“Over the hills and far away.”
ON and about the sulphur mountains are a great many curious sights, and
none more singular than the various-colored clays. At the distance of
several miles the contrast between the sulphur beds and the different
kinds of clay was so great, that the hills looked as if they had been
experimented on by a company of painters, so clearly did they show their
coats of many colors. I stopped some time admiring the great steam-blast
and its blubbering neighbor, the gigantic cauldron of boiling mud. Fury!
I wonder how beef and plum pudding would boil, if wrapped in a tight bag
and immersed in this boiling clay. Very well, no doubt. Methinks ’twas
very wise in the Almighty placing these prominent and numerous
exhibitions of internal heat in a “far off” and thinly peopled land,
where all the folks are incurious, and not disposed to pry into nature’s
sublime secrets farther than she chooses to show them. Now, if these
ebullitions of old Dame Nature’s cauldron were in America, some shrewd
Yankee or joint-stock company would go to boring right down to the
center, to get at the fountain head; and after getting a supply of
steam, proceed to let it out in streams, to turn grist-mills, saw logs,
cook hotel dinners, pump water, drain marshes, and do many other “acts
and things that a free and independent” people “may of right do.” They
would dig for gold, and finding it not, be content with fire. With that
fire they would cook, roast and boil, warm themselves, and make baths.
With the steam they would turn machinery and spin cotton. Whatever
compound of metals, mines, or elements they found, of that they would
make riches, or at any rate attempt it, and some would succeed. Some, I
fear, would come off as the alchemist in _Festus_ did, when the Devil
taught him. Lucifer, in the garb of a gentleman, and manners of a
scholar, says—
“I have a secret I would fain impart
To one who would make right use of it. Now mark!
Chemists say there are fifty elements,
And more;—would’st know a ready recipe
For riches?
FRIEND. That, indeed, I would, good sir.
LUCIFER. Get, then, these fifty earths, or elements,
Or what not. Mix them up together. Put
All to the question. Tease them well with fire,
Vapor, and trituration—every way;
Add the right quantity of lunar rays;
Boil them and let them cool, and watch what comes.
FRIEND. Thrice greatest Hermes! but it must be; yes!
I’ll go and get them; good day—instantly. [_Goes._
LUCIFER. He’ll be astonished, probably.
FESTUS. He will,
In any issue of the experiment.
Perhaps the nostrum may explode, and blow him,
Body and soul, to atoms and to——.”
And I wonder where he’ll find himself? Somewhere, no doubt. But I am not
going to moralize on what might be, or what will be, when philosophers
come to Iceland and bore out artesian wells. Perhaps if they do, they’ll
come to the conclusion that some of the Icelanders have, that the
entrance to a certain warm region is not far from this country. These
good people are very sensible, in leading upright, moral lives.
But a mountain lies before me, and I must ride. We had sharp climbing
for nearly a mile, and relieved the ponies by getting off and walking up
a portion of the way. On the summit of the mountain pass—perhaps 1,500
feet above the plain—we had an extensive view. A long range of mountains
extended far to the east and northeast; on the west were separate peaks;
and to the south we could see far out on the ocean. Smoke and steam from
hot springs and sulphur mines, rose up in various places.
Our descent on the north side of the sulphur mountains was far more
gradual, and quite circuitous. Passing from a plain through a rocky
defile, there I saw the foot-prints of a former traveler, and where he
had attempted to immortalize himself. It was not President Fillmore, of
the United States, but plain Mr. Philmore, of England. He was here the
year before, and my present guide had been his. There, on the face of a
large rock, he had cut with considerable labor, the letter “P,” the
initial of his name. As it happened to be one of the initial letters of
my name, I dismounted, and finished the business with my knife, by
cutting in the rock my other initial, the letter “M.” The rock was a
soft kind of pumice, and soon a gigantic M. stood at the right of the P.
Now, future travelers who come this way, will learn with delight that
the illustrious “Plinio Myghellz” one day penetrated the rocky defiles,
and clambered up the snow clad mountains of Iceland! By the scrupulously
conscientious, it may be alleged that I stole another man’s thunder, or
at least the P with which he put it down. But of what use is half of a
man’s initials? It scarcely means any thing; and, like half a pair of
scissors, cannot cut any thing; or like an old bachelor, without t’other
half, “isn’t good for nothing.” Now, he put down the P, and I mated it
with the M, and there the two, keeping one another company, will
flourish to everlasting glory. “Plinio Myghellz,” you are famous; and
you, Mr. Philmore, you’re “no whar.”
We now traveled over the most extraordinary road I’ve ever seen on the
face of the globe. It must have been a vast labor to make it passable;
but passable it was, and that was all. It was a bed of lava several
miles in extent, and known as the “horrible lava.” Indeed the road was a
horrible one, and I only wonder a road could have been made at all that
would be passable for man or beast. Imagine a plain overflowed with
melted lava to an indefinite depth, say fifty to a hundred feet. Then on
cooling, this broke up in masses of rock of every imaginable shape and
size; only none of it was small or smooth or regular,—rough and sharp
peaks and edges, twenty feet above the average surface; and deep,
yawning cracks or seams appeared, fifty or a hundred feet deep, and
large enough to swallow up horse and rider. To make a road, the rocks
were broken down, and crevices were filled up, to that extent that the
sure-footed Iceland ponies got over it with safety. Sometimes they
jumped over the seams, and sometimes they clambered or crawled over the
rugged rocks. For five or six miles it was all desolation; not one drop
of water, not a single blade of grass, not one living bird, not a house,
not a single scrubby tree, nor, apparently, a single specimen of animal
or vegetable life, save an inferior kind of moss or lichen that clung to
the rocks. We could see, now and then, a patch of stunted heather. Such
is the process and progress of nature in Iceland. Lava overflows the
land, and for hundreds of years it stands up, cold, black, and naked.
Finally, a slight and thin species of moss—one of the most inferior
lichens—begins to cover the rocks with a delicate brown or pale green.
After a long period—somebody else must tell how long, for I can not,—by
the winds carrying on the dust, by the flight and rest of birds, by
insects and the growth of mosses, a little soil appears, just sufficient
to support a scattering and scanty growth of heather. And now this
beautiful little shrub lights up and adorns the desert waste. If you
look on Gunnlaugsson’s large map of Iceland—a map made from surveys and
observations extending over Iceland for twelve years, it will be seen
that the green, or agricultural portion, is not more than one-third of
it; and about one-half of the remainder—another third of the island—is a
pink color, indicating the growth of the heath; and the balance is snowy
mountains, sandy deserts, and black and barren lava. Such is the surface
of Iceland. After the bare lava tract has been succeeded by a growth of
heath, another long period is necessary to get a sufficient accumulation
of soil to support a growth of grass, the most valuable and extensive
vegetable product of the country. I have noticed on a beautiful meadow,
where the turf had been disturbed, that only six or eight inches below
the surface, the rugged lava appeared. I have mentioned that no country
shows more beautiful meadows, or produces more fragrant hay than
Iceland. It is of short growth, but remarkably sweet, and I am sure more
valuable, taken by weight, than the coarser hay grown in England and
America.
Soon after getting across the plain of “horrible lava,” we rode over a
low mountain; and before us was the town of Hafnarfiorth. This is a nice
village, nestled in a quiet little nook; and in its harbor were two or
three vessels. To those who have seen the town of Scalloway, in
Shetland, this place bears some resemblance. Back of Scalloway, the
hills rise more abruptly than here. The village, though apparently near,
was several miles away, and we rode by a good many fine farms, with
beautiful, green meadows, showing a marked contrast to the lava tract
that we had passed. I had been here once before, as mentioned in a
former chapter, and made the acquaintance of a very agreeable and
hospitable Danish gentleman and his wife. My first visit was with
Professor Johnson, and he did the talking on both sides; mine host,
whose name also was Johnson, conversing only in Danish and Icelandic.
Knocking at the door of the nice little white house, it was opened at
once, and there was a house full of young Icelandic ladies,—indeed the
prettiest lot of Iceland fair ones that I had seen at one time. Neatly
dressed, and beautiful girls they were; not one plain one among them.
All were at work, knitting, just as we see the good dames in America,
when they “go visiting” in the country. One had on the little Icelandic
black woolen cap, with silk tassel, the head-dress of the country; and
the others wore nothing on their heads, dressing in the Danish style,
which differs but little from the “fashions” in Paris, London, and New
York. The good little lady of the house greeted me very cordially; but
she was in a terrible fix, for she could not talk with me. She tried
Danish, then Icelandic; and I _attempted_ the same, stumbled through two
or three sentences, stuck fast, went on again, and finally broke down
altogether, ending in a hearty laugh all round, at my expense. Never
mind; it’s no hard task to be laughed at by a bevy of pretty girls. Mr.
Johnson was not at home, having gone to Reykjavik. Though the poor
little lady couldn’t find her tongue, at least to any effect; but I can
tell what she did find. She went to her closet and found a bottle of
capital wine, and she put it on the table at once; and I shall not tell
how many glasses of it went under my jacket before I left.
After partaking of the solids and fluids that my fair hostess set before
me, I rose to depart. Wishing them all a very good day in the best
Icelandic I could muster, and shaking hands all round—the usual
affectionate parting salute I did not dare attempt, being a naturally
bashful man!—I mounted my horse and rode off. It was after nine o’clock
in the evening, and the sun was bending low toward the Greenland sea.
Hafnarfiorth is the finest Iceland town I have seen, except the capital;
and it has a fine harbor. It is quite as beautiful in shape, and as
secure for shipping, as Sackett’s Harbor, on Lake Ontario. The land
nearly surrounds the harbor, forming about three quarters of a circle.
Large stacks of codfish were piled up, and great quantities were
scattered about on the gravelly beach, drying. After once thoroughly
dry, they tell me it does not hurt the fish to rain on them; and they
leave them out of doors with impunity. They put boards and heavy stones
on the piles to keep them from blowing away. In this primitive
community, all goods are safe under the broad canopy of heaven, as
“thieves do not break through, nor steal.” Visiting seemed to be the
order of the day at Hafnarfiorth. Several horses stood about, with the
curiously shaped side-saddles on them—like an arm-chair—peculiar to the
country. Boys were holding some of these; and some little girls, having
got helped to seats in the large saddles, were galloping the little
ponies round in fine style. They were bare-headed, with their long hair
streaming in the wind; and they seemed to think riding was capital fun.
In fact, I never saw an Icelander, male or female, who was too young to
sit in the saddle. These little northern nymphs seem to take to riding
as naturally as the South Sea islanders do to swimming. The village of
Hafnarfiorth has twenty or thirty houses, and perhaps two hundred
inhabitants. There is but one street, and that is bounded on one side by
the water, with the houses and stores on the other; and it runs in a
circle nearly round the harbor, close to the water’s edge. If any one
comes here and wants to know where my friend Johnson lives, I can tell
him; always provided he does not move, and no houses are built beyond
his. It is the last house—a neat little white, story-and-a-half one—on
the southern side of the harbor, the side opposite to Reykjavik. In
journeying from here north, we had to climb directly up a very steep
ascent, to get on the lava bed that covers the ground for many miles. It
was six miles to Reykjavik, the road passing within about a mile of
Bessastath, for a great many years the site of the Iceland college. Had
I not by this time been accustomed to all sorts of traveling—swimming,
tumbling, flying, and ballooning—I should have called this road a bad
one. Indeed, it was abominable; but I was accustomed to it. There’s
nothing like habit. Long practice may make sleeping on a solid rock go
as well as a bed of down.
Rocks were piled on rocks, and deep and broad cracks and seams were seen
at intervals. Across one chasm through which, deep in the earth, we
could hear a stream of water running, was thrown a natural arch of lava,
that served as a bridge where the road crosses. Winding round a couple
of deep bays that set back from the sea, we put our ponies through, at
the top of their speed; they seemed to appreciate their approach towards
home; and at about 11 o’clock, we jumped from our saddles, and with a
loud hurrah, dashed into the hotel at Reykjavik, where I met my old
friend, President Johnson,
“A drinking of his wine.”
He shook my hand so heartily I thought he would unjoint the elbow: “My
dear Yankee friend, how are you; and how is old mount Hekla, and the big
Geyser, and all the little Geysers; and how are my friends the sulphur
mountains?” “Why, high, hot, and smoking; how should they be, my
literary loon?” “And a fine tour you’ve had, I hope.” “Well, I have, my
boy; clear to the top of old King Coal. Yes, and a peep into the
crater.” “Well, you’re one of the boys; and I wish I could go across the
Atlantic, and see old Niagara with you.” And here I had a bed; no more
sleeping in churches; a bed on an old-fashioned camp bedstead—two letter
X’s; high diddle diddle, the fool in the middle, like the circus clown
with a hoop over his head.