“By water shall he die, and take his end.”
HAVING seen the Reykir springs, I prepared to leave. I paid the man
the usual sum for the privilege of sleeping in the parish church, and
for the grass for our horses, and milk for ourselves. He was evidently
dissatisfied; returned no thanks, and did not offer his hand as a
token of satisfaction. From his demeanor now, and more from some
circumstances hereafter to be related, I think him a bad man. He was
of a much darker complexion than the most of the Icelanders, and a
morose, churlish-looking fellow. Perhaps, from the fact that he was the
landlord of the Reykir Springs—a “fashionable watering-place”—he had
grown worldly, and considered a stay on his premises worth more than it
is at most caravanseras. He saddled his horse, however, and prepared to
accompany us; probably, though, as a favor to the guide, rather than to
me, as he would not like to forfeit his future custom. The guide rode
ahead with the pack-horses, and I went a little way to the right to see
some hot and warm springs—a part of the great family here, that I had
not seen the night before. There were two, similar to two that I had
seen at the Geysers, large and deep; perhaps twenty feet across, and
entirely full of hot water, so clear that I could see perfectly plain
to the bottom—about thirty or thirty-five feet, as near as I could
judge. These springs did not discharge a very great quantity of water;
but there they were level, full, and hot enough to boil a dinner, and
there they had been in that state, probably,
“Amid the flux of many thousand years,
That oft had swept the toiling race of men
And all their labored monuments away.”
A little way off—perhaps twelve rods—was a cold spring, and between that
and the hot ones was one of tepid water. “Mine host” rode out near me,
to call my attention to this tepid spring. It was more like a well,
about ten feet across at the top of the water, which was below the
surface of the ground some six or eight feet. I got off my horse, and
with some caution went down the steep, sloping side of the well, and
felt of the water. It was about blood heat, and no steam escaped from
it. The water was pitchy black, and showed no bottom, appearing of
unfathomable depth. The Icelander also went down the bank, and felt of
the water; and while he did so, his feet gave way, and down he went into
the horrible-looking pool. As he sank, he turned his face towards me
with a look of terror and fear more horrible than I ever saw on a man’s
countenance before. May I never be a witness to another such sight! His
death seemed inevitable. To my utmost astonishment, he floated. To go in
after him was out of the question, and would only have resulted in
drowning us both. He floated over on his back, his face just out of
water, and reached his hands imploringly towards me. I stretched my whip
to him; and as he caught the end of the lash, I pulled him slowly
towards the bank, then grasped his hand, and got him out. The man was
drunk! It was brandy that threw him into the water, and no doubt ’twas
brandy that kept him afloat. Not being very fond of water, I think
’twould be very difficult to drown an Icelander. Certainly this one did
not show the “alacrity in sinking” that Falstaff did. He pulled off his
coat, and wrung the water out of it; and then, in his wet clothes,
mounted his horse, and we rode on after the guide, who by this time was
a long way ahead, crossing the green meadows.
To the left, towards the river Hvitá and the sea, it was level; and
on the right, ranges of hills and mountains. In the course of six
or eight miles, we arrived at the little town and church of Hjalli
(_he-aht-li_). It was Sunday, and the people for many miles around were
assembling for worship. Every one came on horseback. As for traveling
on foot any distance, such a thing is unknown in Iceland. Here the
landlord of the Reykir Springs left us. He showed the same ungrateful,
unthankful spirit that he did that morning at home, although I had
saved his life. Holding forth my hand, to shake his at parting, with
a wrathful look he drew his back, and said “Nay.” He had no reason to
treat me thus; but according to an old superstition, common in Orkney
and Shetland, and I believe in Iceland, I ought to beware of him. It is
related by northern journalists—see Scott’s _Pirate_—that when a ship
is wrecked, or under other circumstances, no one must try to save the
lives of the unfortunates; for if they do, the person so saved will
some day take the life of his benefactor, or in some way prove his
evil genius. I don’t think this Icelander can stand much of a chance
to be mine, for in all human probability we shall never meet again. He
is evidently not born to be drowned, but he better be cautious how he
imbibes too much brandy before going to the margin of a deep well. He
may not, at another time, have a Yankee to pull him out if he falls
in. Leaving Hjalli, we crossed a broad tract of country covered with
the beautiful heath, now in full bloom. I stopped and gathered a large
bouquet to carry home. This day it rained the most of the time; and,
though not near night, I was glad when we arrived at Vogsósar, where
the guide said we were to put up. We rode up to the house—bear in mind,
the Iceland towns often consist of just one tenement—and dismounted.
The resident was a clergyman—Rev. Mr. Jonson. He came out, and after
saluting me, had a long talk, in Icelandic, with the guide. It seemed
as if I had fallen on evil men and evil times, for I did not like the
appearance of this man at all. Somehow, he had a forbidding look; and
I fancied we should have to travel further, as I did not believe his
heart or house would open for me that night. How easy it is to be
mistaken! He was like all the Iceland clergy—and like almost every
one of the Icelanders—one of the most hospitable of men. Having got
the history of our former travels—as I presume he did—from the guide,
and finding, no doubt, that I was one whose character would bear
investigation, he “took me in;” not, however, as the landlady did Dr.
Syntax; but he took me into his house, showed me a warm fire, had some
fresh trout cooked for me, a fine cup of coffee, and with a change of
dry clothes, I was once more “in clover.” This was near the sea-shore,
on a lake known as Hlitharvatn, a kind of bottle-like arm of the sea,
where the water flowed in, through a neck or strait, at every flow
of the tide. About a mile south of the house, with the waves of the
Atlantic nearly washing it, stood the church. This bears the name of
“Strandar Kirkja,” or, Church on the Strand.
Southeast of this, a mile or two, is a cape known as the “Nes.” These
names of “kirk,” “strand,” and “Nes,” show the similarity in the
languages in the north of Europe. There is Inverness, on the north coast
of Scotland; Cape Lindesness, on the southwest point of Norway; and
Reikianess, on the southwest point of Iceland. Mr. Jonson had some good
books in his house, and was evidently a gentleman and a scholar. He
talked excellent Latin, in which dead language we exchanged our live
thoughts. He evidently lived rather comfortably; and, like most of the
Iceland clergy, was both farmer and preacher. He made some inquiries
about America, but seemed extremely contented, and well satisfied with
his own country. He told me, in order to cross the neck or strait that
led to the lake, I must start the next morning at six o’clock—“_hora
sexta_”—when it would be low tide. We accordingly made preparations for
an early start. I found it totally useless to offer him money for my
entertainment. Like all the clergy, not a penny would he take. I offered
a piece of silver to one of his servants, who brought up our horses; but
a half-dollar had no charms for him; he would not take it. He knew the
value of money, but he knew it was not the custom for his master or his
household to take money from strangers. Giving him, and his wife and
family, our best thanks and a hearty shake of the hand, while the
morning sun was gilding the broad Atlantic, and lighting up the mountain
tops, we rode away.
Our ride to-day, going west from Vogsósar, was quite a contrast to
yesterday’s journey. At six o’clock we found low tide, and the water
nearly out of the arm of the sea that supplies Lake Hlitharvatn with
water. A young tern, half fledged, was on a little island near us, as we
passed; and the old bird showed great signs of alarm. The little fellow
had not been in the world long, but we certainly were not among his
enemies. The mother bird swooped down at the dog and then at us, and
screamed at the whole party, and kept it up till we were far away from
the little one. Skirting the strand for some distance, the guide pointed
out with great interest several logs of drift wood that had been washed
ashore.
The gales from the southwest bring a good deal of drift wood on shore
along here, every stick of which is valuable. The coast being low, there
is a long line of breakers pitching their white caps on to the strand.
Large numbers of sea-fowl were riding and rocking on the waves,
“As free as an anchored boat.”
It seems to me that the life of a sea-fowl must be a continued romance.
I would like to fly and swim as they do, if I could. But some of them
have floated, and swam, and fished their lives away; for their skeletons
lie about on the beach. How black the whole line of coast is along here!
How different from the chalky cliffs of old England, or the clear-white
sand on the shores of America! Here it is all lava and volcanic sand,
and quite black. From Vogsósar we continued our journey west to
Krisuvik, a very small town near the coast, but it has no harbor. Never
were the striking features of a volcanic country shown more palpably
than where we traveled to-day. We rode on the plain, with the mountains
on our right and the sea to the left. Earthquakes, many of them very
violent, happen here every few years. Then large fragments of rocks and
lava are rolled down from the mountain tops far out into the plain.
These were very numerous and of all sizes, some that would weigh fifteen
or twenty tons having rolled from one to two miles. Here the old lava,
particularly that which had rolled down from the mountains, had a
different appearance from any I had before seen in Iceland. Much of this
looks like the conglomerate or “plum-pudding stone” found on the coast
of Scotland, in our New England States, in California, and in various
parts of the world. It looks just as if in the volcanic times, when
there was a general melting, that a quantity of sea-worn pebbles and
very hard round stones of various sizes would not melt, but became
incorporated or rolled up in the dough-like mass, and here they remain
like enormous plum-puddings at Christmas time.
Many of the hills and mountains are very abrupt and precipitous, like
those near Reykir, and farther east, near Hraungerthi.