THE ROAD TO THINGVALLA.
It was a gray, gloomy morning when we sallied forth from the silent
streets of Reykjavik. A chilly fog covered the country, and little
more was to be seen than the jagged outline of the lava-hills, and the
boggy sinks and morasses on either side of the trail. The weird,
fire-blasted, and flood-scourged wilderness on all sides was as silent
as death, save when we approached some dark lagoon, and startled up
the flocks of water-fowl that dwelt in its sedgy borders. Then the air
was pierced with wild screams and strange cries, and the rocks
resounded to the flapping of many wings. To me there was a peculiar
charm in all this. It was different from any thing I had recently
experienced. The roughness of the trail, the absence of cultivated
fields, the entire exemption from the restraints of civilization, were
perfectly delightful after a dreary residence of nearly a year in
Germany. Here, at least, there were no passport bureaus, no
meddlesome police, no conceited and disagreeable habitues of public
places with fierce dogs running at their heels, no _Verbotener Wegs_
staring one in the face at every turn. Here all ways possible to be
traveled were open to the public; here was plenty of fresh air and no
lack of elbow-room; here an unsophisticated American could travel
without being persecuted every ten minutes by applications from
distinguished officers in livery for six kreutzers; here an honest
Californian could chew tobacco when he felt disposed, and relieve his
mind by an occasional oath when he considered it essential to a
vigorous expression of his thoughts.
It seemed very strange to be traveling in Iceland, actually plodding
my way over deserts of lava, and breathing blasts of air fresh from
the summit of Mount Hecla! I was at last in the land of the Sagas--the
land of fire, and brimstone, and boiling fountains!--the land which,
as a child, I had been accustomed to look upon as the _ultima Thule_,
where men, and fish, and fire, and water were pitted against each
other in everlasting strife. How often had the fascinating vision of
Icelandic travel crossed my mind; and how often had I dismissed it
with a sigh as too much happiness to hope for in this world! And now
it was all realized. Was I any the happier? Was it what I expected?
Well, we won't probe these questions too far. It was a very strange
reality, at all events.
For the first eight miles the weather was thick and rainy; after that
the sun began to dissipate the gloom, and we had a very pleasant
journey. Though a little chilly in consequence of the moisture, the
air was not really cold. As well as I could judge, the thermometer
ranged about 54 deg. Fahrenheit. It frequently rises to 76 deg. at
Thingvalla during the months of July and August; and at the Geysers,
and in some of the adjacent valleys, the heat is said to be quite
oppressive.
[Illustration: A ROUGH ROAD.]
Notwithstanding the roughness of the trail, which in many places
passed for miles over rugged fields of lava, full of sharp, jagged
points and dangerous fissures, we traveled with considerable speed,
seldom slackening from a lope. Zoega untied the horses from each
other's tails soon after passing the road to Hafuarfiord, as there was
no farther danger of their separating, and then, with many flourishes
of his whip and strange cries, well understood by our animals, led the
way. I must confess that, in spite of some pretty hard experience of
bad roads in the coast range of California, there were times during
our mad career over the lava-beds when visions of maimed limbs and a
mutilated head crossed my mind. Should my horse stumble on a stray
spike of lava, what possible chance of escape would there be? Falling
head foremost on harrows and rakes would be fun to a fall here, where
all the instruments capable of human destruction, from razors, saws,
and meat-axes down to spike-nails and punches, were duly represented.
In the course of our journey we frequently overtook pack-trains laden
with dried fish from the sea-shore. The main dependence of the people
throughout the country, during the winter, is upon the fish caught
during the summer. When dried it is done up in packs and fastened on
each side of the horse, something in the Mexican style; and each train
is attended by three or four men, and sometimes by women. About the
month of June the farmers and shepherds go down to Reykjavik, or some
other convenient fishing-station on the sea-shore, and lay in their
supplies of fish and groceries, which they purchase from the traders
by exchanges of wool, butter, and other domestic products. After a few
days of novelty and excitement they go back to their quiet homes,
where they live in an almost dormant state until the next season,
rarely receiving any news from the great outer world, or troubling
their heads about the affairs which concern the rest of mankind. Those
whom we met had in all probability not seen a stranger for a year.
They are an honest, primitive people, decently but very coarsely clad
in rough woolen garments manufactured by themselves, and shaped much
in the European style. On their feet they wear moccasins made of
sheepskin. Whenever we met these pack-trains in any convenient place,
the drivers stopped to have a talk with Zoega, often riding back a
mile or two to enjoy the novelty of his conversation. Being fresh from
the capital, he naturally abounded in stirring news about the price of
codfish, and the value of lard and butter, wool, stockings, mittens,
etc., and such other articles of traffic as they felt interested in.
He could also give them the latest intelligence by the steamer, which
always astonished them, no matter whether it concerned the throwing
overboard of three ponies on the last voyage, or the possible
resumption of operations on the Icelandic telegraph. In every way
Zoega was kind and obliging, and, being well known every where, was
highly appreciated as a man possessed of a remarkable fund of
information. At parting they generally stopped to kiss hands and take
a pinch of snuff.
The first time I witnessed the favorite ceremony of snuff-taking I was
at a loss to understand what it meant. A man with a small horn flask,
which it was reasonable to suppose was filled with powder and only
used for loading guns or pistols, drew the plug from it, and, stopping
quite still in the middle of the road, threw his head back and applied
the tube to his nose. Surely the fellow was not trying to blow his
brains out with the powder-flask! Two or three times he repeated this
strange proceeding, snorting all the time as if in the agonies of
suffocation. The gravity of his countenance was extraordinary. I could
not believe my eyes.
"What an absurd way of committing suicide!" I remarked to Zoega.
"Oh, sir, he is only taking snuff!" was the reply.
"But if he stops up both nostrils, how is he going to breathe?" was my
natural inquiry.
[Illustration: TAKING SNUFF.]
Zoega kindly explained that, when the man's nose was full he would
naturally open his mouth, and as the snuff was very fine and strong
it would eventually cause him to sneeze. In this way it was quite
practicable to blow out the load.
"But don't they ever hang fire and burst their heads?" I asked, with
some concern.
"Why no, sir, I've never heard of a case," answered Zoega, in his
usual grave manner; "in this country every body takes snuff, but I
never knew it to burst any body's head."
It was really refreshing the matter-of-fact manner in which my guide
regarded all the affairs of life. He took every thing in a literal
sense, and was of so obliging a disposition that he would spend hours
in the vain endeavor to satisfy my curiosity on any doubtful point.
"Why, Zoega," said I, "this is a monstrous practice. I never saw any
thing like it. Are you quite sure that fellow won't kick when he tries
to blow his nose?"
"Yes, sir, they never kick."
"Tell me, Zoega, are their breeches strong?"
"Oh yes, sir."
"That's lucky." I was thinking of an accident that once occurred to a
young man of my acquaintance. Owing to a defect in the breech of his
gun, the whole load entered his head and killed him instantaneously.
The gravity of these good people in their forms of politeness is one
of the most striking features in their social intercourse. The
commonest peasant takes off his cap to another when they meet, and
shaking hands and snuff-taking are conducted on the most ceremonious
principles. They do not, however, wholly confine themselves to
stimulants for the nose. As soon as they get down to Reykjavik and
finish their business, they are very apt to indulge in what we call in
California "a bender;" that is to say, they drink a little too much
whisky, and hang around the stores and streets for a day or two in a
state of intoxication. At other times their habits are temperate, and
they pass the greater part of their lives among their flocks, free
from excitement, and as happy as people can be with such limited means
of comfort. The uniformity of their lives would of course be painful
to a people possessed of more energy and a higher order of
intelligence; but the Icelanders are well satisfied if they can keep
warm during the dreary winters, and obtain their usual supplies during
the summer. Sometimes a plague sets in among their sheep and reduces
them to great distress. Fire, pestilence, and famine have from time to
time devastated the island. Still, where their wants are so few, they
can bear with great patience the calamities inflicted upon them by an
all-wise Providence. Owing perhaps to their isolated mode of life,
they are a grave and pious people, simple in their manners,
superstitious, and credulous. They attend church regularly, and are
much devoted to religious books and evening prayers. No family goes to
bed without joining in thanksgiving for all the benefits conferred
upon them during the day. Living as they do amid the grandest
phenomena of nature, and tinctured with the wild traditions of the old
Norsemen, it is not surprising that they should implicitly believe in
wandering spirits of fire and flood, and clothe the desolate wastes of
lava with a poetic imagery peculiarly their own. Every rock, and
river, and bog is invested with a legend or story, to the truth of
which they can bear personal witness. Here a ghost was overtaken by
the light of the moon and turned to stone; there voices were heard
crying for help, and because no help came a farmer's house was burned
the next day; here a certain man saw a wild woman, with long hair, who
lived in a cave, and never came out to seek for food save in the midst
of a storm, when she was seen chasing the birds; there a great many
sheep disappeared one night, and it was thought they were killed and
devoured by a prodigious animal with two heads--and so on, without
end. Nothing is too marvelous for their credulity. One of my most
pleasant experiences was to talk with these good people, through the
aid of my guide, and hear them tell of the wonderful sights they had
seen with their own eyes. Nor do I believe that they had the remotest
intention of stretching the truth. Doubtless they imagined the reality
of whatever they said. It was very strange to one who had lived so
long among a sharp and rather incredulous race of men to hear
full-grown people talk with the simplicity of little children.
About half way on our journey toward Thingvalla it was necessary to
cross a bog, which is never a very agreeable undertaking in Iceland,
especially after heavy rains. This was not the worst specimen of its
kind, though; we afterward passed through others that would be
difficult to improve upon without entirely removing the bottom. A
considerable portion of Iceland is intersected by these treacherous
stretches of land and water, through which the traveler must make his
way or relinquish his journey. Often it becomes a much more difficult
matter to find the way out than to get in. Along the sea-coast, to the
southward and eastward, some of these vast bogs are quite impassable
without the assistance of a guide thoroughly acquainted with every
spot capable of bearing a horse. On the route to the Geysers we
generally contrived to avoid the worst places by making a detour
around the edges of the hills, but this is not always practicable. In
many places the hills themselves abound in boggy ground.
The formation of the Icelandic bog is peculiar. I have seen something
similar on the Pacific coast near Cape Mendocino, but by no means so
extensive and well-defined. In Iceland it consists of innumerable
tufts of earth from two to three feet high, interwoven with vegetable
fibres which render them elastic when pressed by the foot. These tufts
stand out in relief from the main ground at intervals of a few feet
from each other, and frequently cover a large extent of country. The
tops are covered with grass of a very fine texture, furnishing a good
pasture for sheep and other stock. So regular and apparently
artificial is the appearance of these grassy tufts, that I was at
first inclined to think they must be the remains of cultivated
fields--probably potato-hills, or places where corn had grown in
former times. Nor was it altogether unreasonable to suppose that
groves of wood might once have covered these singular patches of
country, and that they had been uprooted and destroyed by some of
those violent convulsions of nature which from time to time have
devastated the island. Dr. Dasent produces ample testimony to show
that, in old times, not only corn grew in Iceland, but wood
sufficiently large to be used in building vessels. Now it is with
great difficulty that a few potatoes can be raised in some of the
warmest spots, and there is not a single tree to be found on the
entire island. The largest bushes I saw were only six or eight feet
high.
A singular fact connected with the bog-formation is that it is often
found in dry places--on the slopes of mountains, for example, in
certain localities where the water never settles and where the ground
is perpetually dry. I was greatly puzzled by this, and was scarcely
satisfied by the explanation given by Zoega, my guide, who said it was
caused by the action of the frost. In proof of the fact that they are
not of artificial formation, and that the process by which they are
developed is always going on, he stated that in many places where they
had been leveled down for sheep-corrals or some such purpose, a
similar formation of tufted hillocks had grown up in the course of a
few years.
I was continually troubled by the circuits made by Zoega to avoid
certain tracts of this kind which to me did not look at all
impracticable. Once I thought it would be a good joke to show him that
a Californian could find his way through the strange country even
better than a native; and watching a chance when he was not on the
look-out--for I suspected what his objection would be--I suddenly
turned my horse toward the bog, and urged him to take the short cut.
It was such a capital idea, that of beating my own guide about two
miles in a journey of little more than half a mile! But, strange to
say, the horse was of Zoega's opinion respecting roads through
Iceland. He would not budge into the bog till I inflicted some rather
strong arguments upon him, and then he went in with great reluctance.
Before we had proceeded a dozen yards he sank up to his belly in the
mire, and left me perched up on two matted tufts about four feet
apart. Any disinterested spectator would have supposed at once that I
was attempting to favor my guide with a representation of the colossal
statue at Rhodes, or the Natural Bridge in Virginia. Zoega, however,
was too warmly interested in my behalf to take it in this way. As soon
as he missed me he turned about, and, perceiving my critical position,
shouted at the top of his voice,
"Sir, you can't go that way!"
[Illustration: AN ICELANDIC BOG.]
"No," said I, in rather a desponding tone, "I see I can't."
"Don't try it, sir!" cried Zoega; "you'll certainly sink if you do!"
"I'll promise you that, Zoega," I answered, looking gloomily toward
the dry land, toward which my horse was now headed, plunging
frantically in a labyrinth of tufts, his head just above the ground.
"Sir, it's very dangerous!" shouted Zoega.
"Any sharks in it?" I asked.
"No, sir; but I don't see your horse!"
"Neither do I, Zoega. Just sing out when he blows!"
But the honest Icelander saw a better method than that, which was to
dismount from his own horse, and jump from tuft to tuft until he got
hold of my bridle. With it of course came the poor animal, which by
hard pulling my trusty guide soon succeeded in getting on dry land.
Meantime I discovered a way of getting out myself by a complicated
system of jumps, and presently we all stood in a group, Zoega scraping
the mud off the sides of my trembling steed, while I ventured to
remark that it was "a little boggy in that direction."
"Yes, sir," said Zoega; "that was the reason I was going round."
And a very sensible reason it was too, as I now cheerfully admitted.
After a medicinal pull at the brandy we once more proceeded on our
way.
I mentioned the fact that there are dry bog-formations on the sides of
some of the hills. It should also be noted that the wet bogs are not
always in the lowest places. Frequently they are found on elevated
grounds, and even high up in the mountains. Approaching a region of
this kind, when the tufts are nearly on a level with the eye, the
effect is very peculiar. It looks as if an army of grim old Norsemen,
on their march through the wilderness, had suddenly sunk to their
necks in the treacherous earth, and still stood in that position with
their shaggy heads bared to the tempests. Often the traveler detects
something like features, and it would not be at all difficult, of a
moonlight night, to mistake them for ghostly warriors struggling to
get out on dry land. Indeed, the simple-minded peasants, with their
accustomed fertility of imagination, have invested them with life, and
relate many wonderful stories about their pranks of dark and stormy
nights, when it is said they are seen plunging about in the water.
Hoarse cries are heard through the gusts of the tempest; and solitary
travelers on their journey retreat in dismay, lest they should be
dragged into the treacherous abode of these ghostly old Norsemen.
Not long after our unpleasant adventure we ascended an eminence or
dividing ridge of lava, from which we had a fine view of the Lake of
Thingvalla. Descending by a series of narrow defiles, we reached a
sandy canyon winding for several miles nearly parallel with the shores
of the lake. The sides of the hills now began to exhibit a scanty
vegetation, and sometimes we crossed a moist patch of pasture covered
with a fine grass of most brilliant and beautiful green. A few huts,
with sod walls or fences around the arable patches in the vicinity,
were to be seen from time to time, but in general the country was very
thinly populated. Flocks of sheep, and occasionally a few horses,
grazed on the hill-sides.
The great trouble of our lives in the neighborhood of these
settlements was a little dog belonging to my guide. Brusa was his
name, and the management of our loose horses was his legitimate
occupation. A bright, lively, officious little fellow was Brusa, very
much like a wolf in appearance, and not unlike a human being in
certain traits of his character. Montaigne says that great fault was
found with him, when he was mayor of his native town, because he was
always satisfied to let things go along smoothly; and though the
citizens admitted that they had never been so free from trouble, they
could not see the use of a mayor who never issued any ordinances or
created any public commotion. Our little dog was of precisely the
same way of thinking. He could see no use in holding office in our
train without doing something, whether necessary or not. So, when the
horses were going along all right, he felt it incumbent upon him to
give chase to the sheep. Stealing away quietly, so that Zoega might
not see him at the start, he would suddenly dart off after the poor
animals, with his shaggy hair all erect, and never stop barking,
snapping, and biting their legs till they were scattered over miles of
territory. He was particularly severe upon the cowardly ewes and
lambs, actually driving them frantic with terror; but the old rams
that stood to make fight he always passed with quiet disdain. It was
in vain Zoega would hold up, and utter the most fearful cries and
threats of punishment: "Hur-r-r-r! Brusa! B-r-r-r-usa!! you
B-r-r-usa!!!" Never a bit could Brusa be stopped once he got fairly
under way. Up hill, and down hill, and over the wild gorges he would
fly till entirely out of sight. In about half an hour he generally
joined the train again, looking, to say the least of it, very
sheepish. I have already spoken of the gravity and dignity of Zoega's
manner. On occasions of this kind it assumed a parental severity truly
impressive. Slowly dismounting from his horse, as if a great duty
devolved upon him, he would unlock one of the boxes on the pack-horse,
take therefrom a piece of bread, deliberately grease the same with
butter, and then holding it forth, more in sorrow than in anger,
invite Brusa to refresh himself after his fatiguing chase of the
sheep. The struggle between a guilty conscience and a sharp appetite
would now become painfully perceptible on the countenance of Brusa as
well as in the relaxation of his tail. As he approached the tempting
morsel nothing could be more abject than his manner--stealing furtive
glances at the eyes of his master, and trying to conciliate him by
wagging the downcast tail between his legs. Alas, poor Brusa! I
suspected it from the beginning. What do you think of yourself now?
Grabbed by the back of the neck in the powerful hands of Geir Zoega!
Not a particle of use for you to whine, and yelp, and try to beg off.
You have been a very bad fellow, and must suffer the consequences.
With dreadful deliberation Zoega draws forth his whip, which has been
carefully hidden in the folds of his coat all this time, and, holding
the victim of his displeasure in mid-air, thus, as I take it,
apostrophizes him in his native language: "O Brusa! have I not fed
thee and cherished thee with parental care? (Whack! yelp! and whack
again.) Have I not been to thee tender and true? (Whack! whack!
accompanied by heart-rending yelps and cries.) And this is thy
ingratitude! This is thy return for all my kindness! O how sharper
than a serpent's tooth is the sting of ingratitude! (Whack.) I warned
thee about those sheep--those harmless and tender little lambs! I
begged thee with tears in my eyes not to run after them; but thou wert
stubborn in thine iniquity; and now what can I do but--(whack)--but
punish thee according to my promise? Wilt thou ever do it again? O
say, Brusa, will thou ever again be guilty of this disreputable
conduct? (A melancholy howl.) It pains me to do it (whack), but it is
(whack) for thine own good! Now hear and repent, and henceforth let
thy ways be the ways of the virtuous and the just!" It was absolutely
delightful to witness the joy of Brusa when the whipping was over.
Without one word of comment Zoega would throw him the bread, and then
gravely mount his horse and ride on. For hours after the victim of his
displeasure would run, and jump, and bark, and caper with excess of
delight. I really thought it was a kindness to whip him, he enjoyed it
so much afterward.
[Illustration: GEIR ZOEGA AND BRUSA.]
Whenever our loose horses got off the trail or lagged behind, the
services of our dog were invaluable. Zoega had a particular way of
directing his attention to the errant animal. "Hur-r-r-r!--(a roll of
the tongue)--Hur-r-r-r Brusa!" and off Brusa would dash, his hair on
end with rage, till within a few feet of the horse, when he would
commence a series of terrific demonstrations, barking and snapping at
the heels of the vagrant. Backing of ears to frighten him, or kicks at
his head, had no terrors for him; he was altogether too sagacious to
be caught within reach of dangerous weapons.
I know of nothing to equal the sagacity of these Icelandic dogs save
that of the sheep-dogs of France and Germany. They are often sent out
in the pastures to gather up the horses, and will remain by them and
keep them within bounds for days at a time. They are also much used in
the management of sheep. Unlike the regular shepherd-dog of Europe,
however, they are sometimes thievish and treacherous, owing to their
wolfish origin. I do not think we could have made ten miles a day
without Brusa. In the driving of pack-trains a good dog is
indispensable. I always gave the poor fellow something to eat when we
stopped in consideration of his services.