[Illustration: THE RIVER JOKULSA.]
[Illustration: MT. HECLA.]
While all arctic lands are thus wild and desolate, there is one which
is especially worthy of attention. Though it is named Iceland it might
equally be called the Land of Fire; for it has volcanoes compared with
which even Etna is puny. The whole island is of volcanic origin, and
the mighty snow-clad peaks have often changed their garments of ice for
those of fire, while streams of melted lava have poured into the sea
through the valleys but lately filled with huge glaciers. At such times
the great river Jokulsa, whose source is in the unknown wastes amid
the everlasting snows, comes roaring to the sea swollen to overflowing
with the melted ice and discolored with ashes, while at night the red
glare from the burning mountain is reflected far and wide over the
snows. Since the discovery of the island and its settlement, there have
been over twenty-five eruptions of Mt. Hecla alone, and yet this is
but one out of many peaks and is far from being the largest. The most
serious eruption was from Skaptar Jokull in the year 1783. From this
mountain went two great streams of lava. One fifteen miles in breadth
extended over fifty miles, and one seven miles wide, reached a length
of forty miles. Where these streams were pent in by the mountains,
they were six hundred feet in depth and where they reached out over
the plains one hundred feet in depth. For one whole year the sun never
shone clearly, owing to the vast clouds of smoke that rose into the
air, and showers of ashes fell covering the ground in some places to
a depth of fourteen feet. Even in countries so far distant as England
the sky was perceptibly darkened. The cattle died by thousands, the
fish in the sea were poisoned and died, and the poor islanders were
reduced to the last extremity by starvation and disease. The volcanic
character of the island is shown in other ways than in such outbursts
as these. Pools are found of boiling mud, from whose surface clouds
of sulphurous vapor are constantly rising. Some are so thick that
only occasionally does the surface rise, break, and emit the steam,
while others are in a constant state of agitation. But more wonderful
are the boiling springs, and especially the Great Geyser, as it is
called. It is situated in the centre of a mound of its own creation
in the interior of the island, and its basin is perhaps seventy feet
in diameter, while in the centre a well in width ten feet, descends to
unknown depths. Ordinarily this great basin is filled with perfectly
clear boiling water of a temperature of 200 degrees. Presently the
water becomes agitated, a rumbling beneath the ground grows louder,
and suddenly a vast column of water is raised in the air, surrounded
by clouds of steam, till it reaches the height of a hundred feet. Only
for a moment or two does this last, when it sinks back and the fountain
resumes its former quiet. The Geyser is not by any means regular in its
discharges, often a whole day may pass without a single one, but a near
neighbor called the Strokr may be made to perform by a simple trick. As
its mouth is very small, a few shovelsful of turf completely close it
up. It gasps and sputters for a moment and then the turf is hurled high
in the air, followed by a column of spray, which after a few moments
settles back as before. Though not so large as the Great Geyser, it
is thought more graceful, while the ease with which its wrath may be
aroused causes it to be far more of a favorite with the spectator.
[Illustration: GREAT GEYSER.]
As the traveller approaches the coast of Iceland, his vessel passes
cliff after cliff, standing out into the ocean, until at length she
drops anchor in the harbor of the ancient town of Reykjavik. Small
though it may be, it can boast of a long existence. Ingolfr, the
Northman, in the year 869, flying from the tyranny of his sovereign,
resolved to seek a new home in Iceland. Though his countrymen had
visited the island, no successful settlement had been made. As he
neared the stormy shores, he cast into the sea the sacred pillars of
his former home, vowing to build a new town where they should land. At
the present day the appearance of Reykjavik, is not such as we should
expect from the romance of its foundation. “The town consists of a
collection of wooden sheds one story high--rising here and there into a
gable end of greater pretensions,--flanked at either end by a suburb of
turf huts. On every side of it extends a desolate plain of lava, that
once must have boiled up red hot and fallen hissing into the sea. No
tree or bush relieves the dreariness of the landscape, but before the
door of each merchant’s house there flies a gay little pennon, and as
you walk along the silent streets the rows of flower pots that peep out
of the windows at once convince you that within each dwelling reigns
the comfort of a woman-tended home.”
[Illustration: REYKJAVIK.]
The domain of which this sturdy little town is the capital is a limited
one. Though the whole island is of great extent, yet only one-ninth of
it is capable of cultivation. The whole centre and northern part of the
country is covered by a desert of lava, so inhospitable that no one
has ever explored it and from the parts under cultivation but little
can be raised. A few hardy vegetables, such as the potato, are produced
in small quantity, and grasses are grown for the support of sheep and
horses. Tree life is almost unknown. The pride of the governor’s garden
at Reykjavik is a tree which is three inches in diameter at its base,
and rises to the imposing height of fourteen feet.
[Illustration: TRAVELLING IN ICELAND.]
From such a barren soil the Icelander can obtain little. But the very
hardships of his life only force him to renewed energy. The island is
emphatically the home of birds, over one hundred varieties being found.
Some of these afford him food, others furnish covering for his bed,
while one is so fat that when its feathers are removed and a wick is
run through its body, it is used as a lamp to light his house through
the long northern winter. Sheep are raised, and the breeding of ponies
for exportation is a very profitable occupation. As there are no
carriage roads on the island, all travelling must be done on horseback
and all food and baggage must be carried in the same way. Consequently
a small party of travellers make a large cavalcade and present a
striking appearance as they pass along in single file, each horse tied
by the halter to the tail of the one before him.
It is to the sea, however, that the Icelander turns his chief
attention, and here he finds a rich harvest, for the waters are fairly
alive with fish. Great schools of cod seem to people the deep. On
shore, too, they are everywhere. The rafters of the houses are hung
with them, dried and smoked ready for use. They are piled up by the
roadside like cords of wood, while their bones are either used for fire
or are boiled and fed to the horses. Ship loads are sent each year to
the cities of Europe, where they find, especially in Roman Catholic
countries, a ready sale. It is even said that a new process has been
invented by which the fish when dried is ground into powder and so
exported as flour.
[Illustration: ICELANDIC INTERIOR.]
As may be imagined from what we have said of his surroundings, the
Icelander does not when at home live in luxury, and in truth his house
is but a poor affair. Of only one story in height, built of lava blocks
with peat for mortar, and thatched with peat, entered by a long,
narrow, dark passage, and lighted by only a single window in the roof,
ventilation is a thing unknown, and the whole place is apt to have
an odor of fish. The traveller, therefore, when night overtakes him
prefers, as there are no inns to take refuge in, the churches which are
everywhere open for this purpose. Tiny buildings they are:--ten feet in
width and twenty in length only; and yet owing to the distance apart
at which the people live they are rarely filled with worshippers. The
flat rafters overhead can be touched with the hands. In these sacred
precincts the traveller takes refuge, piling on one side the benches
used during service to make room for his blankets upon the floor.
The colony that Ingolfr founded in the year 869 grew to be a mighty
one. At a time when all Europe was in feudal slavery and no man could
call anything his own, the free Icelanders met in council in the open
plain, and each man claimed redress for any injury, without fear
or hesitation. Justice was announced from the Logberg, or mount of
laws, in the midst of the assembly, and was executed without fear or
partiality. Then as now the sea was the scene of their greatest action.
A hardier race of mariners and warriors was never known. The name of
the Vikings became a terror everywhere. In their frail craft they
crossed the wildest oceans, falling suddenly upon the sea-board cities
with the sword, and returning home-ward laden with booty. So daring
were their deeds, that they even ravaged the shores of the distant
Mediterranean, and in the year 1000 Leif Erikson crossed the Atlantic,
and landing upon the shores of Massachusetts, passed the winter there.
A colony was formed a few years later, which existed for many years.
The Icelandic records give us the name of Snorre Thorfinsson, born on
the shore of Buzzard’s Bay, who was, so far as we know, the first white
child born in the new world.
The hospitality of these early Norsemen was unbounded. There are
instances where some of the great chiefs built their houses across the
highway, so that no traveller could pass without entering and partaking
of their cheer. Their lives were those of men who were bred as warriors
from their cradle and who never relapsed into luxury. So, too, their
religion partook of the same severe character. Their gods were men
of strength, Odin was their head. The sagas or poems which have been
preserved to us represent him as an old man with a long gray beard. He
rides across the clouds on his horse Sleipner. On his shoulders are
perched two ravens, Reflection and Memory, who daily fly abroad into
the world, and returning whisper into his ear what they have noted
there. At his feet are crouched two wolves. Odin is especially the god
of warriors, and it is his care that no hero shall ever die except in
battle. From his home Valhalla he sends forth his maids, valkyries, who
select the warriors to be summoned to the halls of the blessed. To the
Viking death was but a change to a more glorious life.
“’Mid the crash of mast and rafter
Norsemen leaped through death with laughter,
Up through Valhal’s wide flung door.”
Thor was another great god. He was the emblem of strength, and passed
his time in contests with the frost giants. When the thunder was heard
it was said that it was the chariot of Thor rolling overhead. He was
girt about with a belt which redoubled his strength; his hand was
protected by a mighty gauntlet; while with his great hammer, Mjolner,
he could split asunder the hills. The aurora was his beard, and in the
storm they seemed to hear him chaunt,
“The light thou beholdest
Stream through the Heavens
Is but my red beard
Blown by the night wind.
Mine eyes are the lightning
The wheels of my chariot
Roll in the thunder;
The blows of my hammer
Ring in the earthquake.”
Odin and Thor were the two chief gods, but beside them there were many
others of whom we cannot now speak. How strong a hold this religion had
over our Saxon ancestors can be seen from our names for the days of the
week. Wednesday is but a corruption of the old Odin’s day, Thursday is
Thor’s day, while Friday is so called from Freya the goddess of love.
Christianity was first preached in Iceland about the year 981. The
earliest missionaries of the cross did not go forth filled with the
spirit of meekness that their Master taught, but with sword in hand.
Thorwald and Thangbrand were the two first apostles to Iceland. Of
the latter an old chronicler says, he “was a passionate, ungovernable
person, and a great manslayer, but a good scholar, and clever. He was
two years in Iceland, and was the death of three men before he left
it.” These fiery christians were followed by others who resorted to
more gentle means, and as a result large numbers were converted to
christianity. So strong had the new religion become that the followers
of the old gods were alarmed, and it was feared that civil war would
follow. The better sense of the nation, however, prevailed, and it was
decided to summon an assembly of the entire people to decide what the
national religion should be. In the midst of the meeting, when the
debate was at its height, a loud rumble of earthquake beneath their
feet shook the ground. “Listen,” said a follower of Odin, “and beware
of the anger of our gods; they will consume us with their fires, if
we venture to question their authority.” The crowd were moved and all
seemed lost to the christian party, when one of their chiefs demanded,
pointing to the desolation about him, “With whom were the gods angry,
when these hills were melted,” a piece of common sense that carried
the day, for the assembly declared christianity the religion of the
country. Since that day it has never changed.
In the twelfth century monasteries abounded, and Icelanders marched in
the armies of the crusaders, but when the Reformation came, the people
in a body accepted the doctrines of Luther, and the state religion has
ever since been, as it now is, the Lutheran. In their tiny churches,
with a salary averaging less than two hundred dollars a year, the
faithful clergy labor unceasingly, preferring this rugged life to one
of more ease in a more friendly clime, for there is no Icelander great
or small who does not firmly believe his own to be “the best land the
sun ever shone on.”