THINGVELLIR
“Land of lost gods and godlike men, art thou!
Thy vales of evergreen, thy hills of snow,
Proclaim thee Nature’s varied favorite now.”
—_Byron._
We had expected to start on our tour through the south of Iceland at
eight in the morning. It was ten when we left the enclosure where the
ponies were saddled and the pack horses laden. There were eight ponies
in the troup, two pack ponies, two riding ponies for each of us and two
for the guide. If the riding is easy the ridden ponies are changed midway
of the days ride. If the road is difficult the ponies are changed twice.
Our guide was Johannes Zoëga, the uncle of Helgi. He was nearly seventy
years of age and as spry as a youth of twenty. Since he was fifteen he
had followed the trails and he knew every path we crossed. Never was he
in doubt in the network of trails on the moors or in the valleys but
rode rapidly ahead at the crossings and turned the leading pony into the
right path. Johannes was fully six feet tall and his favorite pony was
the smallest in the string. On rough ground or in the deep ruts, it was
amusing to watch his attempts to keep his feet off the ground. He spoke
English quite well and understood it better than he spoke it. He was a
thorough gentleman, waited upon us unceasingly and made our trip most
enjoyable.
When I saw the ponies which were to carry us over so many miles of rough
country, up the lower slopes of lava-blistered _Hekla_ and across the
bridgeless rivers, I thought that the diminutive beasts would not be
able to do the work. I felt ashamed to ask the little fellows to carry
my hundred and eighty pounds. I mentioned the matter to Mr. Zoëga. He
smiled and said they would do the work required of them in an entirely
satisfactory manner. They did. It was our first experience in the saddle,
nor had I been on a horse since, as a small boy, I was accustomed to
ride bare-back to a mountain pasture in New Hampshire to salt and count
the sheep. It proved to be just as well, for no matter what may be one’s
horsemanship in other lands and on other steeds, with the Icelandic
_hestr_ conditions are different and one must first put aside his
acquired ideas of horsemanship and be governed by new conditions and
experiences.
Johannes tied the five loose ponies together with a string that seemed
ludicrously inadequate. It is customary in passing through a village to
tie a small cord around the under jaw of a pony and fasten the other end
of this cord to a knot in the tail of the next pony. We started into the
main street and turned towards _Thingvellir_, Valley-of-the-Parliament,
with Johannes in the lead with the five ponies. He soon had them all in
a trot but do our best our ponies would only walk and then on the side
of the street that seemed to please them best. It was an uncomfortable
experience, this first exhibition of horsemanship on the main
thoroughfare in the busiest portion of the day with the people leaving
their work or running to the doorways to watch the Americans. Possibly it
was our strange costumes, made for the occasion, which attracted their
attention as these never failed to do in the interior. We were pleased to
think of it this way. After half a mile of this aimless walking we caught
up with the guide who was waiting, as he said,—
“It is not good for guide to let party get out of sight.”
He straightened out his tangled string of ponies and with a sharp
“hót—hót” was away at a smart pace. _Hót_—_hót_, _hót_—_hót_! I shouted,
in this my first Icelandic, and I said it so vigorously and with so many
different accents that I must have got it right once, for away we went in
good fashion and held our own at the heels of the train till we reached
the _Elliðaár_, Ship-River. This is three miles out of the city and a
famous salmon river the rights to which are annually purchased by a group
of English sportsmen.
We stopped to rest the ponies. This is frequently necessary, especially
when first starting on a long trip and always in the morning. Better
accustomed to the saddle we rode on with much enjoyment of the novelty
and with exhilaration, little thinking what those saddles had in store
for us before that day’s ride came to a close. Somewhere along this
portion of the route I lost my riding belt. Deciding to do without it
I refrained from returning in search. Three weeks later this belt was
handed to us one evening, it having been sent on from farm to farm.
Twelve miles out from _Reykjavik_ we came to the last inhabited dwelling
we were to see before night. It is at the branching of the post road
from the _Thingvellir_ road. It is a place for light refreshments, much
resorted to on Sundays and holidays by the young people out riding. The
ponies were turned into the little compound provided for that purpose and
we entered and partook of milk, excellent coffee and cakes. Over a year
later, on our way down from the north coast, we called at this same place
and this time we rode into the yard in true Icelandic style. No matter
how careful the Icelander is of his pony, and he favors him all he can,
it is a matter of pride to enter a village or ride up to a lonely farm
at a keen gallop. As my last guide, Ólafur said,—“With reins tight and
head up.” To tighten the reins on an Icelandic pony is to put him into a
gallop.
We were now ascending the divide. Every kilometer, (the frequently
travelled routes have a stone marker placed every five kilometers),
brought us to higher ground, with an ever increasing view. Looking
backward, as the ponies climbed the steep gradient, we caught many
glimpses of the smiling _Faxafjörðr_. The ice crown of _Snaefells Jökull_
loomed larger though we were going from it. Several small lakes, of
glacier origin, nestle in the vales to the north marked with a ring of
verdant grass about them. The country through which we are passing is
mostly devoid of grass and it is difficult to find sufficient feed for
the ponies and we regulate our stops accordingly. This is a desolate,
dreary country, piled with blocks of frost-riven lava which time has
graciously covered with a mantle of lichens. The whimbrels made their
appearance and stayed with us throughout the summer whenever we rode the
heather. They are noisy birds, swooping overhead uttering their prolonged
calls, or running along the trail ahead of the ponies and then perching
upon a lichen-encrusted rock to be lost to view except to the close
observer. Their colors blend perfectly with their surroundings. Of all
the curios which we brought back from Iceland nothing reminds us more of
our journeys than the long-billed whimbrel which is perched above our
bookcases.
The snow-capped peaks of _Esja_ stand out in bold relief, directly in
front rises the dome of _Skálafell_, Hall-Mountain, to the right in the
distance, we catch glimpses of the mountain summits at the southern
end of _Thingvallavatn_, Lake-in-the-Valley-of-the-Parliament, which
loom higher and higher as we climb the ridge. While in the midst of our
contemplation of the scenery, the packs on one of the ponies loosened,
the swinging boxes startled him into a frightened gallop which he
maintained across the heath till he had freed himself of all the burden.
After some time the debris was collected and there being a patch of good
grass here, we stopped to rest the ponies, repair the damage and take our
first lunch in the open. Saddles and bridles were thrown off, the cases
opened and we sat down to a canned lunch with hunger for the sauce. The
opened lid of the packing box makes an excellent table.
“Is this not glorious?” questioned Mrs. Russell.
“Yes,” I replied as I shied my first sardine tin at a whimbrel. “This is
living, true enjoyment. Rain or shine, we are out for one long holiday
and it will be a glorious one.”
It was a picture that I should have photographed, that first lunch
upon the mountain slope,—the ponies feeding around us untethered, the
whimbrels circling closely above our heads, the plover calling from the
heather, mountains upon mountains all around, blue with the distance
or white with their perpetual snow mantles, the fleecy clouds drifting
softly across the blue sky,—and then those things the camera can not
catch,—the comfort of the sprawl upon the blooming heather, the respite
from the galling saddles, the chocolate for those who do not enjoy the
pipe and the pipe for those who do. We began to get acquainted with
Johannes. As he filled his pipe with real American tobacco he told us of
the many parties he had guided, how the English differed from the Danes,
and the Germans from either of them in their likes and dislikes of the
country, which required the most waiting upon and those who seemed the
most grateful for the attentions he paid.
“Did you ever act as guide for Americans before?” I asked.
“Before? Are you from America, the United States?”
We assured him that we had that pleasure, whereupon Johannes continued,
“Do you know Mr. ⸺ and Mr. ⸺? No? Well, they were likely lads and lively
and we had a grand time upon our trip. See this whip?”
Whereupon he displayed the peculiar riding whip of Iceland. It consists
of a stock about fourteen inches long heavily mounted with silver ferules
and with a large silver knob oval in shape at the end. To the end of this
stock is attached a strap of good leather three feet long. It is not so
much used to whip the pony one is riding as to snap at the ponies that
are tempted from their straight and narrow way by a choice bit of grass.
“When those boys got back to _Reykjavik_ they presented me with this fine
whip and I have carried it ever since.”
Two years later I was lecturing in New York City and chanced that night
to show on the screen a slide in which Johannes figured. He loomed up
splendidly from his tiny steed and presented a fine appearance with his
flowing beard and slouched hat tipped to one side and with the beloved
riding whip displayed in characteristic fashion. At the close of the
lecture a gentleman approached me and asked,
“Did you have Johannes Zoëga for your guide? I thought I recognized him
in one of the pictures.”
“Yes,” I replied, “he was our guide during our first trip in the country.”
“He was my guide and I presented him with that whip.”
The world is not so large after all.
Johannes then turned to Mrs. Russell and asked,
“What shall I call you? Your man’s name is Russell shall I call you
‘madam’ or what?”
She replied, “You may call me ‘madam’ or ‘Mrs. Russell,’ whichever you
choose.”
“What,” replied Johannes, “your name Russell and your Man’s name the
same? Two people, man and wife, and same name?”
We then informed him that in the United States when a woman married
she dropped her maiden name, or substituted it for her middle name and
assumed the surname of her husband. This was difficult for Johannes to
understand, inasmuch as in Iceland a woman always keeps her maiden name,
even after marriage. A woman is named thus, _Sigurður Eiricksdóttir_,
or, _Johanna Stefánsdóttir_, and she is always called the “daughter of
her father.” Likewise a man is the “son of his father” and is named
accordingly. Thus, _Stefán Kristófersson_, or, _Björn Eyvindsson_,
_Björn_ the son of _Eyvind_. Now when this “son” comes to have a son and
wishes to name him he may choose any Christian name he pleases but _he
must be_ “his son.” Thus if _Björn Eyvindsson_ were to name his son he
might call him Geir, Helgi, Ólafur, etc., but the patronymic would be
dropped and he would be called _Björnsson_. _Ólafur Björnsson_ would be
the son of _Björn Eyvindsson_.
When we were through with our discussion of nomenclature it would have
been difficult to have told which party was the more mystified.
The pack saddles were replaced, the fresh ponies saddled and we started
upon the second stage of the day’s journey. Soon we mounted to the top
of the ridge which is 1,100 feet above the sea. Near the sixth kilometer
stone, about eighteen miles, we came to the _Saeluhús_, fortunate-house,
an unoccupied hospice in the deserts and mountains for the refuge of
travellers who may be unexpectedly overtaken by a storm, especially in
winter when the snow is fiercely driven across the moors. To cross in the
blinding storm is to invite death. This one is a small stone structure.
During our following summer we found several of these and in one of them
we were glad to take refuge.
This is the _Mossfellsheiði_, Moss-Mountain-Heath, the undisturbed home
of the whimbrel and the golden plover. Before the road was built to
_Thingvellir_ there were a few scattering cairns to guide the traveller.
There are at present many lofty cairns beside the way so that even in the
drifting snow the traveller may find his way in winter. In the nearer
view there is nothing but the barren land, the gray monotony of the
moor and the eye of the traveller is held by the glories of the distant
mountains.
The change of ponies was no doubt beneficial to those we had ridden
in the morning and they trotted ahead with every sign of contentment,
however, it brought no relief to the novices in the saddle. We were
too weary to put the fresh mounts to a gallop and the jog, jog, jog
on the hard road with the resulting thump, thump, thump on the saddle
slightly damped the ardor of the first portion of the ride. We had just
read Hall Caine’s _Bondman_ and named our first relay of steeds after
the two chief characters in that volume, Michael Sunlocks and Greba. My
_hestr_, Michael Sunlocks, was a light chestnut with heavy forelocks,
mane and tail of a beautiful silvery whiteness, the forelocks would have
blinded him had they not been carefully fastened to the bridle, the mane
reached to his knees and his heavy tail swept the ground. He was plump
and mettlesome. To describe an Icelandic _hestr_, saddle horse, as fat is
not describing him at all. I have never seen one in poor condition. Greba
was a deep bay mare of gentle spirit. They proved to be personifications
of those two characters in the _Bondman_. What did it matter to us if
Johannes called them by unpronounceable names? To us they were ever
Michael and Greba, and they came to know their new names. Now it happens
that the _Bondman_ is founded upon the attempt of a renegade Dane,
Jorgen Jorgensen by name, to produce a revolution in Iceland in 1809.
Here then was an appropriate name for my second mount and Jog Jogensen
he was christened. He was a fiery little beast with plenty of grit as I
found out after I had really learned to ride a _hestr_.
A charming landscape burst suddenly into view. The largest of Icelandic
lakes, _Thingvallavatn_, is spread like a mirror below the bluffs. Its
forty square miles of water are enclosed with scenic, basaltic headlands,
its surface broken only by two islands, small and extinct craters. We saw
it at its best. Long bands of pearly cloud lay athwart the mountain range
while cloud and mountain cone lived doubly in the emerald green. Our
weary spirits rose the more we advanced, most of the monotonous moorland
stretched in gray billows behind us, and the discomfort of the saddle was
momentarily forgotten. When it seemed that we were going directly to the
shore of the lake the road took a sharp bend to the left and we descended
a gulley to a big brook. We scorned the iron bridge and turned the ponies
into the stream to quench their thirst. The water being low, we forded.
At six P. M. we turned from the highway into the turf-walled lane leading
up to the farm called _Kárastaðir_, literally, the-farm-of-sickness. Why
it was thus named is evident in the name but that was many centuries
since. It must be remembered that the names of the farms and all the
place-names are the same to-day as they were christened a thousand or
more years ago. Every place in Iceland was most appropriately named.
_Kárastaðir_ is a pleasant farm located besides a noisy brook on the
upland slope of the lakeshore. It is approached between parallel walls of
turf. These turf walls also enclose the _tún_, the mowing land, or the
home field. They are made of turf cut in long thick strips and placed
in layers. The walls are about three feet thick on the ground and narrow
to half that width at the top. Grass grows luxuriantly all over them and
they are often ornamented with a free sprinkling of wild flowers. I know
of no hedgerow in England or country lane in America half so beautiful
as many of these approaches to an Icelandic farm house. Hedge clippers,
boards and concrete do not make for true beauty. These walls become a
portion of the ground, permanent affairs that do not need attention and
stand for centuries. The Icelandic farmer can show the New England Yankee
how to build a fence, but then he has the material in the toughest of
turf. A fence in New England built of native sods would not endure as
long as the frail brush fences of our hillside pastures. At the far end
of the lane stands the _hús_. This term refers not only to the actual
dwelling but to all the buildings within the enclosure whether for man or
beast. This turf wall runs around the buildings so as to make an inner
plot where no entrance to the mowing lands can be obtained by the live
stock.
On dismounting we were cordially received. Our ponies were unladen and
taken to the pasture by a boy. The house maids,—a proper distinction for
there are house-maids and farm-maids with corresponding duties,—busied
themselves in preparing the guest room and the tiny bedroom leading out
of it for our accommodation. In a short time the table was spread with
rye bread, unsalted butter, cheese, broiled _char_, a species of trout
from the lake, warm milk and boiled eggs. To this repast we did ample
justice. Then followed a pot of excellent coffee and a platter laden with
a variety of dainty cakes. This is one of the better class of Icelandic
farms. We were still on the great highway of Iceland and under the
influence of the capital city. The house had wood floors, Norway spruce,
polished and aged to a beautiful seal-brown and spotlessly clean. We
took our packing boxes into our bedroom as was our custom until we became
better acquainted with the character of the people. The bedroom was
eleven feet by five. In it was a small table, washstand, three chairs,
four packing cases and two beds. When the heavy riding boots were removed
there was not much room left in which to turn. The outer room contained a
small dining table, an organ, several chairs and many ornaments of local
interest in the shape of pictures. Every Icelandic home, no matter how
humble, has its photograph album, long since filled and the overflow is
spread upon the wall.
Supper over, I visited the out-buildings, which are entirely of stone
and turf, except the roof contains timber to give the necessary support
for the brush and turf. Near the coast and in the north this timber
is obtained from the Arctic driftwood and I have seen many a stick
of Siberian larch that has undoubtedly drifted over the polar area
and lodged upon this coast. Thus does nature provide an abundance of
building material in a land where no timber grows. I examined the haying
implements with considerable interest and then followed the brook up
the hillside in quest of flowers. Reclining upon a bed of the “mountain
bloom” I looked down upon the farm, across the tún to the lake and beyond
to the ragged peaks. The smoke rose from the peat fire in the kitchen,
bringing with it the pleasing odor of burning humus, the farm maids were
busy with the milking and the men were swinging their scythes in the
meadow, albeit it was half past nine at night. This then is Iceland,
the land of my boyhood dreams. These are the home-dwellers, who are not
city-struck nor crazed with the lust of gold. These are the people of
sturdy ways and simple lives whom I am to know in the years to come.
“Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the poor.”
The two beds were placed end to end on one side of the room. Each was
five feet long and not over two and a half in width. How these six-foot
men can sleep in any comfort in five-foot beds is a mystery. The mattress
is a well stuffed feather bed, the coverlet is of eider down. The down is
stuffed into a tick like a pillow and like a pillow it has a white case.
One virtually sleeps between two feather beds. In the nightly struggles
to kick the foot board out of my short bed, the overgrown pillow, used
as a blanket, often fell to the floor and sometimes as a last resort
to straighten out, I followed the coverlet to the floor, used it for a
mattress and with a steamer rug slept in peace.
Nine in the morning found us at breakfast. An hour later, having paid our
host his modest reckoning, with handshaking all round and a hearty _góðr
á daginn_, pronounced as though spelled _go-an-dine_, meaning literally
“good to the day,” an ancient Scandinavian salutation and universal in
Iceland for centuries, we started to _Thingvellir_. After riding for
half an hour over the barren plain thickly studded with fragments of
the ancient basalt and with eyes steadfastly fixed upon the beauties of
the lake, we came to the brink of a mighty chasm. Below our feet is the
plain of _Thingvellir_, the Mecca of Iceland, the seat of the ancient
parliament, the resultant of the combined freakishness of earthquake and
volcanic forces. It is a remarkable geological formation. The sunken
plain is nearly ten miles long and five miles broad.
We stand on the brink of the _Almannagjá_, All-Men’s-Rift, so named
because in ancient days when the nobles and law-makers were assembled in
the plain below, the common people met upon the heights along the brink
of this chasm for a great national holiday of about two weeks. To our
right, south-west, the sunken valley is filled with the waters of the
lake. To the left, northeast, rises the abrupt wall of _Ármannsfell_, a
lofty mountain of trap. To the south-east, five miles away and extending
from the far side of the lake to _Ármannsfell_ is the _Hrafnagjá_,
Ravens-Rift. This rift is parallel with the one upon whose brink we are
now standing. The sunken plain varies in the depth of its depression
from twenty-five feet at the northeast to over a hundred feet at the
south-west, below the level of the surrounding moorland. The plain itself
is rent, rifted and shattered into thousands of fragments as if hot
water had been dashed against a plate glass window on a frosty morning.
Hundreds of chasms intersect each other in the sunken plain in a huge
network. They go deep down to the bed of the lake and the lake follows
them up under the lava and the water glimmers at the bottom of these
chasms.
How was this formation wrought? In prehistoric times, that is before
Iceland was discovered, how much earlier we do not know and the rocks
do not reveal the secret save the probable period of the flowing of the
lava itself which filled all the valley, the surface cooled and the fluid
below this crust was under pressure and forced a passage through the
barrier where the lake now lies and drained away. This left a mammoth
cavern with a hot, laminated, blistered and shrinking roof. Time passed.
The shrinking continued. The stress became sufficient to produce the
great fault, an earthquake, and in one mighty tumble the entire roof
of the lava chamber collapsed, breaking away from the walls which now
form the moorland side of the great parallel rifts. As it fell it was
shivered into acre-sized fragments, tilted and turned so as to present
a billowy appearance. Time has mercifully clothed the ragged mass with
verdure, tangled masses of dwarf birch, which, from the distance of
the brink upon which we stand, soften the harsh outlines and partially
obscure the chasms. As the roof of the cavern fell it broke away from
the mountain walls on either side of the plain and pulled the ragged
mass with it. This formed a second wall and between these two walls runs
the _Álmannagjá_ on this side of the plain and the _Hrafnagjá_ on yonder
side. From the top of the inner walls the slope is gradual down into the
plain, much like the inward sloping sides of a platter. On the moorland
side enormous niches extend into the wall and protruding from the second
wall are masses of lava pulled out of these places which would exactly
fit the ancient matrix could they be restored. These are so numerous in
each of the rifts that there is no doubt as to the correctness of our
view of the formation of the rifts and of _Thingvellir_.
Over the brink of the tableland and into the _Álmannagjá_ tumbles a fine
sheet of water, the _Öxerá_, Axe-River, which follows the chasm down
to a break through the inner wall, spreads over a portion of the plain
and enters the lake. At our feet there is a narrow side passage leading
from the brink down into the rift which has been laboriously levelled
and a good road now leads to the lower level. This pass in ancient days
was the strategic point of many a stout fight. In the _Burnt Njal_ we
read a vivid description of such a fight when the issue of the trial was
unfavorable to one of the factions.
We will now ride down the incline, cross the bridge over the foaming
_Öxerá_ and draw rein at the _Valhöll_, Great-Hall-of-the-King. This was
erected when King Frederick of Denmark visited the place in 1907. That
the good king toured a portion of Iceland at this time is a blessing to
travellers because special roads were built, bridges erected and inns
constructed for his accommodation.
We turned the ponies over to Johannes who took them to the pasture upon
the moorland above the rift. It was only eleven in the morning and we
had ridden but an hour yet we decided to spend the day in a further
examination of this historic spot. The time allotted proved inadequate
and a year later, on our return from the north, we passed an entire day
here. Less than half a dozen people were stopping at the _Valhöll_. We
were assigned a room like a beach bath house with two bunks, one above
the other as in a steamer. We did not know till the next summer that this
hotel had first, second and third class lodgings. It was the only place
in Iceland where we ever found any distinction. On our second summer we
had first class accommodations, which meant a large comfortable room with
a regulation bed and the meals served privately in the adjoining room in
place of on a bench in the large hall.
Immediately we set out to explore the place. A mist was creeping in from
the lake and down from the mountains. This soon developed into a “Scotch
mist” which is an easy falling rain. We went to the _Öxerá_, explored
the deep rift between the walls, which in places has been fenced off for
sheep cotes. We climbed the wall to the top of the falls, peered down
into the numerous fissures and were astonished to find snow at the bottom
of one of them. It is a narrow chasm, very deep and the sun can not reach
the bottom. We followed the wall eastward for two miles where we found
a place to descend into the plain. On the return we wandered among the
crevasses, dodging blocks of lava and jumping the narrow rifts where
down a hundred feet the water glimmered. We returned in the rain for our
mid-afternoon meal which consisted of broiled trout from the lake. It
rained vigorously and we devoted some time to the neglected notebooks,
also to an examination of the guest book. They do not use registers,
simply a book in which the parting guest writes his name and any comments
he chooses. There is an old Icelandic proverb which runs as follows,—
_Island er hin besta land sem sól skina uppi_.
Iceland is the best land on which the sun comes up (shines).
This was quoted over one of the signatures. A little later some one had
written an addition in German,—“_and the rain rains_.”
At five in the afternoon the clouds broke away, the sun came smilingly
forth and we continued our exploration. We visited the ducking pool,
where in ancient days women convicted of heinous crimes were drowned.
This is a big noisy basin within the _Álmannagjá_ a little way below the
falls. Well would it have been with the noble _Gunnar_ had _Halgerða_
been dipped in this cauldron ere ever he became fascinated with her
beauty and caught in her toils. We crossed to the borders of the lake
where there is a small _tún_, the _Thingvellir_ parsonage. An ancient
church stands within the enclosing walls of the _tún_. We obtained
the key of the pastor and entered. Until a few years ago the churches
throughout the country were turned over to travellers for sleeping
quarters. This was a most excellent arrangement as they afforded plenty
of room and were always well ventilated. Some English sportsmen once
amused themselves by throwing their boots at the candles on the altar and
committing other acts of vandalism and the Bishop of Iceland very wisely
forbade the future use of the churches as accommodations for travellers.
This has put many people to inconvenience since, not only the traveller
but the farmer or pastor who has had to discommode himself to find room
in an already overcrowded house. Thus do many people suffer for the
wanton acts of a few and a nation gets a bad name because of the deeds
of a few of its reckless sons. Until _Valhóll_ was erected the pastor
at this place cared for the strangers if they were without a tent. What
a relief to him has been this little hospice. This parsonage figures
prominently in the _Prodigal Son_, which is Hall Caine’s best work on
Iceland. It should be read by all who contemplate a visit to this land or
are interested in the country. When he wrote the _Bondman_ he had never
been in Iceland and he wrote entirely from imagination and without any
local color. This was severely criticised in Iceland and so much fuss
was made over the misrepresentations and erroneous paragraphs that Caine
visited the country, thoroughly explored the vicinity of _Reykjavik_ and
then wrote _The Prodigal Son_ which redeemed himself in the eyes of the
people. Icelanders are quite sensitive about misrepresentations made by
foreigners. Above all other things the Icelander dreads to be laughed at,
scorns falsehoods about himself and his country and is jealous of its
reputation. This is deep seated patriotism.
The little church contains a very old altar piece, a _Last Supper_,
painted on wood. The altar itself was constructed in 1683. In the yard
there is a monolith of lava erected by man. On its eastern face there
are several parallel marks cut deeply into the stone. Like the standard
_Meter_ kept in Paris and the standard _Yard_ in London, these lines
marked the standard _alin_, ell, measure of linear distance in the
ancient days. It is supposed to be of the tenth century. The measures
of the country were adjusted by this standard. Thus the Scandinavians
fixed a standard of measurement centuries before Great Britain adopted
its arbitrary and unscientific measure or the arc of a meridian had been
measured for the French scientific standard.
A little way from the parsonage and beside the recently constructed road
is the _Lögberg_, Mount-of-Laws. Let us ascend it, note the surroundings
and recall the past. When the plain fell to its present irregular level
and was shattered into hundreds of misshapen masses, here by the lake two
of the chasms, like the arcs of intersecting circles, enclosed a long
oval fragment of lava which stood high above the surrounding level and
overlooked the lake. This is the Law Mount. One of these rifts is known
as the _Flosigjá_. At one point the walls approach within eighteen feet
and it is said that when the burner of _Njal_, Flosi, was hotly pursued
by his enemies he leaped this chasm. These chasms, through which an
underground river finds its way into the lake, are very picturesque with
their lichen encrusted walls, with the crowberry in the niches and the
wild thyme hanging over the brink. In the old days it was possible to
reach the engirdled mount at only one place. This made it easy of defense
and secure to the lawgivers and judges against intrusion by the populace.
Frosts and earthquakes have pried off many an angular fragment into the
gulf and the place is now easy of access.
Standing on the grassy mound the great wall of _Almannajgá_ reaches its
black mass from the border of the lake to _Armansfell_, the _Öxerá_
plunges in one long white curve over the brink, boils musically within
its distant canyon and reappears through the rent in the side of the
inner wall flecked with foam. Beyond the moorland _Súlur_, Stone-Pillars,
rears his pinnacles of basalt. _Thingvallavatn_ smiles at our feet.
No sail dots its brilliant surface, no houses border its precipitous
shore. It is the same as when the _Saga_ heroes fished in its bright
depths and these graceful swan and busy ducks enjoy the same tranquility
as their remote ancestors. Around the lake a ring of red and purple
peaks, robed in transparent atmosphere and embellished with hues unknown
in lower latitudes, peep into this molten glimmerglass to behold each
others image, while, amid the distance-softened ridges, _Hengill_ sends
upward its “columns of white vapor like altar smoke” towards the softened
sky. The embosomed isles are skirted with green and at the waters edge
are fringed with the aromatic _Angelica_. Uncounted peaks are around
us surpliced with white raiment as though assembled to raise one grand
anthem to Nature’s God.
Let us turn back the pages of time 800 years. We stand upon the upper
portion of the _Lögberg_, upon the bloodstone, where the backs of
criminals were broken before they were hurled into the abyss at our
feet. The Thingmen are in solemn assembly a little lower down the
incline. Along the brink of _Almannajgá_ throng the populace in assembled
thousands in their annual August festival, gathered from every portion of
the island. They await the issue of some vital subject under discussion
on the mound. It is the year 1112 and the trial for the Burning of Njal
is well under way. That old man with the quiet mien and full flowing
beard is Mord. He rises, faces the Court and says,—
“I take witness to this, that I take a Fifth Court oath. I pray God so
to help me in this light and in the next, as I shall plead this suit as
I know to be most truthful, and just, and lawful. I believe with all my
heart that Flosi is truly guilty in this suit, if I may bring forward my
proofs; and I have not brought money into this court in this suit, and I
will not bring it. I have not taken money and I will not take it, neither
for a lawful nor for an unlawful end.”
The great trial proceeds but a flaw is found in the pleading and the
technicality destroys all that has been gained. Now men rush to their
weapons and Flosi would gain the Great Rift as a place of defense.
Snorri, the Priest, forsees the outcome and has quietly stationed another
hardy band at this vantage point. The throng upon the moorland press to
the brink to watch the fierce fight waged by the contending factions, who
attempt to settle at the point of the spear the question which has just
failed in the court. Might is still right. Doughty blows are showered as
Odin chants the warsong under the shields of his few remaining warriors.
Spear and battle axe ring loudly upon shield and helmet. The verdict is
rendered. The decree is written in blood upon the grass. A prolonged
shout of acclamation mingled with the roar of disapproval rises from the
multitude. The clamor dies away, for the sturdy bodies of these iron
heroes, who can give and take such blows, can endure no longer and the
struggle ends with lifelong feuds.
Upon the sunken plain along the banks of the _Öxerá_ stand the booths of
the prominent Thingmen, the priests, the chieftains and the poets. To
these the people assemble in noisy factions to cool their blood in long
draughts of mead. See, there by the snowy falls near to the perpendicular
wall is the booth of Snorri. Down the river a little distance is the
booth where Njal so often gave counsel ere the burning; there by the lake
is the booth of the fair and treacherous Hallgerða. It was here that
Gunnar first spied her sitting in the doorway fresh from her bath in the
lake. The bloodshed is not quite over, look where the river foams through
its rocky jaws, leaping in two great bounds for the lake, impatient for
_its_ victims. In that surging eddy within the rift that group of women
convicted of infanticide and adultery are now to be drowned and on that
mound where those fagots of birch are piled that witch is to be burned.
The 800 years are passed. The writer stands at eventide alone upon
the _Lögberg_ and views with enchanted eye this perfect painting of
peace let down from heaven. Mammoth and angular masses, their roughness
softened with thyme and forget-me-nots, surround the age-old chasms and
live anew in those Nile-green depths. Peaceful it is beyond the power of
description. Here the sturdy Viking, wealthy with the spoils of Europe,
worked out a constitution, founded a republic, sloughed off the skin of
paganism, adopted on the first ballot the Christ-law and crystallized a
civilization centuries since. Here in the old and stirring days great
minds held sway. What sturdy men they were, mighty in feats of arms,
resourceful, inventive, poetic, pregnant with the germs of thought
that in their latter day development produced a scholastic, peaceful,
Christian nation! What wondrous deeds they wrought, what grand old epics
they enacted, let their Sagamen relate.
Beautiful Arctic flowers crown the _Lögberg_. The plover whistles on the
heather and the whimbrel calls as in days of yore. Around this primitive
parliament flow the emerald waters in varied shades of prismic green like
polished malachite, long since unpolluted with broken-backed criminals.
I fired my revolver into the green-bedded chasm of the _Flosigjá_ to
awaken the echoes. Their voices betokened peace. The angry snarl of
the bloodthirsty mob, the clash of bill on yielding armor, the wail of
drowning women no longer reverberated from chasm to cliff. Echo had but
one message, _Peace_.
[Illustration: _Foot of the Öxerá in Almannagjá._
_Lögberg, Mount of Laws, between the Rifts. Ármannsfell in the
Distance._]
Peace to the generations past, whose warriors have long since mouldered
in yonder heath! Solemnly, softly, silently the echo fades upon
_Thingvellir’s_ plain. So say I.—Peace to the mighty dead! Peace to the
little nation now toiling for existence upon this fire-blistered island!
Peace, I say, to those Plutonic forces that have wrought far greater
havoc and misery in this Arctic realm than all the bloody passions of its
first born sons!