south, and 62 east to west. The fane is surrounded by an enceinte
of similar humble material: the northern entrance is apparently ancient; that to
the west, modern. The habitations of the reverend men were near, but below the
little adjoining farm; and there are still fragments of a built causeway running
south-west to the cemetery. The latter lay all around the church, and the old
custom has been perpetuated: to the south is the grave of Sýslumaður Winne,
who died in the early eighteenth century; whilst another heap, which trends east
to west, not north to south, is called the “tomb of the bad fellow”—a point of
affinity between Icelandic and New Zealand English. Unfortunately, I had no
time for skull-digging, and gaining the title of Haugabriótr (cairn-breaker).
We were not asked to dismount, nor did we dismount, at Bessastaðir: the
tumulus of the founder, old Bessi (the bear), is a green heap by the river-side.
After a general bout of kissing and rekissing, we began the rugged divide
separating the Lagarfljót from the Eastern Jökulsá, and at once blundered
northwards: when in the worst quagmire the new guides, Stefán and Thorsteinn,
a cock-nosed lad of about twenty-two, quietly said, “Há, we should have gone
there!” Gradually we rose to 2000-2200 feet, the average altitude of these
Heiðis. The foreground was unusually repulsive, and its aspect suggested frost a
few inches below. It was a surface of mosses, ever dank and dew-drenched; of
iron-stained swamps; of tarns like horse-ponds; of soppy stream beds, with livid-
yellow Palagonite encasing the gashes; of brown heath and black peat; of huge
heaps instead of the usual warts, as if the farmer had just drawn the manure—in
fact, it was a bad specimen of the worst parts of the New Forest centuries ago.
Our eyes, saddened by a path all steps and drops, were suddenly electrified
by the first magical view of the Vatnajökull; it had hitherto been hidden by
sundry outliers, especially the Eastern or lesser Eyvindar, a snowless block, or
rather double block, curving like a serpent’s tail, from left to front, from south to
west (275° mag.). For better examination, we dismounted at Vegup—“Collis
viæ,” said the students.
Behind the Snæfell cone a blue distance of lowland sweeps, like a streak of
paint, to the very foot of the “Lake Glacier,” whose general aspect is a high
dorsum of virgin white, an exaggeration of the Wiltshire downs after a heavy fall
of snow. The first thing which strikes me is that the altitude by no means justifies
all this eternal frost: we must probably seek a cause in the immense
agglomeration of ice behind; in thrust from above, and in the prevalence of
southerly, here the frigid, winds. Secondly, the features of the grand névé are
perfectly separable and distinct, very unlike the dead blank plateau of all the
maps. Beginning from the south-west, we notice the domed Kverk (throat)
Jökull, fronted by the feature which gives it a name; the huge gloomy mound,
fissured to the north, stands boldly out from the pure expanse, and sinks to the
level of the deep-blue air. Successively rise the Skálafell (hall-hill), a double
cone, connected by a long yoke of miniver, and fronted by a glistening glacier;
the three horns of Sval-barð and the ice-mailed points of Snæfellsjökull, not to
be confounded with the isolated Snæfell cone:[153] this small Spitzbergen,
“ribbed and paled in
With rocks unscalable and roaring waters,”

all bristling with pink and silvery spikes, tapering, tooth ranged near tooth, in
formidable array, projects a long slope eastwards. Farther on, the line, bombé in
the map, bends with a great bay from us. Helped by Olsen and the students, we
pick out the various features of the south-eastern corner; the Heinabergsjökull
(hone-hill glacier); the Sauðhamarstindr (sheep-cliff point), a dark mound like a
brown cloud; and eastward, again, the Kollumúli (hind-mull), alternately a black
tower and a ridge-end; whilst behind, and upon another plane, flashes a great and
glorious snow-peak which, at other angles, assumes the aspect of a bluff or
buttress. To the extreme south-east, the blue and snow-streaked horizon, backed
by pearly mists, swells into a gigantic bride-cake, the Hofsjökull, bounded west
by a pale saddleback, and north of it lies the now familiar dome of the Thrándar
ice-mountain. The gold and purple gleams of the westering sun, the opalline play
of the projections and prominences which catch the lights, the faint pink-azure of
the shades, and the skylarking of the cloud-hosts over the heads of the tallest
peaks, set off by the umbreous black foreground, dull and sodden, by the
beggarly features of the middle distance, and by the wash of deep damascene
blue at the base, fall into glorious picture; and the presence of black spots, like
“erminites,” in the waste of white suggests the haunts of some Troll-like race—I
no longer wondered that there are superstitions about this mysterious realm of
eternal snow.
After a sketch, for the purpose of better fixing the picture upon the brain-
plate, we jogged on, leaving the snow-streaked Knefill (the pole) to the north;
and at eleven P.M. we began the short and rugged descent to the Eastern Jökulsá.
The mountain flank was gashed with the hideous chocolate-coloured chasms of
the Sharon plain; we had to pull our way-fagged horses down boulder and
through bog. As we reached the riverine plain, well sheltered from the wind, the
poor beasts recovered courage and carried us gallantly into the new farm, with
its three-gabled house, Thorskagerði (codfish garth). Whilst Mr Lock and I put
up the tent, “Charlie” bolted into the “eld-house” (kitchen), much to the
astonishment of the gudewife, who bolted out in demi-semi-toilette: we supped
at the “fashionable” hour of one A.M., and we slept in the broad bright dawn.

AUGUST 4.
This was a day of peculiarly hard work; I look back upon it with pleasure,
because it introduced me to two new features, the cage and the sand-desert. The
forenoon began with the inspection of the Jökulsá, here a frequent name: there
are three which drain the Vatnajökull northwards—;the Little Jökulsá, from
Snæfellsjökull, forming the headwater of the Fljótsdalr; the Great Easternmost
Jökulsá, known to the people as the Vale River (á dalr), or the Bridge Stream (á
Brú); and the Great Westernmost Jökulsá, or the Hill River (á fjöllum).
Icelanders apply the term Jökulsá Eystri (eastern) and Jökulsá Vestri (western) to
the chief headwaters of the Skagafjörð, as those who have read Chapter X. may
remember. Our river, an ugly gutter-water, milky, mineral as the drain of a
Cornish mining village, and consequently desert of fish, runs in an old valley;
and the ledges between the hills and stream are the sites of frequent farms. The
deep perpendicular rifts, cut by rain-torrents, are filled with wintry snow; and
throughout this part of the country the people use sledges, heavy, tasteless board-
boxes on iron runners, wanting all the finish of Russia and North America. The
modern bed is mostly a crevasse of grey-blue basalt, black when wetted, built in
regular strata, and pitted with drusic pock-holes: the perpendicular walls are split
into thick and thin slicings; and slaty débris and spoil-banks deform the “broads”
where the cliffs sink low into the valley.
The narrowest parts of the bed are naturally chosen for passage; in these
gorges there is a great rush from sides to centre, with a furious boiling of the foul
stream, tossing up dirty waves, from which there would be scanty hope of
escape. On one precipice two ends of Kaðlar (cables), here inch ropes, knotted to
one cross-piece, and passed over a second, are made fast under piles of rough
stone: on the farther side the cords are roven with a round turn over the cross-
piece, and are kept clear of the rock by a wooden bar, battened and rag-
garnished, to prevent slipping and chafing. The Kláfur, or cage, is a lidless box, a
stool, whose upturned legs are provided with pulleys; it is, in fact, the “cradle”
which once crossed the chasm, 65 feet wide, between the Heights and the Holm
of Noss in the Shetland Isles. The passenger, sitting or standing, is towed across
by one of the two guys, fastened fore and aft. The passage takes about half a
minute; you descend the sag with a little run, and are slowly hauled up the other
section of the arc. Wire might be an improvement, but it would certainly be
rejected as liable to cut the pulleys. Meanwhile, the guy is always snapping and
wanting “splicing;” so, að fára í Kláfi, is by no means pleasant to the nervous
man, who looks down upon
“The hell of waters, where they howl and hiss,
And boil in endless torture.”

I need hardly observe that the “cradle” is a form still ruder than the rudest
Andine or Himalayan swinging-bridge, which gave a hint—for “travelling
teaches”—to the civilised suspension.
We wasted four hours at this river, the chief delay being caused by the horses.
The caravan then gathered at Eyríkstaðir, the large farm of Hr Jón Janssen.
Whilst the nags were being shod, we drank “blanda,” milk mixed with water, the
best procurable remedy for thirst. Inquiring about the stage ahead, we were told
that it would take four, six, eight, or ten “tíma” (times), not to be confounded
with “Klukku-stundir.” As the student Thorsteinn had left us, we here engaged
for the day’s march the owner’s brother, Hr Gunnlaugr Janssen, who also gave
complete satisfaction.
The afternoon had passed away before we began to clamber up the high
eastern bank of the Jökuldalsheiði: presently we came upon a lake country, a
scatter of tarns large and small. The map shows half-a-dozen, but not the largest,
Ánavatn. Between them lie various hill-ranges, the Western Knefill and Sval-
barð (the cool hill-edge), which yesterday appeared to us in epauletted form: to
the west lay a Thríhyrningr, with triple peak on a meridian concealing the broad
shoulders of Herðubreið. Where hill and water were not, sand, here chocolate-
coloured, there bright yellow, gave unusual opportunities for a gallop, especially
where the ground was free from dwarf-willow, deep earth-cracks, and streams
whose black arenaceous beds bent and swayed under the horses’ weight. We
were shown our line far ahead, marked by five bits of snow, which, disposed
upon a hill-side, passably imitated the human face: it veiled and unveiled itself
like a plain coquette.
On such a formation we expected a devious path hard to find; but we were
bitterly disappointed by the absence of game, where heads in thousands have
formerly been seen. Here and there lingered a duck or a teal, a snipe or snippet,
too wild to approach; the Arctic tern (Sterna Arctica, Preyer) was not coy, but a
solitary skua (Lestris Thuliaca? Pr.), that had gone a-fishing, kept well out of our
reach. A sharp canter from No. 2 lake, Gripdeilir,[154] “Certamen ovium,”
according to our literary guides, soon placed us at the lakelet and farmlet of
Vetur-hús—winter-house, as opposed to Setr. It is neutral ground between the
swamps, which, probably, are under water every spring, and the dry sands of the
old sea-shore farther west. The owner, Páll Vigfússon, owns a boat for char-
fishing, and a fine flock of goat-like sheep: his kailyard is well manured, to
judge from the quantity of soft and brittle puffs (Icel. Gorkúla; Agaricus
fomentarius), which here take the place of mushrooms.[155] The farm-box was a
burrow worthy of St Kilda or Rona in the olden day, entered by a hall like a
mine-gallery; the Baðstofa was fouler than the forecastle of a Greek brig; and the
three bunks which serve as dinner seats, as well as beds, gave one the shudders.
The only caloric was the natural form, which sheep have learned to utilise; and
the only chimney was a hole in the kitchen roof. Yet the farm contained
provision-room, smithy, workshop, byre, and sheep-house. It was my fate to
sleep there on the return march, but I persuaded the good Paudl to put me in a
hay-garret. After all, we must remember Sir James Simpson’s description of the
Barvas district in the Isle of Lewis, where, during the last generation, neither
window nor chimney, chair, table, nor metal vessel existed. What a national
scandal was this barbarism!
After Vetur-hús we passed sundry farms, and we drank at every place, as if on
the banks of the Congo. Men, boys, and maidens came out to be kissed by the
two young guides, but we had only once reason to envy their island-privilege.
Beyond the Ánavatn lay the Sænaut lakelet, once upon a time haunted by the
fabled sea-cow; another pond was passed on the left, whilst swampy ground
extended far to the right. We then ascended a ridge of sand scattered over with
basaltic fragments, and saw the Grjótgarðr, or stone-fence. It has a singular
appearance, a line of blocks, some of them ten feet square, roughly piled upon
one another, and extending half an English mile across the neck of ground. The
cubical masses appear like the produce of some quarry. The general look
suggests the line of rocks subtending the Grind of the Navir: I can only
conjecture that icebergs here meeting and grounding, have deposited their
burdens of huge boulder-rocks. The legend is that two Trolls, one a sea-giant and
the other a Jökull-giant, agreed to divide their domains; the former started from
the north, the latter from the south; they built this wall at the place where they
shook hands, and they lived in peace—I was not told whether they married—
ever afterwards.
Descending from the Grjótgarðaháls, we halted near the last lake, and
collecting a cart-load of willow-roots, which here represent the sage of the Far
Western Prairies, we kept out the mist and cold with a roaring fire. The students,
too lazy to follow our example, lay upon the ground; yet when riding, these
shuddering tenants of the frigid zone muffled their throats in huge comforters,
enclosed their hands in worsted gloves, and wore vast waterproofs of oilskin,
with other signs of softness. It was the first fire, though not the last, that I saw in
Iceland travel.
Resuming our road, we presently began the ascent which had been pointed
out to us in the afternoon; crossed a snow-wreath and a snow-patched divide,
unusually hard work, and frequently felt the horses sinking fetlock deep in the
loose sand. We then descended the misty sides into Heljadalr, and shivered in
“Hellsdale.” A broad and open way crosses this “Barahút,” whose unpleasant
title is derived from the tremendous torrents of spring-tide, the deep snows of
winter, and the furious dust-storms of the dry season. Leaving the Heljadalsfjall,
we entered the cold plain of Geitirssandr; the surface was of water-rolled stones
and pebbles, the base of black sand, whilst light-yellow Palagonite appeared in
the courses of the dry fiumaras. In places there were crater-like heaps of dust
from ten to a hundred feet high, the smaller features perfectly conical, and set off
by bars and patches of white sand, lime, potash, and other produce of the sea.
Evidently the formation is subaqueous, as well as volcanic,[156] and I
subsequently found reason to believe that the ancient sea-beach begins west, and
upon the parallel, of the Jökulsá bridge, and runs up to the north-western base of
Snæfell, the mountain, not the Jökull. The whole tract reminds one of what is
said anent the Barony of Bunen: it has neither wood, water, nor earth sufficient
to hang, to drown, or to bury a man.
Walking our fagged horses down the yielding slopes, we presently found the
ground improve. A stream flowed to our left; a lakelet lay on the right, and thin
grass, well covered with sheep, made the scene an oasis. We again put on steam,
and shortly after three A.M. we made the Möðrudalr farm. The church was shut,
but the buxom housekeeper took compassion upon our weary plight; basins were
brought to relieve eyes red with flinty dust, and skins painful with prickly heat;
bowls of hot coffee comforted the inner man, and once more we revelled in the
luxury of sheeted beds.
 August 5.
The farm of Galiums (etymologically “Madder”), girt by its desert of sand
and stone in all directions but the west, where the Western Jökulsá flows at a
distance of six indirect miles, is one of the best, if not the best, in Iceland. It is
not known in the Landnámabók,[157] which tells us that this quadrant was the last
occupied. The white-headed owner, Sigurður Jónsson, has often been offered his
own price for it, but to no purpose. He brings out the map and enlightens us upon
the features of the wilderness on the other side of the river. He denies the
existence of the mountain “Dýngjufjöll hin nyðr Trölladýngjur,” immediately
south of Bláfjall; and I afterwards found that he was right. Speaking of Baring-
Gould’s project to attack the Sprengisandur from Möðrudalr, he said that a
traveller would be taking the wrong road; the usual line is from Bárðardalr on
the Skjálfjandifljót to the Thjórsá headwaters: moreover, that this Sahara is never
passed till early July. He denied that the snows on Bláfjall give any rule for
crossing the cap of the Iceland dome, of which one stage is a jornada of twenty-
four hours, waterless and grainless. He confirmed my idea that the Ódáða Hraun
is bounded east as well as west by the sandy region; and he shrugged his
shoulders when I consulted him about ascending the local sundial, Herðubreið,
[158] distant some sixteen miles. The “Broad-shouldered” stood before us in all
his majesty, cabochon-shaped, or, as the Syrians say, a “Khatím” (seal-ring), girt
by perpendicular walls, and projecting a tall point between the double glacier,
here of frosted, there of polished silver, as the surface caught the rays of the
noontide sun. It is not my fault if the sketch be very unlike Henderson’s
“Herdubreid, seen from Mödrudal.”
 [Image unavailable.]
THE BROAD-SHOULDERED.

The wife was absent, but the buxom housekeeper let us want for nothing
except a sight of the Beauty of Möðrudalr, one of the daughters, who is spoken
of by every traveller. The comfortable homestead with three gables showed me
amongst other things a map of Palestine; but why did Mr James Nisbet write
“Treconitus?” The mill was a turbine, so quaint in construction that the water
could not be turned off. En revanche, the mutton was admirable: the sheep easily
fatten in this dry and delicate air, and like their congeners of Somaliland, they
put on flesh with the slenderest rations. Not expecting to see it again, we
devoured the fresh meat as if devouring were a duty.
Mr Lock, sen., found the heat oppressive, and we waited till after noon before
we set out. A few minutes’ riding over grass led into loose, deep sand, evidently
a subaqueous formation; and here amongst the hillocks grows the Melr, or wild
oat, with pale glaucous and striped leaf, long, tough root, large ear, and grain too
small for making bread.[159] We saw none during the night; as on the
Sprengisandur, the land was too high to hold water, and the cereal prefers
hollows where it can enjoy a modicum of damp. It will extend in scatters and
patches as far as Mý-vatn; our horses enjoy it, but the sheep apparently refuse
the coarse growth, like the “pasto fuerte” of the Argentine Republic. I looked in
vain for “birdies” amongst these tufts, probably they find the sands too hot and
too cold.
After an hour’s slow ride, we turned off the road to the right, where Goðahóll,
we were told, shows a temple of Thór. At the southern slope of a hillock known
as Selhóll, lay a few loose stones; farther down was the place where the Dóm-
hring was held, and northwards a black influent of the Skarðsá formed the Blót-
keldar. All was mean and barbarous in the extreme.
We now entered upon what is called the “best road in Iceland.” To the left or
west lay Sandfell and Geldíngafell; the crests were sharp as rabbits’ teeth, and
for a similar reason. After about two hours we crossed the Skarðsá, an ugly, dark
torrent, the cesspool of the hills, and, following a ledge, we passed through the
defile of the same name, Vegaskarð: the formation was of basalt and Palagonite,
the pure and the puddingstone. This col debouched upon a Viðidalr, of course
nude of withies and willows; the poor and barren slope, cut by black waters, was
girt on either side by gloomy hillocks spotted with snow. We halted for a time at
the Sel which belongs to Möðrudalr, and the carpenter, a son of the Rev. Pètur
Jónsson, kindly offered us a drink.
 The “best road” began again, the only defects being rock and deep sand in
patches. The ponies, offended by the pace, bit and kicked, shied and bumped
their loads. Presently we reached the Biskupsháls, where the saintly men of
Skálholt and Hólar once met: two cairns, the Biskupsvarðas, conspicuously
placed on a height, divide the Eastern from the Northern Quadrant. During the
rough descent, of basalt flaky and red as jasper, leading to the valley, we saw the
Jökulsá called á fjöllum, “of the hills,” for the all-sufficient reason that it flows
in a vale: the map terms this part of the bed í Axarfirði because it disembogues
into the Axarfjörð. The milky water flows through a plain of green, thinly
veiling the chocolate-coloured face of earth. Beyond it, half hid by gloomy mist,
lay the Desert of Mý-vatn, and, farther still, rose the slaty-blue cones and ridges
with which we were presently to become familiar.
Shortly before ten P.M. we rode up to the Grímstaðir establishment belonging
to the farmer and ferryman, Guðmund Árnason: he was absent at the time, so his
surly wife was duly kissed on the mouth by the temporary guide, a peasant from
Möðrudalr. This place trades, especially in wool and mutton, with Vopnafjörð,
distant a hard day’s ride; and by this line travellers from the eastern ports usually
make the Mý-vatn. The sheep, mud marked on the rump, are good, and give rich
milk, but both articles are inferior to those of the “model farm” which we last
sighted. Grímr, the old Norwegian founder, chose a capital site; a grassy slope
gently rising from the right bank of a stream, and protected by a ground-wave in
front from the draughts and moving sands of the river-side. It is marked by the
Hálskerling, alias the Grímstaða Kerling, a natural pyramid, conspicuous to
those coming from the west: farther off rises the Haugr cone, snowy always. To
the north of the establishment is the workshop; and here I saw for the first time
horns of the reindeer, which had been shot about Herðubreið: they are common
in the neighbouring establishments. The guest-room, entered by a small porch,
had a wainscot painted to resemble maple; a gold beading and mahogany
furniture; but it boasted neither stove nor fireplace, and, as usual, a whisper rang
through the house. Then came the family parlour, with eight windows, each
single-paned, facing south: the rest of the building consisted of outliers, byres,
the sheep-house, known by the normal central trough, and the usual artless
windmill.

August 6.
This morning the owner, a rough, hard-faced and obliging man, in appearance
much like our typical “Lowlander,” lectured me in the geography of the Útgarð,
or outer regions; and an hour before noon we cantered over the three or four
miles to the river. This Jökulsá is about 200 yards across, with a sand-bank hard
by the left shore. The sides are of crumbling basaltic sand, red and yellow
Palagonite, and water-rolled stones; on the right lay a little strip of equisetum,
and opposite it were clumps of wild oats, which promised well for a ride to the
south. The turbid, slaty-white stream flows at the rate of at least three knots an
hour: there is a tradition of its being swum by a horse-stealer, but the cold would
deter most men unless riding for dear life. Now low in the bed, it must rise at
least five feet, as appears from the driftwood, ground to little bits, which forms
the high-water mark. The rule of Andine travellers is to cross such rivers about
dawn, when the nightly frost has bound the snows which feed them. The map
places its chief sources in the northern border of the Vatnajökull, but the details
cannot be relied upon. The length must be at least 120 miles; and as the fall from
Grímstaðír to the sea is about 1200 feet, there can be no navigation except in the
several reaches, and we can hardly be surprised that it forms the Dettifoss, the
small Niagara of little Iceland. The ferry was shaped like a spoon amputated at
the handle; it was always half full; and four trips were made necessary by the
extent of our belongings. We sat amongst the Eyrarós, the islet roses,
representing the oleanders of Syria, and watched the nags swimming across,
with their heads as usual well up-stream—apparently the custom of towing them
from the boat is obsolete in Iceland, at least I never saw it.
Shortly after noon we attacked the Mý-vatn Öræfi, the wilderness of Mý-
vatn, which is very perfunctorily laid down in the map. It is not wholly barren.
The surface is composed of ropy and cavernous lava, with bursten bubbles and
extinguished fumaroles, growing thin grass, the usual flowers, dwarf birch,
ground-juniper, and two species of willows, the grey always in the
neighbourhood of forage; these stripes overlie and alternate with barren volcanic
sand and stones, bad retainers of water. The larger arteries of fire-stone, as usual
in Iceland, are called Hraun-fljót (run-floods), and the smaller veins Hraun-arða.
The sheep of Reykjahlíð and other farms are driven to the green parts during the
fine season; it is a pays brûlé, but we shall presently see something far worse.
Here, again, game was almost wholly wanting. Plovers sat upon the stone-heaps,
and the stringy curlew (Spói), which, our ancestors loved to “unioynt” (carve),
cried over our heads; possibly they knew that their insipidity and toughness
would save them from any but steel-tipped teeth. A few ptarmigan ran almost
from under our horses’ hoofs, ejaculating Reu! reu! reu! They are excellent
eating, but it is a shame for any but starving men to shoot them at this season,
when the grey-brown poults, little balls of fluff, are still unable to fly. The bird
may be stupid, but it is an excellent mother, praise which can by no means be
accorded to all clever animals; it appears wholly to forget self when aiding in the
escape of its progeny. At this season ptarmigan come down from the barren
uplands to seek flowers and berries in more genial climes; yet a few days and
they will retire with the young family to safer homes.
The remarkable mound on our left, a refuge to “lifters” in olden times, is
known as Hrossaborg, the Horse-fort. From afar it appears a mere shell of
stratified mud; a nearer approach shows a worn and degraded Herðubreið, with
regular couches of Palagonite clay falling steep on all sides but one. The huge
semicircus opens to the east, where its drainage sheds to the Hrossaborglindá,
the stream of the Horse-fort spring, flowing from the south, and much affected
by sheep. I found no sign of lava, but an abundance of sand around it; if it ever
erupted, the discharge must have been like that of Hverfjall, which we shall
presently visit. Beyond it the sand is lively as that of Sind: on my return I saw a
dozen columns careering at the same time over the plain although rain had fallen
during three days. Our caravan was struck by one of these “Hvirfilsbíld-ör”
(whirlwind bolts), which arose close by; unlike the Shaytan of the Arabian wild,
which is adjured with “Iron, O Devil!” it did not even remove our hats. The
pillars, which spread out at the top like a stone-pine in Italy, may have been 200
feet high: some travellers, imitating the licence of Abyssinian Bruce, swell the
altitude to 2000 yards.
As the gear wore out, so the loads fell with unpleasant persistency, making us
plod slowly over good riding ground. In front rose a semicircular ridge,
extending from north, viâ east, to south of the lake, and thickly studded with
hills and cones. The map calls it Mý-vatns Sveit, the Mý-vatn district; our
student corrupted it to “Sveinn” (puer), opposed to Stúlka, a lass. The latter
reminded us of the Joe Miller attributed to the British sailor who understood why
women were called “Snorers” (Señoras) in Spain, but could not explain their
being “Stokers” in Iceland. This mild joke had power to comfort us whilst all
manner of topographical details concerning Jörundr, Hlíðarfell, Búrfell,
Hvannfell, Sighvatr, and Bláfjall, were poured into our dull and dusty ears. We
halted for a few minutes at the little farm Eystrasel, and then pushed forward to
the solfatara. After threading the Námaskarð, where the air was not balsam, we
sighted the lake, one of the ugliest features of its pretty kind; and at 8.30 P.M.,
preceding my companions, I rode in to our destination, Reykjahlið. The features
here only named will be described at full length in the following chapter.
 ITINERARY FROM BERUFJÖRÐ TO MÝ-VATN.

BERUFJÖRÐ TO THINGMÚLI.
Wednesday, July 31, 1872.
Left Berufjörð at 10.45 P.M. Line north-west up left bank of Axarvatn stream,
draining to Berufjörð; turf, sand, stones, washed from gullies. Five distinct steps,
separated by undulating ground; path rough; cold mist; mountain streams to
cross.
1.15 A.M. (2 hours 30 min.).—Halted at foot of fifth step, Hænu-brekka (hen-
ledge), the worst.
Walked up Hænu-brekka; snow-slope, path along névé; bending to north,
rough Öxarheiði, broken plain, tiers of trap, about 700 feet above sea-level.
Crossed sundry wreaths and beds of snow.
2.45 A.M.—Summit of Breiðdalsheiði; path marked by three Varðas. Changed
nags, 3.45 A.M.
Down valley of Múlaá, in the great Skriðdalr; watershed changes from south
to north.
6.30 A.M.—Passed first farm, Stefánstaðir; little Bær on left bank of stream,
and west of Skriðavatn; little lake, or rather “broad” of river. On right, falls in
the eastern path over the Berufjarðarskarð. Farms every half-hour.
7.45 A.M.—Arnaholtstaðir farm; to-morrow will have cattle fair; some sixty
head for sale.
8.10 A.M.—Hallbjarnarstaðir, backed by its hill; general trend, south-east to
north-west.
Several farms together. At 9.30 A.M., forded Múlaá, girth-deep; rode up to
Thingmúli (⊙ I.) chapel and farm, under priest of Hallormstaðir. Good property;
seventy sheep, and eight cows.
Night’s work, 10 hours 45 min., halts included. Average march, 3 to 3½ miles
an hour. On map, direct geographical miles, 17. Direction, north-west, bending
to north.
Morning fine and sunny. Mist at 8 to 9 A.M.; heavy at 3 P.M. Night cold, raw,
and foggy; about midnight, mist from north.
Paid farmer, Davíð Sigurðarson, $5; his wife wanted $3 more. Little trodden
paths more expensive. People have no standard of value.
 THINGMÚLI TO VALTHIÓFSTAÐIR.
Friday, August 2.
Set out, 12.30 P.M. Forded river, rode down Grímsá valley; often crossed
stream; best road near the bank. After 45 minutes, left Grímsá, and struck the
Melar or barrens at foot of divide. To left Geirólfstaðir, small farm of civil
people, where I slept August 19. Up the long green slope of Hallormstaðarháls;
less abrupt than western slope. Reached summit 3 P.M. (aneroid, 29·32), and
began rough and abrupt descent. At 3.15 crossed Hafursá (buck-goat river), a
dwarf ravine. Trap in steps, and red-ochre fields to left. Lagarfljót Lake below;
both banks easy slopes; green ledges and swamps, crossed by causeways. Bridle-
path well kept, because it is road to Eskifjörð, the port. Farms everywhere; see
seven on western side. Passed through the “Skóg,” forest of Hallormstaðir.
General direction, north-west; direct distance, 4 geographical miles.
4.10 P.M.—(After 3 hours 40 min. slow = 2 fast) Reached Hallormstaðir. Left
it at 6 P.M. Up right bank of Lagarfljót; succession of torrents, gullies, and bad
stony places, which can be rounded. Rode under the Rana-Skóg (wood of the
hog-shaped hill). Big sand-bar of Gilsa forms a tongue of boulders and bad
torrent if the ford is not hit. Path double, summer along lake and in water; winter,
higher up. Deep holes between basaltic blocks; horse sinks breast-high.
8.30 P.M.—At Hrafnkelstaðir (proper name of man), opposite Hengifoss
cataract, on other side of lake.
9 P.M.—Opposite fine farm, Bessastaðir.
9.30 P.M.—Ferry below junction of two forks of Lagarfljót; swift, cold
stream.; breadth, 200 yards; current, 3 knots; horses swam in 2 min. 30 sec. On
return, forded it higher up, when split into three large and three small streams.
Another ford, wither-deep, farther down. Paid ferry, $2.
⊙ II. 10.45 P.M.—After 20 minutes’ gallop over green plain, reached
Valthiófstaðir church and parsonage. Second march (general direction, south-
south-west), 3 hours 30 min. = 10 indirect geographical miles. Total day’s work,
7 hours 10 min. = 14 miles.
Aneroid, 29·94; thermometer, 76° (second observation, 29·96; thermometer,
83° in sun).
Morning gloriously clear. At 10 A.M., cloudy and sunny. 2 P.M., sun hot, and
people complained. Cirri and cumuli over the Vatnajökull. Evening clear and
cool.
VALTHIÓFSTAÐIR TO THORSKAGERÐI.
Saturday, August 3.
 Started 2.45 P.M.—Took upper road to avoid túns; lower better.
3.10 P.M.—Ruined monastery, Skriðuklaustr. Delayed 15 minutes.
Crossed ugly boulder-torrent, which wetted the beds. Reached Bessastaðir
farm, 3.50 P.M.
At 4.30 P.M., true start over the Fljótsdalsheiði. Map shows nearly straight line
from east to west. Not travelled over now. We struck north-west-west; stiff rise
for 45 minutes. Rotten ground, and cold air.
Reached first step at 5.10 P.M. Aneroid, 28·73; thermometer, 76°, on summit.
First view of Vatnajökull from Vegup (Vègúp? or Vegupp?), 6.20 P.M.
Aneroid, 27·92.
On the southern road (Aðalbólsvegr) the highest point of the divide was
shown by aneroid 27·80.
7.30 P.M.—Reached midway height, water stagnates; presently the versant
changed, and the Miðvegr (half-way) torrent flowed west to the great Jökulsá.
Despite Varðas, lost way half-a-dozen times. Ground more and more rotten.
10.30 P.M.—Crossed boulder river, Eyvindará, and turned from north-west to
south-west. Began descent.
11 P.M.—The western is the shortest, the Eastern Jökulsá being some 900 feet
above the Lagarfljót. Crossed many streams divided by ridges.
N.B.—The Holkná (water of the rough stony field) is misplaced in the map. It
is south of Eyríkstaðir, on opposite bank. Rode along river banks; air much
warmer.
⊙ III. 12.40 P.M.—Beached Thorskagerði. Ferryman’s house newly built.
Total on road, 9 hours 55 min.; very slow work; about 7 to 8 hours’ real work.
Distance measured by map, 22 to 23 geographical miles. General direction,
north-west and west-south-west.
In morning, sun and strong north wind. Then clouds from south. At 5 P.M. saw
a shower in the Lagarfljót. 7 P.M., drops of rain.
THORSKAGERÐI TO MÖÐRUDALR.
Sunday, August 4.
Early in the forenoon, crossed the (E.) Jökulsá in the cage. The horses were
driven to the ford, 200 yards below. Only four of sixteen swam over at first trial,
in 1 hour 30 min. The rest were driven farther down, and seven passed over in 1
hour 30 min. to 2 hours 30 min. The last five were towed over with a rope.
Occupied 4 hours. Ended at 12.45.
Loaded at Eyríkstaðir; left bank of, and 100 feet above, stream. Aneroid at 2
P.M., 28·98; thermometer (in shade), 60°.
Set out at 5 P.M. Up the high left bank of stream, and at once lost the road.
Line not traced in map; it lies between the Möðrudalsvegr, north, and the
Jökuldalsheiði to the south. Began to cross the great divide, a tableland, not a
prism, between the two Jökulsás.
At 6 P.M., aneroid, 27·90; thermometer, 74°.
Passed north and along foot of Eyríks mountain. Entered a region of lakes or
tarns; whole surface has been under water, and probably is so still in spring.
Buðará reservoir and stream to right. Divided by dust plains, chocolate and
bright-yellow; good galloping-ground.
On right, second lake, Gripdeildr, at foot of Sval-barð Hill.
8.15 P.M.—Vetur-hús farm and lakelet; 3½ Danish (14 geographical) miles
from Möðrudalr. On return, rode in 4 hours 45 min.
End of first stage, which occupied 3 hours 15 min. = 4 geographical miles.
Resumed road, 8.30 P.M. On left big lake, Ánavatn (Áni proper name), not in
map.
9.20 P.M.—Sænautasel (shieling of the sea-cow), a little bye, belonging to the
large Rangalon (Ranga, proper name, and-lón, sea-loch, inlet, still-water) farm to
north. There is also a Sænautavatn and a Sænautafjall to west. Another lakelet to
left. Up rise, a regular divide; swampy region to right. Examined the “Halse of
the stone wall” (Grjótgarðaháls). Lakes and swamps again; peats cut here.
10.45 P.M.—Halted near edge of last swamp or lake. This second stage
occupied 2 hours 15 min. = 4 geographical miles.
Set out, 11.15 P.M. Bad descent to Rangaá (river), headwater of Hofsá, going
to Vopnafjörð. Map does not prolong it so far south. Exchanged swamp for sand
and snow-fonds.
Into Heljardalsfjall. Broad smooth plain of Geitirssandr.
Aneroid, 28·08.
Along hill-side to first steep descent; pyramid hill to left. Second deep
descent, the Skarð leading to plain of Möðrudalr.
⊙ IV. Arrived at Möðrudalr, 3.10 A.M. Third stage, 4 hours = 12 miles. Total
of day, 9 hours 30 min.; the distance, according to the people, being 25 English
miles. We made it 20 geographical miles.
Aneroid, 28·50; thermometer, 70° (in room).
Grey morning; sunny noon; high north wind; then heavy clouds; but no rain
till after we were lodged.
 MÖÐRUDALR TO GRÍMSTAÐIR.
August 5.
General direction, almost due north.
In morning took sights.
Herðubreið, 263° 30´ to 266° mag. (local variation—40°), or 223° 30´ to
226° true.
Kverkfjöll, 248° 30´ mag.
Fagradalsfjall, 244° to 246° mag.
$6 to owner, and $2 to student guide.
Set out, 2.45 P.M. Made for Geldíngafell (11° mag.), in line of tall cliffs.
Sandfell, rounded cone, on left. To right (eastward) was Vegahnúkr, 45° mag.,
and the rocks and tumuli of Nýpi, or Núpur, 64° mag. Not in map. Soon off grass
into deep sand.
At 3.45 turned back, and lost twenty minutes visiting Goðahóll.
4.45 P.M.—Crossed Skarðsá, ugly black torrent, influent of Western Jökulsá.
Along a corniche, the Vegaskarð, a pass through the hills. Dun-coloured
Palagonite clay upon the stones; large blocks of conglomerate and yellow
basaltic rock below.
5.15 P.M.—The Miðvegr (mid-way).
Sharp riding to Víðidalr; ugly barren slope, black waters, foul stream feeding
Jökulsá. Red hill on left.
6.20 P.M.—Halted at farm; two white gables; many byres. Halted..
First stage, slow work, 3 hours = 10 geographical miles.
Set out again, 7.15 P.M. On right, Grímstaða Kerling, natural pyramid of rock,
used by trigonometrical survey.
8.45 P.M.—Biskupsháls.
Skirted Ytri Núpur, northern hill, bounded south-west by Grímstaða Núpur.
9.15 P.M.—Good gallop over grass; rolling ground up and down.
⊙ V. Crossed rivulet south of farm, and reached Grímstaðir farm, 9.45 P.M.
Second stage, fast; 2 hours 30 min. = 12 miles. Total, 5 hours 30 min., half-
slow, half-fast = 22 direct geographical miles.
Paid guide, $1; he wanted $2. Will gallop back in two hours.
Morning hot and dry; sun oppressive; in afternoon, cool and cloudy air.
About 8 P.M., cold east wind; hands numbed. In evening, dense cloud, like ice-
fog, rose from the horizon and covered the sun.
 Aneroid, 28·88; thermometer, 52°. Next morning, aneroid, 28·72;
thermometer, 59°.
GRÍMSTAÐIR TO MÝ-VATN.
August 6.
General direction, nearly due west. Took sights, and farmer gave names:
1. Jörundr, bare cone of Palagonite, which we shall leave to right, or north,
334° mag.
2. Búrfell, tall blue hill, south of our road, 300° mag.
3. Hvannfell, at north end of Bláfell, 293° mag.
4. Fremrinámar, at south-east end of Bláfell (from afar very like Krísuvík),
276° 30´ mag.
5. Herðubreiðarfell (not to be confounded with true Herðubreið), called by
people, Dýngjufjöll; long line of low heaps and craters, partly concealing snows
of Herðubreið.
Paid $4 for pasture, $2 for ferry (Henderson paid $3), and $2 for this day’s
guide, who has two horses, and returns in the evening.
11 A.M.—Left farm; pricked over plain, sand-outs, and thin scrub.
12.15 P.M.—Jökulsá River; 3 miles. Aneroid, 28·90; thermometer, 63°.
Ferry made four trips. Horses swam to island in 1 min. 15 sec.; spent two
hours at river.
Remounted, 2.15 P.M. Passed Hrossaborg block, and began the Mý-vatn Öræfi
(Desert of Mý-vatn).
Rode slowly; loads falling. Line, lava runs (five large) and sand; many little
craters studding the plain. In front, detached hills and cones, arc of circle with
hollow towards lake. The Mý-vatns Sveit (district).
6.30 P.M.—Little farm, Eystrasel (in map, Mý-vatnssel), 1 hour 30 min. from
Reykjahlíð; swamp to east, and stream to west. Line marked by tall Varðas,
alternate layers of turf and sticks.
Up and down the Námaskarð (col of the wells), dividing Dalfjall, the
northern, from Námafjall, the southern range. Pass through the heart of the
solfatara.
At west end of pass sighted the Mý-vatn.
⊙ VI. 8.30 P.M.—Arrived at Reykjahlíð, our destination.
Second stage from river, 6 hours 15 min. = 17 to 18 direct geographical
miles, riding fast and slow. Total of day’s work, 7 hours 30 min. = 20 miles.
 Dull, grey morning; threatens glare and warmth. Wind from north-west;
showers on hills. Dust clouds on plain, showing excess of electricity; signs of
heat, not of rain. Sunny afternoon; gloomy evening.
 CHAPTER XIV.

THREE DAYS AT THE SOLFATARA OF MÝ-VATN.

I CANNOT accuse myself of failing to do traveller’s duty at Mý-vatn: although the

weather became raw and rainy, not an hour was wasted. The first step was to
climb the nearest height and form a general notion of Midge-water, which must
not be derived à micturitione Diaboli. It is said to be forty miles in
circumference—you might as well measure round a spider—and the “gorgeous
green isles” look like lumps of mud in a horsepond; their only use is to grow
angelica; but we saw them under a dull grey sky, like an inverted pewter-pot.
The mean of many observations gave for the aneroid 29·12, and the thermometer
54°: if this be correct, Midge Lake must be nearer 900 than 1500 feet above sea-
level. Travellers tell you that the fair dimensions were curtailed by the great
eruption of Leirhnúkr and Krafla (1724-30); that the lava is not yet thoroughly
cooled; and that consequently the surface is never wholly frozen. But the Krafla,
as we shall see, can never have flowed here, and there are old craters and
hornitos, volcanoes in miniature, all about the edge: the whole becomes a solid
sheet of ice, except where sulphur and other minerals send forth springs more or
less tepid; moreover we found a depth of only 27 feet. The bottom is black and
muddy; the water along shore is shallow and weedy, sedgy and spumy,
whitening the coast and the island edges; it is glorious breeding-ground for the
blood-drawing “chief inhabitants of the district.” Gnat terrors are emphatically
noticed, and one traveller assures us that the people wear a visored cassinet of
black cloth to guard head and neck. They are compared with those feræ naturæ,
the midges of Maine; “No-see-ums,” the “Indians” call them. We brought

[Image unavailable.]
Nº 1.
THE REYKJALIÐ AND NÁMARFJALL SPRINGS.
Nº 2.
PLAN OF FREMRI-NÁMAR.
Nº 3.
PLAN OF LEIRHKNÚKR & KRAFLA (SPRINGS.)

veils, and hardly saw a “Mý”—but then, the cold weather was against the
“bodies of Behemoths and the stings of dragons.” Nor did we find Mý-vatn “a
place where birds and fishes abound, and where many of the wonders of Iceland
are concentrated.” Every student of the avi-fauna who has sighted the pool, from
the days of Proctor and Krüper to those of Shepherd[160] and Baring-Gould,
makes it a very happy hunting-ground: all give lists which bring water to the
sportsman’s mouth. Ten short years, however, have made the latest obsolete. We
did not meet with a single Iceland falcon, once so common; the birds, with the
exception of gulls, a host of sandpipers, and plucky little terns, whose sharp
beaks threatened our heads and eyes, were rare in the extreme; and we found
defunct chicks at every few hundred yards. Although we boated and shot over
the ugly puddle, our only bag consisted of a mallard, a widgeon, a few grebes
and pipers, and the Sefönd or horned grebe (Podiceps cornutus or auritus?),
tufted on both sides of the head. The waters supplied trout and char; there is no
salmon, as the fish cannot leap the falls twenty-five miles from the lake. Dead
shells lay everywhere upon the spumy margin, and the corpse of a duck was
found studded with mollusks. The soil, disintegrated volcanic rock, is of the
richest; some thirty farms and farmlets are scattered about the Hlíðar or ledges
between the several lava-gushes; and the pastures support some 3000 sheep.
The Mý-vatn is somewhat in the delta shape, with the apex fronting west (⊳),
and with the base extending seven to eight miles: its drain, the Laxá frá Mý-vatn,
escaping about the point and feeding the Skálfandi Fjörð, must be a mere torrent.
North of it is the lumpy, uninteresting mound, Vindbeljarfjall, “wind-bellows
hill;” the bag to the south, and the nozzle to the north-east; an African pair of
bellows, i.e., one “bellow,” if such word there be. It is a trigonometrical station
like the Hlíðarfjall, a bare cone north-east of Reykjahlíð. The points and
promontories are most remarkable to the south, but these and other features will
be better observed on the road to the Fremrinámar.
My general survey ending about noon, I set out for Leirhnúkr and Krafla
under the guidance of Hr Pètur Jónsson, the farmer of Reykjahlíð. The tall, burly
old man, made taller by contrast with his little Jack nag, had fenced himself
against the grey mist and skurrying sea-wind by the usual huge comforter
meeting the billy-cock hat behind; by “conservators” of green glass, and by a
mighty paletot of the thickest Wadmal. We followed yesterday’s road, and now I
carefully observed the lay of the land. Beyond the green and grassy point, Höfði
(the headland), we came upon sundry veins of lava about a century and a half
old, and much like slag: where Palagonite-conglomerate forms the surface, begin
the Sandfell and the Hlíðarnámar (Lithewells), the latter wrongly confounded in
the map with the Námar to the east of the Námafjall range. A couple of boards
some six inches long were the only signs of work. The dirty-yellow mountain,
striped from top to toe, as if washed by rain, with primrose, brick-red, dark blue,
pea-green, light blue, and chalky-white, now stood smoking before us; and
beginning the ascent, we passed the two boulders of pure sulphur, from which
every traveller has carried off a bittock. Threading the Námaskarð by a decent
path, we wound first to south and then to north, till we sighted the mud caldrons
on the eastern slope. In Henderson’s day they numbered twelve; in 1872
apparently they were on their “last legs:” two lay to the north, four to the south;
they were shaped like Sitz baths, and they ejected, with a mild puff which could
not be called a roar, spirts of repulsive slime, blue-black, like mud stained by
sulphate of iron. These “Makkalubers” contrasted strongly with the patches of
lively citron and sprightly pink all about the slopes. One traveller finds it a “most
appalling scene”—he must be easily “appalled.”
Debouching upon the eastern plain, we rode along the foot of the Dalfjall
(dale-hill), which continues the Sulphur Range to the north, hugging the sides to
avoid the Steiná, another bed of newish lava, an impossible mass of cinder,
brown, black, and red, on our right. The path was well grown, but the “lady of
the woods” (birch) is a dwarf in these parts, and looked tame beside the patches
of Dryas. We flushed sundry ptarmigan, which were certainly not “absurdly
tame.” After an hour and a half of “Trossacks,” which on return was covered in
forty-five minutes, we halted at Skarðsel, a little Setr or summer shieling, a mere
“but and ben” without tún, a heap of peat and stones grubbed out into rooms.
The primitive churn found in every dairy shows that the ewes’ cream is here
made into cheese, whilst the skim-milk forms the national Skýr. Of course the
animals are poor and thin all the year round—the effect of continued “drain upon
the constitution.”
Beyond the Skarðsel, we began to ascend and round sundry diseased and
mangy hills, walking up the higher pitches, and riding over peat mounds, based
upon oldish lava. After a total of two hours, we dismounted at the foot of
Leirhnúkr (mud-knoll), where the horses’ hoofs flung up mere sulphur, and
where warm, damp air escaped from every hole. The view from the summit
convinced me that the emplacement has been poorly described by travellers. It is
the northern head of a thin spine, a sharp prism about a mile broad, lying almost
upon a meridian (215° mag.), and continuing the heights of Thríhyrningr,
Dalfjall, and Námafjall. At some distance to the north-west rises the snowy
buttress, Gæsadalsfjöll (geese-dale hills), almost concealing the Kinnarfjall
(cheek or jaw mountain). Nearer lies a chain of cones and craters, with sundry
outliers; they seem to have discharged a torrent nine miles long by three of
maximum breadth, which inundated the north-eastern corner of the Mý-vatn
with veins and arteries of fire; and the scatter of hornitos and fumaroles to the
north has also aided in the work of destruction, or rather reconstruction. The map
shows only a patch of lava reaching from Leirhnúkr to the Hlíðarfjall cone
south-west.
The Leirhnúkr proper is composed of two hillocks trending north and south;
the southern is larger than the northern, and the whole, a long oval extending
some 2000 paces, is one vast outcrop. The lowland to the east is far broader than
the western, a mere slip; here frequent splotches of sulphur and anaphysemata,
or gas vents, lead to the Krafla springs. The aneroid showed the summit of the
Mud-Knoll to be about 2000 feet above sea-level. Henderson (i., p. 167) calls it a
volcano, and connects it with his other volcano, Krafla, by a non-existing ridge;
but with him, omne ignotum, etc.—Hrossaborg and even Herðubreið are
volcanoes. When he compares the scenery with that of the Dead Sea, one of the
fairest of salt-water lakes, we must remember that his idea of “Asphaltites” was
borrowed from that lively modern writer, Strabo.
We then remounted and rode over the dwarf Phlegræan fields to the Námar of
Krafla,[161] the immense soufrière of M. Robert. The lowland is here studded
with many inverted cones of cold, blue water; the principal feature being Helvíti
Stærra (Greater Hell). It is an irregular circle, with little projections at the longest
diameter, north-west to south-east, a large, tawny funnel of burnt clay and bolus,
the degradation of trachyte and Palagonite, about 800 yards across. This is the
famous “mud-caldron of Krabla,” a “natural phenomenon hardly inferior to the
Geyser;” but Henderson’s Hell of 1815 was greatly changed in 1872; and we
shall see far larger features at the Hverfjall and the Námarkoll. Instead of that
“terrific scene,” the “jetting pool” of wild illustrations, a lakelet smiling in the
bright sun, which burst the clouds about two P.M., a placid expanse of green-blue
water, cold, and said to be deep, occupied the bottom of the hole, and the only
movement was a shudder as the wind passed over it. I could not help thinking of
“La belle vision d’Élie, ou un Dieu passe sous la figure d’un vent léger.” Despite
the “abrupt and precipitous descent, 200 feet deep,” there is no difficulty in
descending the sides of “Olla Vulcani,” now the mere dregs of a volcano.
After inspecting this poor, “abolished Hell,” we rode round it northwards,
crossing sundry snow-wreaths, which on the Libanus would be called Talláját,
and left our cards upon “Little Hell.” The latter is composed of two smaller lakes
on a higher plane, one bearing east-south-east and the other south-east. Between
the pair lie some half-dozen slimy-bordered “leir-hverar,”[162] mud-boilers of
fetid smell: the ejections bubbled and spluttered, falling into their own basins,
and the fumes did not prevent the growth of Fífa and bright lichens.
After seeing what you may see in almost any solfatara, we rode to the north-
east, and in twenty minutes we ascended the turfy and muddy northern cone of
Krafla mountain; a mass of Palagonite, pierced, to judge from the surface
scatters, with white trachyte. An isolated cone appears in the map; I found that
the northerly part sweeps round to the north-north-east, connecting with the
Hágaung (high-goer), a long, meridional buttress of similar formation; whilst the
south-eastern prolongation anastomoses with the black mass called the
Hraftinnuhryggr or “Obsidian mountain.” I utterly failed to discover any sign of
crater: we are told that Krafla was torn in half during the last century, and
Henderson apparently makes Great Helvíti the remains of the bowl. From the
apex, where the aneroid showed 27·30, we could trace the course of the Laxá;
and a gleam in the north was pronounced by the farmer to be the Axarfjörð, a
corner of the house where dwells Le Père Arctique. Upon the black summit,
where we
“Toil and sweat, and yet be freezing cold,”

Dryas was still in bloom, and violets and buttercups were scattered over the
lower slopes. I looked in vain for specimens of the plumbago or black lead,
reported to be found on Krafla. There is no objection to its presence in this
katakekaumene; “graphitical carbon” was found by M. Alibert in the volcanic
formations of Siberian Meninski, so it is not confined, as at Borrowdale, to the
“primitives.”
As we were descending the hill, my guide inspected a flock of his own sheep,
and I vainly attempted to lay in a store of fresh mutton. These people would
probably sell, if they could get $8 to $9 per head, some 2000 of their 3000
animals, and greed of gain would leave them almost destitute. Yet here, as at
other farms, it is impossible, even with a week’s work and offering treble price,
to buy a single head; excuses are never wanting, “There is no one to send! All
the ewes have lambs! The lambs are not fit for food!” The latter probably means
that the lamb will in time become a sheep; the wild negro of the African interior,
equally logical, expects a chicken to bring the price of a hen. In Tenerife I should
have shot a wether, and have left the price upon its skin.
A shallow valley led to the Hraftinnuhryggr, where previous accounts would
induce you to expect a “mountain of broken wine-bottles,” all “shining with their
jetty colouring.” The thin strew upon the streamlet sides and about the feet was
of small fragments, which became larger as I ascended. Mostly it was black and
regular, that is, not banded, and the outer coating was a reddish paste: in places it
forms a conglomerate with sandstone, and on the eastern summit, where trachyte
also crops out, it seems to be in situ. M. Cordier (p. 278) translates the word
“pierre de Corbeau,” thus robbing the raven: he proposes “gallinace” (i.e.,
turkey-buzzard), for the glassy material of pyroxenic base, reserving “obsidian”
for the felspathic. From this place, I believe, came the specimens lately studied
by Dr Kennott of Zurich: one of them exhibited under the microscope,
“numerous small, brown, hollow bodies, of globular and cylindrical shape,
regularly arranged in definite series.” Obsidian has been found north-east of
Hekla, passing into pumice, and old Icelandic travellers seem to confound it with
pitchstone, asphalte, or bitumen of Judea, a vegetable produce. Many of the
obsidians are remarkably acid. “Iceland agate” (why?) must be handled with
care, as Metcalfe found to the cost of his bridle-hand. Iceland ignores the pure
“stone age” of Tenerife and Easter Island; and though strangers pick up
specimens, the “volcanic glass” here has never been worked, as by the natives of
the Lipari group. I observed that Ravenflint ridge, which prolongs the Krafla, is
itself prolonged by the Sandabotnafjöll, and by the Jörundr, which the map
makes an isolated cone. The classical name of the latter suggests memories of
the old anchorite of Garðar.
The day ended pleasantly. After finding what there was and what there was
not to be seen, I galloped back in a fine sun and warm evening, and after seven
hours thirty minutes of total
 [Image unavailable.]
REYKJAHLID CHURCH—(miraculously preserved).

work, found my companions busy in pitching the tent, despite the cold threats of
night. They complained of the stranger’s room, although it rejoiced in such
luxuries as two windows, a bed and curtains, looking-glass, commode, map,
thermometer, and a photograph of Jón Sigurðsson. The house, with five gables,
fronts west-south-west to “Wind-bellows hill;” here the south wind is fair and
warm, the norther brings rain, the easter is wet, and the wester dry and tepid. As
in England, the south-wester is the most prevalent, and flowers thrive best where
best sheltered from it. The house has the usual appurtenances, workshop and
carpenter’s bench; smithy and furnace; byre and sheep-fold. The shabby little
windmill, with three ragged sails, goes of itself, like Miss K.’s leg; there is an
adjacent Laug, of course never used, and the nearness of the lake renders a
Lavapés (rivulet) unnecessary. Plough, harrows, watering-pot, and hay-cart are
also evidences of civilisation, but the kail-yard is nude of potatoes—probably
they require too much hard labour. Shabbier than the windmill, the church,
bearing date 1825, lacks cross, and wants tarring; it has no windows to speak of,
and the turf walls are built after an ancient fashion, now rare, the herring-bone of
Roman brickwork. The cemetery around it is indecently neglected, and bones,
which should be buried, strew the ground. Baring-Gould (1863) gives an account
of its chasubles and other ecclesiastical frippery, which may still be there, unless
sold to some traveller. It is a lineal descendant of that “church which in an
almost miraculous manner escaped the general conflagration” of 1724-30.
Henderson adds the question, “Who knows but the effectual fervent prayer of
some pious individual, or some designs of mercy, may have been the cause fixed
in the eternal purpose of Jehovah for the preservation of this edifice?” I may
simply remark that lava does not flow up hill; the stream split into two at the
base of the mound, without “being inspired with reverence for the consecrated
ground,” and united in the hollow farther down. Yet travellers of that age derided
the Neapolitan who placed his Madonna in front of the flowing lava; and when
she taught him the lesson of Knútr (Canute) the Dane,[163] tossed her into the fire
with a ‘naccia l’anima tua, etc., etc., etc. Superstition differs not in kind, but
only in degree.
The reason for the tent-pitching soon appeared. The burly farmer has a lot of
lubberly sons, and two surly daughters; “Cross-patch” and “Crumpled-horn”
being attended by half-a-dozen suitors and women friends, bouches inutiles all.
If we look into the kitchen, these Lucretias make a general bolt. There is extra
difficulty in getting hot-water, although Nature, as “Reykjahlíð” shows, has laid
it on hard by; and even the cold element is brought to us in tumblers. The coffee
is copiously flooded; this is feminine economy, which looks forward to the same
pay for the bad as for the good; and cups, which suggest “take a ’poon, pig,”
poorly supply the place of the pot. One of the sons speaks a little English: we
tried him upon the lake, and after two hours’ rowing he was utterly exhausted.
Besides, there are lots of loafers, jolter-headed, crop-eared youngsters,
“With no baird to the face
Nor a snap to the eyes,”

who are mighty at doing nothing: they peep into, and attempt to enter, the tent;
when driven off they lounge away to the smithy, or to the carpenter’s bench, and
satisfied with this amount of exercise, they lounge back into the house, where we
hear them chattering and wrangling, cursing and swearing, like a nest of young
parrots. They remind me of the Maori proverb, “Your people are such lazy
rogues, that if every dirt-heap were a lizard, no one would take the trouble to
touch its tail and make it run away.” They cannot even serve themselves: the
harder work is done by a pauper couple, a blind man and his wife, who sleep in
the hay-loft. The only sign of activity is shown by the carpenter, Arngrímr, a
surly fellow, wearing a fur cap, like a man from the Principalities, and with
mustachioes meeting his whiskers, like those of the Spanish Torero. “He is
Nature’s artist,” says the student, meaning that he has taught himself to paint,
and hélas! to play flute and fiddle. So the evening ends with ditties, dolefully
sung, and the Icelandic national hymn, the latter suggesting Rule (or rather be
Ruled) Britannia. We are curious to know how all these sturdy idlers live. They
fish; they eat rye-bread and Skýr; they rob the nests, and at times they kill a few
birds: the best thing that could happen to them would be shipment to Milwaukee,
where they would learn industry under a Yankee taskmaster. I have drawn this
unpleasant interior with Dutch minuteness: it is the worst known to me in
Iceland.
The old farmer, Pètur Jónsson, lost no time in deserving the character which
he has gained from a generation of travellers; his excuse is that he must plunder
the passing stranger in order to fill the enormous gapes which characterise his
happy home. Yet he makes money as a blacksmith; he owns a hundred sheep,
and he is proprietor of a good farm. In his old billycock, his frock-coat and short
waistcoat, he looks from head to foot the lower order of Jew; we almost expect
to hear “ole clo’ ” start spontaneously from his mouth. He began by asking $3, to
be paid down, for the Krafla trip, and $4, the hire of four labouring men, for
trinkgeld to the Fremrinámar; and the manner was more offensive than the
matter of the demand. His parting bill was a fine specimen of its kind. It is only
fair to state that he bears a very bad name throughout the island.
Next day the north wind still blew; the heavy downpour at five A.M. became a
drizzle two hours later; and at ten A.M. there was a blending of sunshine and
mistcloud, which showed that we had nought to fear save a shower or two of rain
and sleet. Mr Lock (fils) and I determined upon a ride to the Fremrinámar; “a
field of sulphur and boiling mud,” says Baring-Gould, “not visited by travellers,
as it is difficult of access, and inferior in interest to the Námar-fjall springs.”
After breakfast, we set out, each provided with two nags, which we drove over
the lava-field to the Vogar farm, about half-an-hour distant on the other side of
the grassy point, Höfði. This “oasis in the lava”—a description which applies to
all the farms of Eastern Mý-vatn—was the parsonage in Ólafsson’s day (1772);
we expected to find the Jón Jónsson mentioned by Shepherd, who had learned
English in Scotland—he had, however, joined il numero dei più. As sometimes
happens to the over-clever, we notably “did” ourselves; the owner, Hjálmar
Helgason, a very civil man over a tass of brandy, was, we afterwards found out, a
son-in-law of old Pètur; he also, doubtless informed of the rixe, demanded $4,
which we had to pay; he kept us waiting a whole hour whilst the horses were
being driven in, and he sent with us a raw laddie, whose only anxiety was to
finish the job.
Shortly after noon we rode forward, crossing the unimportant Gjá, which the
map stretches in a zigzag south of Reykjahlíð; we passed the “horrid lava-track”
of Ólafsson, a mild mixture of clinker and sand, and in twenty minutes we
reached Hverfjall, lying to the south-east. From afar the huge black decapitated
cone, symmetrically shaped and quaquaversally streaked, has a sinister and
menacing look. It is not mentioned by Henderson, whose account of the Mý-vatn
is very perfunctory. According to Baring-Gould, it is “built up of shale and dust,
and has never erupted lava:” as the name shows, it contained a Hver, or
mudspring. We mounted it in ten minutes, and found the big bowl to consist of
volcanic cinder and ashes based upon Palagonite and mud: the shape was
somewhat like that of the Hauranic “Gharáreh” which supplied the lava of the
Lejá. The aneroid (28·70; thermometer, 83°) showed some 800 feet above
Reykjahlíð; and the vantage-ground gave an excellent view of the lake, with its
low black holms and long green islets, of which the longest and the greenest is
Miklaey (mickle isle). This Monte nuovo was erupted in 1748-52; and a plaited
black mound in the easily-reached centre shows where the mud was formerly
ejected. Almost due south of it lies a precisely similar feature, the Villíngafjall.
These formations are technically called Sand-gýgr, “sand craters,” opposed to
Eld-gýgr, the “fire abyss;” and their outbreaks form the “sand summers” and the
“sand winters” of arenaceous Iceland and its neighbourhood. I look upon the
Hverfjall as the typical pseudo-volcanic formation of the island.
The real start was at one P.M., when, having rounded the western wall of the
Hverfjall, we passed east of a broken line of craters based upon thin-growing
grass. The whole can be galloped over, but ’ware holes! Nor did I find the skirt
of a lava-flood always an “unsurmountable barrier to Iceland ponies,” although
in new places it may be. On the east was Búrfell (“byre” hill), the name is
frequently given to steep, circular, and flat-topped mounds; south-west of it lay
the Hvannfell, long and box-shaped. Farther to the south-west, and nearly due
south of the lake, rose Sellandarfjall, apparently based on flat and sandy ground;
patches of snow streaked the hogsback, which distinguished itself from the
horizontal lines of its neighbours. Far ahead towered the steely heights of
Bláfjall, which from the east had appeared successively a cone and a bluff: it still
showed the snows which, according to travellers, denote that the Sprengisandur
is impassable; the last night had added to them, but the lower coating soon
melted in the fiery sun-bursts. The line of path was fresh lava overlying
Palagonite; and in the hollows dwarf pillars of black clay were drawn up from
the snow by solar heat: their regular and polygonal forms again suggested doubts
about the igneous origin of basalt, which may simply result from shrinking and
pressure. This columnar disposal of dried clay, and even of starch desiccated in
cup or basin, was noticed by Uno Von Troil as far back as 1770.
After an hour’s sharp ride, during which my little mare often rested on her
nose, we struck a cindery divide, a scene of desolation with sandy nullahs, great
gashes, down whose sharp slopes we were accompanied bodily by a fair
proportion of the side: of course the ascents were made on foot. The material is
all volcanic and Palagonitic; here trap and trachyte in situ apparently do not
exist: as we made for a Brèche de Roland, east of Bláfjall, we passed a sloping
wall of white clay; and at half-past three we halted and changed nags at the
Afréttr (compascuum), to which the neighbouring farmers drive their sheep in
July and August. The lad called it the Laufflesjar, leafy green spots in the barren
waste. We saw little of the willow which he had led us to expect; but the dark
sand abounded in flowers and gramens; the former represented by the white
bloom of the milfoil (Achillea millefolium), which the people term Vallhumall,
[164] or “Welsh,” that is, “foreign,” hop; and the latter by the Korn-Súra
(Polygonum viviparum), viviparous Alpine buckwheat. A snow-patch at the
western end of the plainlet gave us drink; and thus water, forage, and fuel were
all to be found within a few hundred yards. The guide said it was half-way,
whereas it is nearly two-thirds, and we rode back to it from Bláfjall, which bears
100° (mag.), in an hour.
Resuming our road we rounded the sides of the hillocks, and presently we
attacked a Hraun unmarked by Varðas. Discharged by a multitude of little vents,
the upper and the lower portions are the most degraded; the middle flood looks
quite new, and ropy like twisted straw. We now sighted and smelt the smoke
pouring from the yellow lip, which looks as if the sun were ever shining upon its
golden surface, and which stands out conspicuous from the slaggy, cindery, and
stony hills. At five P.M., after a ride of four hours and a half, we reached the
northern or smaller vent, an oval opening to the north-north-west, and we placed
our nags under shelter from the wind. The hair was frozen on their backs into
“lamellæ niveæ et glaciales spiculæ;” they had no forage beyond a bite at the
Afréttr, and we were on a high, bleak level, the aneroid showing 27·10, and the
thermometer 40°.
When the sun had doffed his turban of clouds, we sat upon the edge of the
Little “Ketill” and studied the site of the Fremrinámar, the “further springs,”
because supposed to be most distant from the lake. From the Öræfi the pools
seem to cluster about the yellow crater; now we see that they occupy all the
eastern slope of the raised ground, the section of the Mý-vatns Sveit extending
from Búrfell to Bláfjall. The northern vent is merely one of the dependencies of
Hvannfell; the southern or Great Crater belongs to the “Blue Mountain.” We
presently turned southwards and ascended the Great Kettle, which Paijkull
declares to be “probably the largest in Iceland.” This Námakoll, “head” or
“crown of the springs,” is an oval, with the longer diameter disposed north-east
to south-west (true), and measuring nearly double the shorter axis (600:350
yards).[165] The outer wall, raised 150 to 200 feet, is one mass of soft sulphur
covered by black sand; every footstep gives vent to a curl of smoke, and we do
not attempt to count the hissing fumaroles, which are of every size from the
thickness of a knitting-needle upwards. With the least pressure a walking-stick
sinks two feet. We pick up fragments of gypsum; alum, fibrous and efflorescent;
and crystals of lime, white and red, all the produce of the Palagonite, which still
forms the inner crust; and we read that sal ammoniac and rock-salt have also
been found. The rim is unbroken, for no discharge of lava has taken place; the
interior walls are brick-red and saffron-yellow, and where snow does not veil the
sole, lies a solid black pudding, the memorial cairn of the defunct Hver or
Makkaluber. From the west end no sulphur fumes arise; south-eastward the
ruddy suffioni extend to a considerable distance.
 The Appendix will describe the old working of these diggings, which did not
pay, although the hundredweight cost only ten shillings. At the southern end a
staff planted in the ground amongst the hissing hot coppers still shows the
labourers’ refuge, a shed built with dry lava blocks. If Professor Henchel
characterised them correctly as “bad, because all the sulphur was taken away last
year” (1775), they have wonderfully recovered in the course of a century:
evidently “all the sulphur” means only the pure yellow flowers lying on the
surface. The mass of mineral is now enormous. The road to the lake is a regular
and easy slope, and working upon a large scale would give different results from
those obtained by filling and selling basketfuls.
From the summit of the Námakoll we had an extensive view of the unknown
region to the south. Upon the near ridge stood the Sighvatr rock, the landmark of
the Öræfi, from which it appears a regular pyramid: here it assumes the shape of
a Beco de papagaio. I now ascertained that there are no northern Dýngjufjöll, or
rather that they are wrongly disposed upon the map. I wonder also how that
queer elongated horse-shoe farther south, the “Askja” or “Dýngjufjöll hin
Syðri,” came to be laid out; but my knowledge of the ground does not enable me
to correct the shape. North of Herðubreið lay the Herðubreiðarfell, all blue and
snow-white. To the south-west stretched far beyond the visible horizon the
Ódáða Hraun, which most travellers translate the “Horrible Lava,” and some
“Malefactors’ Desert” or “Lava of Evil Deed.” The area is usually estimated at
1160 square miles, more than one-third the extent of the Vatnajökull, which it
prolongs to the north-west. Viewed from the Námakoll it by no means appears a
“fearful tract, with mountains standing up almost like islands above a wild, black
sea.” I imagine that most of the contes bleues about this great and terrible
wilderness take their rise in the legendary fancies of the people touching the
Útilegumenn, or outlaws who are supposed to haunt it. I observed that Hr
Gíslason prepared a pair of revolvers in case we met them upon the Öxi; and I
found to my cost that even educated men believe in them. Previous travellers
may be consulted about the Happy Valleys in the stone-desert, the men dressed
in red Wadmal, the beautiful women, and the hornshod horses. I can only
observe that such a society has now no raison d’être; it might have had reasons
to fly its kind, but a few sheep lost during the year are not sufficient proofs of
such an anomaly still existing.
All I saw of the Ódáða Hraun was a common lava-field, probably based upon
Palagonite. It seemed of old date, judging from the long dust-lines and the
stripes tonguing out into ashes and cindery sand. The surface was uneven, but
not mountainous; long dorsa striped the ejected matter, and the latter abounded
in hollows and ravines, caverns and boilers. Many parts retained the snow even
at a low level, and thus water cannot be wholly wanting even in the driest
season. Here and there were tracts of greenish tint, probably grass and willows,
lichens and mosses; possibly of the lava with bottle-like glaze over which I
afterwards rode. The prospect to the south-south-west ended with a blue and
white buttress, an outlier of the Vatnajökull, which might be the (Eastern)
Skjaldbreið.
We proposed to return by the eastern road viâ the Búrfell, but our guide
declared that the lava was almost impassable, and that the hardest work would
not take us to Reykjahlíð before the morning. Having neither food, tobacco, nor
liquor, and being half frozen by the cold, we returned viâ the Afréttr; we passed
to the east of Hverfjall, not gaining by the change of path; and after a ride of
eight hours and a half we found ourselves “at home” shortly before eleven P.M.
My feet did not recover warmth till three A.M.
August 9th was an idle day for the horses, which required rest before a long
march to the wilderness; the weather also was rainy, and more threatening than
ever. I proceeded to examine the Hlíðarnámar, or Ledge-springs, and to see what
boring work had been done by my companions.[166] The “smell of rotten eggs,”
the effects of “suffocating fumes” upon “respiratory organs,” which by the by
can only benefit from them, and the chance of being “snatched from a yawning
abyss by the stalwart arms of the guide”—we were our own guides—had now
scanty terrors for our daring souls. They have been weighty considerations with
some travellers; their attitude reminds me of two Alpine climbers who, instead
of crossing it, sat down and debated whether, as fathers of families, they would
be justified in attempting that snow-bridge. Perhaps the conviction that the
“abyss” here rarely exceeds in depth three feet, where it meets with the ground-
rock, Palagonite, may account for our exceptional calmness. The reader will note
that I speak only of the Hlíðarnámar: in 1874 they tell me a traveller was
severely scalded at some hot spring.
The Hlíðarnámar west of the Námafjall, which Henderson calls the “Sulphur
Mountain,” are on a lower plane than the Námar proper, east of the divide. They
are bounded on the north by the double lava-stream which, during the last
century, issued from the north-east, near the base of the Hlíðarfjall: to the south
stretch independent “stone-floods,” studded with a multitude of hornitos, little
vents, and foci. The area of our fragment of the great solfatara extending from
the mountain, where it is richest, to the lava which has burnt it out, may be one
square mile. It is not pretty scenery save to the capitalist’s eye, this speckled
slope of yellow splotches, set in dark red and chocolate-coloured bolus, here and
there covered with brown gravel, all fuming and puffing, and making the
delicate and tender-hued Icelandic flora look dingy as a S’a Leone mulatto.
We began with the lowlands, where the spade, deftly plied by the handy
Bowers, threw up in many places flowers of sulphur, and almost pure mineral.
Below the gold-tinted surface we generally found a white layer, soft, acid, and
mixed with alum; under this again occurred the bright red, the chocolate, and
other intermediate colours, produced either by molecular change, the result of
high temperature; or by oxygen, which the steam and sulphur have no longer
power to modify. Here the material was heavy and viscid, clogging the spade.
Between the yellow outcrops stretched gravelly tracts, which proved to be as
rich as those of more specious appearance. Many of the issues were alive, and
the dead vents were easily resuscitated by shallow boring; in places a puff and
fizz immediately followed the removal of the altered lava blocks which
cumbered the surface. In places we crushed through the upper crust, and thus
“falling in” merely means dirtying the boots. Mr Augustus Völlker, I am told,
has determined the bright yellow matter to be almost pure (95·68:100). The
supply, which has now been idle for thirty years, grows without artificial aid, but
the vast quantities which now waste their sourness on the desert air, and which
deposit only a thin superficial layer, might be collected by roofing the vents with
pans, as in Mexico, or by building plank sheds upon the lava blocks, which
appear already cut for masonry. According to the old traveller, Ólafsson, the
supply is readily renewed; and Dr Mouat (“The Andaman Islanders”) covers all
the waste in two or three years.
Leaving our nags in a patch of wild oats, which, they say, the Devil planted to
delude man, we walked up the Námafjall, whose white, pink, and yellow stripes
proved to be sulphur-stones and sand washed down by the rain so as to colour
the red oxidised clay. Here we picked up crystals of alum and lime, and
fragments of selenite and gypsum converted by heat into a stone-like substance.
The several crests, looking like ruined towers from below, proved to be box-
shaped masses of Palagonite and altered lava; the summits, not very trustworthy
to the tread, gave comprehensive prospects of the lowlands and the lake. Upon
the chine we also found mud-springs, blubbering, gurgling, spluttering, plop-
plopping, and mud-flinging, as though they had been bits of the Inferno: the
feature is therefore not confined, as some writers assert, to the hill-feet facing the
Öræfi. The richest diggings begin east of the crest, and here the vapour escapes
with a treble of fizz and a bass of sumph, which the vivid fancy of the Icelandic
traveller has converted into a “roar.” My companions were much excited by the
spectacle of the great soufrière, and by the thought of so much wealth lying
dormant in these days of “labour activised by capital,” when sulphur, “the
mainstay,” says Mr Crookes, “of our present industrial chemistry,” has risen
from £4, 10s. to £7 a ton, when 15 to 20 per cent. is a paying yield in the Sicilian
mines, and when the expensive old system of working the ore has been rendered
simple and economical as charcoal-burning. And we should have looked rather
surprised if informed that all these mines were shortly to be extinguished by a
scientific member of the Society of Arts.
In the evening, which unexpectedly proved the last when we three met in
Iceland, the conversation naturally fell upon sulphur and sulphur-digging. The
opinion expressed by Professor Jönstrüp, who in 1871 had used the six-inch
boards, was also duly discussed. He was undoubtedly right in believing that for
exploitation foreigners can do more than natives, and that money spent by the
Danish Government would only weight the Icelander’s pocket. But he gave a
flourishing account to Mr Alfred G. Lock, who, after wooing the coy party since
1866, has obtained a concession for fifty years; the only limiting condition being
that he is not to wash in running waters, an absurdity demanded by local
prejudices. For many years the Iceland diggings were a “bone of contention”
between England and France. In 1845, M. Robert, the same who quietly
proposed robbing the Iceland spar, wrote, “Aussi doît-il bien se garder de jamais
accorder aux Anglais qui l’ont sollicitée, la faculté d’exploiter ces soufrières;
comme on l’a fait en Laponie a l’égard des mines de cuivre.” Let us hope that
under the enlightened rule of philanthropic Liberal Governments, nations have
improved in 1874. But as the Iceland fisheries prove, the French rulers have ably
and substantially supported their fellow-subjects, whereas ours find it easier and
more dignified to do nothing, and to “let all slide.” Nothing proves England to be
a great nation more conclusively than what she does despite the incubus from
above. Nothing is more surprising than to see the man whom you have known
for years to be well born, well bred, and well worthy of respect, suddenly, under
the influence of office or of public life, degenerating into the timid Conservative,
or the rampant, turbulent Radical. But the do-nothing policy of late years must
give way the moment pressure is put upon it, and popular opinion requires only
more light for seeing the way to a complete change.
I did not visit the House-wich of old Garðar Svafarson nor the road by which
the Mý-vatn sulphur has been shipped in small quantities to Copenhagen, but Mr
Charles Lock kindly sent me a sober and sensible description, which is given in
his own words.
“The Húsavík line is very good, being for the most part over gently
undulating downs, with basalt a few feet below the surface; crossing no streams
of importance, and having a fall of 1500 feet in a distance of 45 miles.[167] It is
wrongly shown in Gunnlaugsson’s map, for instead of being on the eastern side
of Lángavatn it skirts the western shore of that lake, and it likewise passes on the
western side of Uxahver.
“Húsavík harbour is a very good one, judging from the description given us
by Captain Thrupp, R.N., of H.M.S. ‘Valorous,’ who spent some time there this
summer. An old Danish skipper said it was perfectly safe when proper moorings
were laid down, no vessel having been lost in it during the last thirty years. He
has been trading between Copenhagen, Hull, and Húsavík for twenty-five years
past, reaching the latter port each year about the end of February, and making his
last voyage home in October. Between October and February there is generally a
quantity of ice floating off the coast, which hinders vessels entering the
harbour.”[168]
I also asked my young compagnon de voyage to collect for me, upon the spot,
certain details of the earthquake which occurred in the north-eastern part of the
island, and which, as was noticed in the Introduction, did some damage at
Húsavík. On the afternoon of April 16, three shocks were felt; two others
followed during the afternoon of April 17; the second was remarkably violent,
and throughout the night the ground continued, with short intervals of repose, to
show lively agitation, which on the 18th reached its culmination. All the wooden
huts were thrown down, and the stone houses were more or less shaken, the
factory alone remaining in any measure habitable. Some cattle were killed; there
was no loss of human life, but from twenty to thirty families were compelled to
seek shelter in the outskirts. Nobody remained in the dilapidated little market-
town except the Sýslumaðr, whose family left for Copenhagen in the steamer
“Harriet,” bringing the news to Europe—I met them on their return to Reykjavik,
and they confessed having been terribly startled and shaken. During the three
days after the 18th, the vibrations continued with diminished violence; they were
unimportant in the immediate neighbourhood of Húsavík; they were
insignificant about Krafla, and when the vessel sailed they had wholly ceased.
There was also a report that the crater in the icy depths of the Vatnajökull had
begun to “vomit fire.”
This much the Norddeutsche Allgemeine Zeitung had informed me: Mr
Charles Lock added the following details: “During the eight days of earthquake
the thermometer (R.), during the night, fell as low as-8°. The direction of the
shocks was from east to west, and some of them were very severe. The
inhabitants were so much frightened that they crowded on board a vessel which
chanced to be in port. I was not told that the effects were at all felt in the
harbour. The Sýslumaðr slept in one of the streets for several nights. Many small
cracks were left in the ground when the shocks had subsided; but these have
since been filled up: some naturally, others by the peasants.”
Let us now “hark back” to Mý-vatn.
As a wandering son of Israel once said to me, in my green and salad days,
“Gold may be bought too dear.” The question is not whether sulphur exists in
Iceland; it is simply “Can we import sulphur from Iceland cheaper than from
elsewhere?” Calculations as to profit will evidently hinge upon the cost of
melting the ore at the pit’s mouth, and of conveying it to a port of shipment:
however cheap and abundant it may be in the interior, if fuel be scarce and roads
and carriage wanting, it cannot be expected to pay. My opinion is that we can, if
science and capital be applied to the mines. The digging season would be the hot
season; and the quantity is so great that many a summer will come and go before
the thousands of tons which compose every separate patch can be exhausted. But
this part of the work need not be confined to the fine weather: it is evident, even
if experience of the past did not teach us, that little snow can rest upon the hot
and steaming soil. As one place fails, or rather rests to recover vigour, the road
can be pushed forward to another—I am persuaded that the whole range,
wherever Palagonite is found, will yield more or less of the mineral.
The first produce could be sent down in winter to Húsavík by the Sleði
(sledge). When income justifies the outlay, a tramroad on the Haddan system
would cheapen transit. The ships which export the sulphur can import coal to
supply heat where the boiling springs do not suffice, together with pressed hay
and oats for the horses and cattle used in the works. As appears in the Appendix,
turf and peat have been burned, and the quantity of this fuel is literally
inexhaustible. It will be advisable to buy sundry of the farms, and those about
Mý-vatn range in value between £300 and a maximum of £800. The waste lands
to the east will carry sheep sufficient for any number of workmen. The hands
might be Icelanders, trained to regular work, and superintended by English
overseers, or, if judged advisable, all might be British miners. Good stone houses
and stoves will enable the foreigner to weather a winter which the native, in his
wretched shanty of peat and boards, regards with apprehension. Of the general
salubrity of the climate I have no doubt.
The sulphur trade will prove the most legitimate that the island can afford.
Exploitation of these deposits, which become more valuable every year,
promises a source of wealth to a poor and struggling country; free from the
inconveniences of the pony traffic, and from the danger of exporting the sheep
and cattle required for home supply. And the foreigner may expect to enrich, not
only the native, but himself, as long at least as he works honestly and
economically, and he avoids the errors which, in the Brazil and elsewhere, have
too often justified the old Spanish proverb, “A silver mine brings wretchedness;
a gold mine, ruin.”
These statements, printed in the Standard (November 1, 1872), have lately
been criticised by a certain “Brimstone” (Mining Journal, August 29, and
September 19, 1874). He is kind enough to say, “I have the greatest respect for
Captain Burton as a traveller, but none whatever as an inspector of mining
properties”—where, however, a little candour and common sense go a long way.
And he is honest enough to own, despite all interests in pyrites or Sicilian mines,
that the “working of the sulphur deposits in question may possibly, with great
care and economy, give moderate returns on capital.” His letters have been
satisfactorily answered by Dr C. Carter Blake and Mr Jón A. Hjaltalín. It only
remains for me to remark that nothing is easier than to draw depreciatory
conclusions from one’s own peculiar premises. “Brimstone,” for instance,
reduces the working days to 150, when the road would be open all the year
round to carts and sledges; he considers the use of sledges upon snow a
“fantastic idea,” and he condemns the horses to “eat, month after month, the oats
of idleness,” whereas they can be profitably employed throughout the twelve
months either at the diggings or in transporting the ore. The statistics of Iceland
emigration prove that even during the fine season a sufficiency of hands might,
if well and regularly paid, be “withdrawn into the desert from fishing and
agricultural operations,” which, after all, are confined to the Heyannir, or hay-
making season, and which take up but a small fraction of the year, between the
middle of July to the half of September. Moreover, there is little, if any, fishing
on the coasts near the northern mines. The report of the Althing shows that ten,
and sometimes twenty, labourers worked at the Krísuvík diggings, where fishing
is busiest, during almost the whole winter of 1868-69, and the silica mining of
Reykjanes was not interrupted during December and January 1872-73. The spell
is from five to six hours during the darkest months, the shortest day in Iceland
being five hours. About mid-March the island night is not longer than in
England, and from early May there is continual daylight till August, when the
nights begin to “close in.” The hands in the southern mines were paid from 3½d.
to 6d. per hour. Professor Paijkull made the northern sulphur cost 3 marks per
cwt., and the horses carried 3 to 3½ cwts. in two days to the trading station:
Metcalfe also declares that 200 cwts. per annum were melted at Húsavík, and
that the price was half that of Sicilian. “Brimstone” complains that the distance
from the coast is variously laid down at 25 (direct geographical), 28⅘, 40, and
45 (statute) miles, when the map and the itineraries of many travellers are ready
to set him right. He need hardly own that he has no personal knowledge of
Húsavík, Krísuvík, or any part of Iceland, when he sets down “such necessary
little items as loading, lighterage, harbour-dues, improving Husavik, brokerage,
et cætera,” confounding the ideas of Snowland and England. After a startled
glance at the cost of British labour, “and, worse still, of idleness during the
greater part of the year”—a phantom of his own raising—he asks, “What about
the demoralisation consequent on the latter, and on the inevitable use and abuse
of the spirits of the country, in order to while away the time?” The Brazil is
surely as thirsty a land as Iceland, yet my host, Mr Gordon, of the gold mines in
Minas Geraes, would be somewhat surprised, and perhaps not a little
scandalised, to hear that his white, brown, and black hands cannot be kept from
drink. Briefly the objector’s cavils may be answered in the “untranslatable
poetry” of the American backwoodsman, “T’aint no squar’ game; he’s jest put
up the keerds on that chap (Sicily) from the start.” I have no idea who Mr
“Brimstone” is, but I must say that he deserves a touch of his own mineral, hot
withal, for so notably despising the Englishman’s especial virtue—Fair Play.
On the other hand, my notes on the Mý-vatn mines drew from a Brazilian
acquaintance, Mr Arthur Rowbottom, the following note, containing an inquiry
which unfortunately I could not answer:
“I read your account of the sulphur mines of Myvatn with great interest and
pleasure; and from your report I should feel disposed to believe that boracic acid
exists in the same district. You will, no doubt, remember the conversation we
had on board the ‘Douro,’ returning from Brazil, about the very large fortune
made by Count Larderel out of the boracic acid produced in the Tuscan lagoons
situated near Castelnuovo. Wherever native alum and brimstone are found, there
are always traces of borate of soda in one form or another. Boracic acid exists at
the Torre del Greco, and in Volcano of the Lipari Islands.[169] The locality where
the ‘Tincal’ is found in Thibet is reported to be plutonic; in fact, nearly all the
countries from whence the borate of soda is drawn are somewhat similar to the
sulphur districts of Iceland; and I should feel greatly obliged if you could inform
me if boracic acid or borate of lime exists in the island.”
 CHAPTER XV.

RETURN TO DJÚPIVOGR AND END OF JOURNEY.

SECTION I.—RIDE TO HERÐUBREIÐ.

August 10.
WE were humanly threatened with rain on the fourth day, but my aneroid gave
me better news. The principal difficulty was to find a guide for the southern
Öræfi. Hr Pètur’s sons shrugged their shoulders and pleaded illness—“pituitam
habent” explains the student—they swore that the farm horses were not strong
enough to traverse the grassless waste. After a three days’ search, I managed to
secure a dummer junger, named Kristián Bjarnason of Eilífr, who had once
almost reached the base of Herðubreið; and old Shylock lent him, for a
consideration, two lean nags, with orders to go so far and no farther. My own
stud consisted of eight, and only one of these carried the little tent and provisions
—a loaf of brown rye-bread, two tins of potted meat, a diminutive keg of
schnapps, and rations for my companions, the student Stefán and Gísli Skulk.
The latter showed some alacrity in preparing to return home; as he had a grudge
against Mr Lock, so he contrived to nobble all the ropes, and tried furtively to
drive off all the baggage-horses. I looked carefully to the tethers of my nags, and
personally saw them shod with good irons and new-made nails: I strongly
suspect my henchman of having stolen a march upon me; he could not smash my
hammer, but he managed to lose the extra nails. More than one shoe proved to be
broken on the second day, and several were found fastened with only three mere
“tacks,” the best contrivance in the world for permanently injuring a hoof.
The start was, as usual, painfully slow; although I rose at five A.M., the
journey did not begin before 10.30. The Messrs Lock accompanied me part of
the way; we were all to meet at Djúpivogr on the seventh day, but that meeting
was not written in the Book of Fate. After shaking hands with the good Bowers,
I pricked sharply over the plain, glad to escape the reeking valley of Mý-vatn;
the cool and clear north-easter at once swept away the mournful grisaille of the
charged sky; presently the sun came out, afflicting the horses, and the dust rose,
troubling the riders. About half-way to the river we turned off south-eastward,
and rode over the usual mounds, which resemble
“The grassy barrows of the happier dead.”
After this rough, tussocky ground came black sand, bordering black and ropy
lava; the former was grown with oat-clumps seven to eight feet high, many of
them dead at this season: they sheltered the normal vegetation, and extended
immense roots to collect nutriment from the barren soil. The path was pitted,
especially on the outskirts of the various stone-floods, with blind holes (Gjá),
wearying, and even dangerous, to horses—I soon preferred the rougher riding.
The floor-rock again was yellow Palagonite, barred with white waves, soda and
potash. At four P.M. we crossed the Fjallagjá, a yellow wady, which might have
been in the heart of Arabia Deserta; we were approaching its recipient, the foul
Jökulsá. Finally, after entering broken ground of deep sand, and crossing a black
hill, Gleðahús, the gled’s house, we come to our halting-ground, Valhumall-lá,
[170] the “low land of milfoil,” another wady, but black with sand, and showing
lava-streams to the south. The guide declared that we were on the parallel of
Víðidalr, which, however, could not be seen.
The day’s work had been thirty-two miles, in six hours twenty minutes, and I
was much pleased with it; no better proof was wanted to show the feasibility of
travelling in the wilderness, at least wherever a river is found. All the features
have names given during the annual sheep-hunts. We found tracks of the flocks
and the ponies which had followed them, extending up to the Vatnajökull. To the
south-west, and apparently close at hand, rose Herðubreið: viewed from the
north, its summit, which is tilted a few degrees to westward, appears like a
cornice perpendicular, and in places even leaning forward, whilst a solid conical
cap of silvery snow ends the whole. In the evening air the idea of an ascent
looked much like mounting upon a cloud; the more you craned at it, as the
phrase is, the less you liked it; but I trusted that a nearer approach would level
difficulties, and that the sides must be striped by drainage couloirs. The cold
became biting before eight P.M., another reminiscence of the Asiatic desert, in
which you perspire and freeze, with the regularity of the tides, every twenty-four
hours: in both cases the cause is the exceeding clearness and dryness of the
atmosphere, so favourable to the radiation of heat and to the deposit of dew. I
slept comfortably in the tent pitched upon the sands, disturbed only by Stefán’s
hearty snores.

August 11.
The day broke badly indeed: at early dawn (aner., 28·55; therm., 41°) a white
fog lay like wool-pack on the ground, making the guide despair of finding his
path: at nine A.M. it began to lift, promising a fiery noon, which, however, was
tempered by a cool north breeze. The men persuaded me to leave the tent; there
are no thieves in the Icelandic desert, in this point mightily different from that of
Syria: they declared that we should easily reach Herðubreið in two to three
hours. We presently crossed a new lava-stream, the usual twisted, curled,
“tumbled together,” and contorted surface, in places metallic and vitrified by
fire; here and there it was streaked with level, wind-blown lines of dust and
ashes. Thence we passed into the usual sand, black and cindery, based upon
tawny Palagonite, and curiously beached with pebble-beds; the rounded stones
had been scattered on the path by ponies’ hoofs. This sand was deeply cracked,
and our nags, panting with heat, sank in it to the fetlock. The maximum of
caloric at certain hours of a summer’s day during a long series of years is far
more equally distributed over earth than men generally suppose. Some have
gone so far as to assert that it is “the same in all regions from the Neva to the
banks of the Senegal, the Ganges and the Orinoco;” and the range has been
placed “between 93° and 104° (F.) in the shade. In this island we are preserved
from extremes by the neighbourhood of the sea, yet the power of the sun at times
still astonishes me. The “Ramleh” (arenaceous tract) ended in a pleasant change,
a shallow, grassy depression, with willows, red and grey, equisetum, “blood-
thyme,” wild oats, which abhor the stone tracts, and the normal northern flora.
Here, as I afterwards found, we should have skirted the Jökulsá, made for the
mouth of the Grafarlandsá, and ridden up the valley of the dwarf stream. The
guide preferred a short cut, which saved distance and which lost double time.
To the right or north-west we could trace distinctly the golden crater, the
Sighvatr pyramid, and the familiar features of the Fremrinámar. I again
ascertained that a line of high ground, a blue range streaked with snow, trending
from north-west to south-east (mag.), and representing the fanciful Trölladýngjur
(Gigantum cubilia) of the map, also connects Bláfjall with the Herðubreiðarfell.
The latter, separated by “Grave-land Water,” a common name for deeply encased
streams, from the “Broad-Shouldered” proper, is a brown wall with frequent
discolorations, a line of domes and crater cones, now regular, then broken into
the wildest shapes; in one place I remarked the quaint head and foot pillars of a
Moslem tomb. A single glance explained to me the ash-eruption from the
Trölladýngjur recorded in 1862, and the many stone-streams supposed to have
been ejected from Herðubreið; they extended to the very base of the latter, and
all the “Hraunards” (lava-veins) which we crossed that day had evidently been
emitted by these craters.
At noon, after four hours fifteen minutes (= fifteen very devious miles), we
entered a line of deep, chocolate-coloured slag and cinder, unusually bad riding.
It presently led to the soft and soppy, the grassy and willowy valley of
Grafarlönd, which is excellently supplied with water. I naturally expected to find
a drain from the upper snow-field of the Great Cone; the whole line is composed
of a succession of springs dividing into two branches, a northern, comparatively
narrow, and a southern, showing a goodly girth of saddle-deep water. The weeds
of the bed and the luxuriant pasture amid the barrenest lava, “Beauty sleeping in
the lap of Terror,” suggested that in this veritable oasis, if anywhere, birds would
be found. A single snipe and three Stein-depill[171] (wheat-ear) showed how
systematic throughout this part of the country had been the depopulation of the
avi-fauna. A few grey-winged midges hovered about, but I looked in vain for
shells. The spring showed only a difference of + 0·5 from our sleeping-place.
And now my error began to dawn upon me: the ride to Herðubreið would be
seven hours instead of two to three; the tent had been left behind; the men had no
rations, and “alimentary substances” were confined to a few cigars and a pocket-
pistol full of schnapps.
But regret was now of no avail; and time was precious. After giving the nags
time to bite, I shifted my saddle, and, at two P.M., leaving Gísli Skulk in charge of
the remounts, I pushed on south, accompanied by Stefán and Kristián. We
crossed the two streamlets, each of which has its deeper cunette, luckily a vein of
hard black sand. Beyond the right bank of the Grafarlandsá we at once entered
the wildest lava-tract, distinguished mainly by its green glaze, fresh as if laid on
yesterday. It was like riding over domes of cast-iron, a system of boilers, these
smooth or corrugated, those split by Gjás and showing by saw-like edges where
the imprisoned gases had burst the bubbles: near the broken cairns we found
lines of dust which allowed the shortest spurts; the direct distance to Herðubreið
was not more than two miles, but the devious path had doubled it. Again we had
been led by the worst line; on our return, Kristián, having recovered his good
temper, showed us a tolerable course. He frequently halted, declaring that his
master had forbidden him to risk the nags where the Útilegumenn might at any
moment pounce upon them.
At 4.30 P.M. I reached the base of Herðubreið, and found it, as was to be
expected, encircled by a smooth, sandy, and pebbly moat, a kind of Bergschrund,
whose outer sides were the lava-field, and whose inner flanks formed in places
high cliffs and precipices. The formation at once revealed itself. The Broad-
Shouldered mountain is evidently only the core of what it was. Its lower part is
composed of stratified Palagonite clay, which higher up becomes a friable
conglomerate, embedding compact and cellular basalt, mostly in small
fragments. The heaps at the base are simply slippings, disposed at the natural
angle, and they are garnished with many blocks the size of an Iceland room.
Above them rise the organs, buttresses, and flying buttresses, resembling pillars
of mud, several exceeding 300 feet; the material assumes the most fantastic
shapes: in one place I found a perfect natural arch resting upon heat-altered
basalt. The heads of the columns form a cornice, and from the summit of the
cylinder an unbroken cone of virgin snow sweeps grandly up to the apex.
Evidently the Herðubreið is not the normal volcano: it may be a Sand-gýgr after
the fashion of Hverfjall, but of this we cannot be assured until the cap is
examined. The chief objection would be the shape, the reverse of the usual
hollow.
Leaving Kristián in charge of the horses, I attacked the slope in company
with Stefán, from the north-east, and we gradually wound round to the east of
the cone. The slopes were clothed with small and loose fragments of basalt,
making the ascent difficult. Here rain-gullies radiated down the incline; to the
south-east yawned a great marmite, a breach probably formed by a long
succession of clay-slips and avalanches. The adhesive snow clinging to the
rough conglomerate lay in fans and wreaths even against perpendicular walls,
whereas in Europe large masses cannot accumulate at an angle of 45°, and the
meteor is unstable and apt to break away when the angle exceeds 30°; here it
seems plastered upon the steepest sides, looking from afar like glistening
torrents. After seeing the huge névé which clothes the mountain from the
shoulders upwards, I was surprised to find that, although the ascent was broken
by huge gullies which in spring must discharge torrents, the flanks are absolutely
waterless; as on Western Snæfell, the drainage sinks through the porous matter
and, passing underground, reappears in springs upon the plain, a familiar feature
to the traveller in Syria. Yet the slopes carried the usual Iceland flora, of course
shrunk and stunted by the cold thin air. I picked up the vermiform earths of some
wild animal, which crumbled to pieces in my pocket: the farmers recognised the
description, declared that they knew them well, but could not tell me what the
creature was. None would believe me when I assured them that Herðubreið was
a formation of “Mó-berg.”
As we approached the upper pillars the lowlands lay like a map before us.
Hard by the south-eastern foot sat the little tarn Herðubreiðarvatn, surrounded by
soft mud, instead of rush and reed: the Vatn has no outlet, but it is perfectly
sweet. Farther north there is a streamlet flowing, like the Grafarlandsá, through
patches and streaks of green: it rejoices in the name of Herðubreiðarlindá, the
“river of the spring of the Broad-Shouldered.” Beyond the blue cone Jökullsclidá
—I am not sure of my orthography—which rises to the south-east, the Great
Jökulsá, after broadening into apparently a shallow bed, forks, divided by a
lumpy ridge, the Fagradalsfjall, which we had seen like a blue cloud from
Möðrudalr. It has the appearance of a ford, but Stefán assured me that the
farmers are deterred from crossing it by quicksands: this was afterwards
contradicted. The eastern branch, lying upon a higher plane, again splits,
enclosing the Fagridalr. On the “Fair Hill,” and in the “Fair Dale,” where
outlaws are said formerly to have mustered strong, sheep from the eastern farms
are fed upon the very edge of the Ódáða Hraun. We had an admirable study of
the Kverk and the (Eastern) Snæfell, making the student remark that he was
close to his home at Bessastaðir. As the sun sank, the peak projected a gnomon-
like shadow on the plain, an affecting reminiscence of the Jebel el Mintar, which
acts dial to “Tadmor in the Wilderness.”
After an hour and a half of very hard work, for we had scrambled up nearly
2000 feet (aneroid, 26·60; thermometer, 35°), we reached the mud-pillars, and
serious difficulties began. My camaro, who walked pluckily enough, could
mount no more. I had taught him the rule of volcano-climbing on stones and
descending on cinders; of using the toes when going up and the heel when going
down; and the consequence was that his Iceland slippers and stockings were
clean worn away, and in a few minutes his feet would be cut. I left him and
sought a couloir, which by careful “swarming,” might have opened a passage.
But here a new difficulty was added to ever-increasing darkness and to numbing
cold. In Switzerland the rock cannonades are most frequent between midnight
and dawn: here the blocks of basalt, detached by the leverage of sun and frost,
begin to fall as soon as the temperature lowers. The couloir was too narrow for
swarming up the sides, which are less risky than the centres. After three narrow
escapes, in one of them my right hand saving my head, I judged that the game
was not worth the candle. Though close to the snow (aneroid, 26·55), it would
have been impossible to reach the summit alone, in the night and over an
unknown field.
Descending in double-quick time—“devouring space,” as Belmontel says—
we soon reached the moat which separates the castle from its outworks of lava,
and refreshed ourselves at the little tarn. During the descent I observed a feature,
before hidden from view; a lumpy tail with two main bulges prolonging
Herðubreið to the south-west: perhaps the next attempt might succeed if this line
be followed. From the Heröubreiðarvatn we took the south-eastern line, where
the lava-field was by no means so horrid. After an hour, striking the
Herðubreiðarlindá, also an influent of the Jökulsá, we hurried down the right
bank, frequently crossing when the soft and rotten ground threatened to admit
the ponies. Finally, we traversed in fifteen minutes a divide of lava, we forded
the double channel of the Grafarlandsá, and at 9.45 we were received with
effusion by the solitary Gísli. Those who follow me will do well to ascend the
left bank of the Jökulsá, to trace the Grave-land Water to its source, to pass over
the lava-breach, and to follow the Lindá where it rises from the plain.
The day’s ride had occupied nine hours thirty minutes, and the unfortunate
“tattoos” were not prepared for some four more: moreover, les genous
m’entraient dans le corps, as the gamin says. The blood-red sunset promised a
fair night, free from wind and fog, and, although we were some 1400 feet above
sea-level, a bivouac in the glorious air of the desert under
 “Cette obscure clarté qui tombe des étoiles,”

could not be considered a hardship. No one thought of a fire till I set the example
of collecting willow-roots, and then all, beasts as well as men, were greatly
comforted by the short, sharp bursts of blaze. The poor fellows offered me a
share of their only viaticum, a bit of bread and sausage, but I saw by their
longing, hungry eyes that their necessities were greater than mine. A blanket
instead of the oilskin from my saddle-bag would have been a comfort; but even
without it I slept like un bienheureux, and awoke lively as a lark. What a
different matter was my night in the open below Fernando Po peak!
That morning I had set out to “plant a lance in Iceland,” by mastering the
Herðubreið; for once utterly deceived by the clearness of the air, I had despised
my enemy, and he got the better of me—the general verdict will be, “Serve you
right.” My consolation was that, though beaten, I had hardly been fairly beaten;
the fog was not to be controlled; the guide led us by the worst paths, and we
crept over lava after expecting to move fast. The altitude is laid down at 5447
English feet above sea-level; and as we rode up to the base, about 1500 feet
high, there remained only 4000 feet, which would not have taken more than five
hours. Such was my calculation, and it erred by being drawn too fine. Nor could
the attempt be renewed next day. I had promised to send back to Mr Lock my
only companion, Stefán, whose foot-gear was in tatters; Gísli and Kristián would
have seen me in Ná-strönd, the shores of the ignoble “straw-dead,” rather than
accompany me over an unknown snow-field, and such climbing must not be
done single-handed.

SECTION II.—RETURN TO VALTHIÓFSTAÐIR AND STAY THERE.

August 12-16.
There is little to say concerning these five days, which were spent in
returning to Valthiófstaðir by devious ways. On August 12th the world,
according to local belief, was to have been destroyed; knowledge has increased
since A.D. 1000, so no one made preparation, spiritual or material, for what
Hindus call the Pralaya, hourly expected by primitive Christianity. Je m’en
moque comme de l’an quarante (1740). At three A.M. we rode down the cold
valley of the Grafarlandsá, picked up the tent, and bidding adieu to the good
Stefan and the miserable Kristián, we reached the Jökulsá ferry after a total of
six hours forty-five minutes. The blood-red sunset had kept its promise till
clouds rolled up from the south, and I have seldom had a more thorough dusting.
 At early nightfall suddenly appeared Mr Pow and his guide, Jón Pètursson,
son of the old priest of Valthiófstaðir: they had been paying a visit to Mý-vatn,
and now they were hastening home for a wedding. The former had been making
inquiries about sheep-farming; he believed that, in that line, something might be
done whilst the pony traffic was thoroughly worked out. Farms ranging from
$3000 to $6000 are readily bought throughout this part of the country. As the
snow begins upon the Heiðis in November, lies deep in December and January,
and lasts till May, it would be necessary to allow one ton of hay per thousand
head, and the import price, excluding freight, must be computed at £2,10s. rising
to £4. He was sanguine enough to expect a cent. per cent. profit: I never heard
that the project had any results.
Next day we started betimes in the cool east wind, which presently chopped
round to the south, and gave us a taste of Sind and the Panjáb—all the sand of
the Arabian desert seemed to be in the air, and it was the sharpest of its kind. We
enjoyed a headlong gallop not unworthy of the Argentine Pampas, halted a few
minutes at the Möðrudalr oasis, and pressed on to Vetur-hús: here we parted as I
wished to examine the lake region, and to inspect the Brú of the Jökulsá.
On the next morning, which, after the stillness of dawn, also obliged me with
a dust-storm, I set out at eight, rounded the swamps and black bogs, and, after
crossing a marshy divide, entered the valley between the Eiríkr and Thríhyrning
hills. The land is poor, but it manages to support two little Sels. At last we came
upon the Thverárvatn, the southernmost of the tarns, and following the right
bank of its drain, the Thverá,[172] we reached the Brú after an hour and a half’s
hard riding. It still preserves the traditional name although the natural arch of
rock fell in 1750: in Henderson’s day it was succeeded by a wooden bridge, and
now there is only a cradle. Horses are forded about a mile up stream, where the
break becomes a broad, split by holms and sand-banks. The seedy little chapel of
Brú wants cross and steeple: it is built of turf, like that of Mý-vatn.
We left the river at 10.30 A.M., and resolved to inspect the Aðalbólsvegr, the
southernmost road across the Heiði. It begins by crossing a divide, after which,
rounding the Vaðbrekka, or ford-ledge hill, it ascends the dusty valley of the
Hrafnkelsá. Two farmlets, Vaðbrekka and Aðalból,[173] the latter with four
gables of wood and turf, and backed by Laugs of warm water, hug the left bank.
After fording the stream thrice we walked up another divide, where the path was
cobwebbed and all in holes—these “dead roads” are by no means pleasant
travelling. The upper plateau was, like the northern line, the usual scene of
standing waters and flowing waters, especially the Höllná and the Heiðará; all
these soppy black beds are named, but none appear in the map. The list of this
day’s birds comprised a few snippets, three ravens, and a couple of whoopers (C.
ferus or C. Bewickii?) which travellers often mistake for sheep. It was not my
fate in Iceland ever to hear the sweet song of the swan, which borrows an
additional charm on dark wintry nights from the popular belief that it promises a
thaw; the poetical fancy of its being a death-lay seems here unknown. The
descent to the Fljótsdalr occupied half-an-hour, and after seven hours forty-five
minutes of rough riding from the Brú I reached Valthiófstaðir, where they did not
expect me before nightfall.
There was revelling at the parsonage, and though I missed the howling of
hymns and hollaing of anthems, the splendid “upholstering” of the girls, and the
starry veil which takes the place of orange-flowers, I was in time for the feast.
The daughter of the house, a notably good manager, was the bride; the
bridegroom was a well-to-do widower of eighteen months’ standing. Hr Nikólás
Jónsson had learnt joinery at Copenhagen, and found his handicraft pay well at
Seyðisfjörð. Ponies, with all manner of gear, including the “handsome brass
woman’s saddle” of a certain English traveller, filled the stables, or browsed
about the tún, showing a goodly gathering of relatives and friends; even
Seyðisfjörð sent forth its contingent. Those who had dined were chatting and
“touching pipes” on the green: despite my garb being the reverse of a wedding
garment, I was hospitably pressed to join the second detachment. After we had
satisfied hyperborean appetites, the speeches began, prefaced by loud cries of
“Silentium!” As many of the orators were priests and students training for the
priesthood, few could plead “unaccustomed to public speaking,” and most of
them acquitted themselves remarkably well. Mr Pow, after delivering his
sentiments in English, sprang out of the window to prepare for a wild ride; I
aired my Latin, concluding with an effective sentence, “Deus sit propitius his
potatoribus”—of course ignoring Walter de Mapes. Having talked ourselves
“dry,” we installed a “magister bibendi,” and fell to with a will; we were loud in
our mirth “as the Ritur (tarrock-gull) on the rocks,” and the bottles of Cognac
and rye-brandy required repeated replenishing, till the small hours sent us to bed.
The newly-married couple slept at home, and next morning, after coming to
breakfast, they took horse and went their ways.
At Valthiófstaðir I was fortunate enough to meet Prófastr Sigurður Gunnarson
of Hallormstaðir, whose name has already been mentioned. A portly, good-
looking man of sixty, hardly showing fifty, he is a good Latinist, and his genial
manners make him a general favourite. He first accompanied Professor
Gunnlaugsson in 1832 to the Vatnajökullsvegr, and since that time he has made
three trips to the northern edge. He gave me the position of the volcano (N. lat.
64° 20´, and W. long. G. 30° 20´), which appears upon the map. When told that
Herðubreið was a mass of Palagonite, he declared that he had seen Mó-berg at
Lomagnúpr and other hills of Sera and Floskeldar; moreover, that he suspected it
to be the constituent of the Kistufell and the Kverk, which he had passed in the
dark. He assured me that he had found the Western Jökulsá easily fordable after
its fork, where it is called Kreppa, or the Squeezer.[174] Among other places
which

[Image unavailable.]

are shown by the map, he mentioned the Lindákeilir (fountain-pyramid) with its
two springs, the northern cold, the southern hot; the Hvannalindir, rich, as the
name shows, in Angelica; and the Kringilsá, or encircling water.
The morning after the feast was spent in breakfasting, in chess-playing, and
at cards, with coffee-beans for counters: on this occasion the men ate first, and
after them the women, somewhat after the fashion of the Druses: the parson’s
wife also waited, like an “Oriental,” upon her younger brothers. The friends
mounted their stout nags, and disappeared after the normal salutations: amongst
them was the Prófastr, with coarse woollen stockings sensibly drawn over his
shoes. The kith and kin waited till two P.M. on the next day, and, when the
heartiest and smackingest of busses had been duly planted upon projecting lips,
all rode off, escorting the bride and bridegroom, and escorted by the family
honoris causâ as far as the next farm. Mr Pow had agreed to join me in
attempting the Vatnajökull; but, whilst I remained to collect provaunt and to
avoid the heavy weather which threatened, he resolved upon a preliminary trip,
with the prime object of shooting a reindeer. He hired for $2 an old round-ball
Enfield from the farmer-ferryman of Bessastaðir, who, apparently convinced of
the Enskimaður’s insanity, snatched it three times out of his hands, till he
received a watch in pledge. The solitary march was hardly to be recommended.
About the Vatnajökull fog or snow may cover the world at any moment, even in
July, the best month; and dozens of sheep are often killed by a single violent
storm. Mr Pow set out early on the 15th, missed the road, and returned at eleven
A.M. on the next day, thoroughly dazed, and apparently unable to give any
account of his march—Jón Pètursson’s eyes filled with tears at the sight. That
trial proved sufficient for my intended companion, who, as soon as his two nags
could move, set out for Seyðisfjörð.
The weather, which had been surly and wrathy for some time, could no
longer restrain its rage: the afternoon (August 16) was bad, and the evening was
very bad. The day sped wearily watching the cloud-battalions as they scaled the
seaward hills: here this easter and deflected norther brings heavy rains and thick
raw mists; the souther and the south-wester are little better, and men rely only
upon the western wind, which comes from the arid lavas and sands of the Ódáða.
The night was one long howl of storm; “drip-drip” resounded from the church
floor, and the wind flung itself against the building, threatening to bear away the
frail steeple into space. Huge black nimbi, parted by pale and sickly gleams, ever
greeted my sight as I gazed in sorrow from the casement of my ecclesiastical
lodging. But joy came in the morning: first a glimpse of blue sky between the
flirts of rain, then a sign of the sun. The river was reported to be rapidly filling—
never mind, unlucky Friday has passed by, and we may look for better things on
Saturday.
The provisions, bread, meat, and cheese ($3), with the unfinished keg of
schnapps, were awaiting our departure. But Stefán Pètursson, who was to
accompany me, had fallen ill, the malady being probably that popularly called in
India a “squiffy quotidian:” so I engaged as guide the student Thorsteinn, who
had led us to Thorskagerði, paying for him and his nag $3, 3m. Osk. per diem.
Gísli, the “coal-biter,” when drawn badger-like from the kitchen, again tried to
shirk, pleading the weakness of the ponies, but a threat to withhold wages
reduced all opposition to a slackness of the knees, a settled melancholy, and a
hurt-feeling expression of countenance. This time he was never left alone with
the horses after they had been shod: he presently revenged himself by displaying
an amount of appetite which threatened the party with starvation, if it lingered in
the wilderness a day longer than he liked.

SECTION III.—THE RIDE TO SNÆFELL: VIEW OF THE VATNAJÖKULL.

Saturday, August 17.
I managed to draw the sleep-thorn from Gísli’s ears and, after the usual silly
delays, to set off at 9.45 along the left bank of the Fljótsdalr, alias the
Norðurdalr: the wind was still southerly, clouds came from the east, but the
aneroid was rising and the sun was taking the master’s place. The broad trap
valley supports, on either side, many farms and Sels; Glúmstaðir, Hóll,
Thuriðarstaðir; the large Egilstaðir, highest on the map, reached in two orette;
and Kleif, with its Sætur and backing of western hill. The angry stream is
crossed in many places by ropes and cradles; gradually it becomes a torrent-
gorge, and the whole length receives a least a dozen rain-bred cataracts:
everywhere we saw their smokes and heard the dull charge of cavalry, whilst the
rattling of stones upon the sandy beds sounded like the distant pattering of
musketry. There was, however, no difficulty in crossing the mouths and, after
three hours fifteen minutes of mild work, we rested the nags and changed
saddles at the sheep-house of Kleif.
Beyond this point the torrent-gorge is impracticable, and we ascended the
rough, steep left bank, whose lower levels were garnished with stunted birches:
it led to the monotonous Heiði, which I had now passed thrice. The streams on
this line were more troublesome, owing to the slippery crossings of sheet-rock.
We forded the Stóri-lækr (big rivulet) four times, and twice the upper waters of
the Öxará above its ugly little cataract in a dwarf valley. A short tract of sandy,
willow-grown ground led to the Laugará, which was girth-deep. Riding down its
right bank, we came to the Laug, which much resembles that of Reykjavik: the
waters show boiling point at the source, and 115° (F.) a few yards below. It lies
on the north-eastern slope of Laugarfell, and nearly due east (mag.) of the
pointed black cone Hafrsfell: these two detached hills, disposed upon a meridian,
are mere outliers of Snæfell. Fifteen yards west of the Laug is the Laugarkofi, or
the Warm-spring-cell, a hut some 7 feet by 6, with dry stone walls sunk two feet
in the ground: the raftered roof is supported by a central post, and made tight
with turfs. We were happy to find it in repair. The weather again broke, and a
Scotch mist settled stubbornly upon the dreary landscape; the aneroid showing
27·60, and the thermometer 38°. Our day’s march had lasted only five hours
fifteen minutes, and on return we easily covered it in three hours fifty minutes.
The night in a warm and (comparatively) clean nest, with the howling wind
outside, would have been delightful, but for misgivings about the morrow.
August 18.
I rose at dawn with no little anxiety; in these altitudes man is wholly
dependent upon weather: it is like a Polar expedition on a small scale. The rainy
and windy night had cleared the air, and the sun rose bright, bringing with him a
stinging and intensely dry[175] south wind from off the Jökulls. The baggage
pony was loaded, and all preparations were made by 8.45. We began with the
rotten and boggy ground, draining the Snæfell and its north-eastern outliers to
the Jökulsá. Here began the trouble which lasted more or less throughout the
morning. The surface is cut by gullies and earth-cracks, often twenty feet deep,
and varying from a yard to ten yards in breadth. Few could be leaped by
untrained animals, and the many which could not be crossed caused detours
either up or down, often a furlong to cover a perch. The smaller sort were the
most troublesome, owing to the badness of the take off and landing: the nags
made themselves ridiculous in attempting to scramble over, with their hind legs
in the hollows, whilst the forehand was holding on the farther bank. In the worst
places, at least one of the caravan was sure to be sprawling upon the ground. The
best parts were the stony spots, and the medium were the swamps, especially
where Fífa and bright mosses spangled the ground.
The wind now veered to the south-west, and after two hours we easily forded
the Hafrsá, a drain rising in the south-east of its “fell.” The latter, seen from the
eastward, proves not to be a single cone, as the map shows; behind the knob lie a
jagged, saw-toothed ridge and sundry outliers. At a distance, it appears to be
lava, but when riding over it in the afternoon I noticed that such form of erupted
rock is wholly absent from this line. The material, like that of Herðubreið, is
Palagonite, which doubtless forms the base of the northern Vatnajökull. Unlike
the basaltic conglomerate of the Broad-Shouldered, however, it is puddinged
with cinders reddened and charred by the flames. The colours are ruddy, black-
brown, chalky-white, green, and yellow, the two latter extending in a band
through Snæfell from

[Image unavailable.]
R. F. B. delt.
VIEW OF THE VATNAJÖKULL FROM THE SOUTHERN SLOPE OF (EASTERN) SNÆFELL.

south-west to north-east. Scoriæ also are scattered upon the sand, and these, with
a strew of basalt, make up the sum of the surface rocks.
At noon we forded the Thjófagilsá (water of the thief’s gil) below the little
waterfall dashing down columnar basalt, and we halted near the Hálskofi, a hut
like the nest near the Laug. After half-an-hour we resumed our ride along the
eastern flank of Snæfell, which greatly altered in shape. The first view (August
2) from the heights above Hallormstaðir showed a Háls or col to the north, in
fact the Snæfellsháls of the map, which should be countermarched to the south:
“Snowfell” also seemed attached to the Vatnajökull by a long Rani, or tongue of
raised ground, to which it acts tip: this must be changed for lowland and lake;
and the shape suggested climbing on the western side, where it is almost
perpendicular. Viewed from the north-west (August 14), Snæfell hill assumed a
sphinx shape, the hindquarters being like those of Herðubreið to the south.
Snæfell projects to the north-north-east, or above our path, a long clean arête
of yellow Palagonite, flanking a great fissure: the lower parts are here snowy, the
upper are revetted with dark conglomerate. Behind, or to the west of this ridge,
is a large snow-field, one of the many buttresses, extending to the flat-topped
summit. We ascended stony ground when working to the south; and here an
unpleasant surprise awaited me. Instead of the clear course of the little Jökulsá
draining the peaks and pins of the Snæfellsjökull, a northern section of the
Vatnajökull, the whole expanse lying between the glacier and the height upon
which we stood formed a broad and apparently shallow lake, in part composed
of clear pools, and the rest of muddy veins. At its head is a great depression in
the Jökull, marked eastward by Eyjarbakki (island bank), a black cone, which
may be a crater. The delta-shaped mass of water projects its point to the north,
where we can distinctly see it falling over the Eyjarbakka-foss into the Jökulsá
gorge. This formation may be temporary, dry ground flooded by the late rains:
the farmers, however, know it by the name of Eyjarbakka-vatn. Permanent or
not, it was utterly impassable without boats, whilst the Jökulsá was too full to be
forded.
A near view of the Vatnajökull, from the south of Snæfell, confirmed my
previous impressions. The snowy base-line is formed by the descending angle of
the wind: this must explain how all is congealed at a height where Snæfell is free
from frost (aneroid, 27·75): perhaps the thrust from behind may perpetuate the
névé. Beyond the long white wave, pure ermine above, and below spotty like a
Danish dog, stretching far to the west, rose the quaint form of Kverk, the throat
or angle beneath the chin,[176] with two big, blue buttresses to the east: the black
outlier of conical shape has a deep gullet to the north, vomiting a light-blue
glacier upon the snow-fields lying at the base; it is prolonged north by the
Kverkhnúkrrani (snout of the gullet-knoll), apparently containing two distinct
patches of volcanic aspect.
Resuming our ride to the west over the true Snæfellsháls, whose stony flanks
delivered us from bog and earth-crack, we found that even here the summer
pasturages are not unused. The dandelion and the violet, dead elsewhere, still
enjoyed the autumn of life; sign of reindeer was seen in two places, and we
flushed sundry coveys of ptarmigan. A couple of ravens and a snow-tit
composed the remnant of animal life; happily for us the midges were absent.
At two P.M. we reached our farthest southern point, the long dorsum which
prolongs Snæfell southwards to the Snæfellsháls. On the far side of the col rose
Thjófahnúkr, a big, black, cindery cone, like the rest. Between it and the northern
hypothenuse of the Vatnajökull lay a dark saddleback, with all the appearance of
a volcanic crater; the absence of lava may be explained by its vomiting, like
Hverfjall and Herðubreið, cinder and ashes. As we turned up the Thjófadalr,
between the Thieves’ Knoll and the Snæfell proper, the ice-wind struck full on
our backs. The amphitheatre was girt on both sides by jagged, rocky peaks, like
the edges of bursten bubbles and blisters; and the shoulders of Snæfell projected
to the south-west, a sharp ridge and a cone of warm-yellow Palagonite—here the
ascent would have offered no difficulties. This part of the valley discharges to
the south many streamlets of melted snow, some clear, others of white water.
Crossing the divide, we struck the Hrafnkelsá, which is prolonged by the
Jökulkvisl and the Sauðará (sheep-water) to “Jökulsá of the Bridge.” The line
presently became a deep and grisly gorge of black and copper-coloured
Palagonite; and we passed sundry long bridges of hard snow which were
excellent riding. So far I can confirm the experience of the French naval officers,
who assured me that in Iceland these formations, so redoubtable farther south,
offer no risk.
At four P.M. we halted for an hour at the head of the Eastern Jökulsá, quietly
enjoying the warm western exposure. From this point there was an extensive
view of the river-drained plain which, broken by detached lumps of hill and
broken ridges, separates Snæfell from the eastern edge of the Ódáða Hraun.
When the nags had enjoyed a bite we resumed the descent of the deep and
broken river-valley that passes between the Hafrsfell and its western outliers: the
buttresses and banks of loose wind-blown sand descended bodily with our
weight. Again we saw a spine of Palagonite, showing a fair ascent to the upper
snow-field; and we looked in vain for the delicate ripple-marks which from a
distance betray hidden crevasses. Here the surface material melting in the sun
sinks into the lower strata, making the whole a solid mass—hence the glacier
growth which exists in Greenland, and which is suspected in Iceland. As we rode
under the precipices of North-western Snæfell, the snow, sliced off as if by a
razor, forms a wall some fifty feet thick, soft above, and below pale-blue, like
the Blaabreen of Norway, where hardened to ice by excessive pressure. This fine
“snout” showed a few thin ribbons, but nothing like “veined structure,” that
vexed subject of the glacialists. The whole “snow-fond” for perfect beauty
wanted only the lovely background of mazarine-coloured skies to be seen in
more southern latitudes.
At six P.M. we forded the Hauká (hawk-water), one amidst a score of shallow,
bubbling, pebbly streams, random rivulets, which the afternoon heat was setting
free from the vast sheets of snow. Beyond Hafrsfell we recognised with disgust
the sodden, rotten ground of the morning, and the weary ponies so lost their
tempers that they seemed unwilling to rise after the frequent falls. Yet I could not
but admire the pathos, the strange double nature of the wild prospect. Here it was
a hard and uncompromising photograph, a weird etching by Rembrandt or Doré,
in which, from the vivid whiteness of the snow and the blackness of the rocks,
the far appeared near: amongst the chaotic rubbish heaps there was no shadow
within shadow, no dark as opposed to a light side. There, beyond a middle
ground of steely blue plain, lay a “lovely Claude,” a dream-landscape of distant
Jökull. The delicate tints, cool azure-white and snow warm with ethereal rose-
pink, seemed to flush and fade, to shift and change places, as though ghostly
mists, unseen by the eye of sense, were sailing in the pale beryl-coloured sky.
Anon the sun sinking towards the hilly horizon rained almost horizontal floods
of light, transfiguring the scene with golden glory as every feature kindled and lit
up with a peculiar freshness of expression—a region so calm and bright did not
seem to be of this world. Yet a few moments more and its rare spiritual
loveliness, passing through gradations of matchless tenderness, began to fade;
the pale-grey shadow came, “stealing like serious thought o’er joyous face,” and
all disappeared in the dark nothingness of night. These splendours of the Trolls’
home were well worth a journey to the “Brumous Isle,” but the long search and
the short fruition almost tempt me to “point a moral.”
After some ten hours’ hard work for man and beast, we were cheered by the
steam rising from the Laug, and we again thanked Iceland for laying on such
plenteous supplies of hot water. The memory of the last touching view, with its
“wild beauty of colouring,” moved me to issue, about midnight, from the nest
and to compare the dark with the light hours. But the moon and stars seemed to
count for nothing in that “inspissated gloom.” The scene was
“All ruined, desolate, forlorn, and savage.”

The deepening glooms made the silence something more oppressive—τῆς σιγῆς
βάρος—than the mere negative of sound; it became an indescribably awful
presence, weighing on and deadening to the spirit as the sense of utter solitude—
even the nasal music within the Laugarkofi was a positive relief. I can easily
imagine a man lost in this utter stillness and swoon of Nature finding the horror
and oppression unendurable.

SECTION IV.—FROM THE SNÆFELL TO DJÚPIVOGR.

To Gísli’s infinite satisfaction, a vile sea-fog crept up the Jökulsá valley,
slowly, but persistently, and, meeting scant opposition in the air, which the
falling aneroid showed to be unusually deficient in weight, it spread, like the
magical “Foka” of folk-lore, over the face of the upper world. Below us, we
afterwards heard, all was merry as a fine May-day. I had intended to make the
Kverk direct from “Snowdon,” and from that vantage-ground to prospect the
Kistufell and the Skjaldbreið, with “Trölladyngja,” the bower of the Troll-
Carline. But in the words of Wordsworth’s happy warrior, I did not see what I
foresaw, and had only the cold comfort of reflecting—
“Est quiddam prodire tenus, si non datur ultra.”

Icelandic exploration is “chancy” as Central African, and the traveller must

expect to be the sport of circumstances far beyond his control, unless, at least, he
can afford unlimited time.
The next morning (August 20) was also foggy: I waited till 8.45 A.M., and
then all the munitions de bouche being thoroughly exhausted, the word was
given for a retreat. The approach to Valthiófstaðir was perfumed, after the rancid
moss and the hard snow-wind, by the fragrant crop of newly-mown hay. I bade
friendly adieu to the family which had shown me so much kindness; to Stefán,
who was still abed, and to Björn, the eldest son. A man of forty-six, and
suffering from rheumatism, for which the parsonage is famous, he was the only
Icelander who in physique realised my idea of a Saga-hero. The gentlemanly
old-fashion parson put into my hands, when parting, an appeal which touched
me, “Opto ubi de Islandiâ locutus estis, benè rem referere.”
My return-ride need not be described: it was over the same path, the only
difference being the last half of the last day, which is noticed in Chapter XIII. At
Hallormstaðir I again missed Síra Sigurðr, who appears not to be of a very
domestic turn. Reaching the Berufjörð parsonage at 4.45 P.M. on August 21, I
found the ponies far too much fagged by a day’s work of 5500 feet, up and
down, for riding another twelve miles round the firth. The Reverend was absent
from the Prestagarð, but his wife kindly found me a boat and a boat-boy, the
student Thorsteinn taking the other oar. Progress was painfully slow, and the tall
ghostly loom of Búlandstindr seemed to follow us like a “Fylgja,” or fetch. We
enjoyed all the pleasures of l’humidité spéciale de l’eau de mer pulverisée; the
bright phosphoric lights of the tropical seas were absent—indeed, I never saw
them in Iceland. At this season the nights become real nights; the smooths in the
water, alternating with ripple-lines, had no worse effect than to persuade the
inexperienced lads that they were approaching land, and, as the skerries and
drongs are thickly ranged along the southern shore, we were fortunate that there
was no gale—
“Only the sea-fogs to and fro
Skipped like the ghosts of the streams below.”

After six hours of mortal weariness, I landed with feet dead from sitting in
cold water, and awoke Captain Tvede. My good friend turned out of his bunk;
the cooper put the kettle on; sundry glasses of red-hot toddy were administered
medicinally; and I went to my old quarters, well satisfied with having ridden,
from under the very shadow of the Vatnajökull, in two days to the eastern coast.
The “balance” of my stay at Djúpivogr would not have been pleasant without
the Ancient Mariner, who energetically assisted in preparing my diary and in
paying off the guides, a matter of $49. Hospitable Hr Weÿvadt’s son, the acting
Syslumaðr, presently joined us from Eskifjörð, and lectured me upon taxation in
Iceland which, as the reader has seen, is “no joke.” The only drawback was a
certain nervousness touching the movements of the “Diana,” which was to touch
at Deep Bay for the last time this season. Alternate fog and rain, with faint
attempts at clearing about mid-day, had lasted for a week, and on August 24 the
“Postdampskibet” was due. The seamist rolled thick as a bolster up the narrow
line of Fjörð; I had almost abandoned hope, when suddenly we received the glad
tidings of her being anchored at the mouth of the voe. Hurried adieux were
exchanged, and we steamed for Reykjavik the same evening.
Rain and fog accompanied us the whole way; fortunately for me, Dr Hjaltalín
was on board, returning from a visit to Denmark, or the lively “Diana” would
have been a very purgatory of dullness. The rest of my tale is soon told. We
made Reykjavik on the 26th. On September 1, I embarked on board an old
friend, the “Jón Sigurðsson;” and steaming southwards cast a farewell view,
while Iceland faded into the past, at the palegold and glittering silver of the
Öræfajökull.
On September 15, I landed at Granton.
 CONCLUSION.
The past has been very short-lived of late, says the Duc de Noailles: the
world moves fast, and even
“the naked, melancholy isles
Of farthest Thule.”

have felt the civilising influence of the nineteenth century. During the two short
years which have followed my visit, Iceland, after a generation-long struggle for
political liberty and self-government, has conquered, by inscribing her name on
the European list of constitutional countries. The “Annus Jubilæus Millesimus”
has been an “Annus Mirabilis:” the Present has met the Past: the “living
antiquarian museum” has been honoured with a royal visit, which highly
gratified the loyal, and which gave the disloyal an opportunity of declaring that
“Iceland has laws.” The Millenary festival drew a host of tourists and “Own
Correspondents,” even Hungary being represented, and a dozen octavos will
presently be the result. The practical Americans brought with them a gift of
some 2000 volumes which will, when room is found for housing them, change
the face of the Reykjavik library. As regards physical matters, Iceland has
witnessed a new eruption of the Skaptár; and, as the map shows, the north-
eastern side of the island is at this moment (July 1875) in violent volcanic action.
The Kötlu-gjá, or Katla’s Rift of many terrors, has been visited and found to be
another “humbug;” and, last but not least, the Vatna-, or more probably the
Klofa-, jökull has been penetrated by the enterprising Mr Watts and his party,
who are reported to have planted the Union Jack upon the highest peak. I may
conclude with the lines of the Millennial Memorial:
“Ages thou numberest ten, unconquered and long-biding Thule!
Hardy mother of men, Thorr grant thee life through the ages;
After thy sad, sad past, may Happiness smile on thy future,
And Liberty, won so late, crown every blessing with glory.”

[Image unavailable.]
STONE AXE IN MUSEUM, REYKJAVIK.
 APPENDIX.
SULPHUR IN ICELAND.

SECTION I.
LET us begin this subject with an extract from Hr O. Henchel’s Report on the
Icelandic Sulphur Mines, and on the Refining of the Sulphur. January 30, 1776.
(Translated from the Danish).
I arrived at Krísuvík the 24th of June 1775, and immediately after my arrival
I made preparations for examining the mountain of Krísuvík, with its mines and
the surrounding neighbourhood. This mountain is situated two miles from the
sea, the intervening space all the way from the sulphur mines being a tolerably
level field, with only a few diminutive hills. The mountain stretches from north-
east to south-west, and about two miles south-west from the mines it terminates
in a plain, three miles of which are covered with lava. To north-east I did not
examine the mountain more than three miles from the mines, because I found
that in this direction the whole of it consisted of the same stuff, viz., of a very
loose sandstone (Palagonite), except where the mines and the hot springs are to
be found; there it consists of gypsum, and partly also of a red and blue “bolus,”
which, in my opinion, has been sublimated by acid vapours, and partly thrown
up by the hot springs. In some places these soft earths have become a hard stone,
the cause, being, no doubt, that the access of the water has been stopped in these
places, and when the acid vapours could not any more penetrate through this soft
earth, it became hard by degrees.
In some places the above-mentioned gypsum is found to be tough and sticky,
and when it is dried slowly it has a greasy touch; sometimes it is perfectly white,
sometimes with red streaks, and one might take it for pipe-clay. One may
therefore conclude, that by the acid, the effects of the rain and the sun and the
rising heat, a fermentation has been brought about in this earth, and that it has
thus become tough. Besides the already-mentioned variation, another kind of
gypsum earth is found on the top of the mountain in hard sheets irregularly
formed; here we probably see the effects of strong heat combined with absence
of sufficient water, after the fermentation has taken place. In other places where
this earth is saturated with sufficient acid, and partly dissolved by the same, and
has, besides, a suitable or a natural degree of heat, so to speak, it is found in
loose, reddish, and prismatic crystals. There is a considerable quantity of it, but
it is never found deeper than from one foot to a foot and a half; the deeper you
go the less solid it becomes, and at a depth of one foot it becomes quite fluid,
because the heat is so strong, and the ground penetrated by warm vapours to
such a degree that it cannot attain any solidity; in fire it loses its red colour. In
short, this earth goes through so many changes, partly through the greater or
lesser degree of heat, partly through a greater or less abundance of acids and
water, and through the admixture of foreign substances, that it can almost
bewilder one.
The blue “bolus” is found everywhere beside the boiling springs, and some of
them are filled with it in such quantities that they are like a pot full of thick
gruel. When the “bolus” has become hard it cannot be melted by the blow-pipe,
but, in its natural condition, it attracts vapours from the air, and forms very fine
white crystals, and at a distance they look like hoar-frost. This seems to show
that this kind of stone must be impregnated with calcareous earth which has been
saturated with vitriolic acid. That it must be this kind of earth in a hardened state
is seen both from its form and from the flowers of pyrites that are mixed with it;
for when one breaks off a piece of these earths in their soft and half-solid
condition, the broken pieces have the same form, and are also interspersed with
pyrites.
The red “bolus” is always found on the surface of the ground like the white
gypseous earth, and is never covered by a bed of another kind; it is never mixed
with the water of the boiling springs; there is no sublimated sulphur where it is
found, although the subterranean heat in some such places is quite as strong as
where that process actually takes place.
Several hot springs are to be found here, and most of them contain the blue
“bolus,” but one contains white earth. These springs often disappear in one
place, and break out again in another place where no spring has been before; the
probable cause is that the narrow pipes under the ground, through which the
spring is supplied with water, fill up by degrees; the strong heat transforms the
water into very elastic vapours, which break through the ground where they find
the least resistance, and thus a new hot spring is formed.
On a hill between the southernmost hot spring, called the Bath-room, and the
more northerly springs, a hardened “bolus” is found; it is so brittle that it can
easily be broken between the fingers; it is porous, and its holes are filled with
hardened lime. At first I assumed this “bolus” to be a kind of lava partly
dissolved by the atmosphere and the slow heat rising from the ground; the lime I
took for a kind of salt, which had been embedded in the lava, and let loose by its
solution, and then settled down into the holes of the “bolus.” But, upon closer
examination of the solid state of this lime, and, after having tested it by
aquafortis, by which it was brought to a high state of effervescence, I saw plainly
it must be lime. I had tried to dissolve it in water, but without success; if it had
been a salt let loose by the dissolution of the molten lava, it must have been
more loose and in a somewhat crystallised state. My idea is that the lime must
have been sublimated by the hot vapours when the lava was already thrown out;
then it subsided into the holes of the lava and became hard. When I compared
this earth with the lava of other places where volcanoes had been, from which
the lava had spread far and wide, without undergoing any perceptible change or
dissolution, I saw that this could never have been a lava. Although the lava of
volcanic mountains is often confounded with slag produced by burning of the
ground, I saw that this had never been melted to real slag; and it seemed to me
therefore probable, that it must be a kind of hardened clay. I did not, however,
find anything to confirm my conjecture until I came to Mývatn, where I found
specimens of it in a soft and crude state.
The loose sandstone (Palagonite) already mentioned, which is found besides
the most northern hot springs, is there much finer than in other places; it is of a
slaty structure, and between the plates gypsum is found, so one might almost
take it for alum plates. On the top of the mountain another kind of sandstone
(trachyte?) is found; it is a good deal harder and burnt; it looks like millstone
rocks from the Rhine, yet it is more porous; it is in irregular heaps, and never
makes a whole mountain, as if it had been thrown over by earthquakes.
Near the boiling springs, where the ground is loose and porous, but especially
where the heat has free ventilation through the above-mentioned gypseous earth,
the sulphur is to be found. At the bottom it is dissolved and mixed with acid
vapours; and when the sublimation has taken place, it becomes fixed in the
outermost crust where there is a colder bed; and here it is found either in the
shape of crystals, powder, or flowers; it is never deeper than one, two, or three
inches under the surface, according to the greater or lesser degree of heat, or the
greater or lesser porosity of the earth which forms the uppermost bed, as the
sulphur bed itself, when it is in the shape of powder, is never more than three to
six inches; and when in a crystallised form, never thicker than two to two and a
half-inch, and three inches at the very highest.
These mines are not many, and do not cover a large space of ground; there are
indeed a few spots here and there where sulphur is sublimated, but these spots
are very small. The most important as well as the largest are the two mines
highest up in the mountain; one of them is 120 yards long, and from 16 to 20
yards broad; the other is from 140 to 160 yards long, and from 20 to 40 yards
broad. In these two mines the finest and best sulphur is found in the largest
quantities. The bed covering the sulphur contains a great deal more of acids than
the layer immediately below it, because the hot acid vapours rising from the
depths below must keep the lower bed permanently acid and damp; the surplus
acids are driven up through the sulphur, and that portion of them which does not
unite with the sulphur, comes to the uppermost crust, where it is dried by the
combined efforts of the sun, the air, and the wind. Here the acids are therefore
more concentrated, and consequently able to dissolve some portions of the
gypseous earth with which it has become united; in this condition it makes a
kind of flowers of alum, which, however, are partly vitriolic or blended with
iron. I tried to examine the purity of this salt by dissolving it in water. When the
water had been filtered it had a green colour; thereupon precipitated with alkali,
it gave a white precipitate; and when this was separated from the water, the latter
became after a while quite yellow, as if it had been coloured with iron rust. This
salt cannot really be called alum unless we should call it lime-alum. Like alum it
has a nauseous taste, but more pungent and almost caustic. When, after
dissolution, it has become solid by evaporation, it is not nearly as close as alum,
and no crystallisation can be perceived in it.
As the sulphur is sublimated in the manner above stated, and by condensation
becomes fixed in the cold earth at the surface, it will be seen that the opinion is
erroneous, that sulphur is generated in earth penetrated and made porous by the
air. My instructions were to find out, by blasting the rocks, whether any traces of
sulphur were to be found in them; but blasting was out of the question on
account of the softness of the ground, the great heat, and the large quantity of hot
vapours. The rocks must, moreover, be at a great depth, since all attempts to find
them with the earth-borer, which was fifteen feet in length, proved unsuccessful.
Close to the mines on the south side heat is seen to have been in the mountain
formerly. Here the same kinds of stone are found as at the hot spring, and the
yellowish gypseous earth as well. By some cause or another the heat has been
removed somewhere else. I was convinced that sulphur must be found here, as it
might have been covered with earth after the heat left; but all my diggings, both
with the earth-borer and otherwise, proved unsuccessful.
With the earth-borer I tried to ascertain the difference of the beds where
sulphur is sublimated, and of those where it is not, and where only a slight heat
is felt. The first experiment was made in the northernmost mine. Below the
sulphur I found a one-foot thick bed of the white gypseous earth; then there was
a bed of fine blue “bolus,” or an earth impregnated with flowers of pyrites here
and there. In this bed the heat began to increase, and when I came to a depth of
three feet the bed became a little harder, but, at the same time, warmer and
coarser, as if it were mixed with gravel; and thus it continued to the depth of
fourteen feet, when it became a little softer.
I examined another place where no considerable heat was felt. The white
gypseous earth continued to the depth of a foot and a half; and in this place it
was harder and more solid than where the heat had a free egress. Then came the
blue earth; uppermost it was somewhat loose, but farther down it became so hard
and close that the earth-borer could hardly penetrate it; the lower down the more
it became mixed with pyrites, and was filled with gravel, as it were. At the depth
of twelve to thirteen feet it became a little looser as I thought. It was the same
kind of earth all the way through; the heat was intense.
The third place which I examined was at the most northern point, beside a
small hot spring, thick with blue earth. Uppermost there was red “bolus” to the
depth of one foot; then a bed of purple and a yellowish one, three feet thick; then
a purple and bluish one, one foot thick. The heat increased with the depth; here
the bed became very hard, and I found the blue earth impregnated with pyrites.
This bed was ten feet deep; at this depth the heat was so intense that the water
trickling down from the upper beds boiled violently, and prevented all further
progress.
By these experiments I found that the conditions necessary for the
sublimation of the sulphur are: Firstly, A sufficient quantity of water to keep the
soil loose and porous, that the sulphur may pass through it, and to drive the
sulphur vapours upwards. Secondly, That the water must come from below; for
when it comes from above, it cannot penetrate through the blue bed in the
absence of the rising hot vapours which keep the bed porous; and in that case the
bed becomes harder and harder, and prevents the sublimation of the sulphur.
I tried in several places, both with the earth-borer and otherwise, to discover
some of the so-called dead mines, but without success. From the many
experiments I made, I concluded that the volcanic mountains of Iceland must
have been sulphur mountains or sulphur mines in the beginning; the blue bed
became hard, and the sulphur vapours were thus prevented from being
sublimated. Thus they became more condensed, and, at the same time, more
elastic in the ground; then there arose in them a “heat-forming movement,” by
which the whole ground, which is very sulphureous, became violently shaken,
and subsequently ignited, causing tremendous destruction.
MÝVATN.
Fremri-námar.
 At Húsavík I obtained horses and workmen from the sheriff, and left that
place the 9th of August, and arrived the 12th in the evening at the so-called
Fremri-námar. At a distance of about one mile from the mines, there is a valley
called Hellaksdalur, where there is a little grass, just so much as to give the
ground a green colour, and this is the only green spot that is to be found here
within a distance of many miles; yet there was not grass sufficient for the horses,
but I had to bring with me hay for them, and water for the men. In this valley I
spent the night, and the next morning, the 13th, I went to the mines, which are
about ten Icelandic miles (11 indirect, 40 geographical) south-east from Húsavík,
situated on the west side of a mountain called Herðubreið. On the top of the
mountain there is a ridge or an eminence, from which there is an extensive view;
but as far as the eye can reach in every direction, nothing can be seen but lava.
This eminence is 1500 paces long, and equally broad, and about 120 feet high.
On the top of the eminence there is a deep hollow completely round, and about
200 paces in diameter. From its shape it is called by the inhabitants a kettle. The
south and west sides of this eminence, as well as the hollow itself, consist of
lava, and it may therefore be concluded that the mountain has been an active
volcano in olden times. On the north and east side the mines are found, and
where these are the mountain consists of gypseous earth like that at Krísuvík. A
large quantity of sulphur is said to have been dug from the dead mines here; but
now they are rarely found, because they have been worked annually, and the
sulphur is not generated afresh in these as in the live ones. Thirty paces from the
end of the valley, and also on the side of the mountain, the first live mines are
found. In the valley they are about 60 paces long, and from 20 to 30 broad. On
the side of the mountain they are 200 paces long, and from 20 to 30 broad. On
the east side of the mountain, 40 paces lower than the mines above mentioned,
other live mines are found 220 paces long, and 40 to 50 paces broad. From all
these the sulphur has been completely cleared away, because the sulphur found
here was very good and pure. The soil is moderately damp, and the sulphur has
just as much water as (when converted into steam by the heat) is sufficient to
raise it up, and to keep the ground in a loose and porous condition, so the sulphur
can be sublimated through it without hindrance. Yet it does not make the soil too
loose; in that case, small particles of earth would rise along with the sulphur,
become mixed with it, and thus make it impure. In the mines, which, according
to my guide’s information, had been completely cleared of sulphur, there was
already a new bed of sulphur one to two inches in thickness, but very impure.
There are others which formerly yielded sulphur, now quite cold, and ruined.
The destruction of the mines, as well as the impurity of the sulphur, arises from
careless digging. When the peasants dig the sulphur out of a mine, and particles
of earth and impurities are sticking to it, they clear away the largest lumps; but
they do not take care not to let the impurities fall down where they had taken the
sulphur, where some flowers of sulphur always remain. For although the
uppermost sulphur is tolerably compact and crystallised, the lowest is loose. The
reason is that the uppermost bed is made more and more compact by the sulphur
rising from below, and the acid phlegm surrounding the sulphur vapours cannot
evaporate; the small sulphur particles are thus prevented from immediate contact
with each other, but are enveloped in the superfluous phlegm. This is the reason
why the lowermost sulphur must remain in the shape of flowers until the hard
crust is removed; then the phlegm is exposed to the air and evaporates, until the
surface has become hard again. It will therefore be seen, that when the impurities
fall into these loose flowers, and the fine sulphur is subsequently sublimated
among them, the impurities will be imbedded in the sulphur, and must be taken
out with it at a second digging.
Another reason for the impurity of the sulphur is this, that a man, coming to a
mine to see how the sulphur is, thrusts his spade into the ground in various
places, without first carefully removing the upper earth, whereby the sulphur and
the earth become mixed together. If he does not think the sulphur good or
abundant enough to be dug out at that time, he leaves the mine thus disturbed;
and the rising sulphur is sublimated among the disturbed lumps of earth and
sulphur, and the whole becomes a compact mass; it often looks quite pure, but
turns out altogether different at the refinery. Thus a single man may in one hour
destroy a great many mines that might have been excellent if more carefully
handled.
One more cause of the impurity of the sulphur may be found, I think, in the
following circumstance. When the peasants come to a good mine they take out
all the sulphur that is to be found there, and do not take care how they tread
down the loose earth below the sulphur; the down-trodden earth, over which the
wind sweeps freely, becomes tough and hard when the heat from below is not
strong enough to break through it, and thus keep it porous; thus the mine
becomes cold and useless. In other places where the heat is strong enough to
force the steam through the trodden earth, there is, however, this disadvantage:
Firstly, It takes a longer time for the sulphur to arrive at a state of perfect
sublimation than if the earth had remained in its porous condition. Secondly, The
fresh sublimation will be impure. When one steps into the loose earth, deep
holes, separated by thin ridges, will be formed. When the sulphur is formed in
these holes, covering the ridges as well, it is evident that all these ridges must
come out with the sulphur at a subsequent digging.
 Those that work the mines must therefore be ordered: Firstly, To remove the
earth before they dig up any mine, so that nothing shall fall into the sulphur.
Secondly, When they remove lumps of earth from the sulphur, they must carry
them outside the mine. Thirdly, When they work a mine, they must first remove
the uppermost earth; they must not completely empty any mine of its sulphur:
they should leave the utmost border standing; then run a trench along the whole
length of the mine, then leave a ridge standing, and run another trench, and so on
until they have reached the utmost border, which they are to leave standing. Thus
the wind will be prevented from having a full sweep of the mine, and thus
making it cold. These trenches ought therefore to run across the course of the
most frequent winds; these are here, in my opinion, a north-wester and south-
easter. After one year the ridges left standing might be taken with the same
precaution as mentioned above. The workmen ought therefore to be as much as
possible prohibited from stepping into the mines; every digger should take with
him a board to stand on while he digs, and this he should move with him as he
proceeds. By these means the mines might be saved from being unequally
trodden down, and the digger might escape from burning his feet, which he now
frequently does, by sinking through the loose and hot soil.
On the east side of the mountain, below the above-mentioned mines, a red
“bolus” begins, stretching round the mountain from south to north until it meets
with a sandstone mountain; between the mountain and this ridge of “bolus” there
is a little sulphur mine, and here the gypseous earth is found below the sulphur
as usual. Digging up the real “bolus,” I found it to be very loose and soft; it was
full of holes, like the hardened one at Krísuvík, and the holes were filled with
lime, very loose and gelatinous, and slimy to the touch. Under the “bolus” the
earth was in many places hollow, and one hardly dared to tread there. Very hot
vapours arise from the bottom, by which these earths are sublimated, for it is
quite as hot here as in the sulphur mines. This is a very interesting circumstance,
and well worth observing, that there are two places lying side by side, and
presenting such a difference in the stuffs driven up from the bottom by the heat,
which is equally great in both places. In one, however, sulphur is sublimated
along with a strong acid, and in the other the above said lime is sublimated, and
not the least acid is found in it.
Hliðar-námar.
The 15th I went to the so-called Hliðar-námar, which are about eighteen
miles distant from the former ones. These are the largest of all the mines, and
here too is the greatest heat; the sulphur is consequently sublimated in less time
than in any of the others. At present there is a large quantity of sulphur here, but
it is all in powder, or in the form of flowers; most of them are found in the
mountains, as in the former places; and the sulphur bed is in many places six
inches and more in thickness. The reason why the heat drives up greater
quantities of sulphur here than in the former places is to be found in the
looseness of the soil; it is not only much looser than in the former ones, but in
some places even too loose and damp, which both makes the spot difficult to
approach in order to dig, and fills the sulphur with earth and impurities, so as to
make it useless. The reason why these mines are in such a good condition now
is, that the sulphur brought from here to the refinery was not so well received as
that which came from the Fremri-námar, or the so-called Theystarreykja-námar
nearest to Húsavík. I admit that the sulphur found here is more mixed with earth
and acids than in the other places; not, however, in such a degree as to offer any
serious difficulties. But as the whole of the sulphur is in the form of flowers, and
the earth immediately below it has nearly the same appearance, and cannot
therefore be easily distinguished from the sulphur, the peasants do not, therefore,
I think, separate the sulphur from the earth with as much care as where it is
found in a more solid condition, and where the earth is more easily detected.
The mountain where these mines are situated stretches from north to south,
and on the north side it goes a considerable distance beyond the mines. The same
kinds of earth are found here as at Krísuvík, except the grey slate, of which there
is none here, neither are there any variations in the gypseous earth; and very
little of gypsum is to be found, which probably is owing to the higher degree of
heat, or it may be because the heat has less interrupted egress, and consequently
keeps the earth constantly porous. There is a larger quantity of the vitriolic alum.
For the rest, the mountain consists of common sandstone. That even these mines
have not been worked carefully is evident from the considerable number of
ruined and cold mines.
Below the sulphur mountain on the east side there are three boiling springs; it
is evident that the two farthest to the south, and situated close to each other, have
been produced by an earthquake, because they are found in a rift in the
mountain, and boil with such awful noise, especially the most southern one, that
it can be heard 200 yards off, and the ground, which consists of bluish “bolus,”
is shaken. Close to these hot springs is a large lava-tract, which spreads to the
north to a considerable distance; it also winds round the southern point of the
mountain, and crosses the path that leads to Fremri-námar, and spreads almost
down to Reykjahlið. The ground is hot everywhere, and the hot vapours rise
through the lava, and the whole is therefore continually steaming. About nine
miles north of these mines is the mountain Krabla, where excellent mines are
said to have been, but when the eruption of 1724 took place, it caused great
destruction. One branch of the lava-stream coming from this mountain passed
close by the mines on the west side and through the farm of Reykjahlið, the
whole of which was destroyed, and at last the current flowed into the lake
Mývatn. The lava thus produced was in various places hollow, as if the
uppermost crust had been hardened by the air, and the still liquid lava which was
under it flowed away. As the outmost crust cooled down by degrees, it
contracted, and thus rifts were formed; in some places also it was not strong
enough to support its own weight, and fell down. Crawling into these caves, I
found a kind of salt which had been sublimated from the earth, and become fixed
there. It had a bitter taste, and after being dissolved and dried again it formed
square crystals, with a square point. It was easily melted by the blow-pipe.
Theystarreykja Mines.
The 31st of August I came to the Theystarreykja mines, which are about two
miles from the refinery. A large quantity of sulphur is said to have been brought
from these mines to the refinery, as they were very important ones, but now they
are almost all cold, and it is only in a few of them that sufficient heat is found.
Therefore, although four years are said to have passed since sulphur was taken
herefrom, there are only four or five where it might be taken again. Nevertheless
the heat seems in some of the cold mines to be breaking through so far that the
vitriolic acid can be sublimated through the ground, as it has in combination with
the dissolved lime formed the above-mentioned vitriolic salt. It is therefore to be
hoped that many of these ruined mines may recover after a time, yet this is not
certain. Here is again a clear instance of how the very best mines may be ruined
in a short time by careless treatment. If, therefore, the still remaining mines,
either here or in other places, are to be preserved, the peasants must be prevented
from digging the sulphur.
The home-field of Theystarreykir is good though small, and has a fine
situation; and to the north there is a large piece of uncultivated ground which
might be made useful. Close to the farm is a hill called Bæarfell, where some of
the mines are situated. It begins on the south side of the most southern mines,
and continues in a northerly direction, then it takes a turn to the east and then
again to the north. In the corner between the eastern and southern arms of the
Bæarfell the best mines are found at present. There have been a great number of
mines on the west side of the mountain, but these are now cold, except a few in
the middle, where the earth is tolerably loose, and the heat can therefore
sublimate the sulphur. Those, however, that are on the east side of the hill are
quite cold, except two small ones high up in the hill, but there is sufficient heat
in all these mines; and I am therefore of opinion that sulphur may be sublimated
in them for the future. Some of the western ones are also found to be
considerably hot, and it may therefore be expected that these ruined mines may
recover in time. On the west side of these mines there is a large tract of lava. On
the north side of the Bæarfell the home-field begins, and north of that again a
piece of uncultivated ground; when beyond that, the lava reappears and takes an
easterly turn. On the top of the Bæarfell there is a great deal of red “bolus,” and
a strong heat under it. But sulphur is never sublimated with or through the red
“bolus,” therefore it is not found here. Very little of gypsum is found in these
mines. The warm springs are neither deep nor very hot, and the minerals are
either sandstone, or hardened like those at Krísuvík.
All the sulphur mines which I visited in the north are in the following
condition: Fremri-námar bad, because all the sulphur was taken away last year.
Hliðar-námar good, because they have been saved the most. Theystarreykja-
námar are worst, because the largest quantity has been taken from them. My
advice is, therefore, to let Fremri-námar and Theystarreykja-námar rest for some
time, and to work the Hliðar-námar only. When these have been emptied, the
former two may be worked in their turn.
The Refining of the Sulphur.
The refinery is situated a few hundred paces from the factory of Húsavík, and
consists of a sulphur hut; two store-houses, one for the raw sulphur, the other for
the melted, or refined ore; a dwelling-house, with kitchen and outhouses, all
built of turf according to the Icelandic fashion. The hut is about 20 feet long and
12 to 14 feet broad. In the middle of it is a small chimney, and on both sides of it
two iron boilers are walled in; one is quite small, and holds only 1 cwt. of melted
sulphur, the other holds 3 cwts.; the smaller one is very little used. Above the
boiler a small board is inserted in the chimney, which reaches over the middle of
the boiler; it has a hole at one end, through which a stick is put to stir up the
sulphur; when its lowermost end reaches the bottom of the boiler, the uppermost
is supported by the board, and he who stirs the sulphur can therefore move the
stick more easily than if its upper end were loose. The other instruments are, an
iron spade with holes, which is used for taking off the impurities floating on the
molten sulphur. Then there are some wooden forms, into which the molten
sulphur is poured. They are made of oak planks 3 inches thick, 12 inches broad,
and 3 feet long. On one side of the two outermost planks, and on both sides of
the two middle ones, three cylinder-shaped grooves are made, so that every half-
cylinder groove of the two outermost corresponds with those on the middle ones,
and those on the middle ones with each other. The planks are laid one on the top
of the other, and kept together with an iron ring; in such a form nine bars can be
made at the same time. A small iron sieve with narrow holes is put in the top of
each hole, through which the sulphur is sifted when poured out from the boiler
with a large iron ladle. When not used the forms are put into a tank filled with
water, in order that the hot sulphur may not stick to the sides of the holes. This is
completely prevented by soaking the forms in water. These are all the
instruments used in the refining of the sulphur. The fuel used is some little wood
sent by the Government, and for the rest peat, of which there is a good supply
close by.
When the sulphur is to be purified, a slow fire is made under the boiler, and
when it grows hot a small quantity, about two pounds, of raw sulphur is put in;
this is stirred till it becomes hot; the fire must be slow, in order not to burn the
sulphur, which might easily happen on account of the quantity of earth mixed
with it. When the portion is quite dry and begins to melt, a little train-oil is
poured in and stirred quickly, by which the earth unites with the oil, and floats on
the top. As soon as this is melted, another portion of raw sulphur is put in; and
when this is melted, another portion of oil, if required: this is easily seen; if the
earth absorbed by the oil falls to pieces like ashes, it falls again into the sulphur,
and oil must be poured in immediately. Thus the work is continued until the
boiler is full. When the boiler is nearly filled with molten sulphur, a quantity of
train-oil is poured on the top of it, and heated sufficiently. Then the fire is
removed and the stirring discontinued. The impurities absorbed by the oil are
removed with the iron spade described above. The forms are taken out of the
water, put together, and raised on one end. The iron sieve described above is
placed over the first form, and the sulphur poured over it from the boiler. When
it is full the sieve is placed over the second one, then over the third, and so on.
 SECTION II.
The next account that we have of the Krísuvík diggings will be found in the
following extracts from “Travels in the Island of Iceland during the Summer of
the Year 1810,” by Sir George Steuart Mackenzie, Bart., etc., etc., second
edition, 1812.
Pp. 113, 114.—We set out towards the Sulphur Mountain, which is about
three miles distant from Krisuvik. At the foot of the mountain was a small bank,
composed chiefly of white clay and some sulphur, from all parts of which steam
issued. Ascending it, we got upon a ridge immediately above a deep hollow,
from which a profusion of vapour arose, and heard a confused noise of boiling
and splashing, joined to the roar of steam escaping from narrow crevices in the
rock. This hollow, together with the whole side of the mountain opposite, as far
up as we could see, was covered with sulphur and clay, chiefly of a white or
yellowish colour. Walking over this soft and steaming surface we found to be
very hazardous, and we were frequently very uneasy when the vapour concealed
us from each other. The day, however, being dry and warm, the surface was not
so slippery as to occasion much risk of our falling. The chance of the crust of
sulphur breaking, or the clay sinking with us, was great; and we were several
times in danger of being much scalded. Mr Bright ran at one time a great hazard,
and suffered considerable pain from accidentally plunging one of his legs into
the hot clay. From whatever spot the sulphur is removed, steam instantly
escapes; and, in many places, the sulphur was so hot that we could scarcely
handle it. From the smell we perceived that the steam was mixed with a small
quantity of sulphuretted hydrogen gas. When the thermometer was sunk a few
inches into the clay it rose generally to within a few degrees of the boiling
point....
Pp. 115, 116.—At the foot of the hill, in a hollow formed by a bank of clay
and sulphur, steam rushed with great force and noise from among the loose
fragments of rock.
Farther up the mountain we met with a spring of cold water, a circumstance
little expected in a place like this. Ascending still higher, we came to a ridge
composed entirely of sulphur and clay, joining two summits of the mountain.
Here we found a much greater quantity of sulphur than on any other part of the
surface we had gone over. It formed a smooth crust from a quarter of an inch to
several inches in thickness. The crust was beautifully crystallised, and
immediately beneath it we found a quantity of loose granular sulphur, which
appeared to be collecting and crystallising as it was sublimed along with the
steam. Sometimes we met with clay of different colours, white, red, and blue,
under the crust; but we could not examine this place to any depth, as the moment
the crust was removed steam came forth, and proved extremely annoying. We
found several pieces of wood, which were probably the remains of planks that
had been formerly used in collecting the sulphur, small crystals of which
partially covered them. There appears to be a constant sublimation of this
substance; and were artificial chambers constructed for the reception and
condensation of the vapours, much of it might probably be collected. As it is,
there is a large quantity on the surface; and, by searching, there is little doubt
that great stores may be found. The inconvenience proceeding from the steam
issuing on every side, and from the heat, is certainly considerable; but, by proper
precautions, neither would be felt so much as to render the collection of the
sulphur a matter of any great difficulty. The chief obstacle to working these
mines is their distance from a port whence the produce could be shipped. But
there are so many horses in the country, whose original price is trifling, and
whose maintenance during the summer costs nothing, that the conveyance of
sulphur to Reikiavik presents no difficulties which might not probably be
surmounted.
Below the ridge on the farther side of this great bed of sulphur we saw a great
deal of vapour escaping with much noise.

SECTION III.
Mr Consul Crowe’s Report (1871-72) supplies the following notices of
mineral prospects in Iceland:
Mineral deposits, showing the presence of copper, iron, lead, and silver, are
found in many parts of the island, but either from their poorness or the want of
fuel, no attempt has been made to utilise them. Calcareous stone, marbles(?), and
feldspath are also found; and large deposits of sulphur likewise exist in some
districts, which at different times have been the object of commercial
speculation. The sulphur mines at Krisuvik, in the south, are at present worked
for foreign account, but, I believe, owing to their partial inaccessibility, and
difficulty of transport, without much success.
The right of working sulphur mines at Myvatn, in the northern portion of the
island, has recently been conceded by the Danish Government to an Englishman
on a fifty years’ lease. They were worked some years ago for account of a
Copenhagen house, but were abandoned in 1851, since which time they have
remained closed. Many causes contributed to this result; the chief of which,
doubtless, were, ignorance of the proper method of mining the sulphur, the cost
of transport on horseback to the sea-board, and the want of remunerative
demand.
Since then these conditions have changed, and there exists no reason why
these mines should not be worked profitably. They extend over a large tract of
country, and their position is most advantageous, in the midst of a flat country,
within an easy distance of Husavik, a convenient shipping port; and, during the
many years they have been closed, the deposits must have very greatly
accumulated, and should yield abundantly. Indeed, so strong was this conviction
in the minds of the natives that they long opposed the leasing except on very
onerous terms, although quite unable themselves to work them.
As these mines are now likely to remain in English hands for many years, a
short account of their former history may be read with some interest.
They are situated between 65° 20´ north latitude and the Arctic Sea, or more
definitely speaking, lying in the tract between Myvatn on the east, and Jökulsá
(glacier river) on the west.
The right of working them was bought from private owners by the Danish
king, Frederick the Second, in 1563, and this right has ever since been in the
possession of the Danish Crown (now the State). During the reign of this king a
considerable quantity of sulphur was extracted, amounting to as much as 400
tons annually. In the reign of his son and successor, Christian the Fourth, the
produce appears to have fallen off, and his Majesty was unsuccessful in his
endeavours to lease them to foreigners. To the falling-off of their supply of
sulphur in this reign, and the consequent scarcity of gunpowder, the Danes
attribute their defeat by the Swedes in Holstein (1644).
In 1665 we are informed that the Crown granted a concession for “digging
sulphur” to a foreigner, who is stated to have exported large quantities up to the
year 1676; since which date no special mention appears to have been made of
them until the early part of the eighteenth century, when two foreigners,
apparently Germans, acquired in 1724 the right of exporting sulphur from
Iceland. They also shipped considerable quantities during the succeeding five
years, when the death of the lessees put a stop to this commerce.
After this date, and up to the beginning of the present century, the Danish
Government worked the mines for their own account, at times, it appears, with
considerable profit, until 1806, when they were again leased to a foreigner.
Subsequently, they have at times been worked by private speculators up to 1851,
since which date, as already mentioned, they have remained untouched.
 In 1840 they were visited by some scientific travellers, who calculated that
these northern mines might easily yield an annual net profit of £1000 or £1200.
Ten years later they were specially examined by a Danish mineralogist, who
discredited this statement, and reported them to be less valuable;[177] but in
speaking of the Krisuvik mines in the south, he says, “These might be easily
made to yield 200 tons annually,” and yet they have always been considered
inferior to the northern mines. A French geologist, Eugène Robert, who visited
Iceland in 1835, and afterwards published a treatise on its geology, calls the
attention of the Danes to the value of the Myvatn mines, and advises them not to
lease them to the Englishmen (who were then applying for them), as the property
might become of great consequence in the event of the sulphur mines of Sicily
falling off, of which, he affirmed, symptoms had shown themselves.
It will thus be seen that opinions are divided as to the productiveness and
present richness of these mines; but so much is certain, that they have for several
centuries been worked at intervals with varying results; at times with
considerable profit: the history of the country, and the experience of so many
years, point to the conclusion that, if properly worked, they would become
valuable property.
The mines, for instance, at Reykjahlidar-námar are the richest to be found in
all Iceland, and produce large quantities of the purest sulphur.
The reproduction is incessantly going on from upwards of a thousand small
eminences, called solfataras, which are found on the ridge along the sides and at
the foot of Námarfjall. Rich sulphur deposits are also found at the Ketill Crater
(called Fremri-námar), while the least rich are the Krafla-námar, but at all these
there is a continual deposition of sulphur going on. They all have the great
advantage of lying in the track of one of the few practicable roads in the island,
leading to an accessible shipping port.

SECTION IV.
HÔTEL DE LA VILLE (AU TROISIÈME), TRIESTE,
16th February 1873.
The following are the notes which I made, for the use of Mr Lock, upon Mr
Vincent’s able and instructive paper.
“Holding sulphur-export to be the most legitimate trade in which Iceland can
engage, I rejoice to see the paper by Mr C. W. Vincent, F.C.E.
“The writer’s theory upon the formation of the mineral, by the by, the action
of water upon pyrites, is not new, nor am I certain that it is true: perhaps it may
be provisionally accepted, until we have a better. He has done good service to
students by noticing the similarity of the Icelandic diggings with those of Central
Sicily and of the Yellowstone River sources. On the other hand, after actual
inspection of the Icelandic sulphur mines, I must differ upon many details with
Mr Vincent, who has derived his information from hearsay. He nowhere notices
the interesting combination of the Palagonitic groundwork of the island with
lavas of modern date, which seems to me a constant feature of these solfataras.
The venerable Sir Henry Holland recorded in 1810, that the Krísuvík formation
occupied high ground ‘composed principally of the conglomerate or volcanic
tufa which has before been noticed:’ this palpable reference to Palagonite has not
been worked out as it deserved to be. The ‘vivid word-pictures’ of older
travellers are either written in the fine style of former days, or the subjects of
description have lost youth and vigour. The ‘tremendous proofs of what is going
on beneath us’ are now, or have become, phenomena on a very mild scale; while
the ‘thundering noises’ which ‘stunned the ears’ of a former generation, have
learned to ‘roar gently,’ and to avoid shaking weak nerves.
“As regards the authorities quoted, I may notice Commander (now Admiral
Sir) J. E. Commerell, who in the Vincent lecture appears enthusiastic upon the
capabilities of the Krísuvík mines. But that able officer’s more dubious views do
not come forth: he expressly states in the same report that ‘a tramway might also
be laid down; but, as there are two hills to cross, with other difficulties, I could
not positively state whether this were possible or not.’ Mr Seymour (fils) has
spent many months in Iceland, but that does not mean Krísuvík. Captain Forbes
is also quoted, although it is well known that my friend has not a high opinion of
the south-western solfatara, and the sketch of travel over that part of Iceland
given in his lively volume (p. 103) suggests anything but facility of transit.
When a tramway has to cross a hill-range, and a lava-tract some twelve indirect
miles broad, we already expect difficulties. Here, however, I must confess not to
have seen the plan and estimates drawn up by Messrs Shields and Gale, who set
out for Krísuvík a few days before my departure from Iceland.
“Also Mr Vincent appears to extend the solfatara district of Krísuvík over a
space of twenty-five miles, along a fancied volcanic diagonal. This may be the
case, but on July 9-10 Mr Chapman and I rode from ‘Krísa’s Bay’ eastward to
the Reykir, alias the ‘Little Geysir,’ and, although we looked curiously for the
enormous area theoretically assigned to the sulphur formation, we failed to see
any sign of it. Our path ran over the normal quaking bogs, over large spills of
modern lava poured down the walls of the high interior plateau, and occasionally
over a strip of sea-sand. The apparently indispensable Palagonite was also
missing till near the end of the second march. Gunnlaugsson’s and Olsen’s large
map of Iceland, hereabouts so minute in all its details, does not show a single hot
spring between Krísuvík and Reykir; on the contrary, all is coloured red-yellow,
as a Hraun (lava-tract). Even the ‘western mine’ of Krísuvík has been described
to me by authorities who know the country well, as containing very little
sulphur; and a passing visit induces me to believe them.
“All these are minor objections to Mr Vincent’s paper. But when speaking of,
or rather alluding to, your concession, he has fallen into grievous error. If he has
studied the subject, he simply misrepresents it; if not, he should have avoided all
depreciatory notice of the Mý-vatn mines.
“And now for the proofs.
“I read (p. 137) with unpleasant surprise, ‘a violent eruption of the mud-
volcano Krabla to a great extent buried the then active strata beneath enormous
masses of volcanic mud and ashes, so that the energy has been probably
transferred along the line’ (viz., the great volcanic diagonal stretching, or
supposed to stretch, from Cape Reykjanes to the Mý-vatn lake) ‘southwards,’
that is to say, to Krísuvík.
“Without dwelling upon the fact that Mr Vincent’s theory about the local
production of sulphur renders such ‘transfer of energy’ impossible, I remark that,
firstly, the Hlíðarnámar, the nearest deposits of the Mý-vatn sulphur, are at least
two miles removed from the extremest influence of Krafla, whilst the
Fremrinámar are four times that distance, and the latter are situated upon a much
higher plane. To those who have breathed the live sulphur tainting the air for
mile after mile, this ‘transfer of energy’ becomes a mere matter of fancy.
Secondly, on the very flank of Krafla, the hollow called Great Hell (Helvíti
Stærra) shows an abundance of sulphur, which extends right across the valley
westwards to Leirhnúkr (mud knoll). In this small section of your concession
Gunnlaugsson gives no less than seven Hverar (boiling springs) lying close
together. I need hardly pursue this part of the subject: to one who has seen the
country the assertion that any eruption from Krafla has effected either the Hlíðar
or the Fremri diggings appears inconceivable. Suffice it to say that your six
square miles of live sulphur contrast wonderfully well with the two at the south-
western end of the island. Krafla alone contains as many solfataras, boiling
springs, and ‘makkalubers’ (mud caldrons), as exist in the whole district of
Krísuvík, and Krafla is only a part, a very small part also, of the north-eastern
deposits.
“Again I see with astonishment (p. 143), that ‘the sulphur at Myvatn, though
great in quantity, is at too great a distance from the port of embarkation to permit
its extraction being carried on with any chance of competing with that from the
Krisuvik mines.’
“It is true that your concession lies some twenty-five direct geographical
miles from Húsavík, the nearest available port, whilst those of Krísuvík are only
ten distant from Hafnafjörð. But a simple statement of this kind is fallacious,
because it conveys the wrong impression. It is known to every Icelander that the
northern line is one of the best, the southern one of the worst, if not the worst, in
the island. The Húsavík road has the immense advantage of an easy and regular
incline from 900 feet high to sea-level, and in the depths of a protracted winter
your sledges can always carry down the material dug up during the long summer
days. There is nothing to prevent your having your tramway, when such
expensive article becomes advisable.
“You are at liberty to make any use you please of these short and hurried
notes. Pray understand that my object is by no means to disparage the sulphur
mines of Krísuvík; on the contrary, I hope soon to see a company formed, and a
stout-hearted attempt made to benefit both the island and ourselves. M. Robert’s
opinion upon the capability of Iceland generally to supply an article which every
year grows in request, and his truly Gallican horror of the trade falling into
English hands, are too well known, and have too often been quoted, to justify
repetition. But I can truthfully say, that the Mý-vatn concession will be found
preferable to that of Krísuvík, and I regret that Mr Vincent has adopted, without
personal acquaintance with Iceland, information which seems to come from
suspected sources.
“Why do you not render justice to the Mý-vatn mines by a lecture, with the
assistance of maps, plans, and other requisites? Mr Vincent, I see, proposes to
continue writing upon the highly interesting sulphur supply of Iceland: pray
remember that in these wild solitudes I am wholly dependent upon the piety of
my friends and the pity of those who remember me.
“Ever yours truly,
“RICHARD F. BURTON, F.R.G.S.
“Alfred G. Lock, Esq.”

SECTION V.
SULPHUR IN ICELAND. By C. CARTER BLAKE, Doc. Sci., Hon. For. Sec. Lond. Anth.
Soc. London: E. & F. N. Spon, 48 Charing Cross. 1873.
The fact that sulphur, one of the most useful substances known, and, in the
words of Mr Crookes, “the mainstay of present industrial chemistry,” has been
an article of commerce throughout all time, and that a ready market has always
existed for it, is familiar to all. Like the famous electrum of the ancients, its
origin has been comparatively unknown. We shall briefly consider the conditions
under which sulphur is found; its geographical distribution over the face of the
globe; the method of its preparation for the market, and the circumstances which
may lead capitalists to seek for the productive mineral at a shorter distance from
our own shores than the Mediterranean or Mexico.
Sulphur is a simple, inflammable, brittle substance, of which all the forms
found native belong to the rhombic or trimetric system, and are more or less
modified rhombic pyramids. These crystals could not be formed at temperatures
approaching that of boiling water, or be exposed to such a temperature without
alteration; crystals of native sulphur must therefore have been formed at ordinary
temperatures. Sulphur does not occur anywhere in sufficient quantity to
constitute a rock, but is widely disseminated throughout rocks of different ages,
either implanted in crystals, in small beds, nests and nodules in a pulverulent
condition, as a coating, as in some lavas, or as a cement of decomposed trachyte.
Dr Sullivan has said:[178]
“In volcanic regions the deposition of sulphur may result from two causes:
1st, the action of oxygen on damp sulphide of hydrogen gas, or on solutions of
the gas; and 2d, the mutual decomposition of sulphide of hydrogen, H2S, and
sulphurous anhydride, S2O. If the former be in excess, water and sulphur appear
to be formed; if the latter be in excess, pentathionic acid, H2S5O6, and water are
formed; the pentathionic acid is gradually decomposed into sulphur and
sulphuric acid, which produce sulphates. In connection with this reaction, it may
be observed that several sulphates are associated with the sulphur found in
districts where the sulphur is formed from gases escaping through fissures. Old
craters having such active fissures called fumaroles, are termed solfaterras.”
So important an influence does the price of sulphur exercise upon the cost of
production of bleached and printed cotton stuffs, soap, glass, and other valuable
manufactures of this country,[179] that it was the express subject of a commercial
treaty, and in 1838 the British Government took very decided steps to put an end
to a monopoly attempted to be established in it by the Sicilian Government.
That the present supply of sulphur is inadequate to the demand is proved by
its high price, by the use of pyrites as a substitute, and by the inquiries recently
made by the British Government as to its existence in Mexico. That the already
large demand for this important substance must increase is quite evident when
we consider the purposes to which it is applied.
 Gunpowder.—Sulphur enters into the composition of this important article in
proportions ranging from 10 to 20 per cent., according to whether the powder is
required for war, sporting, or blasting purposes.[180] When we consider the vast
quantity required by the gigantic armaments now maintained in every civilised
country, as well as by the numerous mining and engineering operations at
present in existence throughout the world (in which it is indispensable for
blasting), we can form some idea of the immense amount of sulphur annually
consumed in the manufacture of gunpowder alone.
Sulphuric Acid.—One of the most important chemical agents required in the
arts and manufactures, is used very extensively for making soda-ash for
bleaching linen, woollens, etc., straw, etc.,[181] manure making, and for a variety
of chemical productions; also for refining metals.[182]
Soda-ash (alkali) is obtained from common salt by means of concentrated
sulphuric acid. It is used instead of barilla for soap-making, as a substitute for
pot and pearl ashes in glass-making; for cleaning and bleaching; and, in the form
of carbonate, for medicinal and domestic purposes. In the year 1862 the
enormous quantity of from 100,000 to 120,000 tons of the former, and from
25,000 to 30,000 tons of the latter, was made in Great Britain alone.[183] That
quantity is now vastly increased.[184]
Manures.—A great consumption of sulphuric acid has of late years taken
place for agricultural purposes,[185] viz., in the preparation of superphosphate of
lime, the most active manure for turnips, grass, and cereals.
Oïdium.—Within the last few years it has been discovered that the use of
flowers of sulphur, containing traces of sulphuric and sulphurous acid, and of
carburetted hydrogen, is a protection against the vine disease—oïdium. Although
no reliable information exists as to the exact quantity used for this purpose, yet it
is known to be very considerable.
Flowers of sulphur have recently been strongly recommended as a remedy for
the potato disease.[186]
Such are a few of the principal objects to which sulphur is devoted, and for
which it is needed; thereby proving most conclusively that THE
CONSUMPTION IS ONLY LIMITED BY THE SUPPLY.
Sulphur is found in Corfu, the neighbourhood of Rome, Transylvania, Spain,
the clear or borax lake in California, the slopes of the Popocatepetl, in the
province of Puebla, Mexico; in Montana, North America, and in the Andaman
and the Japanese islands. Supply from these sources is practically impossible,
and the whole supply of sulphur to Europe and America is derived from the
Sicilian sulphur-deposits, the imports of which into this country arose from
16,686 tons in 1842 to 58,204 tons in 1859,[187] and over 75,000 tons in 1862;
[188] and in France, from 6668 tons in 1820 to 33,361 tons in 1855.

Sulphur is found either (a) in a pure native state, (b) as gas, or (c) in
mechanical admixtures with clays or other earths. The method of extraction of
sulphur when mechanically combined with foreign substances is thus described
in Richardson and Watts’ “Chemical Technology,” vol. i., part iii, p. 314:
“It has already been noticed that the deposits of sulphur are always associated
with various mineral or earthy matters, and three processes are followed to
separate the principal part of these impurities, which generally amount to more
than one-half of the entire weight of the deposit.
“When the deposit is rich in sulphur it is melted in a cast-iron pot, heated by
an open fire. The melted mass is stirred with an iron rake to facilitate the
separation of the earthy matters, which are allowed to fall to the bottom. The
liquid sulphur is then removed by a ladle, thrown into an iron vessel, and
allowed to solidify. The temperature ought to vary between 250° and 300° Fahr.,
and never reach 480°, at which point the sulphur would take fire. The residue
which remains, and contains more or less sulphur, is removed, and may be
treated by either of the following plans:
“A small blast furnace, constructed of fire-brick or stone, is charged with the
sulphur-stone at the bottom, which is ignited, and fresh charges of the sulphur-
stone are thrown in from time to time. The working holes at the sides admit a
small supply of air to support combustion on the surface, by which means
sufficient heat is generated to melt the sulphur, which runs off at the bottom
through a pipe into an iron pot, where it solidifies.
“The third plan is suitable for treating the impure sulphur-stone, containing
from 8 to 12 per cent, of sulphur. It consists of a furnace sufficiently wide to
receive two rows of earthen pots—the vessels for distillation—which are
arranged in pairs somewhat raised above the sole of the furnace, upon the
supports so that the necks of the pots are a little above the top of the furnace.
Thus the mouths of the pots are free, and having been charged from without,
they are closed by the lids, cemented on, and the distillation begins. The sulphur
vapours pass over by the lateral tubes to the receivers, where they condense to
liquid sulphur, which flows through into a vessel filled with water, and there
solidifies.”
We have indicated the three conditions under which sulphur is found. The
sulphur in a gaseous state in Iceland, where, besides the large and rapid deposit
of the sulphur in and upon the ground, an immense quantity escapes in the
sulphureous vapour, is now entirely wasted, but with the adoption of the
improved Mexican process an enormous saving would result. Now the whole of
this may be recovered by condensing these vapours in clay vessels, a method
practised with great success in Mexico, where in certain places the fumes escape
from the soil and can be utilised only in this manner. The sulphur thus obtained
is required at the mint of the city of Mexico and at the assaying works.
Sulphur is an essential product of volcanic action: now Iceland is par
excellence the spot of the world where volcanic action is at its maximum, and
Iceland, as a consequence, is the spot where sulphur is found most extensively.
The districts round the active volcanoes of Etna, in Sicily, and Vesuvius, near
Naples, supply the whole amount of sulphur now used. In seeking, then, for a
new source of this commodity, we should naturally turn our attention to a
volcanic district. And where in the whole world does there exist another country
so pre-eminently volcanic as Iceland? Its fearful lava-tracts, its vast plains of
scoriæ, volcanic dust and ashes, its pools of boiling water, its spouting geysirs,
its vast caldrons of seething mud, proclaim its volcanic origin. It owes its
upheaval wholly to volcanic agency, and is composed almost entirely of igneous
rocks.
While these pages are passing through the press, the volcanic force has
broken out in Iceland, and Skaptar Jökull burst into eruption for four days in the
month of January last.
The wildest theories have been uttered respecting the modes of origin of
sulphur. An inquirer, who investigated the southern Icelandic mines in a
superficial manner, has thrown out a theory that the sulphur derived from
Krísuvík, and other southern localities, has been produced by the action of water
on the sulphurets of iron contained in the rocks. This idea, which rivalled some
of the speculations of De Luc, was expressed by him in a paper read before the
Society of Arts, on the 15th January 1873. The notion was, that the hidden fires
of Iceland dwell in the crust of the earth, and not in its interior; that the boiling
springs and mud-caldrons certainly do not derive their heat from the depths of
our globe, but that the fire which nourishes them is to be found frequently at
only a few feet below the surface, in fermenting matters which are deposited in
certain strata! How far this theory is probable may be estimated when we glance
at the converse hypothesis, which we must impress upon our readers. The lava at
Myvatn is only a few feet, or at most, a few yards, thick; this is clearly shown by
the fact that the gaseous vapour escapes from innumerable holes in the lava lying
between the mines and the lake. The stoppage of an outlet for the upward flow of
the gas has caused the outbreak of the fluid at spots far distant from the original
central “crater” of the sulphur volcano. The geology of Mr Vincent is decidedly
vague.
That a great volcanic diagonal line stretches from Cape Reykjanes to the lake
of Myvatn, is a theory which is unproven by topographical science, and which a
glance at the map, which shows the elevated hills of Lángjökull, Hofsjökull, and
Vatnajökull extending across this imaginary line, is sufficient to disprove. The
relative elevations of the mountains, from Snæfell on the east, to Eyjafjallajökull
on the west, seem to indicate that the central line of volcanic action has been
along a line parallel with the south-south-east coast, and which has left the
formations in the neighbourhood of Lake Myvatn, with the small volcanic chain
of Sellandafjall, Bláfjall, Hvannfell, and Búrfell, entirely to the north. The abrupt
escarpment of the greater chain lies along its south-eastern strike, and the
fissures along which the parallel rivers from the Jökuldalr to the Hrútafjörðará
flow are, according to a well-known geological law, produced on the less
inclined slopes. Whilst Mr Vincent’s theoretical geology verges on the
speculative, his assertion of known geographical facts is inexact.
In 1857, when the temporary cessation of war by England led the British
Government to look for fresh sources of gunpowder supply for Europe, Captain
J. E. Commerell, of H.M.S. “Snake,” was sent to Iceland by the Lords
Commissioners of the Admiralty to report upon the capabilities of the mines of
Krísuvík and Húsavik. He found the Krísuvík mines, though comparatively close
to the sea, did not possess a safe port of debarkation nearer than Hafnarfjörðr. An
ex parte statement of the “objects, pleasures, and advantages” of the “truly
eligible” Krísuvík sulphur mines leaves itself open to severe criticism, and the
opinion of Commander Commerell that “the sulphur at Myvatn, though great in
quantity, is at too great a distance from a port of embarkation to permit its
extraction being carried on with any chance of competing with that from the
Krísuvík mines,” may be profitably contrasted with that of A. de Capel Crowe,
Esq., H.B.M.’s Consul in Copenhagen.[189]
Consul Crowe’s remarks as to the richness of these deposits are corroborated
by Commander Commerell himself, who says in his report:
“I found at Námarfiall, which lies about six miles to the east of Lake Myvatn,
large beds of sulphur in a very pure state; and though the quantities already
deposited were very great, no signs appeared of their having been worked.”
We shall give the testimony of a few of the more distinguished Icelandic
travellers relating to the value of the Myvatn fields. But quotations are only
made from authors whose scientific and literary position render their opinion of
value and authority.
 The testimony of the Rev. Mr Henderson, the celebrated missionary in
Iceland, cites the following notorious and well-known facts:
“To the east of Krabla the sulphur mines of Reykjahlid.[190]
“Of the sulphur mountains a particular description is given in the journal.[191]
“...Several huge dark mountains that are again relieved in the east by the
Námar, or sulphur mountains, from the decomposition going forward, in which a
vast profusion of smoke is constantly forming, ascending to a great height in the
atmosphere.[192]
“Olafsen and Povelsen, describing two pools on the south-east side of Krabla,
say that the whole region completely answers to the well-known solfatara in
Italy.”[193]
Describing the neighbourhood of Myvatn, he, in an eloquent description,
says:
“On either side lay vast beds of sulphur covered with a thin crust, containing
innumerable small holes, through which the vapour was making its escape. In
many parts the crust, which presented the most beautiful aluminous
efflorescence, was not more than half-an-inch in thickness; and on its being
removed, a thick bed of pure sulphur appeared, through which the steam issued
with a hissing noise. The sublimation of the sulphur is produced by the constant
ascension of this vapour; and it is found to possess greater and less degrees of
purity, in proportion as the soil is more or less porous. In general, however, these
mines are VASTLY superior to any other in Iceland, owing to the intense degree of
subterranean heat, and the very loose and porous nature of the earth at this place.
“The sulphur mountain rises to a considerable height from the east side of the
hollow in which these mines are situate. It does not exceed a mile in breadth, but
is more than five miles in length, stretching from the east end of the lake in a
northerly direction, between the volcanoes Krabla and Leirhnukr, where it joins
the ridge by which these two mountains are connected. The surface is very
uneven, consisting of immense banks of red bolus and sulphur, the crust of
which is variegated with random mixtures of yellow, light-blue, and white
colours, and in some places a soft sandstone makes its appearance through the
predominant mould. I could also observe holes, out of which the sulphur has
been dug by the peasants.
“The jetting is accompanied with a harsh roar, and the escape of a vast
quantity of vapour strongly impregnated with sulphur.... Passing a desolate farm,
and keeping at a distance from the sulphur banks, which appeared in the face of
a contiguous mountain, we succeeded in reaching the base of Krabla.... On the
northern margin rose a bank, consisting of red bolus and sulphur, from which, as
the wind blew from the same quarter, we had a fine view of the whole. Nearly
about the centre of the pool is the aperture whence the vast body of water,
sulphur, and bluish-black bolus is thrown up; and which is equal in diameter to
the column of water ejected by the Great Geyser at its strongest eruptions....
What was visible of Krabla appeared covered with the same clay, pumice, and
sand as that on which I stood, only diversified by beds of yellow sulphur.... To
the west of this wilderness lay a number of low mountains, where the Fremri
Námar are situated. Directly in front was the valley filled with lava above
described; near the farther end of which the large columns of smoke ascending
from the sulphur springs had a fine effect.”[194]
The Rev. S. Baring-Gould, whose researches into Icelandic literature have
been of such service to the philologist, gives the following description of the
view from the slope above Reykjahlíð, looking across the Lake Myvatn:
“You see the indigo chain of Blafell, beyond which is a field of sulphur and
boiling mud called Fremri-Námar, not visited by travellers, as it is difficult of
access, and inferior in interest to the Námarfjall springs.... (From Námarfjall) in
half an hour we reach the sulphur mountains, a chain of red hills, perfectly
destitute of vegetation. We dip into a glen, and find it full of fumaroles, from
which steam is puffing, and sulphur is being deposited. These run along the dale
in a zigzag. By the road-side I noticed a block of pure sulphur, from which every
traveller breaks a piece, so that in time it will disappear altogether.
“Passing through the Námar-skarth, a winding cleft in the mountains, I came
upon a plain of mud, the wash from the hills bounded by a lava-field; the
mountains steaming to their very tops, and depositing sulphur, the primrose hue
of which gives extraordinary brightness to the landscape.... Presently the
beautiful Lake Myvatn, or Midge Lake, opened before us, studded with
countless lava islets; beyond was the sulphur range, yellow as though the sun
ever shone on it.”[195]
In Mr Shepherd’s work on the North-West Peninsula of Iceland, we find
another lucid description:
“We rode to the sulphur mountains on the east of the lake (Myvatn). These
large hills are a very wonderful sight. They are of various colours, a variety of
mixtures of red and yellow. From their sides are emitted various jets of steam,
and masses of bright yellow sulphur are strewed all around them.... All around
the soil was very treacherous, consisting of hot mud, with a covering of sulphur
about an inch in thickness, which in most cases was sufficiently strong to bear a
man’s weight. When the crust was broken, steam issued forth, strongly
impregnated with sulphur.”[196]
The distinguished Lord Dufferin (the present Governor-General of Canada) in
his charming book, “Letters from High Latitudes,” says:
“Opal, calcedony, amethyst, malachite, obsidian, agate, and felspar are the
principal minerals; OF SULPHUR THE SUPPLY IS INEXHAUSTIBLE.”
M’Culloch’s “Geographical Dictionary,” vol. i., p. 585, under the heading
“Iceland,” says:
“Few metals are met with. Iron and copper have been found, but the mines
are not wrought. THE SUPPLY OF SULPHUR IS INEXHAUSTIBLE; large mountains are
encrusted with this substance, which, when removed, is again formed in crystals
by the agency of the hot steam from below. Large quantities were formerly
shipped; but latterly the supplies sent to the foreign market were comparatively
small.”
“Chambers’s Encyclopædia,” under the heading “Iceland,” vol. v., p. 505,
says:
“The mineral wealth of Iceland has only begun to be developed. IN NO PART OF
THE WORLD IS SULPHUR FOUND IN SUCH ABUNDANCE.”
An adequate idea of the value of the Icelandic sulphur fields, as compared
with those of Italy, cannot be conveyed by the reports of travellers. To
thoroughly comprehend this, we must bear in mind the reproductive properties
displayed by solfataras, and the best means suggested by practice to extract the
sulphur and yet not interfere with this peculiarity.
The process for the separation of the sulphur at the celebrated solfatara of
Pozzuoli, near Naples, where the sulphur is condensed in considerable quantities
amongst the gravel collected in the circle which forms the interior of the crater,
is conducted as follows: The mixture of sulphur and gravel is dug up and
submitted to distillation to extract the sulphur, and the gravel is returned to its
original place, and in the course of about THIRTY years is again so rich in sulphur,
as to serve for the same process again.[197]
We thus see that the reproductive process occupies a period of THIRTY years
in the Italian mines, whereas the same results are produced in THREE years in the
Icelandic mines, i.e., that A GIVEN AREA IN ICELAND WILL PRODUCE TEN TIMES THE
QUANTITY OF SULPHUR, OR IS TEN TIMES AS VALUABLE, AS THE SAME AREA IN ITALY.
“The permanency of the volcano, as a source of sulphur, would depend on the
rapidity with which the sulphur would be replaced, after the sand had been once
exhausted. The time required for this is not necessarily fixed to periods of
twenty-five or thirty years. In Iceland, at a similar spot the sulphur is renewed
every two or three years.”[198]
The nearest port suitable for shipment of the sulphur is “Húsavík,” situate in
the Bay of Skjálfandi; it is perfectly accessible at all times of the year. Mr
Consul Crowe having been questioned on the subject, states[199] that:
“The Icelandic ports are, owing to the influence of the Gulf Stream, in
ordinary years accessible to shipping all the year round, and shipments can
safely be made during seven months at ordinary rates of freight and insurance.
Húsavík, as a rule, is never frozen up, the only impediment to free navigation
being the floating ice which at certain seasons is loosened from Greenland, and
may for a time lie off the coast. Such occurrences, however, have their stated
times and seasons, which are well known to navigators in those waters; in some
years there are no hindrances of the kind at all, and shipments in good vessels
may be made all the year round. In support of this statement, I may mention the
fact that steamers leave Copenhagen for Iceland as late as the middle or end of
October, and would do so later were there sufficient goods or passengers to make
them pay. Again, the Iceland ‘Althing’ have recently proposed to raise funds for
running steamers round the island ‘all the year,’ and thus supply the want of
internal communication; and, if the proposal fell through, it was only on
financial grounds, and not from inaccessibility of ports from ice. I am therefore
simply repeating facts in stating that, as a rule, Iceland navigation is free all the
year round. The island is but a two days’ journey from Scotland, and with
suitable vessels an almost uninterrupted intercourse might, in ordinary seasons,
be kept up. In further confirmation of what I have stated, I may add that this
same warm current from the Mexican Gulf, which is so beneficial to Iceland,
keeps also all the Norway ports, from the Naze to the North Cape, ice-free all the
year round.”
The road from Hafnarfjörðr to Krísuvík will certainly be improved by the
formation of a railway.
It has been said by Professor Paijkull that this road is one of seven or eight
hours’ journey.
“This road is one of the best in Iceland. The ‘heiði’ south of Húsavik is free
from stones, and is level, although only sparsely overgrown with grass. Neither
are there any hills or fjelds to be met with along it, and there are only a few
small streams to be crossed. The last few miles north of Myvatn certainly consist
of a sandy plain, but it is tolerably level, and the road is pretty good, owing, I
suppose, to the sulphur traffic from the solfataras, near Myvatn, to Húsavik, in
former days, in which 100 horses are said to have been employed at one
time.”[200]
 In 1868, the late foreign minister of the United States, Mr W. H. Seward, one
of the most far-sighted statesmen which that country has ever produced, was able
to anticipate the future importance of the Iceland sulphur mines both to Europe
and to America. It was even proposed that the United States Government should
purchase both Iceland and Greenland, as well as St Thomas, from the Danish
Government. To promote this object, Mr B. M. Pierce was sent to Iceland to
report on the mines. Extracts from his report are subjoined:
“The sulphur mountains, beds, and mines are very rich and extensive, easily
worked, and of immense value. The sulphur is supplied at half the cost of that
furnished by the Sicilian mines, which it is believed will soon be exhausted. The
possession of these mines as a part of our territory is a question of vital
magnitude.
“...By the way of Reykjahlid and Krabla, where are the most extensive
sulphur deposits of the island.
“There are two principal fields of sulphur in Iceland; one near Krabla and
Reykjahlid in the north-eastern, the other at Krísuvík in the south-western
corner. The former is by far the most extensive region, but the latter gives the
purer product. Every traveller gives us a description, more or less minute, of
these sulphur hills, and the beds of pure yellow, often a foot thick, which extend
about them. Up to a few years ago the sulphur had only been explored in the
rudest way by the natives. The industry thus carried on was almost insignificant
in result, and was soon abandoned when the supply of surface material became
scanty. Still the exportation of sulphur was enough during the days of the peasant
mining to give the brightest hopes of what it would be under enlightened
management and economy. One of the most interesting and remarkable facts
connected with these mines is that a region apparently exhausted becomes re-
sulphurised again, so that the stores of brimstone are PRACTICALLY as
INEXHAUSTIBLE as those of the infernal regions. Although the mines of Krísuvík
are twenty miles from Hafnarfjörðr, one of the best harbours in the island, and
those of Krabla are farther still from the seaboard, and from the principal trading
station of Húsavik, it would appear that pure Icelandic sulphur is excessively
cheap, half the price, say some, of Sicilian sulphur. With improved means of
transportation it would control the market. The Oxonian, remarking on this, says
(p. 138), ‘like everything else in Iceland, the light is under a bushel.’ Our most
trustworthy information comes from Forbes, who, being an officer, sees the
importance of the sulphur supply, and enters energetically into a thorough
discussion on the prospects of the Iceland beds. We shall give the substance of
what he says: ‘The deposits are formed by the decomposition of the sulphurous
fumes that burst up from the ground, and afterwards sublimate as solid sulphur.
A part is mixed with clay; a part is almost pure sulphur, containing but 4 per
cent. of gangue. The number and energy of these sulphur gases continually
coming up is incredible. The sulphur earth, or impregnated clay, averages from 6
feet to 3 feet in thickness, and contains 50 or 60 per cent. of pure sulphur.’
“Sulphur is found also at Námafjall, in the north of Iceland, in geological
circumstances analogous to those of the beds at Krísuvík. It is found there
generally in concrete masses of a citron-yellow colour, quite pure, sometimes
very plentiful, and generally associated with lime and silica. It is to be regretted
that the Danish Government does not favour this industry, which would furnish
as fine sulphur as that of Sicily, and doubtless at a lower price. Besides,
Denmark possesses in Iceland immense stores, which will one day be of great
value to her when those of Sicily are exhausted.”
Before the concession was granted to Mr Lock, Professor Johnstrüp was sent
by the Danish Government to survey and make plans of the mines. His report is
inserted at length:
“Referring to the consul’s request to me in date of the 27th of last month, I
beg to inform him that on the journey which I made last year to Iceland I visited
the sulphur mines belonging to the State there, which lie to the east of Myvatn,
and I made maps of them, which were sent to the Minister of Justice, who will,
no doubt, let you have copies of them. From these you will be able to see that the
richest mines are to be found in that part called Reykjahlidar-Námar, where large
deposits of the purest sulphur are to be found.
“The reproduction is incessantly going on from about a thousand small
eminences (solfataras), which are found on the ridge, along the sides, and at the
foot of Námarfjall.
“Further rich sulphur mines are to be found at the Kétill crater, called the
Fremri-Námar, while the least rich mines are the so-called Krabla-Námar, but
also at these there is a continual production of sulphur going on. The first-
mentioned mines ARE THE RICHEST TO BE FOUND IN THE WHOLE OF ICELAND, and have
the advantage of lying in the track of a PRACTICABLE ROAD to the shipping port of
HÚSAVIK, WHICH ROAD IS AMONG THE BEST IN THE ISLAND. As regards the position of
the mines, I must refer you to Olsen and Gunnlaugsson’s map of Iceland, on
which they are marked. It will be a pleasure to me should these particulars be of
service to you.
“(Signed) J. F. JOHNSTRÜP,
“Prof. Mineralogy at the Copenhagen University.
 “April 30, 1872.”
The examination of these facts is quite enough to show the inquirer that the
transit from Myvatn to Húsavík is more practical, and of more easy access, than
that from Krísuvík to any of the ports at the south-west corner of the island,
which have been extolled by Mr Vincent in his ex parte glorification of the
Krísuvík mines. We will now turn to the testimony of a far greater traveller,
whose opinion on the subject ought, indeed, to be regarded as final. Captain R. F.
Burton, in his recent exploration of Iceland, devoted much time to the
examination of the Myvatn sulphur deposits. The great question is answered by
him in the following letter which appeared in the London Standard, Nov. 1,
1872:
“Sir,—Perhaps you will allow me, in continuation of my letter of October the
14th, to attack the subject of the sulphur deposits in Iceland now belonging to
British subjects.
“For many years these diggings, so valuable since the exhaustion of the
supply from Sicily, were a bone of contention between France and England....
“Denmark can hardly work the mines for herself without a great expenditure
of capital, which will find its way into Icelandic pockets, and thus she wisely
leases her property to strangers. She relies upon the fact that sulphur has risen
from £4, 10s. to £7 per ton, and consequently that her Iceland diggings must
become more valuable every year.
“I spent three days—from August 7th to August 9th, 1872—at the solfataras
of Mý-vatn, or Midge Lake, situated to the north-east of the island. I lodged at
the farm of Reykjahlið (reeky ledge), under the roof of the well-known Hr Pètur
Jónsson, whose alacrity in composing a bill of charges has won for him a wide
reputation.
“On Wednesday, August 7th, I set out under the guidance of this worthy to
inspect the diggings of Krafla, generally but erroneously written Krabla. And
now a verbatim extract from my diary will assure the reader that my statements
are completely free from the process called ‘cooking.’
“Rode to Leirhnúkr (mud knoll) in one hour fifteen minutes. At once
understood an emplacement very imperfectly described by old travellers. It is the
northern head of a spine, a sharp prism about one mile broad, with a magnetic
direction of 215 deg., in fact, nearly due north—south. It is a mass of Palagonite
(sea-sand forming a stone), everywhere capped by spills and gushes of modern
lava, and sulphur abounds at the junction of these formations. The hillock of
Leirhnúkr is one vast mass of sulphurous deposits. I counted seven wells upon
the slope, whilst the lowlands around were spotted with unwholesome-looking
eruptions. Rode east to Helvíti, which the Rev. Mr Henderson described in 1815
as a crater, not unworthy of its grim name. ‘Hell,’ here as elsewhere, has been
‘dismissed with costs,’ the placid blue lake, ruffled at times by the passing
breeze, and blowing off odours the reverse of Sabæan, is now hardly worth
visiting. At Hrafntinnuhryggr (raven stone ridge)—excuse the word, I did not
make it—expected to find, as the ‘Obsidian Mountain’ has been described, ‘a
heap of broken wine bottles shining with their jet-like colouring.’ Found nothing
of the kind, but picked up some decent specimens. Rode back much edified, etc.,
etc....
“On the next day rode to the Fremrinámar (outer warm-springs) to the south
with some easting to Reykjahlíð. Found the road utterly dissimilar to anything
laid down in maps. After four hours thirty minutes of rough travelling, reached
the deposit which has been worked for some generations, but which cannot be
said to have been EVEN SCRATCHED. The ‘lay’ is upon the north-eastern, the
eastern, and the southern flank of a crater, described by the late Professor
Paijkull as ‘probably the largest in Iceland.’ Immense deposits covered the
ground, and white fumes everywhere filled the air. Whole torrents of what Mr
Crookes calls the ‘mainstay of our present industrial chemistry’—I mean sulphur
—have here been ejected. Could not count the hissing ‘hot coppers,’ popularly
called fumaroles. Returned after a stiff ride of eight hours thirty minutes, which
gave a fine view of the Ódáða Hraun, the ‘great and terrible wilderness’ of lava
to the south-west, etc....
“August 9th was a lazy day, spent in preparing for a trip to the desert.
Inspected the Hlíðarnámar (ledge springs), from which the farm of Reykjahlíð
takes its name. Bravely objected to be deterred by the ‘smell of rotten eggs,’ by
the ‘suffocating fumes,’ and by the chance of being ‘snatched from yawning
abysses by the guide’s stalwart arms.’ Perhaps the conviction that the abyss
nowhere exceeds three feet in depth may account for my exceptional calmness in
such deadly peril. The Hlíðarnámar, or Ledge Springs, lie west of the sulphur
mountain, and on a lower plane than the eastern deposits. They are bounded
north by two lava-streams issuing from the base of the Hlíðarfjall, and south by
independent outbreaks of lava, showing hosts of small detached craters. East is
the hill, and west the Mý-vatn water, and its selvage of fire-stone. The area of
this fragment of the grand solfatara may be one square mile.
“The spade deftly wielded threw up in many places pure flowers of sulphur.
According to Dr Augustus Vöelcker, this bright yellow matter gives 95·68 per
cent., and according to the Icelandic traveller Ólafsson, it is readily renewed.
Below the golden colour usually is a white layer, soft, acid, and mixed with
alum; it is calculated to yield 20 to 30 per cent. Under it again are the red, the
dark purple, the chocolate, and other tints, produced either by molecular change
in the mineral, or by oxygen which the sulphur no longer modifies. Here the
material is heavy and viscid, clogging the spade, and the yield is reported at 50
to 60 per cent. These figures will show the absolute value of the supply. Beneath,
at short distances, say at three feet, lies the ground-rock, invariably Palagonite:
thus ‘falling in’ merely means dirtying the boots. Between the yellow outcrops
stretch gravelly tracts which the spade showed to be as rich as the more specious
appearances. Many of the issues are alive, and the dead vents are easily
resuscitated by shallow boring, in places even by pulling away the altered lava-
blocks which cumber the surface.
“Leaving my horse in a patch of the wild oats that everywhere characterise
this region, I walked up the sulphur mountain, whose white and yellow
washings, so conspicuous from afar, prove to be sulphur, stones, and sand
deposited by the rain upon the red clay. Here we picked up crystals of alum and
lime and fragments of gypsum and selenite. The crests and box-shaped masses
of Palagonite and altered lava gave fine views of the lowlands. On the summit
we found some small mud-springs, which Iceland travellers have agreed to call
by the corrupted name ‘Makkaluber;’ the people know them as ‘Hverar.’ This
peculiarity is therefore not confined, as writers assert, to the eastern hill feet. The
richest diggings lie below the crest, and here the fumes escape with a fizz and a
mild growl, which vivid fancy has converted into a ‘roar.’ I returned from the
immense soufrière vastly edified with the spectacle of so much wealth lying
dormant in these days of capital activised by labour, etc., etc....
“To the question, ‘Will this sulphur pay its transport?’ I reply unhesitatingly,
Yes, if great care and moderate capital be expended upon the mines. In the first
place, the live vents which waste their sourness on the desert air must be walled
round with stones, or, better still, with planks, and the fumes should be arrested,
as in Mexico, by pans and other contrivances. The working season would be the
summer, AND THE QUANTITY IS SO GREAT THAT MANY SUMMERS
MUST ELAPSE BEFORE THE THOUSANDS OF TONS WHICH COMPOSE
EACH SEPARATE PATCH CAN BE CLEARED OFF. In winter the produce
can be sent down to Húsavík (House’s Bay), by sledges, not the Esquimaux-like
affair at present used in Eastern Iceland, but the best Norwegian or Canadian.
The road is reported by all travellers to be exceptionally good, running for the
most part over gently undulating heaths, overlying basalt. There are no rivers of
importance on the way, and the fall is about 1500 feet in forty-five English
statute miles. The line is wrongly placed in Gunnlaugsson’s map: it runs on the
eastern, not the western shore of the Langavatn, and it passes to the east of the
celebrated Uxahver. I am also assured that the much-abused Bay of Húsavík is a
safe harbour, when proper moorings are laid down, that no vessel has been lost
there during the last thirty years, and that Captain Thrupp, of H.M.S. ‘Valorous,’
judged favourably of it. This also was the verdict of an old Danish skipper, who
assured us that during the last twenty-five years he has been trading between
Copenhagen, Hull, and Húsavík, reaching the latter place about the end of
February, and making his last voyage home in October. During the ‘balance’ of
the year masses of floe-ice prevent navigation.
“From such a speculation present returns may be expected. When income
justifies the outlay a tramway would greatly cheapen transit. The ships which
export the sulphur can import coal, and now that the officinal treatment of
sulphur has been so much simplified by the abolition of train-oil, nothing else
except pressed hay for the cattle is wanted. When one patch is exhausted, the
road can be pushed forward to another. I am persuaded that the whole range,
wherever Palagonite and lava meet, will be found to yield more or less sulphur.
Of course it will be advisable to purchase sundry of the farms, and these, in
Iceland, range in value from £300 to £800 maximum. The vast waste lands to the
east will carry sheep sufficient for any number of hands; and good stone houses
will enable the Englishman to weather a winter at which the Icelander, in his
wretched shanty of peat and boarding, looks with apprehension. I have already
spoken about the excellence of the summer climate, and any gazetteer shows that
the change of temperature at Montreal is more to be feared than in Iceland.
“I am, &c.,

“RICHARD F. BURTON.
“ATHENÆUM,
“October 16, 1872.”
The very language of Iceland seems to indicate the importance of its sulphur
deposit. It is a significant fact that the Icelandic language indicates sulphur as the
“burning-stone,” Brennisteinn, unlike the Danish Svovel, which is obviously
derived from Sulphur, Lat.
Mr Vincent’s theory that sulphur is produced by the action of water on
pyrites, though having some elements of probability in it, is nevertheless entirely
unproven in the present state of science, and it is most unfortunate that
throughout his paper, theory and fact are mingled in equal proportions, each
being independent of the other. “Tant pis pour les faits.”
 It was left for Captain Burton to point out that the testimony of Commander
Commerell, which appears in Mr Vincent’s paper to make the transit from
Krísuvík to Hafnarfjörðr a real path of roses, did not actually speak with such
unqualified enthusiasm. Commander Commerell says:
“A tramway might also be laid down, but as there are two hills to cross, with
other difficulties, I could not positively state whether this were possible or not.”
Another objection by Captain Burton appears to be of greater force. It is
alleged that the Krísuvík deposits extend over an area of twenty-five miles. No
precise geological map is given of the locality, and it is most significant that
when Captain Burton and Mr Chapman rode from Krísa’s Bay, eastward to the
Little Geysir, and although they looked anxiously for the enormous area
theoretically assigned to the sulphur-formation, they failed to see any sign of it.
The sulphur, like the Spanish fleet, was not in sight; and the absence of the
Palagonite, which is invariably in other Icelandic localities found in
juxtaposition with the sulphur, ought to hint to geologists the true state of the
case.
The Danish Government were not slow to perceive, and have on numerous
occasions endeavoured to attract attention to, their valuable mineral products. Mr
Lock, an Englishman, some years ago petitioned the Danish Government, and
expressed his wish to take a lease of the sulphur mines at Myvatn. A committee
was elected by the Icelandic Althing to report upon this subject. This report,
which is dated the 14th August 1869, exhibits the utmost timidity in permitting
an alien to acquire rights over the mineral products of Iceland. It is given at full
length in the terminal notes to this paper.
It is not here necessary to narrate the circumstances under which the Danish
Government declined to adopt the local recommendation. It will suffice to say
that on the 13th April 1872, a contract was signed between Alfred G. Lock of
London and the Danish Minister of Justice, Andreas Frederik Krieger, on the
part of the Danish Government. This contract will be found in full in Note No. 1.
The lease lasts for fifty years, and the terms, although costly to the English
concessionaire, were satisfactory to the Danish Government. The greatest
possible irritation has consequently been produced among a very small section
of “Home Rule” Icelanders, who objected to the working of the mines by a
stranger. The matter, however, being entirely taken out of their hands, their
criticism on the arrangement becomes a mere historical question.
A fuller description of Mr Lock’s property will be of interest to the English
inquirer, as it shows to what an extent capital may be productively invested.
Description of the Property.
 The property comprises the solfataras or sulphur springs, the sulphur banks or
fields, and the sulphur quarries belonging to the State of Denmark, and situated
in the Things Syssel in the north and east provinces of Iceland.
The sources of sulphur in this property are threefold:
1st. The solfataras, or sulphur springs.
2d. The sulphur banks, or fields.
3d. The sulphur quarries.
The Solfataras.—Sulphur is formed by certain gases generated underground
by volcanic action, and in solfataras these gases find their way to the surface of
the earth through sand, ashes, or other volcanic substances, and in their passage
sublime and deposit a certain portion of their sulphur, a certain amount escaping
into the air.
This formation of sulphur is continuous and increasing, and in proportion to
the strength of the volcanic influences so is the rapidity with which the sulphur is
formed and the amount taken from the solfatara replaced. For this reason they
are called “living.”
The solfataras of Italy require a period of twenty-five or thirty years to renew
the sulphur in sufficient quantities to pay for extraction, whilst these are said to
require only three years to produce the same result, the same area of solfataras in
Iceland being consequently ten times as valuable as an equal area in Italy.
The methods of extracting the sulphur from these are most inexpensive, and
the plant required of the simplest description.
The gases at present escaping into the air can be condensed and the sulphur
obtained in a pure crystallised state, without any expenses for refining, by
collecting the gases in clay vessels.
2d. The Sulphur Banks, or Fields.—The gases before mentioned escaping into
the air condense and deposit sulphur, which, were the atmosphere always calm,
would be precipitated in regular banks, but owing to the constant shifting of the
wind it is blown in all directions, forming layers varying from a few inches to
several feet in thickness, and extending over vast areas of the surface of the
surrounding ground.
3d. Sulphur Quarries.—In these localities the accumulation of sulphur has
ceased, and when once extracted is not replaced; they are therefore called
“dead.” The sulphur is found imbedded in, and mixed with, lime, clay, etc., and
nearly all the sulphur exported from Sicily is obtained from this description of
sulphur-bearing strata.
The same kind of strata exists in the Romagna in Italy, and in some districts
of Spain, but in the Romagna the deposit is 390 feet below the surface, and only
yields, in the furnaces, 15 per cent. of sulphur, while the best of those in Spain
are from forty to sixty feet below the surface, and contain a varying quantity of
sulphur of from 21 to 36 per cent.—the poorest strata being nearest the surface—
whilst these (in Iceland) are upon the surface; and Henderson, the missionary, a
most trustworthy authority, describes a valley one mile wide and five miles long
in the neighbourhood of Krabla, the surface of which is very uneven, and
consists of immense banks of red bolus and sulphur, with mixtures of yellow,
light-blue, and white coloured earth.
 Forbes found similar clays to contain, the white from 30 to 40 per cent., and
the red and blue clays about 16 per cent. of sulphur.
The plans made by J. F. Johnstrüp, Professor of Mineralogy at the University
of Copenhagen, by order of the Danish Government, and attached to the leasing
contract, a copy of which will be found in the Appendix, show the solfataras, or
living sulphur-fields, to extend over a district of more than SIX SQUARE MILES, viz.:
Acres. Sq. miles. Acres.
No. 2. Krabla-námar, about 1998 = 3 78
No. 3. Reykjahlid-námar, ” 1068 = 1½ 108
No. 4. Fremri-námar, ” 808 = 1¼ 8
As a gauge of the value of the Icelandic sulphur-fields we have been
describing, it would be well to compare them with those of other countries. To
arrive at this result, we shall give a comparison of the estimated cost of Sicilian
and Spanish sulphur, and contrast it with that derived from Iceland.

COST OF THE SICILIAN AND SPANISH SULPHUR COMPARED WITH

THAT OF THE ICELANDIC.
Cost of Sicilian sulphur, according to Signor Parodi’s Report to the Italian
Government, vouched by English engineers, viz.:
Per ton of sulphur.
Fr. c.
Excavation of mineral, 13 0
Oil and tools, 5 0
Extraction of mineral, 16 5
Pumping, 10 0
Fusion, 5 5
General charges and taxes, 11 0
Carriage from mines to port, 20 0
Rent to proprietor of soil, 15 0
96 0 = £3 16 10

TO ENGLAND.
£ s. d.
Freight, 100
Export duty, 080
 Port charges, commission, etc., 046
Insurance, brokerage, etc., 080
206
Cost of Sicilian sulphur, per ton, £5 17 4

“Estimated cost of Spanish sulphur, from a Report by Mr J. Sopwith to the

Hellin Sulphur Company:”
The first tin contains 21 per cent. of sulphur.
” second ” 36 ” ”
” third ” 28 ” ”

It takes six tons of Spanish ore to make one ton of sulphur.

Per ton of sulphur.

£ s. d.
Cost, 2 13 0
Carriage to railway station, 0 2 4
Railway carriage to Cartagena, 0 6 6
Loading, etc., 0 4 6
Freight from Cartagena to England, 0 14 0
Royalty to Government, 0 2 8
Insurance, 0 8 0
Estimated cost of Spanish sulphur, £4 11 0

“This sulphur should be worth, either in England or Marseilles, from £6 to £7

per ton.
“Flowers of sulphur would cost £6 per ton, and their value would be £10.”
Estimated Cost of Icelandic Sulphur.
Although from the fact of the deposits of the sulphur producing clay, sand,
ashes, etc., in Iceland being on the surface, the working expenses of excavation
(and from the closer proximity to the coalfields of England, the cost of
extraction) must be far less than those of Sicily, yet it has been thought advisable
to be on the safe side by taking the costs of excavation, extraction, and fusion, to
be in each case the same.
The expenses of bringing the sulphur to this country will then be:
Per ton.
£ s. d.
Excavation of mineral, 0 10 10
Oil and tools, 0 4 2
 Extraction of mineral, 0 13 9
Fusion, 0 4 7
[201]Carriage to port of shipment, 0 15 0
[201]Freight to United Kingdom, including insurance, 0 10 0
Estimated cost of Icelandic sulphur, £2 18 4

Per ton.
£ s. d.
Cost of Sicilian sulphur, 5 17 4
” Icelandic ” 2 18 4
Profit in favour of Iceland, £2 19 0

Per ton.
£ s. d.
Estimated cost of Spanish, 4 11 0
” ” Icelandic, 2 18 4
Profit in favour of Iceland, £1 12 8

Estimated Profit on Icelandic Sulphur.

The market price of sulphur ranges from about £6, 5s. per ton for third
quality to £8 for best. As by far the greater part of the Icelandic sulphur would
be best quality, its average market price may be safely put at £7 per ton.
£ s. d.
Market price, 7 0 0
Cost price, 2 18 4
Estimated profit per ton, £4 1 8

Estimated Profit per Annum.

Italy, in the year 1870, exported 52,546 tons. From the comparison between
the relative formations, there is every reason to believe that as large a quantity
can be exported from Iceland as from Italy; but, supposing that for the first year
or two only one-third that quantity is exported, viz., 17,515 tons, at a profit of
£4, 1s. 8d. per ton, the annual profit would amount to over £71,500.

NOTE I. TO SECTION V.
(Translation.)
 LEASING CONTRACT.
The undersigned, Andreas Frederik Krieger, His Majesty the King of
Denmark’s Minister of Justice, Commander of the Dannebrog and
Dannebrogsmand, Commander of the Order of the North Star, in virtue of the
authority given him by a Royal Resolution of the 9th March 1872, hereby grants
to Alfred G. Lock, of London, a lease of the sulphur mines belonging to the
State, situated in the Thing Syssel in the North and East Provinces of Iceland, on
the following conditions:
I. Exclusive right to work the above-mentioned mines is given to the lessee
for the duration of the lease; they consist of the so-called Reykjahlidar, Krabla,
and Fremri-Námar; on the other hand, the present contract gives the lessee no
right to the use of, or to the possession of the land around the mines, which
ground does not belong to the State. It must be remarked that the mines on the
church lands at Theistareykir are not included in this leasing.
II. The lease is given for fifty years, reckoned from the 1st September 1872 to
the 31st August 1922, without either of the contracting parties having the right to
withdraw from it. Liberty, however, is conceded to Alfred G. Lock to withdraw
from the contract at any time before the 31st August this year, date inclusive.
The lessee can make over his rights acquired by this present contract,
together with his obligations, to other parties, against whose respectability and
solvency no reasonable objection can be made, but he shall nevertheless be
bound to communicate such transfer to the Ministry of Justice. His rights
likewise shall at his death be transmitted to his heirs.
III. Full liberty is given to the lessee as regards the working of the mines. The
sulphur, however, must not be washed in running waters which have their outlet
in the sea, nor in fishing-waters, and as a matter of course the sulphur beds or
mines must not be destroyed, with respect to which it is remarked that the earth
during the diggings must not be trodden down into the warm beds, which are
designated by a green colour in the maps attached to the contract, which in the
year 1871 were made by J. F. Johnstrüp, Professor of Mineralogy at the
Copenhagen University.
On the delivering over of the mines a survey will take place, at which the
maps in question will be used as guides. On the delivering back of the mines a
survey shall likewise take place.
IV. Neither the lessee nor the workmen he employs at the mines shall be
subject to any extraordinary taxes or imposts by the State or the municipality,
other than those imposed on the other inhabitants of the island; and he shall in
this respect enjoy the same rights as natives; but, on the other hand, he shall not
be exempted from the ordinary taxes and charges imposed by the general laws of
the land.
V. The lessee shall be bound to allow the State authorities to inspect the
mines whenever they may think fit to do so.
VI. The lessee shall pay an annual rental of £50 for the first year; £60 for the
second year; £70 for the third year; £80 for the fourth year; £90 for the fifth year;
and £100 for the sixth and for each of the succeeding forty-four years.
The rental shall be paid in advance to the Minister of Justice in Copenhagen
in two half-yearly payments,—viz., on the 1st September and 1st March, each
time with the half part of the yearly amount. The first time on the 1st September
1872, with £25, for the half-year from that day to the 28th February 1873.
The lessee shall, on the signing of this present contract, as security for the
due payment of the rental and the proper working and redelivery of the mines in
an uninjured condition, deposit a sum of 5000 rixdollars in the private bank of
Copenhagen, in such manner that the Minister of Justice retains the certificate of
deposit in his possession, and can, without trial or sentence, and without the
lessee’s authority, take them out of the private bank, which institution shall be
forbidden to return them to the lessee or others without the Justice Minister’s
permission.
As long as the above-mentioned amount is deposited in the private bank the
interest of the sum may, without let or hindrance from the Minister of Justice, be
paid to the lessee or his representatives.
On the expiry of this leasing contract and the redelivery of the sulphur mines
in an uninjured state, the Minister of Justice shall be bound to return the
certificate of deposit to the lessee or other duly authorised persons.
VII. Should the rental not be paid at the proper times, and should the lessee
destroy the mines, he (the lessee) shall lose the rights conceded to him by this
contract, and the Minister of Justice shall in such case be empowered to take
from him the lease (eject him from the mines), and the deposit money be
forfeited to the Iceland Land Fund (State Fund). Should, however, a breach of
contract take place only through omission to pay the rental, and the collective
amount of the rentals still to be paid be less than the deposit, the Minister of
Justice will refund the difference.
VIII. Should the lessee not have removed, within two years from the expiry
of this contract, or from the date of its annulment (see § 7), all buildings,
machinery, and the like put up at the mines, they shall become the property of
the State without indemnity.
IX. Disputes arising as to whether the lessee’s treatment of the mines is
destructive to them, shall be settled by arbitration, each of the contracting parties
choosing one man, and these latter in case of disagreement to choose an umpire.
If from any cause an arbitration cannot be obtained, the parties at issue are
empowered to appeal to the law courts; as likewise in all other disputes arising
out of this contract, in which cases the Royal Supreme Court of Copenhagen
shall be the proper tribunal; for which reason the lessee, on signing this contract,
shall appoint a Copenhagen resident, who on his behalf shall receive summonses
for his appearance. Should the Minister of Justice think fit to take law
proceedings against him in Iceland, he (the lessee) shall be bound to receive
summonses at the sulphur mines for his appearance at the Iceland courts.
X. The expense of drawing up this contract, with the stamped paper and
registration, as well as the expense of surveys on the delivering over and the
delivery back of the mines mentioned in this contract, shall be borne by the
lessee.
The contract shall be drawn up in duplicate, of which the one copy is held by
the Minister of Justice and the other by Mr A. G. Lock.
On the above conditions I, Alfred G. Lock, of London, have signed the
present contract.
Copenhagen, 13th April 1872.
(Signed) KRIEGER.
(Signed) { For Alfred G. Lock,
{ A. DE C. CROWE.
Witnesses—
(Signed) RICARD.
( ” ) POULSEN.
The value of the stamp on this contract is calculated at 9 rigsd. to the pound sterling.

NOTE II.
REPORT OF THE ALTHING.
REPORT drawn up by the Committee elected for this purpose by the Icelandic
“Althing” of 1869, translated after the original Icelandic text from the
“Althing” reports.
We, the undersigned, have, by the honourable “Althing,” been elected into a
Committee, to state our opinion as to a memorial which about three years ago
has been sent in to the Government by an English gentleman, Mr Lock,
importing his wish to take lease of the sulphur mines in the north of Iceland,
situated between 65° 20´ north latitude and the Arctic Sea, or, otherwise
speaking, the mines lying on the said tract, east of “Myvatn” (Gnat Lake) and
west of Jökulsá (Glacier River).
Before stating our opinion about this matter, we think it necessary that it
should be clearly understood by the honourable Assembly—
1. How the matter now stands with the sulphur mines in question.
2. What right the Government has to lease out these mines without incurring
some obnoxious consequences to the leaseholder, or to other parties concerned.
The sulphur mines that are at the disposal of the Government[202] are those of
“Reykjahlid,” “Kráfla-námar” (the mines of the Krafla mountain), and “Fremri-
námar” (the mines farthest from the coast), but “Theistareykja-námar” (the
mines of Theistareykir) have never been Government property, although they
apparently are lying in the tract of which the above-mentioned Mr Lock has
wished to take lease.
As it is well known, from the excellent essay by the Right Reverend Hannes
Finnson, Bishop of Iceland (see “Rit hins islendska lærdómslista-fèlags”—the
Works of the Icelandic Society of Learning and Arts—vol. iv., p. 29), Mr Paul
Stigsson, superintendent or governor of Iceland, bought of the Thorsteinssons, so
called, in the presence of Mr Hans Nilsson and Mr Hans Lauritsson, on the
behalf of his Majesty Frederik II., the mines of which there is no question here,
with the exception of the Theistareykja mines, or more properly speaking, the
right of digging sulphur in these mines. This bargain was made at Eyjafjord on
the 15th of August 1563, and the said Thorsteinssons gave up the sulphur-
diggings in “Fremri-námar,” “Kráfla-námar,” and “Heidar-[203] (heath) námar;”
but it is nowhere on record, that any land or ground for house-building and road-
making has been comprised in this bargain. As it appears, the Government of his
Majesty Frederik II. has thought it sufficient to acquire the monopoly of the
sulphur that was to be found there, for, as it appears, there has, as a rule, never
been lack of persons willing to dig out the sulphur and to carry it, like other
merchandise, down to the sea-coast.
In this manner the above-mentioned mines were worked in the time of his
Majesty Frederik II., and a great quantity of sulphur was dug up there. It is said
that the profit has sometimes, in the said period, amounted to 10,000 rixdollars
(or upwards of £1100), and that the total export of sulphur has gone up to about
200 commercial lasts (or 400 tons) a year.
 In the time of Christian IV. the working of the mines, which had answered so
well in the time of his father, was almost discontinued; and the attempts of this
king to let the mines, for a period of fifteen years, to Mr Jorgen Brochenhuus, of
Wolderslev, and Mr Svabe, proved a complete failure. Thus, in the time of
Christian IV., the mines were of little consequence for the Government and the
country. This, the Right Reverend Hannes Finnson says, was a great drawback
for the Danes, as it caused the scarcity of powder, which was one of the reasons
why the Danes were defeated by the Swedes in Holstein in 1644.
Shortly after the middle of the seventeenth century, or in the year 1665, a
certain “assessor,” Gabriel Marsilius by name, acquired a concession of digging
sulphur and exporting it from Iceland; and it is said that he has exported from
here a very great quantity of sulphur with considerable profit. Since that time, or
since 1676, little is said of the sulphur-mining in Iceland until the first part of the
eighteenth century; then, in 1724, two foreigners, Mr Sechmann and Mr
Holtzmann, acquired a concession of exporting sulphur from Iceland; and it is
said that they exported a great quantity of sulphur for a period of five years; but
this export was again discontinued, owing to the death of Mr Holtzmann, who
was the leader of the business, and to the apparent unwillingness of Mr
Sechmann to repair to Iceland.
In the year 1753 the sulphur-mining was recommenced in Iceland by the
Government. First it was commenced in the south, and afterwards, or in 1761, in
the north (see “Eptirmæli 18 aldar”—“Review of the Events of the Eighteenth
Century”). The author of this work, the late Mr Stephensen, says, that both the
mines, the southern and northern, have been worked with considerable profit,
adding, that the produce of the mines has amounted to 1400 rixdollars (or
upwards of £155) a year; and in 1772 the profit of the sulphur mines in the north,
according to the same author, was estimated at 1260 rixdollars (or about £140).
After 1806 the Danish Government leased out the sulphur mines in the north to
some merchants there for a trifling yearly rent, which in no way was a sufficient
indemnity for the deterioration of the mines during the time of the lease.
For ten years ago it was a general opinion that the brimstone in the Icelandic
sulphur mines for the most part was embedded in the layer that covers the “live
mines,” and which must be considered a “sublimate” product of the so-called
sulphur pits or caldrons; it had, however, been observed that in the “Fremri-
námar,” so called, “dead mines” also existed where the sulphur stratum
sometimes was a foot thick. The sulphur digging at Krisuvik last year has proved
that these strata can be a good deal thicker, as it has also been ascertained that
most sulphur mountains contain a considerable quantity of sulphur earth, clayish
and ferruginous sulphur; all of which might yield from twenty-five to fifty per
cent. of clean sulphur, if managed in the right manner.
When the three naturalists, Mr Steenstrup, Mr Schythe, and Jonas
Hallgrimson, travelled through Iceland in 1840, they calculated that the sulphur
mines in the north might yield 10,000 rixdollars a year; but Dr Hjaltalin, who,
ten years later, was sent to examine these mines, disavows this statement, adding
that the mines, as the matter then stood, could by no means yield so much, for
the “live mines” were then in a state of deterioration, and that it would be
impossible exactly to say how many “dead mines” were to be found till it is
ascertained by successive examinations; on the other hand, he is convinced that
the mines of Krisuvik might be able to yield 100 commercial lasts (or 200 tons)
of clean sulphur a year, and the experience of the recent time has proved this to
be no exaggeration; for during the last winter (1868-69) about 250 commercial
lasts (or 500 tons) of raw sulphur have been dug up, which must make a good
deal more than 100 lasts of clean sulphur at least; further, Dr Hjaltalin observes,
that copper ore of rather a good quality is to be found there, and a more recent
experience has rendered it likely that there is a considerable quantity of this
mineral.
On the other hand, the sulphur must, no doubt, have accumulated to a
considerable degree in the mines of the north for the last twenty years they have
not been worked; it is, therefore, pretty certain that they might now yield a
considerable quantity of sulphur if they were worked in the right manner; but as
it must always be borne in mind that no mines are so liable to deterioration as
sulphur mines, it must in consequence be very precarious to make them over to
foreigners. A French geologist, Mr Eugène Robert, who travelled here in 1835,
and afterwards has written treatises on the geology of Iceland in the French
language, has also called attention to this point. He says, that care ought to be
taken not to lease out to the Englishmen (who then were applying for the lease)
the mines in the north, as they might be of great consequence, the sulphur mines
of Sicily having begun to fall off.
As pointed out by the history of the country, and sufficiently proved by the
experience, the produce of the mines in the north, if worked in the right way,
ought to outweigh by far the lease-rent offered by Mr Lock; it would
consequently be a downright loss to the country now to lease out those mines to
this foreigner, who would not be able to give any satisfactory guarantee for his
working the mines in the right manner, but might, after a lapse of several years,
return them so spoiled that the country might, for a long time at least, miss the
profit which it ought to have by these mines: indeed the lease-rent offered by the
memorialist seems to be comparatively high when compared to what was paid
for the mines in the beginning of the present century, but when it is taken into
consideration that the rent now offered is only the tenth part of the net profit
which the mines yielded in the sixteenth century, the offer is by no means
advantageous, neither is it desirable that foreigners should be allowed for many
years to import into this country a great number of foreign workmen, as this
might lead to the Icelanders being deprived of a profitable business in their own
native land.[204]
The population of Iceland is, as it is well known, constantly increasing, but
several branches of trade are rather in a state of decadence. Nothing could,
therefore, be more beneficial to this country, than if here were to be found
profitable mines, in which labourers might work in all sorts of weather, and this
may be done in sulphur and other mines, as the experience showed at Krisuvik
last winter; ten and sometimes upwards of twenty labourers were at work there,
almost the whole winter, earning good daily wages. There is nevertheless no
security to be had, that the inhabitants shall be able to benefit by this, if the
mines are made over to strangers, neither can it be controlled that they shall not
destroy the mines altogether, and render them completely useless after a lapse of
some years.
The Icelandic sulphur mines are in such a condition as not to be worse for
waiting, on the contrary they will improve by it, and it would be greatly
beneficial to them, not to be worked for the present.
The sulphur mining at Krisuvik has shown that these mines are better and
richer than had been expected; and this may be the case too with the mines in the
north, which have most frequently been deemed richer and more extensive than
those of Krisuvik.
When sulphur trade has been carried on in this country, both in past centuries
and at present, the mode of proceeding has been very inappropriate and
unpractical, for partly the sulphur has been carried, with all the dross in it (which
often goes up to forty per cent. or more), down to the sea-coast, and from there
to Copenhagen; partly the method of cleaning has been so unsatisfactory and
inappropriate, as to render the cost of cleaning the double of what is needful. It
appears from the writings of the late Bishop Hannes Finsson, that in the time of
King Frederick II., the sulphur was cleaned by means of train-oil, and this
method has been continued down to the middle of the present century. This was
sheer insanity, as it made the cleaning many times more expensive than was
necessary, and than it was at the same time in other countries, where sulphur was
then cleaned by means of sublimation. But this was not all, the grease moreover
that got into the sulphur, rendered it unfit for powder manufacture, as may be
seen from the writings of Mr Jón Eiríksson and others. Of late a new method has
been hit upon in France, namely, to clean the sulphur by condensing hot steam,
and as hot springs are to be found in the neighbourhood of all the Icelandic
sulphur mines, this might now be turned to a good account for the sulphur trade;
besides it would make the cost of transport by far less heavy, if the sulphur could
be carried down to the sea-coast and marketed in a clean state.
It results from all this that Mr Lock’s offer is by no means so acceptable as
some might suppose, for the local government (when established here) might,
with the greatest facility, make the mines in the north many times more
profitable than they would be if Mr Lock’s offer were to be accepted; moreover,
the mines being at the disposal of the said government, a sufficient control may
be had that they shall not be overworked or destroyed.
Were the Danish Government, therefore, to grant the request of the
memorialist, as it is framed, this might easily, as the matter now stands, lead to
suits of law between the Government itself and him, on the one hand, and
between the said Government and some private landowner, on the other; for it is
quite certain that the Government has no right whatever over the sulphur trade in
all the localities pointed out by the memorialist. As clearly evinced by the late
Bishop Hannes Finsson, the sulphur trade in Iceland can, in no way, be
considered as a “regale;” and, accordingly, the Government ought to be very
circumspect in this matter, lest it hurt the right of private landowners.
From the above-mentioned motives, it seems to the Committee that it is
unadvisable to accept the offer of the memorialist, and, consequently, submits to
the honourable “Althing” to dissuade the Government altogether from granting
the concession requested by Mr Lock.
But as some members of the Committee have uttered the opinion that it might
be considered as partiality, altogether to exclude foreigners from the sulphur
trade in Iceland, provided that it could be sufficiently controlled, that this should
neither be detrimental to the country in general, or to the mines in special, the
Committee has thought it its duty, if this consideration should prevail in the
honourable assembly, to submit a secondary or modified proposal, to the effect
that it shall be requested of the Government to make the concession dependent
on the following conditions:
1. The memorialist shall himself make the necessary arrangements with the
parties concerned concerning pieces, lots, and parcels of land, which he
may be in need of, for the cleaning and transport of the sulphur, and which
are not at the disposal of the Government.
 2. The memorialist shall have commenced the working of the mines within a
year from the day on which the licence is handed over to him.
3. The memorialist shall always give the natives of Iceland opportunity to
work by halves at the cleaning and transport of the sulphur, and he shall not,
for this purpose, employ foreigners more than by halves at most, as far as he
offers the same conditions to the natives as to the foreigners, and these
conditions shall be acceded to by the former.
4. The Government shall be authorised, at the cost of the memorialist and its
own, to be paid by halves, to appoint a man for the purpose of controlling,
that the leaseholder shall not destroy the mines for ever by his method of
working them.
5. The memorialist shall pay a rent of £100 sterling for the first year; for the
next two years, £200; for the next two years thereon, £300; and for the last
five years, £400 a year; and the concession shall expire after a lapse of ten
years.
6. The memorialist shall, on receipt of the licence, deposit a sum of £5000 as a
security for the fulfilment of these conditions, but it shall be returned to him
at the end of the ten years, during which he shall have made use of the
concession as far as he shall have fulfilled all the conditions that have been
stipulated; but otherwise he is to forfeit both the concession and security-
money if he shall have infringed any of the above conditions, excepting
only if this infringement be caused by difficulties in making such
arrangements with the parties concerned on the spot as are mentioned under
head 1.
7. All disputes arising from this contract between the Government on the one
hand, and the memorialist on the other, shall be settled by the said
Government alone; and no appeal to courts of law shall be allowed in this
case, neither in this country or elsewhere.
8. Both the yearly rent and security-money, if forfeited, shall fall to the
Icelandic country-fise, and be at the disposal of the “Althing.”
REYKJAVIK, the 14th August 1869.
(Signed) JÓN HJALTALÍN. JÓN SIGURÐSSON.
Chairman and Reporter, BENEDIKT SVEINSSON.
TRYGGIR GUNNARSSON.
Secretary, GRÍMUR THOMSEN.
In a most humble petition of the “Althing,” dated the 7th September 1869,
addressed to His Majesty the King, the said assembly has altogether adopted the
considerations and proposals of the Committee, as specified above.
Thus, in the first place, the “Althing” begs that the Government of His
Majesty shall not accept Mr Lock’s offer to take lease of the sulphur mines in the
north, but, on the contrary, refuse altogether to lease them out for the present;
and in case His Majesty’s Government should not think fit to follow this advice,
the “Althing,” in the second place, begs that the concession, if granted at all,
may be made dependent on such conditions as are specified in the above report
under heads 1 to 8.
The only difference between the conditions contained in the Report of the
Committee and those in the petition of the “Althing” is: that under head 5 is
added a clause to the effect that the lease-holder, besides the yearly rent, shall
pay £10 a year to the clergyman of “Myvatns-thing” (or district of Myvatn).[205]

SECTION VI.
SULPHUR IN SICILY.
The kindness of Mr Consul Dennis of Palermo enables me to offer the
following sketch of sulphur in Sicily.
Sulphur, it is well known, forms the most important branch of Sicilian
commerce and exportation. Found, as in Iceland, in the blue marl which covers
the central and the southern parts of the island, its area extends over 2600 square
miles; fresh mines are always being discovered, and there is no symptom of
exhaustion. In 1864 Sicily worked about 150 distinct diggings, whose annual
yield exceeded 150,000 tons; in 1872 these figures rose to 550 and nearly
2,000,000 of quintals, or cantars. The latter contains 100 rotoli (each 0·7934
kilogrammes = 1¾ lb. Eng. avoir.), or 79·342 kilogrammes = 175 lbs. Eng. avoir.
The richest in 1864 were those of Gallizze, Sommatine, and Favara: their
respective yearly production showed 100,000, 80,000, and 60,000 quintals.
“The visitor to a sulphur mine,” says Mr Goodwin, late H.M.’s Consul,
Palermo, “usually descends by a plane or staircase of high inclination to the first
level, where he finds the half-naked miner picking sulphur from the rock with a
huge and heavy tool; boys gathering the lumps together, and carrying them to the
surface; and if water be there, the pump-men at work draining the mine. A
similar scene meets his eye in the lower or second level. Above ground the
sulphur is heaped up in piles, or fusing in kilns.” This passage well shows the
superior facility of collecting sulphur in Iceland, where it lies in profusion upon
the surface.
The ore thus obtained by fusion, after hardening into cakes, is carried to the
coast by mules and asses, or by carts where there are roads. When the new
network of railways covers the island, of course there will be greater facility for
transport, but the expense will increase with equal proportion.
The number of hands in 1844 was estimated at 4400—i.e., 1300 pick-men,
2600 boys, 300 burners, and 200 clerks and others, to whom must be added 2600
carters, and 1000 wharfingers, raising the total to 8000, out of a population
(January 1, 1862) of 2,391,802, inhabiting an area of 10,556 square miles.
The following translation, or rather an abbreviation of an article, “Lo Zolfo,”
in the journal Il Commercio Siciliano (March 4, 1873), gives the latest statistics:
“The Committee of Industrial Inquiry, during its recent sessions at Palermo,
Messina, and Catania, has collected valuable information upon the general
conditions of the island, and upon its principal articles of commerce.
“We will begin with the chief branch, sulphur, whose exportation in the raw
state during the last decade is shown by these figures:
In 1862, = 1,433,000 quintals = 250,775,000 Eng. lbs. avoir., or 125,387 tons of 2000 lbs.

“ 1863, = 1,470,000 ”
“ 1864, = 1,398,000 ”
“ 1865, = 1,382,000 ”
“ 1866, = 1,791,000 ”
“ 1867, = 1,923,000 ”
“ 1868, = 1,723,000 ”
“ 1869, = 1,701,000 ”
“ 1870, = 1,727,000 ”
“ 1871, = 1,712,000 ”
“ 1872, = 1,969,000 “ (estimated).

“Sicily may be considered the monopolist of the trade in natural sulphur.

Other solfataras exist in Croatia, Gallicia, and Poland; at Vaucluse in France, at
Murcia in Spain, and in Egypt on the Red Sea;[206] but the production may be
considered unimportant. Even the Zolfare of the Romagna cannot be compared
with those of Sicily, as we see by the following figures of exportation:
In 1862, = 22,057 quintals.
“ 1863, = 57,275 ”
” 1864, = 35,524 ”
” 1865, = 70,841 ”
” 1866, = 4,351 ”
” 1867, = 2,722 ”
” 1868, = 8,846 ”
” 1869, = 3,885 ”
 ” 1870, = 15,659 ”
” 1871, = 12,320[207] ”

“The annual production of the Romagna mines reaches only 120,000

quintals, including the less important diggings of Latera Scrofaro, Volterra,
Grosseto, and Avellino. Sulphurous earth covers all the Sicilian provinces of
Caltanissetta (Kal’ at el Nisá, the fort of women) and Girgenti,[208] and a part of
Catania; whilst there are two isolated ridges (lembi) at Lercara de’ Freddi of
Palermo, and at Ghibellina of Trapani. Those actually worked exceed 550.
“Experts greatly differ in opinion concerning the supply still remaining for
exportation; we have determined that the diggings at the actual rate of
exportation may last another hundred years.[209]
“Mining property, according to Sicilian law, belongs to the soil; and public
opinion, as well as vested interests, would strenuously oppose the legislation
which prevails in upper Italy. Yet the present conditions are highly
unsatisfactory. Working upon a small scale in fractionary estates has diminished
profits, and in many cases has caused mines to be abandoned. And the evil is
ever increasing with the greater depths of the diggings where the inflow of water
offers fresh difficulties. The only remedy would be the combination of small
farmers, and the massing of the less important diggings under a single
‘cultivator.’
“As yet there are only two such associations; and their success in working
properties so subdivided as not to pay, recommends them to societies and
capitalists. One is at the Croce group of Lercara, where many owners have
joined to subscribe for machinery to raise the mineral (macchina di eduzione).
The other is at the Madore group, also of Lercara; here a considerable part of the
very small diggings has of late been let to one and the same ‘cultivator.’ At
Aggira, in the province of Catania, there are two bodies of workmen, called
Gabellotti, because they unite to pay the annual Gabella (rent-price) to the
proprietor. Of these the large and the more successful is at Assaro in the territory
of Calascibetta; it has collected eighteen members who formerly injured one
another by the mismanagement of the deep diggings and by jealous competition
in securing hands. It is a civil society with unlimited liability; some of the
associates receive only half shares, which reduces the whole number of
actionnaires to sixteen. The works are directed by a resident member, and the
exportation by another at Catania. It is a good instance of how valueless mines
may be made to pay.
“But Sicily, under her present law, has to contend not only against the
excessive division of property, but also with the normal conditions of leasing it.
Of these, the most injurious is the short term of the Gabella, which averages six,
and which seldom passes nine, years. This period, far too brief to permit the use
of machinery, which, demanding unusual outlay, secures a much greater amount
of production.
“The Gabella is generally defrayed in kind, that is, in sulphur at the mouth of
the pit. Only one case of money payment is known; in 1868 the Prince of Sant
‘Elia, owner of the Zolfara di Grottacalda, leased his property to an anonymous
French society, which, besides advances of capital à fonds perdus, can afford a
high yearly rent. Before this agreement was concluded, the Gabelle did not
exceed 30 per cent. of the total production; now they have risen to 36, and even
to 40. But in this case longer leases were conceded.
“Several of the most important diggings have been let to French and English
companies.
“Nothing can be ruder than the mode of working. Where the usual outward
signs of sulphur present themselves, steeply inclined galleries called Buchi a
Scale are driven, and the ore is brought to grass, without any of those
preparatory measures which demand time and money, but which afterwards yield
so well. The underground works are longitudinal tunnels following the
inclination of the sulphur bank, and so cut by cross galleries that the prospect
suggests a cavern supported by stalactite columns. The metal, detached with
picks, is carried up the rude flights of stairs by children whose ages vary from
seven to fifteen, and it is disposed about the pit mouth in a peculiar way, so as to
facilitate measurement and distribution.
“When the bank is exhausted, the pillars are attacked, and thus the abandoned
portions readily fall in. Accidents at times occur from the pressure of the ground,
and these have often caused loss of life; they usually result from the negligence
and ignorance of the overseers (Capimaestri), men who ignore everything but
‘rule of thumb.’ The Ministry of Agriculture and Commerce has wisely drawn
out a project of mining laws, intended to secure the safety of the workmen by
giving information to the directors, and by facilitating works of common interest
to those concerned. It is evident that the State can remove the obstacles of sub-
divided property, and that its duty is to look after the condition and the health of
its subjects who are working 80 to 100 metres underground. Already the ministry
has founded a superior school of mines at Palermo, and a second at the Zolfare
of Caltanissetta. Let us hope that its term of office may last long enough for
carrying out the instruction which alone can develop the sulphur supply of Sicily.
“Here, as elsewhere, the miners’ deadliest enemy is water. Of the various
draining systems applied to the tunnels, the favourite is a long cut through the
gallery, carried to the surface; and its principal merit is the saving of labour
where wages are, as in this island, unusually high. But as the disposition of the
ground often causes drains to become long and expensive works, there is a
general use of pumps. The latter, till the last few years, were made of wood, and
worked by hand; metal has become more common, but steam machinery is
almost confined to the foreign concessions. As regards hauling up, shafts, or
vertical wells, are almost unknown, although they have been strongly
recommended for mines which have reached 50 metres, and a majori for those
100 metres deep.
“The metal, when brought to grass, is freed from its earthy matters principally
by fusion; the system being founded upon the different degrees of caloric
required to liquefy ore and dross. The operation most in vogue is that called dei
Calcaroni: the heaps are covered with a layer of earth, and the heat is kept up
chiefly by burning the sulphur itself. As those kilns are built upon inclined
surfaces, the melted matter flows into wooden forms, where it cools and
solidifies. The great loss, calculated at about one-third, has led to a variety of
improvements; many have been adopted by private cultivators, few have been
more extensively applied, and none can boast of complete success. The best
hitherto produced is the so-called ‘vapour-fusion’ invented by a certain Sig.
Thomas, and patented to the Società privilegiata per la fusione dello Zolfo in
Italia, an anonymous body, whose headquarters are at Milan. The essential part
of the process is to separate the ore by ordinary fuel, using for the transmission
of caloric water-steam at the tension corresponding with the temperature which
fuses sulphur. The Society established its apparatus at several mines, which paid
a proportion of raw sulphur as bonus to the patentees; the remainder went to the
‘cultivator’ as remuneration for the mineral which he provided. Many were
disused after a few months, the reason alleged being that they were of use only
when applied to poor ores and gypseous gangues. Lercara is the only place
which still works by ‘vapour-fusion.’
“The sulphur is exported either in lumps (ballate[210]), as it comes from the
moulds, or it is refined to suit the intended object. That used for vines is ground
before exportation; there are mills at all the ports, and the expense per quintal
reaches only a few centimes. The powder is stored in sacks.
“Sicilian sulphur is sufficiently pure, as a rule, to be directly adopted in many
chemical and industrial processes. For the pharmacy, however, for gunpowder,
and for other specialties of technology, further refining is necessary. This
operation is limited on the island by the high price of fuel; there are only two or
three usines at Catania and at Porto Eurpedoch; moreover, these work
irregularly, and on a small scale. Thus the refinery of Sicilian and Romagna
sulphurs is carried on almost exclusively abroad.
“The principal exporting places are Catania, Licata, Palermo, Porto
Eurpedoch, Terranova, and Messina. The following are the approximate figures
of the respective harbours:
Catania ships, . . 202,000 quintals.
Licata ” . . 460,000 ”
Messina ” . . 50,000 ”
Palermo ” . . 78,000 ”
Porto Eurpedoch “ . . 917,000 ”
Terranova ” . . 200,000 ”

Palermo offers great advantages of freight by means of return colliers, but the
distance of land transport is fatal to all but the sulphur of Lercara.[211] Messina
exports only to the United States; sulphur forms the heavy cargo, the lighter
being composed of rags, oil, and agrumi (sour fruits, lemons, etc.). But if there is
little shipping of the mineral at Messina, she may be called the headquarters of
the sulphur trade. Embarkation takes place at other harbours, though there are
often badly protected roads; the only reason being their neighbourhood to the
mines. Messina[212] urged upon the Committee a reduction of tariffs on the
railways which connect it with Catania and Leonforte; but it would be hardly fair
thus to protect one city when its rivals, besides being favoured by topographical
position, are industriously improving their means of embarkation, and are
making efforts to protect shipping during winter.
“At all the harbours there are merchants who make the export their specialty;
they buy up the produce of the smaller mines, store it in their magazines, and
ship it when the prices are most likely to pay. The principal ‘cultivators,’
however, have established their own deposits, and export on their own account
without using middle-men.
“An intelligent merchant at Messina assured the Committee that two-thirds of
the total consumption took place in winter and the rest in summer, whilst the
exportation during the latter season is by far the greatest on account of the
superior ease and safety of navigation. But, as the melting is mostly in
September, the results to cultivators and to exporters are, that a large part of the
year passes away in inaction, accumulating interest upon cargoes and seriously
checking profits.
“It is greatly to be desired that some company with large capital should be
formed to make advances of money, thus setting free the modest means of
‘cultivators’ and merchants, and enabling them to lay out more upon the mines.
[213]
“The actual medium price (March 4, 1873) of sulphur in the Sicilian ports is
represented by twelve lire (or francs) per quintal; and the following are the
approximate items which make up this figure:
Cost of mining, = 6·600 lire or francs.
Land transport, = 2·480 ”
Embarking, = 0·313 ”
‘Cultivator’s’ profit, = 1·607 ”
Export dues, = 1·000 ”
Total, 12·000[214] ”

“After a few years, when the network of railways shall have been finished,
when embarkation is improved, and perhaps when the production is rendered
easier and safer, we may hope to see the figure L.12 fall to L.11, and even to
L.10.50.
“The Committee has hitherto considered only the produce of Sicily per se,
and this appears the place to notice its future production and its employment in
the general commerce of the world. Many have indulged in exaggerated hopes
and fears upon this subject. While some fear that our mineral may be superseded
by other substances, others hope that the reduced cost of Sicilian sulphur may
enable it to serve the purposes for which pyrites are now generally used.
“An attentive examination of the question proves that, in the actual state of
industry, sulphur and pyrites have nothing to fear from each other.
“Several industries, especially the manufactures of sulphuric acid, do not
require pure sulphur in the free state; they find it more economical to extract that
contained in metallic sulphures, especially in iron pyrites. On the other hand, it is
well known that extracting pure sulphur from the sulphures and manufacturing
sulphuric acid from pure sulphur are practically impossible; the former could
never contend against the Sicilian mines, nor can the latter rival the cheap
produce of pyrites. As the uses of the two are different, so will be their sources
of supply; and it is hard to believe that any change of price can cause
concurrence between the two.[215]
“A fair proof is the concurrent development of both articles. Between 1832
and 1872 the produce of the Sicilian mines has quadrupled; and this was exactly
the time when pyrites began to be used, and successfully took their place in the
manufacture of sulphuric acid.
“These considerations should silence the arguments which contend for the
abolition of export duties upon sulphur, in order to make it compete with pyrites.
The State draws an annual revenue of some two million lire (2,000,000 francs =
£80,000); and it cannot be expected to yield so legitimate a source of income,
until at least assured by competent persons that the impost is a weight upon, and
a damage to, Italian industry and commerce.”
To this very fair report Mr Consul Dennis adds: “I have no notion that the
supply of Sicilian sulphur is nearly exhausted; more deposits are known than can
be worked. There are many spots in the heart of the island which abound in the
mineral, but it must lie useless, for as yet there are no means of conveying it to
the coast for shipment. The export of sulphur has been increasing greatly, it is
true, from 100,000 tons (= £400,000) in 1855 to 200,000 (= £1,000,000) in 1871,
but the export is regulated rather by the demand in foreign markets than by the
supply. The large quantity made from iron pyrites of late years in many
European countries has, of course, much lowered the demand on Sicily. In 1871
the quantities fell to 180,000 tons (= £956,000), but in 1872 they rallied to
192,000 tons. This quantity was thus distributed:
Great Britain and her colonies took 46,418 tons[216]
France, 41,699 ”
United States, 21,846 ”
Germany and Austria, 22,348 ”
Italy and the East, 47,160 ”
Russia, 1,526 ”
Spain and Portugal, 8,236 ”
Other countries, 3,008 ”
Grand total, 192,241 ”

“I should remark that the quantities stated above are from the official returns
of the custom-house; they are probably understated to the extent of 25 to 50 per
cent., few exporters declaring the full quantity or value, and the Doganieri
having scant interest to verify the declarations. The amount exported last year
(1873) was probably not much under 300,000 tons.
“The great rise of prices in the necessaries of life of late years, and the
increased demand for labour, consequent on the construction of railways,
harbours, and other public works, have doubled the price of sulphur in Sicily.
But when the network of railways with which it is proposed to intersect the
island is completed, when the country roads are laid out to feed them, and when
the ports of Girgenti, Licata, and Catania, are enlarged and deepened, so as to
accommodate vessels of large size, then it will soon be ascertained what
treasures of sulphur Sicily still contains.”
 In conclusion I would observe that this age of national armies and bloated
armaments is not likely to allow decline in the use and the value of sulphur, and
that nothing can be more unwise than to rely upon a single source of supply,
Sicily, which might at any time be closed to us by a Continental war.
RICHARD F. BURTON.
NOTE ON THE COMPAGNIE SOUFRIÈRE OF THE RED SEA.
Schweinfurth (“Heart of Africa”), when passing down the Red Sea, speaks of
the Sulphur Company at Guirsah. Its concession extends over 160 miles of coast
southwards from Cape Seid. The ore is obtained from gypseous schiste; and all
the fresh water for the workmen, of whom there are over 300, must be brought
from the Nile.
I need hardly remark that if sulphur is found to pay under these
circumstances, we may expect great things from Iceland.

SECTION VII.
SULPHUR IN TRANSYLVANIA.
According to Mr Charles Boner (p. 312, “Transylvania: its Products and its
People,” London: Longmans, 1865), the whole district round Büdös contains
rich deposits of sulphur; and yet Hungary draws her supplies from the Papal
States and Sicily; yielding, as the latter has hitherto done, a million and a half
hundredweights per annum. So with sulphuric acid which has played so
important a part in raising the industry of Europe to its present state. A single
commercial house in Kronstadt employs nearly 300 cwts., and would probably
use more were its price not so high. The sulphuric acid factory at Hermannstadt,
the only one in the province, uses 300 to 400 cwts. annually. The custom-house
returns for Transylvania vary from 300 cwts. to 3000 cwts., as the article comes
sometimes from Trieste, sometimes from Vienna, where the duty has already
been paid. In 1863, the amount of sulphur produced in the Austrian monarchy
was 35,085 cwts., at an average price of 6fl. 44kr. per cwt. The consumption has
regularly augmented owing to the increase in the number of soda factories: in
1858, the import from foreign states was 71,337 cwts.; in 1859, it was 86,673.
Mr Boner has profited in the following remarks by two reports made by M.
Brem, director of a chemical factory at Hermannstadt, and by Dr F. Schur,
professor at Kronstadt:
“The sulphur-deposits are situated at the south and west of Büdös,[217] and
not on the mountain itself. The places are Kis Soosmezö, also Vontala Feje
Búlványos, and a little above the chalet Gál András. Thirty different diggings
were undertaken in a circuit of at least eighteen miles; but the extent of the
ground where the deposits are, is more than three times this size. The deposits
run in unequal strata of from one to nine inches under the mould, which varies in
thickness from one to three feet. The soil was everywhere saturated with sulphur,
and in this permeated earth pieces of pure sulphur were found. They were of
pale-yellow colour, fine-grained, and with a strong smell of sulphuretted
hydrogen. Here and there only was a sort found with a certain hardness
(cohesion), and even this, when dried, became brittle and ticturable. All this
shows that the mineral is a true volcanic sulphur, and that the deposits will
continue as long as the inner activity of Mount Büdös lasts. A careful analysis
gives as result, in the earth taken in one place, 63·96 per cent.; in a second spot,
61·00 per cent; and in a third, 41·01 per cent. of sulphur.” [218]
“The district whence the earth was taken is a space of 16,000,000 square
fathoms. Allowing for interruptions in the deposits, and taking these at an
average thickness of three inches instead of nine, 200 lbs. of sulphur might be
obtained from every square fathom, even if we suppose the earth to contain only
50 per cent. of the mineral. But we have seen that it has 61 per cent., and, in
some cases, nearly 64 per cent. of sulphur. Continuing the calculation, the
district would contain 16,000,000 cwts. of the precious commodity. Ten years
ago, raw sulphur from Sicily and the Papal States (viâ Trieste) cost, in
Hermannstadt, 9½ florins per cwt. Competent authorities are of opinion that it
might be produced here for 5 florins per cwt., inclusive of the carriage from
Büdös to Kronstadt. Sulphur costs more than this in the places where it is
produced in Poland, Slavonia, and Bohemia. Every year the demand for the
article increases, for almost each year brings with it new appliances, and shows
how indispensably necessary it is in the daily life of civilised communities. We
all know what are the profits arising from chemical fabrications; and I think the
facts here given will hardly fail to attract the attention of those who are willing
to turn their knowledge and spirit of enterprise to account. For Transylvania at
large, but for Kronstadt especially, it would be of the greatest advantage to
obtain the article in question at a cheaper rate; for not only might undertakings,
which, as yet, are but projects, be called into existence, but others already
thriving be considerably enlarged.”
 SECTION VIII.
EXTRACTED FROM “ADVENTURES AND RESEARCHES AMONG THE ANDAMAN ISLANDERS.”
By FREDERIC J. MOUAT, M.D., F.R.C.S., ETC., ETC., ETC. Hurst & Blackett,
Publishers, London, 1863.
The sulphur on the top of the cone occurs in such quantity in the cracks and
fissures, often lining them to the thickness of more than half-an-inch, that the
question naturally arises whether the sulphur could not be worked with
advantage.
Although in the immediate neighbourhood of the crater, where the fissures
are numerous, the ground seems to be completely penetrated with sulphur; this is
so evident in other parts, only a few feet lower, where the surface is unbroken.
There are, however, some reasons which seem to promise that a search might be
successful. In eruptive cones, like that of Barren Island, there is always a central
tube or passage, connecting the vent in the crater with the volcanic action in the
interior. In this tube the sulphur, generally in combination with hydrogen, rises in
company with the watery vapour, and is partly deposited in the fissures and
interstices of the earth near the vent, the remainder escaping through the
apertures.
If in the present case we admit the sensible heat of the ground of the upper
third of the cone to be principally due to the condensation of steam—a process
of which we have abundant evidence in the stream of hot water rushing out from
underneath the cold lava—it is not improbable that the whole of the upper part of
the interior of the cone is intersected with spaces and fissures filled with steam
and sulphurous vapour, these being sufficiently near the surface to permit the
heat to penetrate. It is therefore not unlikely that at a moderate depth we should
find sulphur saturating the volcanic sand that covers the outside of the cone.
I only speak of the outside, as we may conclude from the evidence we have
in the rocks of lava in the crater, and those bulging out on the side, that the
structure of the cone is supported by solid rock nearly to its summit, the ashes
covering it only superficially.
From what has been said above, the probability of sulphur being found near
the surface, disposed in such a way as to allow of its being profitably exhausted,
will depend on the following conditions:
First, That the communication of the central canal, through which the vapours
rise, with its outlets, be effected not through a few large but through many and
smaller passages, distributed throughout the thickness of the upper part of the
cone.
Second, That some of these passages communicate with the loose cover of
ashes and stones which envelops the rocky support of the cone.
Although I have mentioned some facts which seem to indicate the existence
of such favourable conditions, and which are moreover strengthened by an
observation by Captain Campbell, who saw vapour issuing, and sulphur being
deposited near a rocky shoulder, about two-thirds of the height, on the eastern
descent of the cone; still their presence can only be ascertained satisfactorily by
experimental digging....
If a preliminary experiment should make it appear advantageous to work the
cone regularly, the material about the apex, after being exhausted of the sulphur
that is present, could, by blasting and other operations, be disposed in such a
way as to direct the jets of vapour in the most convenient manner through
uncharged portions of ground. If the sulphur should aggregate in periods of not
too long duration, it would be possible to carry on the work of filling up new
ground on one side, and taking away saturated earth on the other at the same
time—so that, after working round the whole circumference, the earth that had
been first put on would be ready to be taken away.
If the periods should prove too long to allow the work permanently to be
carried on, an interval of time might be allowed to pass before resuming
operations.
Water for the labourers could always be obtained from the warm spring at the
entrance of the island.
The distilling, or melting, of sulphur, to separate it from adherent earth, is a
matter of comparatively little expense or trouble. If the sulphur be abundant, it
might be effected as in Sicily, by using a part of it as fuel. It is not necessary to
do it on the spot; it might be done at any place where bricks and fuel are cheap.
 INDEX.
A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I, J, K, L, M, N, O, P, R, S, T, V, W, Y, Z
African lakes, re-discovery of the, i. 29.
Agriculture, state of, i. 179-189.
Almannagjá, the, ii. 198.
Alpen-glow, the, i. 68.
Althing, re-establishment of the, i. 103;
biennial, 106.
American gift to Iceland, ii. 327.
Amulet with Runes, ii. 118.
Antiquarian Museum, an, ii. 10, 13-23.
Anthropology, i. 122.
Art in Iceland, i. 160.
Arthur’s Seat, view of, from Firth of Forth, i. 270.
Aurora Borealis, the, i. 67.

Bede on Iceland, i. 31.

Berufjörð fisheries, ii. 234.
Berserkir, derivation of, ii. 100.
Black death, the, i. 100.
Blake, C. C., on human remains from Iceland, ii. 214;
on sulphur, 352.
Bogs of Iceland, i. 51.
Books on Iceland criticised, i. 369.
Boxes for travel, ii. 41.
Breiðalsheiði, top of the, ii. 249.
“Brimstone” on the sulphur diggings, ii. 301;
his unfairness, 302.
Broad-Shouldered, the, ii. 265.
Bruce, James, and the Nile sources, i. 22.
Buchan, A., on the climate of Stykkishólm, i. 63.
Bunsen’s division of Iceland rocks, i. 38.

Caithness, shores of, from the sea, i. 275.

Calabrian earthquake, the, i. 48.
Casaubon, Isaac, on Thule, i. 7.
Catholicism in Iceland, i. 100.
Cattle of Iceland, i. 186; ii. 53.
Character of the Icelander, i. 137-141.
Charnock’s, Dr Richard S., note on the Culdees, i. 28;
on Thule, 33.
Christ and Thor, i. 94.
Christian IX. and the Millenary Festival, i. 109.
Chronometry, i. 70.
Clay of Iceland, i. 51.
Cleanliness, i. 136.
Climate of Iceland, i. 55;
effect of Gulf Stream on, 56;
wholesomeness of, 66.
Coal and peat, i. 294.
Cavalcade, a, ii. 39.
Coal in Iceland, i. 377.
Cockney sportsman, a, i. 316.
Cod-fishing, i. 192, 193.
Constable, the head, i. 358.
Coinage, the, i. 215-218.
Commerce, i. 219-224.
Cowie, Dr Robert, on pre-historic remains found in Shetland, i. 300-306.
Culdees, the, note, i. 28, 29.

Danes, the, and home rule in Iceland, i. 105.

Danish Government, the, i. 378-380.
Days, Icelandic names for, i. 73.
Denmark and the annexation of Iceland, i. 99.
Desolate prospect, a, ii. 324.
Diseases, i. 151-155.
Divisions of Iceland, i. 116, 117.
Divorce, an easy method of, i. 151.
Doomsday Book of the North, the, i. 27; ii. 50.
Dress, styles of, i. 147.
Drunkenness in Iceland, i. 359-362.
Duncansbay Head, i. 274, 278.

Eddas, the, i. 95.

Edinburgh, defenceless state of, i. 270.
Education, i. 155-162.
Eider down, the, i. 201, 202.
Eider duck, the, ii. 45, 46, 112.
Emigration, i. 208.
Epitaph, a model, i. 137.
Eyjarbakka-vatn, ii. 321.

Færoe Islands, the, dulness of, i. 299.

Fair Isle, i. 308.
Family, the, i. 148-151.
Farewell to Edinburgh, a, i. 267.
Farm-house, a, i. 145;
a rough, ii. 288.
Finance of Iceland, i. 110-112.
Fish diet for brain-workers, i. 190.
Fisheries, i. 189-198.
Fjörðs, the, popular theory about, i. 49.
Flora of Iceland, i. 175-79.
Fox, the, i. 170.
Foula, the island of, i. 22, 309.
Funeral customs, i. 372.

Gare-fowl, the, ii. 228.

Genesis and geology, i. 35.
Geysir, the, i. 55, 319, ii. 169;
Bunsen on, 177;
Werner and Baring-Gould on, 178;
decline of the, 183;
description of, in eruption, 184-191;
a new Geysir, 222.
Granton, i. 269;
compared with Reykjavik, 269;
the central quay, 269;
farewell to group of friends, 269.
Guide, the pretty, ii. 27;
guides, 29;
a bad, 214.
Gulf Stream, the, i. 56.
Hafnafjörð, ii. 87-89.
Hakon of Norway and the liberty of Iceland, i. 98.
Hay-harvest, the, ii. 245.
Hay-making, i. 148.
Hekla, i. 315;
exaggeration of former travellers, ii. 161;
ascent of, 162;
sayings about, 164.
Hel-viti, gate of, ii. 164.
Herðubreið, view of, from north, ii. 305;
volcano of, 308;
ascent of, given up, 311.
Henchel’s report on the Icelandic sulphur mines, ii. 329-343.
High school, deficiency of education in, ii. 5;
method of teaching, 6;
theological school, 7.
Hindús, faith of the, i. 93.
Historical notes, i. 78.
Hjaltalín, Jón A., on the Danish chronicles, i. 83;
on finance, 110.
Horse, use of, by Icelanders, ii. 33.
Human and other remains in Iceland, paper on, ii. 212-220.
Hydrography, i. 53;
names of rivers and lakes, 54, 55.

Inchkeith, i. 270.
Intermarriage, i. 135.
Iron-ore, presence of, i. 205.
Itinerary from Reykjavik to Hekla and the Geysir, ii. 201-211;
from Berufjörð to Mý-vatn, 271.

Johnston, Mr Keith, on volcanic eruptions, i. 44.

John o’ Groats, i. 275.
Jökulsá River, the, ii. 268;
view of from Herðubreið, 309.
Judicial procedure, i. 120.

Kerguelen on the trade of Iceland, i. 228.

Kincardineshire, coast of. i. 272.
Kirkjubæ, ruins of, i. 298.
Kirkwall visited, i. 282.
Kissing, the custom of, i. 160.
Krísuvík sulphur diggings, the, ii. 133-135;
paper on, by C. W. Vincent, 135-153.

Landnámabók, the, i. 27;

extracts from, 78, 79, ii. 50.
Laug, the, or reeking spring, ii. 51.
Lakes, the, of Iceland, i. 54.
Law, meaning of, i. 271.
Ledge-springs, the, ii. 294.
Leirhnúkr, sulphur springs at, ii. 282.
Lemprière on Thule, i. 10.
Leprosy, prevalence of, i. 153.
Lerwick, i. 281.
Lich-gate, the, i. 349.
Literature on Iceland, i. 235-260;
in Iceland, ii. 2.
Little Hell, ii. 283.
Livingstone familiarly known in Iceland, i. 367.
Lock, A. G., and the sulphur diggings, ii. 297.
“Lord Kilgobbin,” description of moors and bogs in, i. 293.

Macculloch on Palagonite, i. 38.

Magnus, Cathedral of St, i. 282.
Magnusson on human remains in Iceland, ii. 218.
Maori proverb, a, ii. 288.
Maps of Iceland, i. 252.
Marriage, a check to, i. 148;
customs at feast, ii. 314, 315.
Medicine, the study of, ii. 6.
Mela on Thule, i. 7.
Merchant, the general stock kept by, i. 233.
Millenary Festival, the, i. 109.
Model farm, a, ii. 266.
Months, names of the, in Iceland, i. 71.
Moss, Iceland, i. 203, ii. 75.
Mountains of Iceland, altitude of the, i. 41, 42.
Mud-springs, ii. 296.
Mý-vatn, the solfatara of, ii. 279;
sport at, 280.

Napoleon, Prince, his expedition to Iceland, i. 38.

Newspapers in Iceland, ii. 1.
Northmen, character of the, i. 138.
Norwegians, the, peopling of Iceland by, i. 88.

Obsidian, where found, ii. 285.

Old Man of Hoy, the, i. 280.
Orcadian minister, prayer by, i. 279.

Palagonite, the, of Iceland, i. 35-38.

Papæ;, the, i. 27;
Dasent’s remarks on, 28, ii. 310.
Peat and coal, i. 294.
Peewits, ii. 46.
Pentland Skerries, the, i. 276;
Firth, the, 276.
Personal appearance of Icelanders, i. 132, 133.
Physical geography of Iceland, i. 35.
Picture, an Icelandic, described, ii. 16.
Piracy, the practice of, i. 89.
Pliny on Thule, i. 8.
Political geography, i. 113.
Population of Iceland, i. 115, 124-129.
Ponies, export of the, i. 224, ii. 30;
prices of the, 31;
method of riding, 37;
difficulties in shoeing, 39;
method of putting on board, 44.
Postal arrangements, i. 200, 201, 223.
Printing presses, number of the, ii. 2.
Professions, i. 162-169.
Prudentius Aurelius on Thule, i. 3.
Ptolemy on Thule, i. 9.

Radical Road (Arthur’s Seat), i. 270.

Raven, the, ii. 243.
Reformation, the, its effect on the national mind, i. 238, 374, 375.
Reindeer, the, i. 170.
Reykholt Kirk, Inventory of, ii. 70.
Reykir, ii. 157.
Reykjanes, i. 318, 322, 323.
Reykjahlíð Church, ii. 286.
Reykjavik, i. 59;
appearance of, from the sea, 325;
description of, 326-380;
Sunday in, 348, 357;
trades and professions, 363;
riding saddles, ii. 41;
fishermen of, 44;
the pier, 45.
Road-making in Iceland, i. 52.
Roc, the, ii. 228.
Romans, the, their knowledge of Iceland, i. 21;
remains of, 30.
Ronaldshaw, i. 278.
Runic writing, i. 288;
alphabet, explanation of, 288.

Sagas, the, i. 95, 131;

a Saga hero realised, ii. 325.
Salmon fishing, the, i. 194, 197;
salmon ground, ii. 59.
Scandinavian curse, a, ii. 105;
savage punishments by, 106.
Sand pillars, ii. 270.
Schools in Iceland, ii. 4.
Seal, the, ii. 242.
Seneca on Thule, i. 2.
Servius on Thule, i. 2.
Shaffner, Colonel, and Atlantic telegraphy, ii. 73.
Shark, a dead, ii. 237.
Shark-hunting, ii. 236.
Sheep, i. 186.
Shetland, life in, i. 295;
 Shetlanders, personal appearance of the, 295.
Sibbald, Sir Robert, on Thule: a part of Great Britain, i. 11.
Simpson, Sir James, his archæological researches, i. 279.
Skálds, the, i. 97;
poetry of, 237.
Skaptárjökull, eruption of the, i. 46.
Sledging, ii. 260.
Smallpox, ravages of the, i. 152.
Smoking, in and out of fashion, i. 362.
Snæ-land, on the meaning of, i. 76.
Snæfell, i. 323, ii. 78, 96.
Snakes, on the absence of, from Iceland, i. 173.
Snuff boxes, the manufacture of, ii. 16.
Society, i. 141-148.
Solan goose, the, i. 317.
Spinning, i. 198.
Stonehenge, a theory concerning, ii. 106.
Stone of Iceland, i. 51.
Stone implements found in Iceland, ii. 20.
Stone weapons, ii. 20.
Store, the, i. 225.
Strabo on Thule, i. 3.
Strokkr, the, ii. 181.
Stromness, museum at, i. 290.
Stykkishólm, climate of, i. 63, ii. 101.
Sulphur, i. 171;
diggings, the, 171;
at Krísuvík, ii. 133, 135;
disused, 292;
mountain, 295;
pure, 295;
commercial value of, 296;
diggings leased by Mr Lock, 297;
importation of, 299;
prospects of trade in, 300.
Sulphur in Iceland, ii. 329;
mines at Krísuvík, 329;
at Mý-vatn, 335;
at Hlíðarnámar, 340;
 Theystarreykja mines, 340;
refining of the sulphur, 342;
Sir G. S. Mackenzie on, 344;
Consul Crowe’s report on, 345;
Captain Burton’s notes on Mr Vincent’s paper on, 348;
C. C. Blake on, 352;
leasing contract for, 378;
report of the Althing on, 381;
in Sicily, 390;
on Red Sea, 400;
in Transylvania, 400;
in Andaman Islands, 402.
Sunday in Iceland, i. 348.
Service in church, i. 352, 353, 357.
Swan, song of the, ii. 313.

Taxation, i. 119, 209, 215.

Taylor’s “Etruscan Researches” criticised, ii. 107.
Telegraphy, ii. 73.
Tents for travel, ii. 43.
Theology, the study of, ii. 7.
Things, the, i. 90-92.
Thingvallavatn Lake, ii. 193.
Thor and Christ, i. 94.
Thorvaldsen an Icelander, i. 350, 351.
Thule, of, i. 1;
princess of, and king of, 1;
political and rhetorical, 1, 2;
Strabo, Mela, Pliny, and Ptolemy on, 3-11;
part of Great Britain, 11-23;
as Scandia, 23-25;
as Iceland, 25-32;
etymology of, 32.
Tom Noddy, the, i. 316.
Trades in Iceland, i. 125.
Trout fishing, about, i. 197.
Tyndall, Professor, on Palagonite, i. 37;
on the Mer de Glace, 43;
on active volcanoes, 49.
Vatnajökull, crossing of the, ii. 231;
view of the, 258;
sudden fogs on the, 315.
Vesuvius, eruption of, i. 47.
Virgil on Thule, i. 2.
Volcanic ashes, i. 50.

Wallace, the, of Iceland, ii. 124.

Waterproof for Iceland, note, i. 261.
Watts, Mr, on the Vatnajökull, ii. 232.
Weaving, i. 198.
Weights and measures, the national, i. 215, 218.
Wild oats, story regarding, in Iceland, ii. 296.
Windmill, a, ii. 233.

Yankee traveller, the, i. 356.

Zoological notes and sport, i. 169-175.

END OF VOL. II.

M‘Farlane & Erskine, Printers, Edinburgh.

 FOOTNOTES:
[1] From Thjóð old High Germ. Diot, a people, a nation; often found in composition, as Thjóð-
fundr =constituent assembly, Thjóð-rekr = Germ. Diet-rich, and Thjóð-marr = Germ. Dit-mar
(Cleasby).
[2] Akureyri had another paper, the Gángleri, which ceased publication in 1872. It contained
some valuable articles, especially one headed “What am I to pay to the Thing?” and the answer was
apparently not easy, as it occupied seven issues, beginning with February 7, 1871.
[3] It was here in Henderson’s time, and it was disliked because charged with “a tendency to
introduce the illumination of the German school.” At present, besides the presses of Reykjavik and
Akureyri, there is a third at the Elliðavatn, one hour’s ride from the capital. It belongs to a certain Hr
Benedikt, ex-assessor of the High Court of Justice, who was removed for the best of reasons. He has
no licence to print.
[4] And even England lacks the foundations which encourage specialties in Germany. What we
want is a number of students who are able to devote their time to pursuits never likely to pay in a
publishing sense. Some day, perhaps, one of those philanthropists who give half-a-million sterling to
an hospital or to a church, will provide the necessary accommodation in the “Temple of Science”—
£15,000 per annum, divided into incomes ranging from £200 to £300, would supply a great
desideratum.
[5] The principal are the red-breasted merganser (Mergus merganser); the rare lap-wing (Vanellus
cristatus); the water-rail (Rallus aquaticus), also uncommon; the thrush (Turdus eleacus); the willow
wren (Motacilla trochilus); and the little regulus with big feet and bill (Troglodytes borealis), the
Pjetur Nonsmad, or Peter Dinner of Norway, because he is not seen after noon, and the Fugle Kongr,
because he rides the eagle. Curious stories are also told about the wren at Trieste; he appears and
disappears with the thrushes, avoiding the heats of summer: the same is said about the Abú Hin (the
father of Henna) at Damascus. The black-bird (Turdus merula) is sometimes driven to Iceland by
southern gales.
[6] Of local specimens we were shown varieties of the Mó-berg (Palagonite tuff), especially from
the Seljadalr, which feels soft, between chalk and steatite, some white or dull yellow, acted upon by
acids; others brown and black. Palagonite conglomerate with large pieces of felspar. Blue compact
basalt from Kjallarnes, with and without drusic cavities; hexagonal basalt; reniform pebbles of the
same material. Jaspers, red, yellow, and green, from the north, the latter containing copper. Dolerite
or greenstone. A collection of Hekla lavas, passing from the porous to the highly compact. Micaceous
“glimmer schiefer” studded with garnets. Zeolite and Iceland spar; silicates of lime. Quartz needles
from the Geysir, and other quartzes, uncrystallised and crystallised into fine hexagons, large and
small, often contained in bolides. Aluminous clays and oxide of iron, some with regular angles and
metallic revetments. Concretions from Laugarnes and the Geysir, the stalks of plants resembling
petrified bones. The Cyprina Gaimardi and Byssomea arctica from the north. Other shells: Balanus,
Mya truncata, Venus Islandica, Lepas, Bulla, and Turbinus. True cannel coal from Suderoe, to the
west; lignites, old and new; pieces of Surtar-brand, flat, and showing impressions of leaves; large
fragments of true pitch-stone resembling, and others in transition to, obsidian. Hrafntinna (Raven-
flint, Gagates Islandicus), obsidian or Iceland agate, black and liver-brown, like Jews’ pitch or
asphalt, from Mý-vatn and the Hrafnatinnuhraun of Hekla. Henderson (i. 178) mistranslates
Hrafnutinna, “Piedra de Galinazzo, or raven-stone” (for buzzard-stone). Agates, chalcedonies, and
transitional opals, from Múla Sýsla, Tindastoll, and Heimaklettur, in the Vestmannaeyjar: according
to Professor Abel, the south-eastern coast affords the noble stone, and the islanders believe that about
1821 a Mr Methley (?) carried home a valuable collection. Professor Árnason kindly gave me a little
box of chalcedonies which looked like onyxes.
 [7] The Skýrsla (Report) of the Library gives a total of 387 works, distributed amongst eight
stands of sixteen shelves—they are by no means well filled. Classical authors occupy two cases on
the left of the entrance; on the right are translations of the Testament, and some elementary works in
Arabic and Armenian, Hindostani, Maharati, and Bengali, all “dead letters” here. At the further end
are modern books printed in Reykjavik. The small collection of Icelandic manuscripts is all on paper,
the more valuable vellum has left the island for “foreign parts.” There are bundles of ecclesiastical
archives, tattered and unbound copies of the defunct “Islendingur,” which is more quoted in England
than in Iceland; and finally, there is a small set of novelists, Walter Scott (in German), Dickens, and
Bulwer, lent to the reading public.
[8] The only remarkabilities are the Bibles and the manuscripts. Among the first we find the large
folio Biblia of 1584—the first entire work—translated from the German version of Martin Luther by
Guðbrand Thorlaksson, Bishop of Hólar, and there printed. This admirable work, which rivals our
“established version,” is not divided into verses, and is chiefly curious because the mechanical
dignitary, who in 1574 imported new types, made his own capitals, plates, and woodcuts. He was
assisted by the Icelander Jón Jónsson, and preceded by John Mathieson, a Swede, who brought the
first printing press about 1520, and who published the “Breviarium Nidarosiense” in 1521; an
ecclesiastical handbook, Luther’s Catechism, and others of the same kind. These works, especially
the Breviarium, are so rare as to be practically unprocurable. According to my informants, no
“Elucidarius” has ever been published in Iceland. The Rev. Thorwaldr Bjarnason assured me that the
oldest Icelandic manuscript is one of these catechisms, translated, as they all were, from Latin, and
dating from the thirteenth century. The second Biblia (1644), after the Danish version of Bishop
Resinius, is the work of Bishop Thorlak Skurlason of Hólar, who divided it into verses. The type is
black letter, ultra-Gothic Gothic, and the two folios are in the best condition. There is a copy of the
New Testament (1540, Henderson, ii. 265) translated by Oddr Gottskálksson, with the distinguishing
mark [image of figure not available.] (G. T. and cross), a large and thick duodecimo, with the
beginning and the end restored by manuscript—Icelanders, as a rule, are very skilful in supplying lost
pages. Of this book only three copies are known, the two others are at the deanery of Hruni and in
Glasgow. Another New Testament (1609), reprinted at Hólar by Bishop Guðbrand, whose high-nosed
and fork-bearded face remind us of his kinsman Rustam in far Iran, is a small stout octavo, with an
old binding and metal clasps.
[9] The valuable printed books are the fourth volume of Finn Jónsson’s “Historia Monastica,” of
which only three copies exist in the island; the “Scriptores Rerum Danicarum” (Jacobus Longebek, 8
vols. folio, Hafniæ, 1772); and the “Crymogea” of Arngrimr Jónsson, 4 vols. octavo: the latter is so
unhappily divided that it is most difficult to find a passage required. Some of the shelves are filled
with presents made by patriotic Icelanders and liberal publishers, such as The Gentleman’s Magazine
till 1771; a few Smithsonian and Patent Office Reports; “Le Plutarch Français;” “Conversations
Lexicons;” the “Allgemeine Deutsch Bibliotek;” the “Bibliothêque des Romans;” “Chambers’s
Information for the People;” “Dictionnaire de Bayle,” and the “Chronique des Religieux de Saint
Denis,” by L. Bellaguet—a curious mixture by the side of Thackeray, Dickens, and Marryat. The list
of local works, so much wanted by travellers and so rarely found, is eminently defective. Neither the
first nor the second volume of Cleasby was among the number, and although the Latin translation of
the Njála exists, Mr Dasent’s “Burnt Njál” did not appear. Of Englishmen in Iceland, I found Hooker
and Mackenzie, Lord Dufferin, and Symington. Gaimard’s sumptuous and expensive work, including
the folio illustrations, is there: its fate has been general abuse and unlimited “cribbing.” I was shown
in London some photographs of exploration in the Vatnajökull, which were mere reproductions of the
“Sommet du Snæfells Jökull;” and many a book of travels has similarly enriched itself.
[10] The oldest form is Frauva, and the later Frú is probably a contracted form of Fruvu, or of
Freyja (Venus), according to the Prose Edda (c. 24), but in the glossary to the Poetical Edda, it is from
Friðr, handsome, whence Friðla, a concubine, corresponding with the German Frau, but put after as
well as before the name. It was little used before the thirteenth century, and in the fourteenth it was
applied to abbesses and the wives of knights, not of priests. At present, it is given without distinction.
Húsfreyja is = Germ. Hausfrau = Eng. Housewife, always a married woman. Junfrú is = Germ.
Jungfrau, a princess in the thirteenth century, now simply Mademoiselle. Víf (Weib, a wife) is purely
poetical in Icel.: it is supposed to be originally a weaver (Vefa, vífiðr). Hence the Anglo-Saxon Wîf-
mann = woman, not womb-(Icel. Vömb) man. Herra (= Germ. Herr) was a title given in A.D. 1277 to
the new Norwegian creation of barons (Hersar) and knights: bishops and abbots were also so styled.
After the Reformation it became an integral part of the address of bishops, as Síra of priests, but only
applied like the Latin Don (dominus) to Christian names. Now it is our Mister or Esquire in writing:
in conversation Icelanders have no equivalent for these words; the person, if not a clerk, is simply
addressed by his Christian name. The old scale of precedence was Konungr, Jarl, Hersir (the baron of
Normandy and Norman England), Höldr (yeoman), and Búandi or Bóndi, = Germ. Bauer, a tiller of
the ground (Cleasby).
[11] From Falda, to fold, hence the Ital. Falda and Faldetta, head-dress. As women vied in the
size of this “stately national head-gear,” it obtained the sarcastic name Stiku-faldr, “yard-long fald.”
In modern poetry, Iceland, with her glaciers, is represented as a woman with her fald on. Skaut is the
“sheet” or veil, which hung down behind (Cleasby).
[12] Forbes’ sketch of “Helda’s buttons” gives an excellent idea of the article.
[13] M. Gaimard deduces this word from the Germ. Bauer, peasant; evidently an error. The North
of England names, of which twenty to thirty end in -by, e.g., Kirk-by, derived the suffix from the
Danish and Swedish -by, which is = Icel. Bær (Cleasby).
[14] The instrument occurs in the proverb, “Svá eru Flosa ráð sem fari Kefli.” Flosa plans are a
rolling cylinder (Gr. Οἱ δὲ κυλίνδροις ἄλλοτ’ ἐπ’ ἀλλὰ φέρονται), the metaphor being taken from a
mangle (Cleasby).
[15] The latter also has introduced the rude Scotch Posh or fiddle, strung with “Torren,” the small
gut of the sheep (Edmonston).
[16] Thorpe (Edda, preface, part ii., pp. iv., v.) suggests that the name of this adaptation of Vedic
and Iranic artificer-gods, this northern Vulcan and Dædalus, may be merely an adaptation from the
German Wieland, or the Anglo-Saxon Weland, and notices Sir Walter Scott’s woeful perversion, in
“Kenilworth,” of the venerable legend travestied from the Berkshire tradition. Blackwall tells us that
a labyrinth was called Völundarhús—a wayland house; and Cleasby that Völundr survives in the Fr.
Galant, and the Eng. Gallant.
[17] The day, however, has not come when these weapons can be ranged strictly according to
date, and when a narrow comparison of differences, not of superficial resemblance, can be made
between those discovered in different parts of the world.
[18] It is nothing but the “cross cramponné” of heraldry, and is generally identified with the
mythic “thunderbolt;” hence, probably, the pre-Christian crosses of Scandinavian inscriptions. Of the
sacred cross in the Huaca at Cuzco, we learn that the Incas did not worship it, beyond holding it in
veneration on account of the beauty of its form, or for some other reason which they could scarcely
give expression to (Garcilasso de la Vega, translated, etc., by Clements R. Markham, C.B., for the
Hakluyt Society, London, 1869). It may be remarked that the pre-Christian cross, shaped as an
ordinary Greek cross, when not connected with the sacred Tan of Egypt, was the symbol of the four
quarters; when surrounded by a circle, it denoted the solar path from left to right round the world. A
later symbol of the same order was the Hindu Swastika (mystical mark, meeting of four roads, etc.),
whose arms, according to Mr Beal, should always be drawn from left to right, and not, as is
sometimes done, “widdershins,” or in the reverse way. Finally, the crocheted cross (Cruz ansata at
four ends) is the Aryan symbol of the sacred fire lit by Pramatha (Prometheus).
[19] The trip of eight days thus costs £14, but the travellers had potted provisions, liquor, and
other comforts, which may have brought the expense up to £20—£10 each. Allowing £3 for the six
days of delay, in or about Reykjavik, till the fortnightly steamer starts; £6 for coming from and
returning to Granton; and £3 for extras; the total of £22 easily “does” the Geysirs. Of course, those
who are not hurried will pay much less.
[20] The figures have been treated in the Introduction, Sect. VII.
[21] Hross in Icelandic (Germ. Ross, Fr. Rosse) is singular and plural. So Chaucer makes “hors”
plural, and we still say, a troop of horse, like a flock of sheep. So in Shetland Russa-bairn (stallion,
male) is opposed to Hesta-bairn (mare) child. The Hengist and Horsa of our innocent childhood were
derived from the same words.
[22] Nothing easier than to teach the horse meat-eating and fish-eating. Where little and highly
nutritious food is forced by the necessity of saving weight, the habit is acquired in youth.
[23] In this matter the last few years have seen a wonderful improvement amongst us; still, I have
visited wealthy stables in England where the thermometer stood at 72° (F.), equal to Boston Hotel, or
to an Anglo-Indian London Club. It is difficult to reform the evil where grooms sleep above these
ovens, where hot air saves grooming coats, and where the vet. requires to make a livelihood. The
perfection of horse-stabling appears to me a modification of the Afghan system—protecting the chest
and body with felts, thick or thin as the season demands, and allowing the head and throat to be
hardened by cold, pure air.
[24] This is a general rule: 65 for an ass, 100 for a pony, and 120-150 for an ox. The latter are not
trained to carry luggage in Iceland, and it is hard to tell the reason why.
[25] Astraddle was doubtless the earliest form of feminine seat, yet Mr Newton found at Budrum
a statue of Diana sitting her horse sideways.
[26] Information concerning them may be met with in Gosselin (Historia Fucorum): travellers
have paid scant attention to this branch of botany. The wracks feed man and beast, and serve for fuel,
bed stuffing, and other domestic purposes: consequently some forty-four kinds have been described,
especially that impostor, the Zostera marina, which lies in loose heaps. The most common are the
Fucus palmatus, Sacchurinus esculentus, edulis, fœniculaceus, and digitatus. The first-mentioned is
the Sol, eaten in Ireland and in Scotland, where it is called Dulce: at Oreback (Eyrarbakka), it sells
for 70 fishes per voet (= 80 lbs.). The second, F. saccharinus (Alga saccharifera), is the Welsh Laver,
whose spirally-twisted leaves, six feet long by one broad, become straight when dry. In the Shetlands
the larger fuci in general are called Tangle, Tang, and Ware, and are extensively used as manure.
[27] Dr Cowie (Shetland, 1st edit., chap. ix., pp. 165-167) gives an excellent account of “peat-
casting.”
[28] Varða, in the plural Vörður, is a beacon, more generally an “homme de pierre,” a pile of
stones to act as landmark or way sign; it is derived from að varða, to ward, to guard, monere (quod
hîc vicus est). Our travellers generally write the word in the Danish form “Varde.” These piles, like
the “ ‘a’úr” (Kakúr) of Syria and Palestine, are often put up by the shepherd lads, apparently for want
of something else to do.
[29] Kona, of old Kwina and Kuna, is evidently the English Quean (but not Queen). It is a
congener of γυνή;(Sansk. Jani), which the Rev. Wm. Ridley (p. 390, Anthrop. Journal, July and Oct.
1872) traces through Guni, Gun, Gyn, and Gin, to the Australian “Jin:” why not take it at once from
the Arab. Jinn (Genie), a manner of devil? For many years, Konungr (A.S., Cynig, our King) was
composed of Konr, man of gentle birth, and Ungr, young; but the Dictionary pronounces this to be a
mere poetical fancy.
[30] The pint was found to contain 3·51 grains of solid matter. The specific gravity (at 60° F.)
was 1000·21, and the components were:

Silica, 1·04 grains.

Protoxide of iron, 0·24 ”
Lime, a trace.
 Magnesia, 0·2 ”
Soda, 0·84 ”
Sulphuric acid, 0·76 ”
Chlorine, 0·40 ”
Organic matter, 0·30 ”
Total, 3·60 grains.
[31] We have Lax rivers in England. Some books translate Lax “trout” as well as salmon. This is
a mistake, the former is always known as Sílungr or Forelle (Dan.): as may be expected, there are
numerous terms for the fish at different ages and in several conditions.
[32] This suffixed article, which has died out of so many northern tongues, appears to be
comparatively modern, only once showing in the Voluspa (e.g., Goðin, v. 117). It is found in Coptic,
e.g., Mau-t, the mother, for Ti-mau; and in Wallach (Daco-Roman): the latter, for instance, says Frate-
le (in Italian, Il fratello), and Dinte-le for Il Dente (dens).
[33] Skarð, common in local names, is the English Shard, a notch, chink, an open place in a bank,
a mountain-pass, the Cumbrian Scarf-gap (Cleasby). Henderson gives Kampe as the popular name of
a col; he probably means Kambi, a comb or ridge.
[34] Meaning a mane, hair, and still preserved in such names as Fairfax.
[35] The word often occurs in Iceland; it is applied to a lady’s bower or a dungeon, both being
secluded chambers, to a heap of refuse (Cleasby), and to conspicuous warts and peaks of rock.
[36] At sea-level the compensated aneroid (Casella, 1182) showed 30·05, the thermometer (F.)
66°. Here it was 27·10 in the open air, with the thermometer at 40° (F.), and in the pocket 26·90, with
the thermometer at 80° (F.). The instrument, despite compensation, must always be cooled in the
shade before use.
[37] “The whole formation of the mountain (Büdös) and the surrounding cones, the sharp-edged
blocks and masses of rock, heaped up one on the other, of which these consist, the apparently molten
surface of the trachyte—all seems plainly to prove that it was only after the formation of these
masses, and when they were in a rigid state, that a grand upheaval took place here; during which, the
powerful gases from below, raising, and straining, and tearing the masses, piled them up in mighty
domes and mountain-tops, tossing them about till, here and there, they had found permanent canals
leading to the surface of the earth.” (Frederic Fronius, quoted by Mr Bonar).
[38] It is noticed in the “Mémoires de la S. R. des Antiquaires du Nord” (p. 9, vol. of 1845-49).
The writer assigns it to A.D. 1143, in the days of “Are Frode” (Ari hinn Fróði).
[39] Múli (pron. mule) is the Germ. Maul, a muzzle, and the Scotch Mull (e.g., of Galloway), the
Shetland and Orkney “Mule.” It means a buttress, with bluff head, a tongue of high land, bounded on
three sides by slopes or precipices, and the word should be adopted into general geography. The
Arabs would call this favourite site for old towns, “Zahr et Taur”—the bull’s back.
[40] The late Mr Piddington tells us that the Hvalfjörð district is “called by the neighbouring
inhabitants Veðra-Kista, that is, box or chest of winds, which implies that this inlet is, as it were, the
abode of violent storms.” He gives cyclones to Iceland, where there are none, and he corrects Uno
Von Troil (p. 41) who rightly makes the name “Storm-coast (Veðra-kista) to be given to some places
in Iceland.”
[41] The Sel, which often occurs in Icelandic names, is the German Senn-hütte, a shed, or little
farm-house, in a mountain-pasture. The A.S. Sele probably reappears in our north-country “Shiel,” a
small shooting farm. In Norway such huts are called Setr, or Sætr, the A.S. Sætar: hence Sumur Sætas
(dwellers in summer huts) became our Somerset. Iceland wants the cold arbour (Ceald here-berga =
Kaltern herberg of old Germany), the bare-walled lodge, or “Traveller’s bungalow.”
[42] The North Atlantic Telegraph viâ the Færoe Islands, Iceland, and Greenland. London:
Stanford, 1861.
[43] At the farm-house the mean of three observations taken before setting out, and after return,
gave 29·60, th. (F.) 71°; summit of first ridge, 27·65, th. 87°; top of mountain, 26·60, th. 77°.
[44] From að stilla, to fix a position.
[45] In the Shetlands called Smora, from Dan. Smör, butter, because it gives an abundance of
cream.
[46] Hooker, ii. 325.
[47] The Mexicans also had a “Fair God,” Quetzel, beautiful as Baldur, and, better still, averse to
human sacrifices. The popular tradition, that some day he would return from the east and rule the
land, made Montezuma recognise him in the blond-haired Cortez: the great explorer and conqueror,
however, did not prove a satisfactory Quetzel. Of these white gods and foreigners from the east, even
in South America, I have treated fully in my notes to Hans Stade (Hakluyt Soc.), part ii., chap. xv.
[48] The word was taken from Chamounix by De Saussure. It is not, as Petermann says, the
detritus or rubbish heaps from the bottom and sides of the glacier or ice-fall, but the débris of the
rock above it.
[49] This is the popular form of Or-usta, battle.
[50] Melr, a sandy hill, and especially a bare bank of sand and stone, familiar to Iceland
travellers, has been explained in the Introduction (Sect. VII.). Baring-Gould (p. 284) would derive it
from a root signifying to grind; Holmboe from Myldja, to dig, or from Mold, loose earth. Bakki is a
bank or ridge, opposed to Brekka (brink), a slope, a hill.
[51] This stone, like the diamond, threatens to lose more than half its value, if it be true that the
State of Queretaro in Mexico has lately (1874) yielded “opals of the first quality, and of all varieties;
the milk-opals, fire-opals, girasols or ‘harlequins,’ and the richest Hungarian or precious opals.”
[52] The word Áss, pl. Asar and Æsir, is explained by Jornandes, “Gothi proceres suos quasi qui
fortunâ vincebant non pares homines sed semideos, i.e. Anses (Ans in Mæso-Gothic) vocavere.”
Suetonius makes Æsar an Etruscan word which meant God (probably a plural of Kelt. Es). We find
forms of it in the Mongolian dialects, and in the Aryan, Sanskrit (Asura), Keltic, Teutonic (Æsir),
German (Anshelm, p. n.), and even in the English Osborn and Oswald. As appears to correspond with
the Semitic Al, but the word is still involved in mystery.
[53] The Hebrew Esh and the Chaldee Esha (fire) are synonymous with the Aryan Is, whence Isti,
an offering on the hearth, and Estika the place of offering. Hence the Greek Hestía, fire, hearth, stove,
and, with digamma, the Latin Vesta when worshipped as Genius or Lar familiaris.
[54] Blót (or Forn), a sacrifice of men and beasts, horses and oxen, swine and sheep, must not be
confounded with Blóð, blood. The Blót-steinn or sacrificial stone, which acted as our gallows, is
described as of “oval form and a little pointed at the top,” which suggests the Moab-god Chemosh, it
stood in every Thing-field, a place adjoining the Hof. I did not remark that the site of the temples
always faced south, as Mallet says. The Öndvegi, or high-seat of the hall, was “on the side of the
sun,” i.e., south.
[55] He specifies the ruined castle near Videdal (Viðidalr), some 200 perches in circumference
and 20 fathoms (?) high on the north side; another castle near the parsonage Skaggestad at
Laugarnaes; remains of heathen temples at Midfjörð, Godale, Viðvik, etc.; the ancient place of
execution at Hegranaes; pagan burial-places, like that of Thorleif Jarlaskáld’s in the Oxerá island,
which yielded old swords and helmets; two Bauta-steinn, great standing stones (Menhirs?), on the
heaths of Thingman’s and Threkyllis, “which probably, according to Odin’s regulations, were
monuments to the memory of deceased persons;” the grass-grown mound of Reykholt, “said to be
raised from the ruins of Sturluson’s house;” the Sturlunga Reitr, or burial-place of his family, and
forty small figures of brass representing animals and other objects found near Flatey: “unfortunately
they fell into the hands of people who did not know their value, consequently they have all been lost”
(p. 189).
[56] This popular German expression is evidently the Scandinavian Besse, for Berr or Bersi =
Bär, a bear. Besse, again, has a suspicious likeness to the Yakut “Ese,” the most respectful term in the
language, = grandfather or monseigneur, applied by those Siberian Mongols to the great white bear,
their most formidable foe. Bruin in Gothland being the “king of the beasts,” to do a thing with
Besse’s leave is equivalent to doing it without leave. The quaint quadruped is much noticed in folk-
lore; “Mishka” is his pet name in Russia; “Berengarius” is derived from the French Dan Beringer;
and Ephraim and Ole Cuffey are well known in the U.S. Persia abounds in tales about his wearing a
turband and riding asses.
[57] It supplied the Hafnafiordite of Forchhammer, leek-green, light, porous, and friable pumice-
tuff, containing the following proportions:

Silica, 35·89
Alumina, 27·36
Protoxide of iron, 14·41
Lime, 10·86
Potash, 9·00
Sulphuric acid, 1·55
99·07
Dr W. Lauder Lindsay remarks, “The sp. gr. is usually 2·729; it appears to be a lime-oligoclase,
belonging, therefore, to the Felspathic family of minerals.”
[58] Passengers to Hafnafjörð paid only 2 marks (7d.). The nine days to the north and back were
the cheapest known to me—$9 (=£1) each way, and for living £4, a total of 13s. per diem, including
steward’s fees, and excellent Norwegian ale and Geneva ad lib. Breakfast of fish and meat at eight to
ten A.M.; dinner of ditto and coffee at two to four P.M.; and supper, a repetition of the two, at eight to
nine P.M. Port, sherry, and Château Yquem = $1 specie (4s. 6d.); champagne, $2; porter, $0·48; and
Norwegian beer, 12sk. (3½d.) per bottle. The cooking was excellent, and plate and linen equally
spotless; the table was laid à la Russe with pleasant little hors d’œuvres of sardines and smoked
salmon, salt meat, ham, and sausage, in fact what Italians facetiously call “Porcheria.” We mentally
re-echo Mr Thackeray’s hope that Great Britain, who is supposed to rule the waves, will some day
devote a little more attention to her cuisine.
[59] Borg, a castle, a city, or a small dome-shaped height, is a common local term. “It may be
questioned whether these names (Borgarholt, Eld-borg, etc.) are derived simply from the hill on
which they stand (berg, bjarg), or whether such hills took their names from old fortifications built
upon them: the latter is more likely, but no information is on record, and at present ‘borg’ only
conveys the notion of a hill” (Cleasby). In Chap. I., I have shown that “borg” and “broch” are sons of
the same family.
[60] Captain Graah (loc. cit.) looks upon this as a mere fable: I do not.
[61] Hít is a scrip made of skin, and, metaphorically, a big belly. With a short vowel, Hitár-dalr
means the Vale of the Hot (i.e., volcanic) River, opposed to Kaldá or Cold Stream. According to
Cleasby, the derivation from the Giantess Hít is a modern fiction not older than the Bárðar Saga: he
also, contrary to other authorities, makes Dominus Bárð a giantess.
[62] The Dictionary gives Göltr, a hog, and Kolla, a deer without horns, a humble deer, a hind.
[63] Both translations are somewhat too literal: Enni, a forehead, secondarily means the “brow of
a hill,” a steep crag, a fronting precipice.
[64] As the “Berserkir” is becoming a power in novelistic literature, it may be advisable to give
the correct form. The singular nominative is Ber-serkr, the plural Ber-serkir, and the oblique form
Berserkja, e.g., Berserkja-dis, cairn of the Berserkir. Cleasby (sub voce) shows that the common
derivation, taken from Snorri, “berr” (bare) and “Serkr” (sark or shirt) is inadmissible, and greatly
prefers “Berr” (a bear), whose skins were worn by athletes and champions; perhaps also here we find
traces of that physical metamorphosis in which all the older world believed. The “Berserksgangr”
(furor bersercicus seu athleticus), when these “champions” howled like wild beasts, gnawed their
iron shields, and were proof against fire and steel, may be compared with the “running amok” of the
Malays, and the “bhanging up” of the Hindu hero—invariably the effect of stimulants. This fact
considerably abates our interest in Eastern tales of “derring-do,” for instance, in the account of the
two sentinels at Delhi, whose calm gallantry, probably produced by opium or hemp, is noticed in
pitying terms by Sir Hope Grant.
 [65] For the observations at Stykkishólm, see Introduction, Sect. II.
[66] Henderson (ii. 67) places “Hofstad” on the western side of the peninsula.
[67] Réttir are the big public pens, Dilkar the small folds round the former, and the Stekkjarvegr
is the spring-fold; all are dry stone walls, as on the Libanus.
[68] As the word is written, it can only signify “Lithe (slope) of the panegyric;” Drápa being a
poem in honour of gods, saints, kings, princes, and so forth, as opposed to the short panegyric
“Plockr,” and to the longer “Hroðr,” or “Lof.” The boatman, however, explained it to mean Slope of
Death, i.e., where some battle took place, and this would be derived from Dráp, slaughter. Both words
(says Cleasby) come from Drepa, to strike. There is also a dispute concerning the formation of certain
beds in this mountain, some holding that they issued from the same crater successively, and others,
simultaneously, from different mouths.
[69] Henderson (ii. 68) places the stone in the swamp, not on the hill-side; Forbes (219) adds that
it was in the centre of the Doom-ring. If so, we did not see it: moreover, Mr R. M. Smith heard from
Hr Thorlacius that we were misled. I cannot help believing in the shepherd-boy; and there was no
mistaking the Doom-ring. For the most part, the instruments of death stood in the fens where certain
classes of criminals were drowned. On the other hand, the Landnámabók (chap. xii.) says, that after
the profanation of Helgafell (Monticulus Sacer), Thórðr Gellir “forum (Thing) in superiora linguæ
loca ubi nunc est, transportavere ... ibique adhuc conspiciendus est lapis Thorinus (Thórsteinn), supra
quem homines sacrificio destinati, frangebantur; ibi etiam circulus judicialis existit in quo homines ad
victimas condemnabant.”
[70] Compare this Northern effort with the poetical Greek curse at the Akropolis of Athens: “I
entrust the guardianship of this temple to the infernal gods, to Pluto, and to Ceres, and to Proserpine,
and to all the Furies, and to all the gods below. If any one shall deface this temple, or mutilate it, or
remove anything from it, either of himself, or by means of another, to him may not the land be
passable, nor the sea navigable, but may he be utterly uprooted! May he experience all evils, fever,
and ague, and quartan, and leprosy! And as many ills as man is liable to, may they befall that man
who dares to move anything from this temple!” Perhaps the most picturesque composition of the kind
is the inscription upon the sarcophagus of Eshmunazar, king of Sidon—at least in the translation of
the late Duc de Luynes.
[71] This form of “lynching” is popularly and erroneously supposed to have been invented upon
the Atlantic seaboard of the United States. The Brazilian “Indians” practised it by way of ceremonial
toilette.
[72] Waring and many others suggest that the “Prostrate Stone” lying north-east of the horse-shoe
or elliptical opening of the Stonehenge trilithons, and the three—formerly five—fallen stones inside
the vallum, represent the first or outer circle, like that of Avebury. It is usually assumed that the
“Friar’s Heel,” the single “block lying farther to the north-east of the “Prostrate Stone,” served for
astronomical purposes, the sun rising over it on the summer solstice, and striking the sacrificial
Thorsteinn or Blótsteinn (4 by 16 feet). The same arrangement is remarked at Stennis. There seems,
however, no reason why both should not have been members of an outermost circle.
Martin (Description of Western Islands, London, 1716) has preserved the popular tradition that
the sun was worshipped in the larger, and the moon in the lesser, ring of the Orkney ruins. Later
writers deny the honour of erecting the circles of Stennis and Borgar (anciently Broisgar = Brúar-
garðr) to the “Northmen,” because such circles are found only in localities where a Keltic race has
ruled, and because “such names as Stennis and Stonehenge prove that they had existence before the
people who so designated them arrived in the country.” The causa appears to me a non causa,
especially if they were Thingsteads and Doom-rings, which in later days would take modern and
trivial names from their sites or peculiarities of structure. On the other hand, the absence of tradition
concerning the popular use of the buildings, which we might expect to linger in the minds of men, is
a serious objection.
[73] We have retained the word “Flói” in ice-floe. It properly means the deep water of a bay
opposed to the shallow water along shore.
[74] We see in Ireland, Scotland, and the English coast about Bristol, the effect of these gales:
they prevail along the coast of Brittany, become less violent in the Bay of Biscay and along Portugal,
and finally the Mediterranean, as the regular outlines of the Balearics, Sicily, and Malta prove,
ignores them.
[75] The work of Jón Thórðarson and another compiler in the fourteenth century, who transcribed
from old MSS., and bring the history up to A.D. 1395, that is a century before the Columbian
discovery. A facsimile specimen of the vellum manuscript used by Professor Rafu as the basis of his
text is given in the “Antiquitates Americanæ.”
[76] In June 1862 Mr Shepherd and his party succeeded in mastering the Dránga Jökull. Upon the
summit the barometer marked 26·5° (at sea-level 29 inches, not degrees), and the thermometer 32°
(F.). Glámu (Dict., Glam, Glamr, Glaumr, glamour) is translated “noisy Jökull,” from the hljóð
(Germ. Laut), or the clamour, the crashing and clashing of ice-slips and torrents.
[77] Dýr is Θήρ, their, deôr, and deer, in Iceland especially applied to the fox, being the only
insular beast of prey (Cleasby).
[78] According to some local authorities, Ísafjörð is the mouth of the Ísafjarðardjúp. Mr Shepherd
(p. 92) lays down that the bay-head and the town are called Ísafjörð, whilst Ísafjarðardjúp is the name
of the whole.
[79] Ísa being the genitive plural of Íss, ice. See page 5, “The Thousandth Anniversary of the
Norwegian Settlement of Iceland,” by Jón A. Hjaltalín, Reykjavik, 1874: the Standard (August 25,
1874) confounds this author with Dr Hjaltalín, “by far the greatest and most learned Icelander of the
day.” Some have erroneously derived it from Ísa or Ýsa, a coal-fish or haddock, which is here
plentiful: this Gadus carbonarius is known to western Scotland by many names. They are “cuddies”
when six to eight inches long, excellent eating in October; when herring-sized they become
“saythes,” somewhat coarse of flesh; and when full-grown “stane-lochs,” almost unfit for food.
[80] The Ursus albus maritimus or Thalarctos is called Bamsin and the female Bingsen: it is well
known to be carnivorous, a “lahhám,” as the peasants of the Libanus term their small brown bears (U.
Syriacus): moreover, it rises upon its haunches to scalp the huntsman, like the Himalayan bear (U.
Thibeticus). The two others common in Norway are the Hesta-biörn or horse-bear (the common
brown U. Arctos), and the Myre or small bear (possibly a variety of the former, like the black bear of
Europe). The latter is valued for its hams, as the paws of the great grizzly (U. ferox), the most savage
of its kind, are prized in the Western States of North America.
[81] It must not be confounded, as some travellers have done, with Eyra, an ear. Eyri is the
modern form of Eyrr, the Shetland Urie, and the Swedish Ör: e.g., Helsing-ör, our Elsinore. Eyr-
byggjar are men who build in Eyris; and, hence, the “Eyrbyggja Saga.” The feature, like the Holmr,
was used for battle-plains; thus Ganga út á eyri, is to fight a duel (Cleasby).
[82] This common name for such features is one of the Semitic words (Arab. Karn) which has
been naturalised in Aryan speech through Κέρας and Cornu. Another is “Botn,” flat or low land, e.g.,
Gulf of Bothnia, in Arab. Batn.
[83] Staðr (plur. Staðir), our “stead,” secondarily means a church establishment, see, convent,
chapel, and so forth. The “church contest,” or struggle, between the clergy and laity about the
ownership and administration of churches and glebes, which began at the end of the thirteenth
century, and was partially settled by the agreement of A.D. 1296, has diffused this word far and wide
through Iceland. Thus the heathen Fell, Hraun, Hóll, and Melr became Staðar-fell, Staðar-hraun,
Staðar-hóll, and Mell-Staðar. On the other hand, the plural Staðir is frequent in local names of the
pagan time, as Höskulds-Staðir, Alreks-Staðir, etc. (Cleasby).
[84] So the point was called by all on board; the map gives Krossanes (cross naze).
[85] The Lodbrokar Kviða (Lodbrog’s Quoth) or Krákumál, so called from the “mythical lady”
Kraka, was translated (1782) by the Rev. James Johnstone, A. M., chaplain to the British Embassy at
Copenhagen. It is given by Henderson (ii. 345-352), who believes—O sancta simplicitas!—that the
ruffian, who probably never existed, himself composed the “warlike and ferocious song.” The word
Kviða, or lay, derives from Kveðja, cognate with the English “quote” and “quoth.”
[86] This common term is explained in Chap. XIII.
[87] I know no reason why we should conserve such veteran blunders as “Hecla” and “Geyser.”
The latter has already been explained. The former, whose full form is Heklu-fjall, derives from Hekla
(akin to Hökull, a priest’s cope), meaning a cowled or hooded frock, knitted of various colours, and
applied to the “Vesuvius of the North,” from its cap and body vest of snow. Icelanders usually
translate it a chasuble, because its rounded black shoulders bear stripes of white, supposed to
resemble the cross carried to Calvary.
[88] “Kleifar” is a local name in West Iceland, from Kleif, a ridge of cliffs or shelves in a
mountain-side (Cleasby).
[89] Professor Tyndall (loc. cit.) tells us that the “two first gases cannot exist amicably together.
In Iceland they wage incessant war, mutually decompose each other, and scatter their sulphur over the
steaming fields. In this way the true solfataras of the island are formed.” He derives the vapour of
sulphur in nature from the action of heat upon certain sulphur compounds.
[90] I have denied the existence of this diagonal.—R. F. B.
[91] The Journal shows how great this mistake is.—R.F.B.
[92] The description is prodigiously exaggerated.—R.F.B.
[93] Mr Judd, examining Western Scotland, opines that the felspathic (acid) rocks have been
erupted from the Eocene volcanoes, and the augitic (basic) from those of the Miocene age. In Iceland,
however, both seem to have been discharged by the Post-tertiary, as well as by the Tertiary epochs.
[94] “He” (Gunnar Hámundarson) “was eulogised by many poets after his death,” said an
Icelander, with unthinking satire. The last poem is the “Gunnarshólmr,” by Jonas Hallgrímsson, a
poet who, being loved of the gods, died young.
[95] The Romans were naked below the knee: the pillars of Trajan and Antonine show Teutonic
captives wearing a dress much resembling that of our peasants and sailors.
[96] Often written Reykium (for Reykjum), dative plural of second declension. As has been seen,
the word enters into a multitude of Icelandic proper names.
[97] The four higher are (S.E.) Öræfajökull (6426 English feet); (W.) Snæfell (5964);
Eyjafjallajökull (5593) to south, and Herðubreið (5447) to north-east. Stanley (repeated by Dillon)
assigned to Hekla 4300; Sir J. Banks, with a Ramsden’s Barometer, 5000. Gunnlaugsson gives 5108,
but here he is very defective, wanting a separate and enlarged plan. The direct distance from the
summit to the sea is usually laid down at thirty miles; measured upon the map, the “bee-line” would
be twenty-seven geographical miles.
[98] Rángá (“wrong” or crooked stream) is a name that frequently occurs, and generally denotes
either that the trend is opposed to the general water-shed, or that an angle has been formed in the bed
by earthquakes or eruptions.
[99] The down is applied as a styptic to cuts, the leaves are used in tanning, and the wood makes
ink.
[100] Klaproth remarks that this is the only tree (? the poplar = Pippal) which the Aryan colonists
of Europe remarked, and distinguished by the Sanskrit name. Thus Bhurrja became the Latin Betula,
the Gothic Birkun, the Scandinavian Birki and Björk, the German Birke, and the English Birch. The
name is applied under the form of Bjarkar to the thirteenth Runic letter = B or P; and it is the first
Irish letter, Beith.
[101] Næfr, or birch-bark, was used for thatching: Næfra-maðr, the birch-bark man, was an
outlaw (Cleasby).
[102] Mr Pliny Miles distinctly denies the existence of these fish-lakes, which Metcalfe observed,
and which we clearly saw. There is a Fisksvatnsvegr, which has been travelled over, and there are
reports of a volcano having burst out there about a century ago.
[103] The highest apparent point shown to us on the south-east was Grænafjall. Upon the map it
is an insignificant north-eastern “mull” of the Tindafjallajökull, but refraction had added many a cubit
to its low stature.
[104] Alluded to in Chap. VI.
[105] Tunga is applied to the Doab of two rivers; Tangi is a land-spit, a point projecting into the
sea or river.
[106] This is the “low trap hill” of former travellers, supposed to be one of the veins that pierced
the elevated diagonal.
[107] Especially M. Dortous de Mavian, whose theory was succeeded by the age of chemicals,
pyrites, and alkalis, and the oxidation of unoxidised minerals, with a brief deversion in favour of
“The Fire,” by Sir Humphrey Davy. Poisson extinguished it when he remarked that if fed by
incandescent gases it would burst the shell, or at least would be subject to tides, causing daily
earthquakes. Happily, also, the term “earth’s crust” is also becoming obsolete, or rather the solid
stratum of 100 miles overlying a melted nucleus has suddenly grown to 800 (Hopkins). Sir William
Thomson (Proceedings of the Royal Society, xii., p. 103) holds it “extremely improbable that any
crust thinner than 2000 or 2500 miles could maintain its figure with sufficient rigidity against the
tide-generating forces of sun and moon, to allow the phenomena of the ocean tides, and of precession
and nutation, to be as they are now.” We will hope for more presently.
[108] Cleasby tells us that the end of Árna Saga (the bishop), the sole historical work of that time,
is lost. He opines that a certain “pretty legend,” referring to the “moving” of founts when defiled with
innocent blood, could not have arisen “unless a change in the place of hot springs had been
observed.”
[109] Everywhere we found leaves laminated with silicious deposit, but no trace of shells, even
though we sought them under the turf. The composition of Geysir water will illustrate Forbes. In
1000 parts of water there are 0·5097 of silica, whereas the rest, carbonates of soda and ammonia,
sulphates of soda, potash, and magnesia, chloride and sulphide of sodium, and carbonic acid, amount
only to 0·4775, Out of the latter, again, soda represents 0·3009, and sodium 0·2609; silica and soda
are therefore the constituents. The specific gravity is 1000·8 (Faraday).
[110] More exactly the two divisions are each about twenty feet long; the smaller is twelve and
the greater is eighteen feet broad; the extreme depth is thirty feet.
[111] See Barrow’s ground-plan of the Geysirs (p. 177).
[112] In 1859, when I passed over the Rocky Mountains, near the headwaters of the Missouri and
the Yellowstone, the North American Geysirs had not been invented, nor did we hear a word about
them from the backwoodsmen and prairiemen along the line. In fact, the United States Expeditions
which surveyed, photographed, and described them, began only in 1868.
[113] Baring-Gould makes the bridge seven to eight yards long; far too long for single planks.
[114] Written Ravnegiá, and other barbarous forms. Gjá also has been corrupted to Gaia, etc. The
word is found in the Hebrew ‫אנ‬, the Greek γᾶια, and the German and Swiss Gau, a district, a canton;
it is preserved in the Scottish Geo or Geow: it is the Cornish Hor, and the Skaare of the Færoes,
supposed to extend under the sea. It “often denotes a rift, with a tarn or pool at bottom, whence Gil is
a rift with running water;” and it is akin to Gína (χαινω, A.S. Gínan); Gähnen, to yawn (Cleasby). In
Iceland these fosses are split by the hammer of Thor.
[115] This is evidently the Germ. Kuchen and the Eng. Cake: we can trace it back to the Pers.
“Kahk.”
[116] According to Blackwall, the Thingstead in Oldenburg still shows the Doom-ring of upright
stones, and the Blót-steinn in the centre.
[117] The Axewater, so called because Kettlebjörn, the Old, when prospecting for a residence
here, lost his axe. Barrow gives Oxera, which would mean Oxwater. There has been no change in the
Thingvellir since the days of the Norwegian colonists.
[118] Al-manna, genitive plural from an obsolete Almenn (comp. Alemanni), is a prefix to some
nouns, meaning general, common, universal. The local name of the great rift near the Althing was
given because all the people met upon its eastern flank (Cleasby).
[119] A large plan, but not very correct, is given by Dufferin (p. 73).
[120] I believe it has been transferred by later antiquaries from the holm to the mainland; but
Cowie (p. 178) still keeps it in the islet.
[121] This Gjá is amazingly exaggerated by Baring-Gould (p. 69); assuming the human figures at
only 5 feet, the depth of the chasm would be 75.
[122] For the code of honour in pagan Iceland, Dasent refers to Kormak’s Saga, chap. x., where
the law of the duello was most punctiliously laid down as the “British Code of Duel” (London, 1824)
by a philanthropic and enterprising Irish gentleman. The weapons chiefly used were broadsword and
battle-axe; the combatants might not step back beyond a given space, and the latter peculiarity is still
preserved in the hostile meetings of students throughout Northern Germany, where the floor or
ground is marked with chalk. In some cases they stood upon a hide and were not allowed to gain or to
break ground. The Hólm-ganga was a “judicium Dei,” differing from the Einvígi, or simple duel, by
the rites and rules which accompanied it. The Norwegian duel was worthy of the Scrithofinni; the
combatants were fastened together by the belt, and used their knives till one was killed. How
pugnacious the old pagan Scandinavians were, may be judged from the wife’s practice of carrying the
husband’s shroud to weddings and “merry makings.”
[123] Paijkull gives the length, one geographical mile, and the maximum depth, 140 feet; too
short and too deep.
[124] The curlew (Scolopax arquata), when young, is apparently called a whimbrel (Numenius
phœopus) in the London market.
[125] It is analysed by Bunsen (Art. II., loc. cit.).
[126] Skapt is a “shaved” stick, haft, shaft, or missile; Skapt-á, the shaft-river = Scot. and Eng.
Shafto; and hence, Skaptár-fell (sounded Skapta-fell), is the Shapfell of Westmoreland (Cleasby), the
Icel. “sk” being generally permuted to the softer English “sh.”
[127] Baring-Gould places it near Holt, east-north-east of Erlendsey.
[128] The “frow-stack” is a skerry, resembling a woman’s skirt. Sir W. Scott (The Pirate, xxvi.)
says the “Fraw-Stack,” or Maiden Rock, an inaccessible cliff, divided by a narrow gulf from the
island of Papa, has on the summit some ruins, concerning which there is a legend similar to that of
Danoë. Vigr (a spear, in the Orkneys Veir) describes a sharp-pointed rock.
[129] Erlendr is here a proper name: usually it is an adjective, meaning “foreign” = the Germ.
Elendi.
[130] Also the single day’s passage from Reykjavik to Berufjörð is $12, or one-third of the full
passage to Granton, which takes eight to nine days. The other and far more important complaints
against the “Diana” have been noticed before.
[131] From Ör, negative, and Höfn, a haven: as will be seen, the plural Öræfi is also applied to a
wilderness.
[132] In the Færoes the whale is written “Qual,” a pronunciation still retained in Iceland.
[133] Mr Newton’s valuable paper in the Ibis, containing all that is required quâ Iceland
ornithology, has been alluded to. He quotes the works of the late Hr Petur Sturitz, of Professor
Steenstrŭp (Videnskabelige Meddellser for Aaret 1855), of the venerable Richard Owen
(Paleontology, 2d edit., 1861, and Trans. Zool. Soc., June 14, 1864), and of many other writers. An
interesting note about the “only wingless, or rather flightless, species of the northern hemisphere,”
and two recorded instances of the rara avis being kept in confinement, are given by Baring-Gould,
Appendix A., pp. 406, 407.
[134] My companion, Mr Chapman, a New Zealander, who has returned to New Zealand,
suggested that, despite Dr Hector, the Moa, a bird eight feet high, may still be found alive in some of
the forest fastnesses of his native island.
[135] According to Barnard, the last European auk was killed in 1848, at Vardö, a Norwegian
fortress on the frontier of Russia.
[136] Berufjörð is derived from Berr, of whom more presently, or from Bera, a she-bear, the
animal being often floated over upon ice-floes: Bare Firth, from “berr,” bare, which has been
proposed (Longman, p. 33), is a mere error. It is the longest, if not the largest, feature of this coast,
except Reyðarfjörð, which lies to the north, separated by three minor inlets. The “look-out” stands,
according to nautical charts, in N. lat. 64° 39´ 45´´, and W. long. (G.) 14° 14´ 15´´ (in Olsen 14° 19´
47´´), the latter supposed to require correction. The difference of time from Reykjavik is about 30´.
The variation (west) diminishes: it was laid down at 39° or 40°, but on May 18, 1872, Captain Tvede
made it 35° 15´. Here local attractions, often causing a difference of half-a-point within a few
hundred yards, would puzzle “George Graham of London.”
[137] Mr Watts, who is now publishing an account of his march, and who has started a third time
for the Vatnajökull, gave me this list of stations:
1. Reykjavik to Reykir.
2. To near the Tindafjallajökull, south of Hekla; very rough path.
3. Over the deep Mælifellssandr to east, where the valleys are grassy.
4. To the Búland farm.
5. To Kirkjubær cloister, on the Skaptá.
6. To the Núpstaðr farm, a long day’s march. Here provisions and forage are
procurable.
[138] Mr Tom Roys, an American, accompanied by his four brothers, established himself at
Seyðisfjörð, and used a rocket harpoon patented by himself, and so much “improved” that it will
hardly leave the gun: the shell explodes in the body, kills the animal instantly, and, by generating gas,
causes the carcass to float; if not, the defunct is buoyed and landed at discretion. He first hunted with
a small sailing craft, and in 1865, after bagging seven to eight animals, each worth $2000, he brought
from England a screw of 40 tons burden to tow his whaling boats. He calculated that 365 whales
would allow 1 lb. of food to 68,000 souls every day in the year: he also proposed pressing the meat
for feeding dogs and fattening pigs (!). In that year his total bag till August was twenty-five whales,
of which he landed thirteen. I was told, however, that the speculation proved a failure, and that Mr
Roys went off to Alaska. At Seyðisfjörð, distant two days’ march, there was a Dutch steamer, which
last year had killed thirteen whales. When reduced to the last extreme, we thought of travelling home
in her, but future explorers must not count upon such opportunities.
[139] Uno Von Troil (129, 130) gives interesting notices of the whale. He divides the mammals
into two kinds: (1.) “Skidis-fiskur,” or smooth-bellied, with whalebone instead of teeth; the largest,
“Stettbakr,” or flat-back, measures nearly 200 English feet, and the “Hnufubakr” is only 50 feet
shorter. Of the Reydar-fiskur, or wrinkle-bellied (No. 2), the largest is the “Steipereidur,” attaining
nearly 240 English feet; the “Hrafnreyður” and the “Andanufia;” all are considered very dainty food;
and the Icelanders say the flesh has the taste of beef. The whales with teeth are (1.) the eatable, such
as the Hnysen, the Hnyðingur, the Hundfiskur, and the Maahyrningr; and (2.) the ice-whale, or
uneatable, with its subdivisions, the Roðkammingur and the Náhvalur, were both “forbidden as food
by some ancient regulations, and particularly by the Church laws. The Icelanders believe that the first
sort are very fond of human flesh, and therefore avoid fishing in such places where they appear.” The
carnivorous whales were frightened away by carrying “dung, brimstone, juniper-wood, and some
other articles of the same nature, in their boats”—an idea worthy of the black tars who navigate Lake
Tánganyika.
[140] Professor Paijkull adds the Reyðr (whence Reyðarfjörð), Physeter or Catodon
macrocephalus, a large spermaceti whale; he also gives to the Iceland waters the Arctic walrus (Icel.
Rosm-hvalir; Trichecus rosmarus), and the narwhal (Monodon monoceros). The Sagas specify
twenty-five kinds of whales.
[141] The Ork. Hockla is the dog-fish, Squalus acanthius or archiarius. Mr Vice-Consul Crowe
gives the names “Nákarla or havkalur,” probably misprints; he adds, however, that the Greenland
shark rarely attacks man unless molested by him. This assertion, which is made in all popular books,
may, I believe, be modified by the reason given in the text. He also tells us that the hide is cheaper
than either seal or lamb skin, but is neither strong nor durable—this again I doubt. The Greenland
shark is called by some travellers Háskerðingr, and it can swallow, they say, a reindeer.
[142] Properly short-breeks, or curt-hose, from Stuttr, stunted, stinted, scant (Cleasby).
[143] Iceland does wisely to preserve her seals. Argyleshire in the olden time, and especially the
holms south of Skye, were famed for them; now they are very wild and not likely to be caught
basking on the rocks, or bathing in shallow water. Old bull seals, who may measure 5 feet 6 inches,
are wary in the extreme, and seldom allow the use of the club. Phoca must also be hit on the head, or
the hunter will see no more of him. In Greenland the packs have been almost killed out by the scores
of vessels which Dundee and Peterhead, Norway and Sweden, Denmark and Germany, send every
year, and it is reported that without a “close time,” the breed will become, like the oyster and the crab,
almost extinct. San Francisco has been sensible enough to preserve the flocks of Proteus by the strong
arm of the law—I wonder if grim old “Ben Butler” still tries to stare man out of countenance as he
floats off the Ocean House.
 [144] Mr Blackwall satirically suggests that our Huggins and Muggins may descend from this
respectable parentage, whilst he trusts that the Smiths, Smyths, and congeners, “will duly
acknowledge the sturdy Scandinavian yeoman, Smiðr Churlsson, grandson of the jovial old fellow,
Grandfather, who had the honour of pledging a bumper with a celestial deity, as their common
ancestor.”
[145] A fourth; hence our farthing.
[146] Evidently from Caballus, the word which has so successfully ousted the more classical
Equus. The Dictionary makes the horseload = 5 trusses; Uno Von Troil, 12 to 15 lispunds, each about
17 Eng. lbs. avoir.
[147] Mr Jón A. Hjaltalín informs me that on the borders of Norway and Sweden several local
names are called after Sóti and Bera, and the legend may have been transplanted to Iceland. It is not
found in the list of Sagas quoted by the Cleasby-Vigfusson Dictionary: I am therefore inclined to
refer it to the sea-rover Hallvarð Sóti, of whom we read, “Thence Kol steered his course out of the
river to Norway ... and came on Hallvarð Sóti unawares, and found him in a loft. He kept them off
bravely till they set fire to the house, then he gave himself up, but they slew him, and took there much
goods” (Burnt Njál, ii. 2).
[148] The aneroid (compensated) showed 27·63; the thermometer, 67° (F.) in the open air. On the
return march, the former was 28·08, and the latter 76° (both in pocket). At sea-level the instruments
stood at 30·04 to 30·12, and 63° (F.).
[149] The name was formerly derived from Loka, to shut, like Wodan from Vaða, even as Juno a
Juvando, and Neptunus a nando. The Dictionary suggests that the old form may have been Wloka
(Volcanus), the w being dropped before the l according to the rules of the Scandinavian tongue. It is
strange that though Öðin, Thórr, and Loki were by far the most prominent personages of the heathen
faith, the name of the latter is not preserved in the records of any other Teutonic, or rather let us say,
Gothic people.
[150] Loka-sjóðr, or Loki’s purse, is the cockscomb, or yellow rattle (Rhinanthus crista galli).
[151] Mr Tuckett, of Alpine fame, shows us anent this word that “strange game (Anglicè, wild-
goose) has been started in the dark forest of etymology.” Like Avalasse and Avalaison (a debâcle of
rain or melted snow), the Schnee-schlipfe is certainly derived from the low Latin “advallare,” to
advance valleywards: others propose “a labendo;” “Lau,” the warm spring winds; “avaler” (e.g.,
avaler son chaperon), the village; “Abländssch,” in French “Avéranche,” and, lastly, the German
Lauwíne, “Löwin,” because these avalantic descents have the rage and power of a lioness. I may add
that in mountainous Europe each valley seems to have its own name, Lavena, Labina, Lavigne,
Avelantze, Evalantze, Líantze, etc., etc., etc.: the giant snow-ball is called in and about Italian
Recoaro “Valanghi” and “bughi di neve.”
[152] It is only fair to repeat what the Standard (August 29, 1874) says of this worthy: “The man
to whom I should strongly advise any English visitors to Iceland to apply for advice and active
assistance—a resident in Reykjavik, speaking excellent English, active and energetic, whose name is
Gislasson—was, in his early days, a theological student, and previous to his ordination was appointed
to the pastorate of Grimsey. He declined to go, and withdrew from the ministry. I do not know
whether the Grimsey fishermen lost a good priest or not, but I know that the English gained an
excellent counsellor. He is the Grímr of Baring-Gould’s well-known book, but if the sketch of him
there contained is at all true to the life, he must have wonderfully improved.” I have spoken of him as
we found him.
[153] This Snæfellsjökull, which we shall see from a far nearer point, is not laid down in the
map: it lies due south of Snæfell, the mountain. Thus there are three Snæfells in Eastern and Western
Iceland. There are also two Eyvindars, both snowless; one near the road, the other close to the
Vatnajökull: we distinguished them as the eastern and the western. Finally, there is an Eastern as well
as a Western Skjaldbreið.
[154] The Dictionary gives “Grip-deildir,” rapine, robbery. Deild (dole, deal) and Deildir
(dealings) are common in local names, especially to boundary places which have caused lawsuits,
e.g., Deildará (boundary-river), Deildar-hvammr, etc.
[155] Uno Von Troil (p. 108) gives the Icelandic names of four Agarici.
[156] The volcanic ashes and lapilli show supra-marine eruptions, but the water-rolled stones tell
another tale.
[157] The Möðruvellir, the abode of Guðmund the Rich or Powerful, was up the Eyjafjörð, and
the map still shows a chapel there.
[158] It is thus written by all travellers: Herði-breiðr, however, from Herðar, would be the
adjective “broad-shouldered.”
[159] According to the “Antiquaires du Nord” (p. 434, vol. 1850-60), “Slesvig” means Vík, or
bay, of the Slè or Sli Arundo Arenaria. But is not this word the Icel. Slý, water cotton (Byssus
lanuginosa), used as tinder?
[160] This traveller mentions eider-ducks at Mý-vatn. We saw none, and the farmers declare that
the birds do not leave the sea-shore.
[161] Pronounce but do not indite “Krabla”—there is no such written word as Krabla. The
Dictionary gives “að krafla,” to paw or “scrabble;” it also means to scratch, and perhaps the obtuse
agricultural mind has connected this pastime with the evil for which sulphur is a panacea.
[162] Some travellers call them Makkaluber, and Icelanders write “Makalupe,” a corruption of
Macaluba, famed for air volcanoes, near Girgenti, itself a corruption of the Arabic “Maklúb.”
[163] The docks of Southampton, built where he sat, have somewhat stultified the simple wisdom
of the old man.
[164] Thus in the Dictionary. Baring-Gould (p. 429), or possibly his printer, calls it Vell-humall,
which would be “gold hop.”
[165] In 1776 Professor Henchel found it “about 200 paces in diameter.” (See Appendix,
“Sulphur in Iceland,” Section I.)
[166] The lay and the succession of the strata so much resembled those quoted in Mr Vincent’s
paper that they need not be repeated here.
[167] As has been seen, I would considerably reduce these figures.
[168] This “banquise,” as the French call it, is said to form a compact belt extended thirty miles
from shore in the Skjálfandifjörð.
[169] It was there found by the late Sir Henry Holland; Dolomieu had some specimens, but he
did not know whence they came.
[170] The Dictionary gives Lá, surf, shallow water along shore; and hair (Lanugo). I found it
extensively used to signify a low place where water sinks, the Arab’s “Ghadir.”
[171] Depill is a spot or dot; a dog with spots over the eyes, according to the Dictionary, is also
called “Depill.” Cleasby translates Stein-delfr (mod. Stein-depill) by wagtail, Motacilla.
[172] Thverá, the “thwart-water,” from Thver, Germ. Quer, and Eng. Queer, is generally
translated Crooked River, Rivière à travers: the term is often applied to a tributary which strikes the
main stream at a right angle.
[173] Aðalból is a manor-house, a farm inhabited by its master, opposed to a tenant farm.
[174] From the verb Kreppa, to cramp, clench. The map gives the name to the eastern headwaters
of the Jökulsá, rising from the Kverk.
[175] The experiments of M. J. M. Ziegler of Winterthür show the drying power of ice; a
difference of 32° per cent. humidity in the glacier air and in the air of the adjacent plain.
[176] Thus in the dictionaries; but it seems to have another sense in popular language.
[177] In Chapter XIV. I have given the reasons why the Mý-vatn mines were not recommended
by the Danish engineers.—R. F. B.
[178] Jukes and Geikie, Manual of Geology, 3d edition, p. 55.
[179] Liebig’s Familiar Letters on Chemistry, p. 152.
[180] Ure’s Dict., vol. ii., p. 432.
[181] Simmond’s Dictionary of Trade Products, p. 367; Muspratt’s Chemistry, vol. i., p. 320.
[182] Liebig’s Letters, p. 149.
[183] Simmond’s Dictionary of Trade Products, p. 351.
[184] See Exports for 1872.
[185] Liebig’s Familiar Letters on Chemistry, p. 150.
[186] See Smee’s My Garden.
[187] Richardson and Watts’ Chem. Tech., 2d edit., 1863, vol. i., part iii., pp. 2 and 3. This old
calcarelle furnace has been greatly improved. It must not be described as a “blast-furnace.”
[188] Simmond’s Dict. Trade Products, 1863, art. “Sulphur.”
[189] Quoted in extenso, Appendix, Section III.
[190] Henderson’s Iceland, 1818, Introduction, p. 4.
[191] Ibid., p. 7.
[192] Ibid., vol. i., p. 160.
[193] Ibid., p. 176.
[194] Henderson’s Iceland, 1818, vol. i., pp. 166, 167, 170, 171, 173, 174, 177.
[195] S. Baring-Gould’s Iceland, 1863.
[196] Shepherd’s North-West Peninsula of Iceland, 1867, p. 157.
[197] Ure’s Dict. of Arts, Manufactures, and Mines, 1860, vol. iii., p. 830.
[198] Dr F. J. Mouat’s Adventures and Researches among the Andaman Islanders, 1863, p. 169.
[199] Letter of A. de C. Crowe, Esq., 27th June 1872.
[200] Paijkull, pp. 217, 244, 245, 246, 247.
[201] These two items are calculated at excessive and extravagant rates. The first item (15s. per
ton) was supplied by an eminent shipowner, and the amount of freight is also overstated.
[202] A certain Hr “Thorlákur O. Johnsen,” whom I met in Iceland, wrote to the Standard (Nov.
16, 1872), and asserted my “entire ignorance” concerning Iceland generally, and the relationship
between Denmark and Iceland in particular. What his ignorance, or rather dishonesty, must be, is
evident when he states a little further on: “As to the so-called wisdom of the Danish Government in
leasing the mines to strangers, there can be only one reply, that all the mines in Iceland, whether of
sulphur or other minerals, belong to Iceland and not to Denmark.”—R. F. B.
[203] I presume this to be a clerical error for “Hlíðarnámar” (Ledge-springs).
[204] The words in italics show the good old Æsopian policy, “dog in the manger” redivivus. The
Icelandic “hand,” when not superintended by foreigners, is idle and incurious as the native of
Unyamwezi: he will not work, and the work must not be done for him by strangers! In the Journal I
have suggested employment of the natives, who might learn industry by good example and discipline.
—R. F. B.
[205] The words in italics show the “narrowness of the insular mind:” the idea of £10 per annum
being an item of any importance in the extensive operations which would be required to make these
sulphur diggings pay!—R. F. B.
[206] Iceland is here ignored, perhaps from the jealousy which foresees a fortunate rival.
[207] These immense fluctuations in the market are probably caused by the Phylloxera vastatrix
now devastating the Continent. Trieste alone, for instance, has of late years imported as much as
twenty cargoes of 200 tons each (a total of 4000) per annum; and the unground sulphur sells at about
£7, 10s. per ton as in England. The spread of the disease is likely to cause an increased demand.
[208] In 1864, according to Mr Consul Dennis, the author of Murray’s “Hand-book of Sicily,” the
two most important mines of Girgenti were “La Crocella” and “Maudarazzi” near Comitine,
belonging to Don Ignazio Genusardi. They yielded annually 140,000 quintals = 10,937½ tons, worth
about £70,000, and gave constant employment to 700 hands (chiefly from the opposite town of
Arragona), at the daily cost of about £60. The produce was shipped at the Mole of Girgenti, and the
road was thronged day and night at certain seasons with loaded carts and beasts of burden, chiefly
mules.
Caltanissetta, Serra di Falco, on Monte Carano, and St Cutaldo are villages in the heart of the
sulphur district. “The scenery is wild and stern. The mountains are of rounded forms, always bare,
here craggy, there browned with scorched herbage, and in parts tinged with red, yellow, and grey, by
the heaps of ore and dross at the mouths. Corn will not thrive in the fumes of sulphur; what little
cultivation is to be seen is generally in the bottoms of the valleys. The hills around St Cutaldo are
burrowed with sulphur mines.”
[209] In a recent report to the Italian Government, Sig. Parodi estimates that Sicilian sulphur will
be exhausted in fifty to sixty years.
[210] Each ballata weighs 70 rotoli = 122½ lbs. avoir., and two are a mule-load.
[211] On the northern flank of the range, which, running from north-north-east to south-south-
west, nearly bisects the island. It is a mean town in the mountains. Licata, the southern port, is nearest
to the central mines.
[212] Her chief exports are fruit, oil, and silk.
[213] “Trust” seems to be the beau ideal of trade where it has not been tried. I have seen its
workings in Africa and in Iceland, and my experience is that it is a pis aller which gives more trouble
than it is worth.
[214] Here it is not stated whether paper or specie “lire” are meant.
[215] It would be better to state that sulphur costing above £5 per ton cannot at present compete
with pyrites; sold below that price it would soon drive its rival out of the market.
[216] “Brimstone” in the Mining Journal (September 19, 1874) made England import in 1872 a
total of 50,049 tons (= £336,216), but in 1873 only 45,467 tons (= £299,727).
[217] Büdös is elsewhere described as a pointed cone of trachyte 3745 feet high, a solfatara or
volcano, which, though never in actual eruption, incessantly pours forth streams of sulphuretted
hydrogen gas, and these act as vents for the forces generated in the depths of the earth.
[218] The following is the analysis of the aluminous earth near Büdös:

Sulphuric acid, 51·59 per cent.

Water and sulphuric clay, mixed with lime, 3·54 ”
Clay, 18·98 ”
Silica, 14·00 ”
Lime, 9·65 ”
Potash, 1·00 ”
End of Project Gutenberg's Ultima Thule; vol. 2/2, by Richard F. Burton

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