HISTORY OF ICELAND.
Discovery of the Island by Naddodr in 861.--Gardar.--Floki of
the Ravens.--Ingolfr and Leif.--Ulfliot the Lawgiver.--The
Althing.--Thingvalla.--Introduction of Christianity into the
Island.--Frederick the Saxon and Thorwold the Traveller.--
Thangbrand.--Golden Age of Icelandic Literature.--Snorri
Sturleson.--The Island submits to Hakon, King of Norway, in
1254.--Long Series of Calamities.--Great Eruption of the Skapta
Jökul in 1783.--Commercial Monopoly.--Better Times in Prospect.
The Norse vikings were, as is well known, the boldest of navigators.
They possessed neither the sextant nor the compass; they had neither
charts nor chronometers to guide them; but trusting solely to fortune,
and to their own indomitable courage, they fearlessly launched forth
into the vast ocean. Many of these intrepid corsairs were no doubt lost
on their adventurous expeditions, but frequently a favorable chance
rewarded their temerity, either with some rich booty or some more
glorious discovery.
Thus in the year 861, Naddodr, a Norwegian pirate, while sailing from
his native coast to the Faeroe Islands, was drifted by contrary winds
far to the north. For several days no land was visible--nothing but
an interminable waste of waters; when suddenly the snow-clad mountains
of Iceland were seen to rise above the mists of the ocean. Soon after
Naddodr landed with part of his crew, but discovered no traces of
man in the desert country. The viking tarried but a short time on
this unpromising coast, on which he bestowed the appropriate name of
Snowland.
Three years later, Gardar, another northern freebooter, while sailing
to the Hebrides, was likewise driven by stormy weather to Iceland.
He was the first circumnavigator of the island, which he called,
after himself, Gardar’s holm, or the island of Gardar. On his return
to his native port, he gave his countrymen so flattering an account
of the newly-discovered land, that Floki, a famous viking, resolved
to settle there. Trusting to the augury of birds, Floki took with
him three ravens to direct him on his way. Having sailed a certain
distance beyond the Faeroe Islands, he gave liberty to one of them,
which immediately returned to the land. Proceeding onward, he loosed
the second, which, after circling for a few minutes round the ship,
again settled on its cage, as if terrified by the boundless expanse of
the sea. The third bird, on obtaining his liberty a few days later,
proved at length a faithful pilot, and flying direct to the north,
conducted Floki to Iceland. As the sea-king entered the broad bay which
is bounded on the left by the huge Snäfells Jökul, and on the right
by the bold promontory of the Guldbringe Syssel, Faxa, one of his
companions, remarked that a land with such noble features must needs be
of considerable extent. To reward him for this remark, which flattered
the vanity or the ambition of his leader, the bay was immediately
named Faxa Fiord, as it is still called to the present day. The new
colonists, attracted by the abundance of fish they found in the bay,
built their huts on the borders of a small outlet, still bearing the
name of Rafna Fiord, or the Raven’s Frith; but as they neglected to
make hay for the winter, the horses and cattle they had brought with
them died of want. Disappointed in his expectations, Floki returned
home in the second year, and, as might naturally have been expected
from an unsuccessful settler, gave his countrymen but a dismal account
of Iceland, as he definitely named it.
Yet, in spite of his forbidding description, the political disturbances
which took place about this time in Norway led to the final
colonization of the island. Harold Haarfager, or the Fair-haired,
a Scandinavian yarl, having by violence and a successful policy
reduced all his brother-yarls to subjection, first consolidated their
independent domains into one realm, and made himself absolute master
of the whole country. Many of his former equals submitted to his yoke;
but others, animated by that unconquerable love of liberty innate in
men who for many generations have known no superior, preferred seeking
a new home across the ocean to an ignominious vassalage under the
detested Harold. Ingolfr and his cousin Leif were the first of these
high-minded nobles that emigrated (869–870) to Iceland.
On approaching the southern coast, Ingolfr cast the sacred pillars
belonging to his former dwelling into the water, and vowed to establish
himself on the spot to which they should be wafted by the waves. His
pious intentions were for the time frustrated, as a sudden squall
separated him from his penates, and forced him to locate himself
on a neighboring promontory, which to this day bears the name of
Ingolfrshofde. Here he sojourned three years, until the followers he
had sent out in quest of the missing pillars at length brought him
the joyful news that they had been found on the beach of the present
site of Reykjavik, whither, in obedience to what he supposed to be the
divine summons, he instantly removed. Ingolfr’s friend and relative
Leif was shortly after assassinated by some Irish slaves whom he had
captured in a predatory descent on the Hibernian coast. The surviving
chieftain deplored the loss of his kinsman, lamenting “that so valiant
a man should fall by such villains,” but found consolation by killing
the murderers and annexing the lands of their victim. When, in course
of time, he himself felt his end approaching, he requested to be buried
on a hill overlooking the fiord, that from that elevated site his
spirit might have a better view of the land of which he was the first
inhabitant.
Such are the chronicles related in the “Landnama Bok,” or “Book of
Occupation,” one of the earliest records of Icelandic history.
Ingolfr and his companions were soon followed by other emigrants
desirous of escaping from the tyranny of Harold Haarfager, who at
first favored a movement that removed far beyond the sea so many of
his turbulent opponents, but subsequently, alarmed at the drain of
population, or desirous of profiting by the exodus, levied a fine
of four ounces of silver on all who left his dominions to settle in
Iceland. Yet such were the attractions which the island at that time
presented, that, in spite of all obstacles, not half a century elapsed
before all its inhabitable parts were occupied, not only by Norwegians,
but also by settlers from Denmark and Sweden, Scotland and Ireland.
The Norwegians brought with them their language and idolatry, their
customs and historical records, which the other colonists, but few in
numbers, were compelled to adopt. At first the udal, or free land-hold
system of their own country, was in vigor, but every leader of a
band of emigrants being chosen, by force of circumstances, as the
acknowledged chief of the district occupied by himself and companions,
speedily paved the way for a demi-feudal system of vassalage and
subservience. As the arrival of new settlers rendered the possession
of the land more valuable, endless contests between these petty chiefs
arose for the better pastures and fisheries. To put an end to this
state of anarchy, so injurious to the common weal, Ulfliot the Wise was
commissioned to frame a code of laws, which the Icelanders, by a single
simultaneous and peaceful effort, accepted as their future constitution.
The island was now divided into four provinces and twelve districts.
Each district had its own judge, and its own popular “Thing,” or
assembly; but the national will was embodied and represented by the
“Althing,” or supreme parliament of Iceland, which annually met at
Thingvalla, under an elective president, or “Logmathurman,” the chief
magistrate of this northern republic.
On the banks of the river Oxeraa, where the rapid stream, after forming
a magnificent cascade, rushes into the lake of Thingvalla, lies the
spot where, for many a century, freemen met to debate, while despotic
barbarians still reigned over the milder regions of Europe. Isolated
on all sides by deep volcanic chasms, which some great revolution of
nature has rent in the vast lava-field around, and embosomed in a
wide circle of black precipitous hills, the situation of Thingvalla is
extremely romantic, but the naked dark-colored rocks, and the traces
of subterranean fire visible on every side, impart a stern melancholy
to the scene. The lake, the largest sheet of water in the island, is
about thirty miles in circumference; its boundaries have undergone
many changes, especially during the earthquakes of the past century,
when its northern margin collapsed, while the opposite one was raised.
The depth of its crystal waters is very great, and in its centre rise
two small crater-islands, the result of some unknown eruption. The
mountains on its south bank have a picturesque appearance, and large
volumes of steam issuing from several hot sources on their sides prove
that, though all be tranquil now, the volcanic fires are not extinct.
Only a few traces of the ancient Althing are left--three small mounds,
where sat in state the chiefs and judges of the land--for as the
assembly used to pitch their tents on the borders of the stream, and
the deliberations were held in the open air, there are no imposing
ruins to bear witness to a glorious past. But though all architectural
pomp be absent, the scene hallowed by the recollections of a thousand
years is one of deep interest to the traveller. The great features of
nature are the same as when the freemen of Iceland assembled to settle
the affairs of their little world; but the raven now croaks where the
orator appealed to the reason or the passions of his audience, and
the sheep of the neighboring pastor crop undisturbed the grass of
desecrated Thingvalla.
[Illustration: 53. THINGVALLA, LÖGBERG, AND ALMANNAGJA.]
Mr. Ross Browne thus describes the scene: “After a slight repast I
walked out to take a look at the Lögberg, or Rock of Laws, which is
situated about half a mile from the church. This is, perhaps, of all
the objects of historical association in Iceland, the most interesting.
It was here the judges tried criminals, pronounced judgments, and
executed their stern decrees. On a small plateau of lava, separated
from the general mass by a profound abyss on every side, save a narrow
neck barely wide enough for a foothold, the famous “Thing” assembled
once a year, and, secured from intrusion in their deliberations by the
terrible chasm around, passed laws for the weal or woe of the people.
It was only necessary to guard the causeway by which they entered; all
other sides were well protected by the encircling moat, which varies
from thirty to forty feet in width, and is half filled with water. The
total depth to the bottom, which is distinctly visible through the
crystal pool, must be sixty or seventy feet. Into this yawning abyss
the unhappy criminals were cast, with stones around their necks, and
many a long day did they lie beneath the water, a ghastly spectacle for
the crowd that peered at them over the precipice. All was now as silent
as the grave. Eight centuries had passed, and yet the strange scenes
that had taken place here were vividly before me. I could imagine the
gathering crowds, the rising hum of voices; the pause, the shriek, and
plunge; the low murmur of horror, and then the stern warning of the
lawgivers and the gradual dispersing of the multitude. The dimensions
of the plateau are four or five hundred feet in length by an average
of sixty or eighty in width. The surface is now covered with a fine
coating of sod and grass, and furnishes good pasturage for the sheep
belonging to the pastor.”
Christianity was first preached in Iceland about the year 981,
by Friedrich, a Saxon bishop, to whom Thorwald the traveller, an
Icelander, acted as interpreter. Thorwald having been treated with
great severity by his father, Kodran, had fled to Denmark, where he
had been converted by Friedrich. He returned with the pious bishop to
his paternal home, where the solemn service of the Christians made
some impression on Kodran, but still the obstinate pagan could not be
prevailed upon to renounce his ancient gods. “He must believe,” said
he, “the word of his own priest, who was wont to give him excellent
advice.” “Well, then,” replied Thorwald, “this venerable man whom I
have brought to thy dwelling is weak and infirm, while thy well-fed
priest is full of vigor. Wilt thou believe in the power of our God
if the bishop drives him hence?” Friedrich now cast a few drops of
holy water on the priest, which immediately burnt deep holes into his
skin, so that he fled, uttering dreadful curses. After this convincing
proof, Kodran adopted the Christian faith. But persuasion and miracles
acted too slowly for the fiery Thorwald, who would willingly have
converted all Iceland at once with fire and sword. His sermons were
imprecations, and the least contradiction roused him to fury. Unable to
bear so irascible an associate, the good bishop Friedrich, giving up
his missionary labors, returned to Saxony. As to Thorwald, his restless
disposition led him to far-distant lands. He visited Greece and Syria,
Jerusalem and Constantinople, and ultimately founded a convent in
Russia, where he died in the odor of sanctity.
Soon after Thangbrand was sent by the Norwegian king, Olaf Truggeson,
as missionary to Iceland. His method of conversion appears to have
been very like that of his erratic predecessor; for while he held the
cross in one hand, he grasped the sword with the other. “Thangbrand,”
says an ancient chronicler, “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.”
Other missionaries of a more evangelical character took his place, and
proved by their success that mild reasoning is frequently a far more
effectual means of persuasion than brutal violence. They made a great
number of proselytes, and the whole island was now divided into two
factions ready to appeal to the sword for the triumph of Christ or of
Odin. But before coming to this dreadful extremity, the voice of reason
was heard, and the contending parties agreed to submit the question to
the decision of the Althing.
The assembly met, and the momentous debate was proceeding, when
suddenly a loud crash of subterranean thunder was heard, and the
earth shook under their feet. “Listen!” exclaimed 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 Christian party
hesitated; but their confidence was soon restored by the presence of
mind of their chief orator, Thorgeir, who, pointing to the lava-fields
around, asked with whom the gods were angry when these rocks were
melted: a burst of eloquence which at once decided the question in
favor of the Cross.
The new faith brought with it a new spirit of intellectual development,
which attained its highest splendor in the twelfth century. Classical
studies were pursued with the utmost zeal, and learned Icelanders
travelled to Germany and France to extend their knowledge in the
schools of Paris or Cologne. The Icelandic bards, or scalds, were
renowned throughout all Scandinavia; they frequented the courts of
Sweden, Denmark, and Norway, and were everywhere received with the
highest honors.
The historians, or sagamen, of Iceland were no less renowned than its
scalds. They became the annalists of the whole Scandinavian world,
and the simplicity and truth by which their works are distinguished
fully justify their high reputation. Among the many remarkable men who
at that time graced the literature of the Arctic isle, Sämund Frode,
the learned author of the “Voluspa” (a work on the ancient Icelandic
mythology) and the “Havamal” (a general chronicle of events from the
beginning of the world); Are Thorgilson, whose “Landnama Bok” relates
with the utmost accuracy the annals of his native land; and Gissur,
who about the year 1180 described his voyages to the distant Orient,
deserve to be particularly mentioned; but great above all in genius and
fame was Snorri Sturleson, the Herodotus of the North, whose eventful
life and tragic end would well deserve to be recounted at greater
length.
Gifted with the rarest talents, and chief of the most powerful family
of the island, Snorri was elected in 1215 to the high office of
Logmathurman; but disgusting his sturdy countrymen by his excessive
haughtiness, he was obliged to retire to the court of Hakon, king of
Norway. During this exile he collected the materials for his justly
celebrated “Heimskringla,” or Chronicle of the Kings of Norway.
Returning home in 1221, he was again named Logmathurman; but as he
endeavored to pave the way for the annexation of his native country to
the Norwegian realm, his foreign intrigues caused a rising against his
authority, and he was once more compelled to take refuge in Norway.
Here he remained several years, until the triumph of his own faction
allowed him to return to his family estate at Reikholt, where he was
murdered on a dark September night in the year 1241. Thus perished the
most remarkable man Iceland ever has produced. The republic itself did
not long survive his fall; for, weary of the interminable feuds of
their chiefs, the people voluntarily submitted to Hakon in 1254, and
the middle of the thirteenth century was signalized by the transfer of
the island to the Norwegian crown, after three hundred and forty years
of a turbulent but glorious independence.
From that time the political history of the Icelanders offers but
little interest. With their annexation to a European monarchy perished
the vigor, restlessness, and activity which had characterized their
forefathers; and though the Althing still met at Thingvalla, the
national spirit had fled. It was still further subdued by a long chain
of calamities--plagues, famines, volcanic eruptions, and piratical
invasions--which, following each other in rapid succession, devastated
the land and decimated its unfortunate inhabitants.
In 1402 that terrible plague, the memory of which is still preserved
under the name of the “Black Death,” carried off nearly two-thirds of
the whole population, and was followed by such an inclement winter that
nine-tenths of the cattle in the island died. The miseries of a people
suffering from pestilence and famine were aggravated by the English
fishermen, who, in spite of the remonstrances of the Danish government,
frequented the defenseless coast in considerable numbers, and were in
fact little better than the old sea-robbers who first colonized the
island, plundering and burning on the main, and holding the wealthy
inhabitants to ransom. Their predatory incursions were frequently
repeated during the seventeenth century, and even the distant
Mediterranean sent its Algerine pirates to add to the calamities of
Iceland.
The eighteenth century was ushered in by the small-pox, which carried
off sixteen thousand of the inhabitants. In the middle of the
century--severe winters following in rapid succession--vast numbers
of cattle died, inducing a famine that again swept away ten thousand
inhabitants.
Since the first colonization of Iceland, its numerous volcanoes had
frequently brought ruin upon whole districts--twenty-five times had
Hecla, eleven times Kötlugiá, six times Trölladyngja, five times
Oraefa, vomited forth their torrents of molten stone, without counting
a number of submarine volcanic explosions, or where the plain was
suddenly rent and flames and ashes burst out of the earth; but the
eruption of Skaptar Jökul in 1783 was the most frightful visitation
ever known to have desolated the island. The preceding winter and
spring had been unusually mild, and the islanders looked forward to a
prosperous summer; but in the beginning of June repeated tremblings
of the earth, increasing in violence from day to day, announced that
the subterranean powers that had long been slumbering under the icy
mantle of the Skaptar were ready to awake. All the neighboring peasants
abandoned their huts and erected tents in the open field, anxiously
awaiting the result of these terrific warnings. On the 9th, immense
pillars of smoke collected over the hill country toward the north,
and, rolling down in a southerly direction, covered the whole district
of Sitha with darkness. Loud subterranean thunders followed in rapid
succession, and innumerable fire-spouts were seen leaping and flaring
through the dense canopy of smoke and ashes that enveloped the land.
The heat raging in the interior of the volcano melted enormous masses
of ice and snow, which caused the river Skapta to rise to a prodigious
height; but on the 11th torrents of fire usurped the place of water,
for a vast lava-stream breaking forth from the mountains, flowed down
in a southerly direction, until reaching the river, a tremendous
conflict arose between the two hostile elements. Though the channel
was six hundred feet deep and two hundred feet wide, the lava-flood
pouring down one fiery wave after another into the yawning abyss,
ultimately gained the victory, and, blocking up the stream, overflowed
its banks. Crossing the low country of Medalland, it poured into a
great lake, which after a few days was likewise completely filled up,
and having divided into two streams, the unexhausted torrent again
poured on, overflowing in one direction some ancient lava-fields, and
in another re-entering the channel of the Skapta and leaping down
the lofty cataract of Stapafoss. But this was not all, for while one
lava-flood had chosen the Skapta for its bed, another, descending in
a different direction, was working similar ruin along the banks of
the Hverfisfliot. Whether the same crater gave birth to both, it is
impossible to say, as even the extent of the lava-flow can only be
measured from the spot where it entered the inhabited districts. The
stream which followed the direction of Skapta is calculated to have
been about fifty miles in length by twelve or fifteen at its greatest
breadth; that which rolled down the Hverfisfliot, at forty miles in
length by seven in breadth.
Where it was inclosed between the precipitous banks of the Skapta, the
lava is five or six hundred feet thick, but as soon as it spread out
into the plain its depth never exceeded one hundred feet. The eruption
of sand, ashes, pumice, and lava continued till the end of August, when
at length the vast subterranean tumult subsided.
But its direful effects were felt for a long time after, not only in
its immediate vicinity, but over the whole of Iceland, and added many
a mournful page to her long annals of sorrow. For a whole year a dun
canopy of cinder-laden clouds hung over the unhappy island. Sand and
ashes, carried to an enormous height into the atmosphere, spread far
and wide, and overwhelmed thousands of acres of fertile pasturage. The
Faeroes, the Shetlands, and the Orkneys were deluged with volcanic dust
which perceptibly contaminated even the skies of England and Holland.
Mephitic vapors obscured the rays of the sun, and the sulphurous
exhalations tainted both the grass of the field and the waters of the
lake, the river, and the sea, so that not only the cattle died by
thousands, but the fish also perished in their poisoned element. The
unhealthy air, and the want of food--for hunger at last drove them to
have recourse to untanned hides and old leather--gave rise to a disease
resembling scurvy among the unfortunate Icelanders. The head and limbs
began to swell, the bones seemed to be distending. Dreadful cramps
forced the patient to strange contortions. The gums loosened, the
decomposed blood oozed from the mouth and the ulcerous skin, and a few
days of torment and prostration were followed by death.
In many a secluded vale whole families were swept away, and those that
escaped the scourge had hardly strength sufficient to bury the dead.
So great was the ruin caused by this one eruption that in the short
space of two years no less than 9336 men, 28,000 horses, 11,461 cattle,
and 190,000 sheep--a large proportion of the wealth and population of
the island--were swept away.
After this dreadful catastrophe followed a long period of volcanic
rest, for the next eruption of the Eyjafialla did not take place before
1821. A twelfth eruption of Kötlugja occurred in 1823, the twenty-sixth
of Hecla in 1845–46; and ultimately the thirteenth of Kötlugja in 1860.
Since then there has been repose; but who knows what future disasters
may be preparing beneath those icy ridges and fields of snow of Skapta
and his frowning compeers, where no human foot has ever wandered, or
how soon they may awaken their dormant thunders?
Besides the sufferings caused by the elements, the curse of monopoly
weighed for many a long year upon the miserable Icelanders. The Danish
kings, to whom on the amalgamation of the three Scandinavian monarchies
the allegiance of the people of Iceland was passively transferred,
considered their poor dependency as a private domain, to be farmed
out to the highest bidder. In the 16th century the Hanseatic Towns
purchased the exclusive privilege of trading with Iceland; and in 1594
a Danish company was favored with the monopoly, for which it had to pay
the paltry sum of 16 rix-dollars for each of the ports of the island.
In the year 1862 a new company paid 4000 dollars for the Icelandic
monopoly; but at the expiration of the contract, each of the ports
were farmed out to the highest bidder--a financial improvement which
raised the revenue to 16,000 dollars a year, and ultimately to 22,000.
The incalculable misery produced by the eruption of the Skapta had at
least the beneficial consequence that it somewhat loosened the bonds
of monopoly, as it now became free to every Danish merchant to trade
with the island; but it is only since April, 1855, that the last
restrictions have fallen and the ports of Iceland been opened to the
merchants of all nations. It is to be hoped that the beneficial effects
of free trade will gradually heal the wounds caused by centuries of
neglect and misfortune; but great progress must be made before Iceland
can attain the degree of prosperity which she enjoyed in the times of
her independence.
Then she had above a hundred thousand inhabitants, now she has scarcely
half that number; then she had many rich and powerful families, now
mediocrity or poverty is the universal lot; then she was renowned all
over the North as the seat of learning and the cradle of literature,
now, were it not for her remarkable physical features, no traveller
would ever think of landing on her rugged shores.
[Illustration: 54. REYKJAVIK, THE CAPITAL OF ICELAND.]