VATNSDALR
“Day long they fared through the mountains, and that highway’s fashioner
Forsooth was a fearful craftsman, and his hands the waters were,
And the heaped-up ice was his mattock, and the fire-blast was his man.”
—_Morris._
During the summer day Akureyri is a busy place. It is the emporium of
the north, the resort of the fishermen from the northern waters and the
place where the farmers of the north of Iceland exchange their produce
for European supplies. The city is comfortably situated at the head of
the longest fiord in Iceland. There is one street that runs between the
water and the high hill towards the west. The population is about 1,500.
There are several shops and good stores, a public library. Two newspapers
are published in the city. There is a high school and an agricultural
college. One baker in the city is also a photographer and there one may
purchase a photograph or a cruller over the same counter.
At the upper end of the street there is a commodious and well constructed
church. Several of the front yards boast fine clumps of mountain ash;
one of these tree clumps is the pride of the city, as it has attained
a considerable growth, a remarkable size for this exposure and high
latitude. Behind the street on the steep hillside, patches of potatoes
and turnips checker the entire bank of the fiord for a mile or more.
It is a pleasing picture when contrasted with the grimness of the
ice-covered ridges beyond.
There is a spacious hotel, long kept by an eccentric Dane by the name
of Jensen. It has recently changed hands. I have often heard it stated
that he had no regular scale of prices but charged his guests according
to his likes or dislikes. If the guest was winning, the genial Dane
reduced the charge; but if the guest had been disagreeable, or in any
way did not appeal to the fancy of the proprietor, then the price was
raised. Whatever the truth of the report may be, one thing is certain,
the host was genial, kept a good house, cared for his guests, and the
prices, according to my experience, were reasonable. It is possible that
his philosophy was correct, that the guest who makes unnecessary demands
or is difficult to please should be the one to pay the extras, while the
guest who takes what is provided, makes no special demands, considers the
local conditions which obtain and demands no special service for himself
at the expense of other guests, should be favored in the reckoning. I
think Jensen’s method is correct. How he regarded us I do not know;
suffice it to state that we had a good room with two beds and excellent
food in a private dining room with the best of attention and that our
bill for twenty-four hours was only the equivalent of two dollars for
both of us.
There was one exception to our comfort at this hostelry, but this can not
be charged to the eccentricity of the landlord. My bed seemed comfortable
when I retired, but long before I went to sleep I found a hard bunch in
the mattress that persisted in getting between my shoulders no matter how
I twisted and turned. It was a narrow bed and afforded me no retreat from
the offending bunch. I rose, stripped the bed, instituted a search and
finally ripped open the mattress at the corner, worked that lump to the
slit and pulled out a rooster’s head with the longest bill that was ever
presented to me in Iceland. It had been pecking my shoulders persistently
in spite of the fact that this rooster had fought his last fight many
years since. If I had damaged the cover a little, I reasoned that I had
avenged the sleeplessness of many a former occupant of this couch and was
rendering a good service to future guests.
Akureyri is the home of the venerable poet, _Matthias Jöckumsson_, born
in 1833, a lyric poet of the highest rank, who has also written excellent
drama. It was our pleasure one day while fording the _Heraðsvötn_,
District-Waters, to meet him. Riding off the little ferry he came to us
with hat in hand and his white locks flowing in the wind. Holding out his
right hand to us he said,—
“Welcome, strangers, to Iceland!”
At the far end of the city, in fact a continuation of the one street,
is _Oddeyri_, Point of Land, under a different political jurisdiction
from _Akureyri_. It is a busy place in the whaling and herring season
and contains a large store operated by the Danish-Icelandic Trading
Company. It has two banks and has recently become the center of the
shipping interests by reason of its new wharf which enables steamers to
discharge cargo without the use of lighters. The curing and rendering
establishments in this town will repay a visit, unless one has strong
olefactory objections. When the wind blows up the fiord there is no doubt
as to the use to which the buildings on the extreme point of land north
of the pier are put.
Leaving _Akureyri_ we followed the west bank of the grand _Eyjarfjörðr_
till we arrived at the _Hörgá_, Howe-River, whence we looked across the
level meadows to the former location of the Agricultural College at
_Möðruvellir_, Madder-Valley. The college is now located at _Akureyri_.
It is sometimes a surprise to learn that there is such a college close
to the Arctic Circle, but it has a good reason for its existence. There
is need for training the farmers in methods of cattle, horse and sheep
breeding, especially the latter, that they may win the best possible
success in their struggle with adverse conditions. Jón Hjaltalin at
one time was the head master of this school and he also did service in
Edinburgh, Scotland, as a librarian.
The view across the valley is extensive and charming because the rugged
and ragged features of the usual Icelandic landscape are softened by
the river winding through the undulating meadows which roll upwards
to the distance-softened ridges, while yet beyond, the crumbling
cinder cones melt into the whiteness of the lofty _Vindheima Jökull_,
Wind-Home-Glacier, and flashing in the sun,—
“A thousand rills
Come leaping from the mountain, each a fay,
Sweet singing then;
‘O come with us out seaward, come away!’”
We stopped for lunch beside a singing brook flowing down from the ridge
on our left and springing into the _Hörgá_. The grass was in excellent
condition and the ponies grazed as if they had knowledge of the poor
quality of this necessity and its scarcity during the following days. The
cotton grass spread its sheets of pearly white around us, forget-me-nots
and marguerites, the wild arnica and the violets reveled in the glory
of their bloom. We ate our lunch and reclined upon the grass in full
enjoyment of the scene and recalled the former importance of this valley.
It is as beautiful to-day as when the Vikings first entered it. Since
their time no blasting volcano with fiery breath has scorched its foliage
nor poured its glinting lava in destructive streams over the meadows
and humble homes. The days of feudal strife passed with the Christian
education of that sturdy race and the peace of the Cross now rests upon
the valley like the “shadow of a great rock in a weary land.”
The time of its literary importance passed with the decline of its Abbey
and the passing of Sira Jón Thorlakson, the Icelandic Milton. Across the
river, and shaded by a noble clump of the mountain ash, stands the home
of this venerable poet and priest, _Baegisá_. A century ago he translated
Paradise Lost, Pope’s Essay on Man, portions of Shakespeare, masterpieces
of German and Scandinavian literature into the Icelandic. Besides being a
translator, he composed a large amount of Icelandic poetry in the _Eddic_
phraseology which competent judges say equalled and often surpassed the
masterpieces of the ancient scalds. He was sorely fettered by poverty.
When commenting upon the high morality of his race and the great freedom
from the use of intoxicants by his people at that time he said,—
“Our poverty is the bulwark of our happiness.”
Again, speaking of poverty, the common lot of most poets of all lands,
and in all ages, he says, literally from one of his poems,—
“Ever since I came into this world, I have been wedded to poverty, who
has hugged me to her bosom these seventy winters all but two; whether we
shall ever be divorced here below, is only known to Him who joined us
together.”
From our vantage point we looked down upon three beautiful valleys
with as many rivers joining to form the valley of the _Hörgá_ and its
mighty stream. These are the _Hörgárdalr_, _Öxnadalr_ and _Baegisádalr_.
The mountains rise to an elevation 4000 feet above the valley, capped
with snow or perpetual ice, their slopes slashed into wild ravines and
terraced with lava cliffs down which course numerous cascades from the
melting snows. It is a fair and peaceful scene, this at our feet: it is a
grand and awesome sight, that greets the lifted eye.
Fastening forget-me-nots into the manes of the ponies we resumed our
ride up the valley and turned into the _Öxnadalr_, Ox-Valley. It is a
fine illustration of a glacial valley. The cross section is nearly a
semicircle and the sides are deeply grooved; the glacial carving is much
more pronounced than that of the lower end of _Seyðisfjörðr_. We stopped
over night at _Thverá_, Tributary-River, in a humble home perched upon
the steep hillside above the river and just below the ice cliffs.
Across the river rise the _Hraundrangar_, Lava Pillars, which tower in
a long chain of spires above the castellated ridge, a prominent feature
in the landscape for miles up and down the valley. High up between the
ridges there is a sheet of water which pours out through a small rift in
the nearer ridge and falls into the valley as if some Moses had smitten
the lava wall with his rod of wrath.
We enjoyed our stay at _Thverá_ and experienced several things of
interest. It is an ancient farm located on the trail through the defile
where Icelanders have passed between the east and west for a thousand
years. A newly wedded couple had just taken up their abode under the
paternal roof in this historic spot and were beginning the problems of
life where generations of their ancestors had solved the same enigmas
with the variations which the succeeding centuries have added. They were
attentive to our necessities with the inborn hospitality of the race but
there was something in the atmosphere that revealed the newness of the
work and the shyness of the wedded couple added much to our amusement.
[Illustration: _Thverá, a Highland Home in the Öxnadalr._
_Vatnsdalshólar, Numberless Conical Hills in Vatnsdalr._]
During the week the rapidly melting snows had carried away the bridge
over the _Thverá_ and we found it necessary to cross the torrent on a
stringer. With a little coaxing all the ponies walked across except our
faithful black pack pony. Vexed at the delay in removing his packing
boxes, and anxious to be with his companions grazing on the opposite
bank, he ran rapidly up and down the stream, repeatedly trying the river
for a place to ford with his load which was still fastened to the saddle.
Ólafur was on the opposite side resaddling the other ponies. Old Black
became frantic, shook himself repeatedly, ran sideways into a projecting
rock in the canyon and freed himself from his load; he then ran to the
stringer, crossed and grazed contentedly with his mates and in positive
forgetfulness of the wreckage he had left strewn upon the opposite
shore. The cases had burst open and their contents were scattered along
the sides of the river and some of the items were actually rescued with
difficulty from the running water. Fortunately Old Black was not carrying
my photograph outfit that morning as was his usual custom. Again in 1913
in my crossing of the interior of Iceland I had this same horse and of
all the pack ponies which I have used during my four different journeys
I have never found one equal in value to this one. His peculiar trait
was to pick a trail for himself and his intelligence in this work was
noteworthy. He was always given the most valuable portion of my load and
whether in the bogs, on the rough mountains where there were no trails or
in the fording of difficult rivers he was always worthy of the trust I
imposed in him. The one accident mentioned above is the only one he has
had in his long years of service as a pack pony.
Clumps of mountain ash, in Europe called _rowan_ tree, here and there
adorn a sheltered spot and their association with the angular lava
recalled to my mind the _Lay of Geirod_, a kind of parable concerning the
fires of Iceland. Greatly abridged it runs as follows:—
“_Loki_, the beguiler, flew away one day in quest of adventures in
_Frigga’s_ falcon dress. He flew to a huge castle over the sea and
alighted on a great castle and looked into the hall. _Geirod_ saw him
and ordered him to be caught. The slave climbed the wall with difficulty
and _Loki_ laughed to see the labor the man made. He resolved not to fly
till the slave had nearly caught him. He waited too long, as he spread
his wings to mount to the next height and lead on his pursuer, the slave
caught him by the feet and took him to _Geirod_, the giant, who, when he
looked at him believed him to be a human and not a real bird. He bade
him answer but _Loki_ was silent. _Loki_ could only regain his liberty
by promising the giant that he would lure _Asa Thor_ to this fastness
without his hammer. _Geirod_ was sure he could destroy _Thor_ if he could
meet him without _Thor_ having his wonderful hammer. _Loki_ beguiled
_Thor_ to visit _Geirod_ without his hammer; but a friendly giantess,
_Grida_, Grace, in whose house _Thor_ lodged, knowing the plot of _Loki_
and _Geirod_, loaned _Thor_ her staff and iron gauntlets.”
“_Thor_ discovered the plot and in trying to escape waded the sea,
whereupon _Gjálf_, (din or roar of ocean), _Geirod’s_ daughter, flung
the waves at _Thor_. _Thor_ cast a rock at _Gjálf_ and he never missed
when he cast a stone, and thus with stone hurling and with the aid of his
staff and gauntlets he reached the land. He caught hold of a friendly
‘rowan’ and climbed out of the water.”
Because of this myth the mountain ash has ever since been sacred to
_Thor_.
Again we read:—
“When _Thor_ had won his way into the fire castle,” (this doubtless
refers to the fiery lava chambers which occur in many parts of Iceland),
“he was invited to take a seat. No sooner had he done so than the seat
flew to the roof of the hall, where _Thor_ would have been crushed had
he not pushed back with his staff which the giantess had given him. He
pressed back so effectively that he slew the two water-storm daughters of
_Geirod_, who had tried to blow him into the heavens.”
In this parable the reference is undoubtedly to the _Geysir_. _Thor’s_
next foe was a volcano.
“_Geirod_ now challenged _Thor_ to fight in the hall lined with fire.
_Thor_ caught the red hot weapons in his iron gloves and hurled them back
to _Geirod_, who vainly crouched beside a pillar to defend himself. But
_Thor_ crushed this _Demon_ of _Underground Fire_ back into the black
rock and flung the fire caverns wide open to the day.”
Such is the ancient legend but it shows how legends are founded upon
facts or conditions, which may be lost for centuries, though the legends
may remain for us to scoff at when we do not know the foundation. In this
instance we see the forces of water and fire contending with humans, a
never ending contest between the forces of destruction and the powers of
reason and intelligence.
At the head of the _Öxnadalr_ we stopped at the post shelter for coffee
and cakes and tinned tongue. The poor little farm is not worthy of the
name of a farm. It is just a bit of mountain herbage at the borders of
the snows and screes and the one family could not survive were is not
for the assistance of the government in order that a shelter for the
post carriers and chance travellers against the mountain storms may be
provided.
I swapped a pony with the farmer and paid him a margin of two dollars.
The horse I traded was the same that I had received in a similar trade
at _Ljósavatn_. The farmer carefully examined the marks in the ears of
the pony and stated that it was raised on this same farm and had now got
home. While I am not a horse trader and know none of the intricacies of
the game and had no way to learn the Icelandic methods, the satisfaction
I got from this pony convinced me that the best of the bargain was mine.
While the Icelander is noted for his square dealing and truthfulness I
had often wondered what he would be like in a horse trade. The pony I
traded had a quarter crack and I told Ólafur to point this out to the
farmer. Ólafur shook his head and said,—
“He can see it as well as you.”
Later I asked Ólafur about this and enquired how he could reconcile it
with the proverbial integrity of his people. He replied,—
“But this was a horse trade and every man must see what he is buying when
he purchases a horse.”
In connection with this there was another incident of sharpness that
came to my attention in the summer of 1913, though it may have been done
more from the love of a joke than from any intention to defraud. The
Icelander is very fond of a joke, especially when at the expense of some
one else. The steamship company trading around the coast advertises “to
return _empties_ free of charge.” A farmer in _Borg_ sold a cow to a man
in _Reykjavik_ with the understanding that the skin was to be returned to
him. The man in _Reykjavik_ tied up the skin and shipped it to the farmer
in _Borg_. The steamship company charged the farmer for carrying the
bundle. The farmer replied,—
“But there is no charge. You took the cow to Reykjavik and you offer to
return ‘empties free of charge’ and if a cow skin is not an _empty_, what
is it?”
Up and up we climbed to an elevation of about 2,000 feet to the height of
land, the watershed between _Skagafjörðr_, Cape-Fiord, and _Eyjafjörðr_.
The ride down the valley towards the west is wild in the extreme. The
trail passes through a long mountain pasture where we encountered about
one hundred young ponies, thence along the edge of a chasm so deep that
the tumbling of the water in the bed came up to us only as a murmur. On
our right rose impassable cliffs and rubble screes and it was along this
talus of rolling material, composed of disintegrating lava and sand, that
we made our way. There are places where a false step or a small avalanche
would sweep horse and rider into the depths of the chasm. When the canyon
widened, the green-white of the water flashed up to us like masses of
liquid emerald. The trail improved as we descended and the declivity
became less precipitous; having a long distance ahead of us we gave the
ponies a free bit and away we went in a joyful gallop down the grade. We
had been discussing the prospects of a tumble a few moments before when
on the edge of the cliff but now all fear had vanished. My pony stumbled
on some small stones and I shot over his head much to the amusement of
my companion. Mrs. Russell was following at this point. Scarcely had I
regained my seat in the saddle and reined in to the rear when her pony
stumbled and threw her in a similar manner. She was not hurt. This was
my second and her first tumble during the two summers of riding, so she
held up two fingers to me from time to time. She was laughing at my poor
horsemanship and I pushed on to the head of the train. A great raven
perched on a lava point was croaking excitedly and it seemed to me that
he said, “saw-you, saw-you, saw-you!” Turning to look at this fine black
bird I saw my brave companion trying to remount from a second tumble
without letting me know of it. She never forgave that raven, for if he
had not notified me of the mishap she might still have held those two
mocking fingers at me.
Rapidly we descended to the lower valley and forded the rapid river.
Ravine after ravine opened into the valley, each bringing its turbulent
stream to swell the great river far below the trail. We lingered here
and there to examine the rocks and I was surprised at the outcroppings
of copper in the form of copper carbonate. Zeolites of great beauty are
imbedded in the lava and I have often longed for a day or two to explore
some of those ravines that lead from this pass. There are indications
of considerable copper in two places in Iceland and since Iceland has
unlimited water power for the electrical treatment of ore some one will
soon ascertain the quantity of copper present.
As the valley became wider it turned towards the northwest and we caught
glimpses of tiny homes on the opposite side of the river. Desolate homes
are these among the mountains, far away from neighbors. The farmers eke
out a bare living with the produce of their sheep. Down came the wind
in mighty gusts bringing rain and mists that shut out all distances.
The winds came directly from the ice sheets and as the clouds shut
out the sun the rain soon turned to a driving sleet. We were tired,
cold and hungry and thoroughly in need of shelter. The top of a tiny
spire showed itself through the mist below and I thought, “_Miklebaer_
at last.” Ólafur dashed our hopes by saying that this farm with its
excellent buildings and its hospitable pastor was two hours ride beyond
the metal church below us. He urged us forward but I refused as it was
not possible to ride further, except in a case of life or death. So we
reined into the _tún of Silfrastaðir_, Silver-Stead, and while we were
dismounting a man, blind with age, tottered towards us on his cane and
extended his trembling hand and in the Saga phrase, “he greeted us well.”
That little tumbled down home in the mountain pass, that small bed
in a cupboard in the wall, how good they looked to us! That Icelandic
welcome! We had received it on the prosperous farms and in the city,
yes in the more favored portions of the land, even in the home of the
Governor, but never before, never since, has any abode seemed so pleasant
and all other welcomes at home and abroad shrink in value when compared
with the welcome and the cordial hospitality of this poor blind man of
_Silfrastaðir_, who gave us the best he had and bade us “God speed” on
the morrow.
During the night our ponies ran away and it was a long time before Ólafur
found them. They were going, according to their habit, before the wind
and were nearly down to _Miklebaer_ when the guide found them. While he
was pony hunting I repaired to the little kitchen, if such it may be
called, and over a fire of dried sheep manure made some coffee and with
the provisions in our packing boxes we made a good breakfast. We got away
at ten thirty and soon after noon arrived at _Miklebaer_ and turned into
the _tún_ enclosure to visit the grave of Frederick W. W. Howell, F. R.
G. S. Howell was the author of the Pen Pictures of Iceland. He had spent
many summers in the country and knew it the best of any Englishman. His
illustrations are works of art and his descriptions of natural scenery
are faithful and full of appreciation. Howell was the first to make the
ascent of the _Öraefa Jökull_, 6,400 feet in height and the highest peak
in Iceland. This was in August 1891. He lost his life in fording the
_Heraðsvötn_, District-Waters, a broad, swift and deep river which flows
through the valley of the _Skagafjörðr_. The place was opposite the farm
of _Miklebaer_. This farm belongs to the church and within its cemetery
the unfortunate Englishman is buried. A marble memorial marks his
resting place and bears the following inscription:—
In Loving Memory
of
Frederick W. W. Howell,
F. R. G. S.
Who Was Called to His Rest
From the Heraðsvötn River
3d. July 1901
Aged 44.
“Asleep in Jesus, Oh What Rest!
So them also which sleep in Jesus
Will God bring with Him.”
The pastor invited us into his study and refreshed us with coffee and
cakes and conversed with us in German and broken English. He had a good
library of English, German and Icelandic works. Our stay was longer
than we intended, for Ólafur, (this time it was a young lady and not
the ponies that caused the delay), found a fair maiden of pleasing
conversation. We finally started without the guide and later when he had
overtaken us at the fiord and I teased him about his tardiness he stated
that the maiden asked him to wait while she wrote a letter to a friend
of hers in _Reykjavik_ and requested him to be the messenger. It must
have been a long letter. Had he collected as long a letter from each of
the attractive maidens at the many farms where we called in the summer
of 1910 he would have had a good sized mail by the time he reached the
capital.
On arrival at the ferry we found a good boat into which we loaded four
of the ponies at a time with the packing cases. It was here that we
met the venerable poet, _Matthias Jochumsson_. Remounting we crossed
a wonderfully rich grass plain. It is in this valley that the best
ponies of Iceland are bred. Later in the day we arrived at _Viðimýri_,
Wide-Bog. Here we were fortunate in witnessing a pony-fair at which
hundreds of ponies changed hands. They are gathered from the mountains
for sale to the exporters and it is here that the Icelandic gentleman
comes for his private saddle pony.
Steadily we climbed the mountain in a driving wind with some rain. The
wind blew cold from off the _Skagafjörðr_, Cape-Fiord. The ocean was
clear and an excellent view was had of _Drangey_, Lonely-Island. It was
on this island that _Grettir_, the Strong, the favorite hero of Iceland,
met his death at the hands of his enemies. He had been an outlaw for
many years. Sometimes he made his home in the lava waste between _Hoffs
Jökull_ and _Láng Jökull_. I visited the cave in 1913 which is marked by
several cairns. At one time he lived at _Arnavatn_, Eagle-Lake and at
another he dwelt in the remote fastness of _Thórisdalr_ at the south end
of _Láng Jökull_. In the summer of 1913 I went to the entrance to this
fastness. It is the finest retreat for an outlaw that any country could
possibly provide in its natural configurations. The _Saga of Grettir_
relates that he found his way over the lava wastes of _Skjalbreith_,
Broad-Shield, by sighting the summit of _Skjalbreith_ through a hole in
a block of lava and noting the intervening points of prominence. In the
old days the youth of Iceland used to assemble on the level grass plain
at the extreme northern end of _Thingvellir_ during the annual meeting
of the _Althing_ to hold their sports. At one time _Grettir_ came down
from _Thórisdalr_ in disguise and entered into the wrestling. One by one
he threw all the champions from the different sections of Iceland and
did it with apparent ease. The maidens sat upon the high conglomerate
knob overlooking the plain and saw with sorrow their respective favorites
beaten in the feats of strength. The seat upon which they sat is known
as _Meijarsoeti_, Maidens’-Seat. It was not till _Grettir_ left the
arena and climbed the narrow pass which runs upward beside _Meijarsoeti_
that it was discovered that the unknown wrestler was in truth _Grettir_,
though some of the wise ones had hinted as much.
The story of _Grettir’s_ life on _Drangey_ is of great interest but too
long for a full recital. If the reader desires to know more of the real
hero of Iceland in the old days and the one most often mentioned at the
present time he should read the _Grettir Saga_. It will give an account
of his wanderings, his conflict with the ghost and his harder struggles
with the men who desired to take his life because he had refused to leave
his native land after the Althing had outlawed him with the greater
outlawry. _Drangey_ is an island in the middle of the great fiord and
the sides are so steep that it is possible to ascend only at one place.
With two men he took up his abode here and lived upon the sheep which the
farmers had put upon the rock for summer pasture. The _Saga_ relates that
on a Christmas night his fire went out and that he swam to the mainland
to replenish it. He entered the house by the shore and was recognized
by an old woman. Several men, the foes of _Grettir_, were making merry
in an adjoining room, but the old woman pitied him and, because it
was Christmas night, gave him the coals and allowed him to depart in
peace. Placing the fire in a small kettle, he swam back to _Drangey_ and
rekindled the fire in his stone stove.
The temperature was only three degrees above freezing when we
descended the western slope of the mountain and arrived at the farm,
_Bolstaðarhlið_, Wood-Farm-Slope. There was a long delay in getting
supper but it came at last in the shape of a hot lamb stew and we were
provided with comfortable beds. We were told that in the morning we
could have oatmeal porridge, and, since it had been many days that we
had had anything of this nature, we looked forward with pleasure to
the breakfast. Having a long ride before us on the morrow, we solemnly
arranged with Ólafur to start by eight-thirty. He agreed to have the
ponies and the cases in readiness. We had often held these solemn
councils but a stray pony, a broken pack saddle, a lost shoe or some
other quite common mishap had always prevented our starting before one to
three hours after the appointed time. This morning it was not the fault
of Ólafur and there were none of the usual causes of delay. It was that
oatmeal porridge and even the placid guide was disturbed at the delay.
Well, at ten we sat down to enjoy that oatmeal with real thick, sweet
cream in abundance. The combination was delicious as the oatmeal was
thoroughly cooked. Then, I pulled out a long black hair and carefully
concealed the presence of it from my companion. Soon I found another
and this one was white. I could no longer refrain from communicating my
discoveries and so I stated:—
“I have discovered exactly how long this oatmeal was cooked.”
“Well, how long was it cooked and why this smile?”
I replied,—“The woman who started to prepare this porridge had black
hair, but when she had finished it her hair had turned white.”
After a short ride we came to the _Blandá_, Mingled-Waters, which was
so swollen that it was necessary for us to proceed to the mouth of the
river at _Blönduós_ where there is a substantial bridge. The ride from
this trading village south to the farm, _Hnausar_, Rough-Ground, was in
a hard rain with the thermometer at one degree above freezing and with
occasional gusts of snow that swept down from the ridge at our right
with the howling wind. With our heads bowed low over the saddle and the
wind at our backs we saw little of the valley save that at the feet
of the ponies. The wind increased and the storm drove up the valley
from the Arctic Ocean with sufficient violence to drive from our minds
everything save thoughts of a shelter. At seven-thirty we halted at the
gate of the _tún_ while Ólafur sought the _bondé_ to ask the customary
questions about food, shelter and grass for the ponies. I have never had
the request refused but politeness demands that the traveller remain
without the turf wall until the request is made of the farmer, or if he
is absent, of his wife or oldest son. The Icelander within his turf wall
is like a baron in his castle and as such must be recognized. Once the
questions are asked the request is granted and the traveller then is
placed at ease with all the freedom that is necessary.
The good wife built a fire of turf and sheep manure in the tall Norwegian
stove in the guest room, took all our wet clothing to her kitchen to dry
and prepared for us a satisfying and tasty supper. She kept the fire
replenished till midnight and I remember no fire that seemed so good as
this one. Before the fire was built and we stood about the cold stove
with chattering teeth I knew something of how _Grettir_ felt when he
discovered that all his coals had turned to ashes out there on _Drangey_.
It rained and snowed by turns all night and at eleven when I looked out
upon the farm the haycocks wore white capes. A small bedroom opened out
of the guest room and the water came through its turf roof in many places
in streams, in fact everywhere except upon the bed and why that was
exempt I do not know.
The morning broke cold and windy with falling snow and the uncut grass
protruded its emerald green through the white blanket. We looked towards
the south, listened to the gusty wind, glanced at the lowering heavens
and returned to the heated stove. It was Sunday and we decided to let
the ponies have a day of rest. They, poor beasts, were not grazing but
stood with drooping heads and tails turned towards the wind. The ponies
of Iceland! In no other place in the world will horses thrive under such
treatment as they receive in this land. They are ridden or driven with
their heavy packs all day, often upon grassless mountain slopes, fording
deep and cold rivers, often swimming, often laboring in long reaches of
sand or plunging in grassy bogs. When the work of the day is finished
they are simply turned adrift to care for themselves. They are never
groomed, never given any grain, never covered with a blanket; they have
no sheltering stalls. They are simply turned loose in the storm as well
as in the sunshine, or, into what they dread worse than any storm, among
the swarms of savage midges. When the grass is good they are happy; they
never knew any other life. What steed of English or American stables
would care to become an Icelandic pony, to work all day for the chance
to graze all night, and then, as I have so often witnessed, have their
master end the days work in a dreary sand waste where willow leaves and
scanty sedges offer the only forage?
The day passed rapidly and pleasantly. The farmer came to our sitting
room to take coffee with us at noon and then invited me to go and see his
pet saddle horse, a magnificent stallion. This I did with interest as I
had never seen a stallion among the thousands of ponies I had found in
the country. He saddled him and showed his different paces for some time
about the tún and then Ólafur was invited to ride him. I photographed
the farmer on his steed and then I was invited to ride the stallion. It
is a mark of special favor for any farmer to allow another to mount his
private pony; and it is also a breach of etiquette to offer to mount
another’s pony. This is a custom that clings from the pagan days. We read
in the _Saga of Hrafnkell, Frey’s Priest_, how one man met his death by
mounting the favorite horse of another. The story is as follows, but
greatly abbreviated:—
Einarr engaged himself to watch the sheep of the Priest of Frey,
_Hrafnkell_, and his master said to him:—
“I’ll make a short bargain with thee. Thy business shall be to watch
fifteen ewes at the mountain dairy and gather and carry home faggots
for summer fuel. On these terms thou shalt take service with me for two
‘half-years.’ But one thing must I give thee, as all my shepherds to
understand,—‘Freymane’ goes grazing in the valley with his band of mares;
thou shalt take care of him winter and summer, but I warn thee of one
thing, namely, that thou never be on his back on any condition whatever,
for I am bound by a mighty vow to slay the man that ever should have a
ride on him. There are twelve mares with him; whichever one of these thou
mayest want, night or day, is at your service. Do now as I tell thee and
mind the old saw,—‘No blame is borne by those who warn.’ Now thou knowest
that I have said.”
Einarr replied:—“I trust I am under no such luckless spell as to ride on
a horse which is forbidden, least of all when there are other horses at
my disposal.”
Briefly, Einarr went to work, the time came when the sheep wandered; a
rain and mist came down; the ewes had been absent many days; Einarr went
down to the grass where the mares were grazing taking his saddle cloth
and bridle, thinking to catch one and ride over the hills in search of
the lost sheep. He could not catch one of the mares though he had spent
all the morning; but “Freymane was as quiet as if stuck buried in the
ground.” Einarr though that his master surely would never know, so he
mounted the forbidden pony and “rode until middle eve,” and “he rode
him long and hard.” “The horse was all dripping even every hair on him;
bespattered he was all over with mire, and mightily blown. Twelve times
he rolled himself, and then he set up a mighty neighing, and then set off
at a quick pace down along the beaten track.” … “Einarr ran after him but
could not lay hand on him.” … “He ran all the way along the valley never
stopping till he came to _Aðalból_. At that time Hrafnkell sat at table,
and when the horse came before the door it neighed aloud.”
“He went out and saw Freymane and spoke to him; ‘I am sorry to see thee
in this kind of a plight, my pet; however thou hadst all thy wits about
thee in coming thus to let me know what was the matter; due revenge shall
be taken for this.’”
“In the morning _Hrafnkell_ saddled a horse and rode up to the dairy;
he had his axe in his hand but no other weapons about him. At this time
_Einarr_ had just driven the ewes into the pen, and lay on the top of
the wall counting the sheep; but the women were busy milking. They all
greeted _Hrafnkell_ and he asked how they got on. _Einarr_ answered; ‘I
have no good speed myself, for no less than thirty ewes were missing
for a week, though now I have found them again.’ Hrafnkell said he had
no fault to find with things of that kind, ‘it has not happened so
often as might have been expected that thou hast lost the ewes. But has
not something worse befallen than that? Didst thou not have a ride on
Freymane yesterday?’
“_Einarr_ replied,—‘I can not gainsay that utterly.’”
“Why didst thou ride on this one horse which was forbidden thee, while
there were plenty of others on which thou art free to ride? Now this
one trespass I could have forgiven thee, if I had not used words of such
great earnestness already. And yet thou hast manfully confessed thy
guilt.”
“But by reason of the belief that those who fulfill their vows never come
to grief, he leaped off his horse, sprang upon _Einarr_, and dealt him
his death blow.”
In the afternoon the Doctor from _Blönduós_ arrived at the farm to pay
a social call and the farmer brought him to our sitting room, while the
eldest daughter served us with the usual social beverage in Iceland.
Two pleasant hours passed during which we gained much information about
Icelandic customs, local history and legends.
The rain came down still harder in the evening but we welcomed it as it
promised warmer weather and bare ground on the morrow. So much water had
come into our bed room that it was only by judicious side stepping and
walking on the tops of the packing boxes that we were able to reach the
bed without a cold and muddy footbath.
There are three things in Iceland that have never been counted:—The
islands in _Breiðifjörðr_, Broad-Fiord, the lakes of _Arnavatnsheiði_,
Eagle-Lake-Heath, and the conical hills of _Vatnsdalr_, Water-Dale. Our
stopping place, _Hnausar_, which signifies rough ground, is in the midst
of these peculiar hills and in the center of the valley. We spent three
days among the hills and found them of marked interest to the geologist.
Hundreds of acres are covered with the cones rising from the plain to an
elevation of from twenty-five to over one hundred feet. Oftentimes they
are so near together that their bases are confluent and thus seem to be
double peaked in a few instances. Geologists have given different reasons
for this queer formation. One states that they are of glacial origin and
were left when the ice melted in the form of moraines; another is of the
opinion that they are the results of great avalanches upon the glacier,
which in melting left them here. Another states that they are merely
the weathered fragments of a local lava flow. I spent a day in their
examination and so will give my reasons for rejecting the causes assigned
by these gentlemen and substitute my own conclusions in order that future
scientists interested in the geology of Iceland may confirm or refute
according as they weigh the evidence.
They can not be glacial moraine as there is no evidence of any glacial
action in any way upon any of the fragments and it must be remembered
that as compared with glaciated areas in other lands Icelandic glaciation
is as if it occurred yesterday. In fact glaciers are still covering many
square miles of the table land. There is no evidence of any water erosion
on any of the stones. They could not have been avalanches upon the ice
sheet for there are no mountains near at hand from which such masses of
material could have come. And if it is argued that the avalanches were at
a distance it turns the problem once more into that of the moraine. The
character of the valley and its low mountains will not permit our reason
to accept either the glacial or the avalanche theory.
There is no evidence of any great lava flow either in plugs, intrusive
sheets or surface flow, neither in the necessary abundance of scoriae
and blistered fragments to warrant such a theory. And if there were, we
must then explain why these are “cones” and _not craters_ with blistered
rims and solid slopes. We must turn to _Mývatn_ for the explanation. It
is my opinion that deep seated and violent subterranean explosions of
considerable frequency took place here, as in the case of _Hverfjall_ the
giant explosion crater of _Mývatn_. It heaved up the crust in crumpled
masses, mingling the different basalt formations of ancient flows which
lay in superimposed sheets. How else can one account for the many kinds
of lava in a single cone, the absence of blistering and cones in place
of craters? I have performed an interesting experiment in the laboratory
upon this theory and with results that seem to verify the above
conclusions. A two liter copper beaker was chosen. It was half filled
with clay dust of different colors in layers. This dust was prepared by
thoroughly drying the clays, pulverizing and then dusting it through a
double fold of cheese cloth. This gave me particles large enough for my
miniature experiment. The beaker was then slowly heated from the bottom.
After due process of time with the increase of heat the subterranean
gases, in this case air in the dust, expanded. At first with slightly
audible bumps and a faint trembling of the surface. These increased until
the action became violent and small mounds were thrown up which formed
true cones with mingled colors from the different depths.
_Vatnsdalr_ is a fair and pleasant valley, when the sun shines. No wonder
that it possessed a charm for the early settlers with its parallel
mountain ridges of entrancing blue, its noble river expanding into fine
sheets of water where trout are abundant and its fertile meadows of
broad expanse. It is historic ground as well as legendary. It has known
stirring days and its heroes were the bravest of any who wielded the axe
and bill in the troublesome times when blood alone could recompense a
personal affront or a crossed lover. A whole sheaf of _Sagas_ relate the
deeds of the men and women of Waterdale. The valley is the same as of
old. The inhabitants point out the exact localities where the guest halls
of the nobles stood and where their temples of sacrifice were reared
to propitiate the gods of Valhalla; they show one where the champions
battled for their rights, where the lovers held their trysts and the
mounds where the heroes were entombed. These incidents have been handed
down from generation to generation, from father to son and the stories
were oft repeated in the _bathstófa_ during the long winter evenings
when the Arctic shore was frozen and the wind whirled the drifting snows
around their turf huts.
Besides the lengthy _Sagas_ there are numerous shorter stories that have
been preserved in written form such as that of _Gisli_, the Outlaw;
_Grettir_, the Strong and _Glum_. It is a knowledge of the _Sagas_ and
the legends that spread the charm over this valley, that leads one from
the present to the past by a jump backwards of many centuries. To visit
Iceland, especially the _Saga Dales_, in ignorance of their history would
be like tramping through Scotland without any acquaintance with Sir
Walter Scott, or a sojourn in London without a knowledge of Dickens.
In most countries the progress of modern life, with its inventions and
the eternal scramble for the latest style in everything, has obliterated
much if not all of the past and one can only obtain the colors of the
former ages in the ruins of a castle or cathedral or from the written
pages of the antiquary. Not so in Iceland,—farms, mountains, rivers,
lakes and meadows remain the same and under the same names given to
them by the first settlers, though it be ten centuries of time. No
railway or canal, no public improvements, modern cities or factories
have obliterated the ancient landmarks. Even the manners and dress of
the people are little changed from that early day. On the ruins of the
tumbled-down hut of his grandfather the grandson erects his house in the
same fashion and the descendants of the first imported sheep furnish
skins for shoes still tanned, cut and fashioned after the ancient model.
To visit the remote dales of Iceland is to be set backward in history
and fashions a thousand years.
The _Waterdale Saga_ tells us how _Ingmundr_, a grand old Viking, after
years of sea-roving and plundering along the shores of the southern seas
settled in this valley with his followers. He had made a vow that no
matter where he might roam that Norway should always remain his home. The
witches of Finland prophesied that Iceland would be his resting place
and so it was. At the farm called _Hof_, Temple, one may still trace the
position of his great _Scali_, Banquet Hall, and there beside it winds
the river where the old man lost his life. He had promised protection to
a renegade who treacherously slew his benefactor. _Ingmundr_ went to his
high seat in the hall after the blow, wrapped his cloak around him and
died alone. His grandson, _Ingólfr_, was “the handsomest man in all the
northern lands.” Here is a song written about him over 800 years ago by a
little maiden who admired him:—
“All the pretty maidens
Wish to dance with Ingólfr;
All the grown-up damsels.
Woe’s me, I’m too little!
‘I too,’ said the Carline,
‘I will go with Ingólfr
While a tooth is left me,
While I’ve strength to hobble.’”
_Trans. by Miss Oswald._
In the _Saga_ of the farm of _Grimstunga_, Grim’s Tongue, (_tunga_ is
frequently used with reference to a narrow strip of grass land in a sand
waste or between masses of lava), at the head of the valley, we find the
following story of _Ingólfr_:—
“An autumn feast was held at _Grimstunga_ and a playing at the ball.
_Ingólfr_ came to the game, and many men with him from the Dale,” (Water
Dale.) “The weather was fine and the women sat out and watched the game.
_Valgerðr_, _Ottar’s_ daughter, sat on the hill-side and other women with
her. _Ingólfr_ was in the game and his ball flew far up among the girls.
_Valgerðr_ took the ball and hid it under her cloak and bade him find it
who had cast it. _Ingólfr_ came up and found it and bade the others go on
with the game; but he played no more himself. He sat down by _Valgerðr_
and talked the rest of the day.”
It was the story of love that did not go smoothly for he flirted and did
not propose to her father for her hand in marriage. Her father sold his
farm and moved to the south. Man-slayings followed and _Valgerðr_ was
forced by her father to marry another man when _Ingólfr_ deserted her for
another maiden. He had many love affairs for he was inconstant. In the
end he was wounded by outlaws and when dying he requested that he might
be laid in the mound with his forefathers near the river path in Water
Dale that “the maidens might remember him when they walked that way.”
_Valgerðr_ had a famous brother, _Halfreðr_ nicknamed _Vandaeðaskald_,
signifying the “Troublesome Scald.” He was the favorite _scald_ of the
powerful Norwegian King, _Olaf Tryggvason_, who reigned from 995 to 1000
A. D. A full account of this King and of his favorite singer is given in
_Heimskringla_ by _Snorri Sturlason_, the Norse Historian, from which the
following brief account is condensed.
_Halfreðr_ was a wayward youth, given to wandering and adventure, a real
Viking in spirit. He was born in 968 and raised at this very farm of
_Haukagil_, Hawk-Gulley, where the notes for this chapter were roughly
penned in 1910. He was “a tall man, strong and manly looking, somewhat
swarthy, his nose rather ugly, his hair brown and setting him off well.”
A little brook tumbles down from the heath behind the house, the rolling
meadow reaches away to the river and beyond it the mountains rise in
glorious colors in this evening light just as they did when _Halfreðr_
played beside this same brook as a child and _Ingólfr_ flirted with
_Halfreðr’s_ sister. The turf house and the _tún_, the noisy dogs
bringing up the ewes for the evening milking, the swish of the scythe in
the grass and the call of the plover on the heights,—all are as in the
days of old and it requires little fancy to place this sturdy youth in
his old surroundings.
He was a poetical genius, a favorite of kings and a terror to his
enemies. He did not so often unsheath his sword in a quarrel as he
employed his stinging rhymes which cut his enemy deeper than the sharpest
sword. Like his sister, _Halfreðr_ had his love troubles. _Kolfina_ loved
him and he reciprocated but her father chose otherwise and betrothed her
to _Griss_, a man who had accumulated great wealth in the service of the
Emperor at Constantinople. _Griss_ was “rather elderly, short-sighted,
blear-eyed;” but he could see well enough when he went to woo _Kolfina_
that a handsome youth was kissing her at the door of the lodge. Caught
by _Griss_ in the very act, _Halfreðr_ shouted to him as he took his
reluctant departure:—
“Thou shalt have me for a foe, _Griss_, if thou wilt try to make this
match.”
The parents gave _Halfreðr_ a good scolding and ordered him away at once.
As he rides away he makes this rhyme:—
“Rage of the heath-dweller, trough-filler, beer-swiller,
Count I no more
Than the old farm-dog’s yelp
At the farm door
Howling at parting guest,—who cares for his behest?
My song shall praise her best,
Her I adore.”
_Trans. by Miss Oswald._
Longfellow says:—
“Halfred the scald,
Gray-bearded, wrinkled, and bald.”
This passage shows the wide poetic license which Longfellow took in
dealing with the _Sagas_ and the _Heimskringla_ of _Snorri_. Scott’s
harpers were always old and gray and Longfellow infers that the Scalds
were the same. The fact is that _Halfreðr_ did not live beyond forty
years of age. He was gay and reckless as were all of his cult; he was
reckless of speech even in the presence of the king. He was always ready
with a song whether at the court of _Olaf_, in the camp, on the sea in
storm or in calm or in the brunt of the fight. He was constant in love
and although he married a beautiful and wealthy woman he never forgot his
early love for the fair _Kolfina_.
King _Olaf_ had much trouble in converting him to Christianity and in
getting him to take the christening. He succeeded as we shall see from
the following quotation, but _Halfreðr_ clung in secret to the faith of
his fathers, the hope of a future life in _Valhalla_ as we note from the
many references to the old northern gods in his songs and the way in
which he talks of them. So frequently did he call upon the pagan deities
that _Olaf_ often talked to him about it and mistrusted that he was not
really converted to the Cross.
The Christening of Halfred The Troublous-Skald.
Heimskringla, Vol. I. _Sturlason_.
“On a day went the King a-walking in the street, and certain
men met him, and he of them who went first greeted the King;
and the King asked him of his name, and he named himself
_Hallfreðr_.”
“Art thou the skald?” said the king.
Said he, “I can make verses.”
Then said the King:—“Wilt thou take christening, and become my
man thereafter?”
Saith he:—“This shall be our bargain: I will let myself be
christened, if thou, King, be thyself my gossip, but from no
other man will I take it.”
The King answerest:—“Well, I will do that.”
So then was _Hallfreðr_ christened, and the King himself held
him at the font.
Then the King asked of _Hallfreðr_: “Wilt thou now become my
man?”
_Hallfreðr_ said: “Erst was I of the body-guard of Earl
_Hakon_; nor will I now be the liege man of thee nor of any
other lord, but if thou give me thy word that for no deed I may
happen to do thou wilt drive me away from thee.”
“From all that is told me,” said the King, “thou art neither
so wise nor so meek but it seemeth like enough to me that thou
mayest do some deed or other which I may nowise put up with.”
“Slay me then,” said _Hallfreðr_.
The King said: “Thou art a Troublous-Skald; but my man shalt
thou be now.”
Answereth _Hallfreðr_: “What wilt thou give me for a name gift,
King, if I am to be called Troublous-Scald?”
The King gave him a sword, but no scabbard therewith; and the
King said: “Make us now a stave about the sword, and let the
_sword_ come into every line.”
_Hallfreðr_ sang:—
“One only sword of all swords
Hath made me now sword-wealthy
Now then shall things be sword-some
For the Niords of the Sweep of sword-edge
Naught to the sword were lacking,
If to that sword were scabbard
All with the earth-bones colored.
Of three swords am I worthy.”
Then the King gave him the scabbard and said: “But there is not
a sword in every line.”
“Yea,” answers _Hallfreðr_, “but there are _three_ swords in
one line.”
“Yea, forsooth,” saith the King.
Now from _Hallfreðr’s_ songs we take knowledge and sooth
witness from what is there told concerning King _Olaf_.
In 1014, after a great sea fight in which a yard arm fell and inflicted
a mortal blow, _Hallfreðr_ lay dying on board of a crippled vessel which
was drifting before the gale. Still mindful of conditions around him he
makes the following stave, which was translated by Miss _Oswald_:—
“Down on my heart and side
Crashes the weatherworn spar;
Scarce ever so heavy a wave
Has swept o’er a boat before.
Wet am I, wave-washed and worn,
And shattered at heart and breast;
And the sea is aboard our craft,
And nowhere the scald can rest.”
With his dying breath he chanted the following stave, showing that his
early love, _Kolfina_, had not been forgotten during his long years of
warfare and wanderings:—
“The binder of her wimpled brow
Will shade these lovely eyes, I know,
With white hands soft and tender.
The rain-storm flood will have its way
When she has heard how dead I lay,
Though once I did offend her,
When overboard the warriors cast
Her scald, her love,—of all the past,
The love she will remember.”
Thus died in middle life one of the greatest of the Norse scalds. His
had been a “troublous” life indeed. The duties of the scald were to
improvise poetry on the instant, in praise of the King and in recounting
the deeds of his favorite warriors in battle. He was the historian and
the periodical at the same time; his utterances were respected and he was
feared by prince and peasant. The scald had liberties at court and in the
royal camp or on board the royal fighting ship not accorded to any other
retainer.