THE ALMANNAJAU.
We rode for some time along an elevated plateau of very barren aspect
till something like a break in the outline became visible a few
hundred yards ahead. I had a kind of feeling that we were approaching
a crisis in our journey, but said nothing. Neither did Zoega, for he
was not a man to waste words. He always answered my questions
politely, but seldom volunteered a remark. Presently we entered a
great gap between two enormous cliffs of lava.
"What's this, Zoega?" I asked.
"Oh, this is the Almannajau."
"What! the great Almannajau, where the Icelandic Parliament used to
camp!"
"Yes, sir; you see the exact spot down there below."
And, in good truth, there it was, some hundreds of feet below, in a
beautiful little green valley that lay at the bottom of the gap. Never
had my eyes witnessed so strange and wild a sight. A great fissure in
the earth nearly a hundred feet deep, walled up with prodigious
fragments of lava, dark and perpendicular, the bases strewn with
molten masses, scattered about in the strangest disorder; a valley of
the brightest green, over a hundred feet wide, stretching like a river
between the fire-blasted cliffs; the trail winding through it in
snake-like undulation--all now silent as death under the grim leaden
sky, yet eloquent of terrible convulsions in by-gone centuries and of
the voices of men long since mingled with the dust. Upon entering the
gorge between the shattered walls of lava on either side, the trail
makes a rapid descent of a few hundred yards till it strikes into the
valley. I waited till my guide had descended with the horses, and then
took a position a little below the entrance, so as to command a view
out through the gorge and up the entire range of the Almannajau.
[Illustration: ENTRANCE TO THE ALMANNAJAU.]
The appended sketch, imperfect as it is, will convey some idea of
the scene; yet to comprise within the brief compass of a sheet of
paper the varied wonders of this terrible gap, the wild disorder of
the fragments cast loose over the earth, the utter desolation of the
whole place would be simply impossible. No artist has ever yet done
justice to the scene, and certainly no mere amateur can hope to attain
better success.
[Illustration: THE ALMANNAJAU.]
Looking up the range of the fissure, it resembles an immense walled
alley, high on one side, and low, broken, and irregular on the other.
The main or left side forms a fearful precipice of more than eighty
feet, and runs in a direct line toward the mountains, a distance of
four or five miles. On the right, toward the plain of Thingvalla, the
inferior side forms nearly a parallel line of rifted and irregular
masses of lava, perpendicular in front and receding behind. The
greater wall presents a dark, rugged face, composed of immense pillars
and blocks of lava, defined by horizontal and vertical fissures,
strangely irregular in detail, but showing a dark, compact, and solid
front. In places it is not unlike a vast library of books, shaken into
the wildest confusion by some resistless power. Whole ranges of
ink-colored blocks are wrenched from their places, and scattered about
between the ledges. Well may they represent the law-books of the old
Icelandic Sagas and judges, who held their councils near this fearful
gorge! Corresponding in face, but less regular and of inferior height,
is the opposite wall. In its molten state the whole once formed a
burning flood, of such vast extent and depth that it is estimated by
geologists nearly half a century must have elapsed before it became
cool. The bottom of this tremendous crack in the sea of lava is almost
a dead level, and forms a valley of about a hundred feet in width,
which extends, with occasional breaks and irregularities, entirely up
to the base of the mountain. This valley is for the most part covered
with a beautiful carpeting of fine green grass, but is sometimes
diversified by fragments of lava shivered off and cast down from the
walls on either side.
The gorge by which we entered must have been impracticable for horses
in its original state. Huge masses of lava, which doubtless once
jammed up the way, must have been hurled over into the gaping fissures
at each side, and something like a road-way cleared out from the chaos
of ruin. Pavements and side-stones are still visible, where it is more
than probable the old Icelanders did many a hard day's work. Eight or
nine centuries have not yet obliterated the traces of the hammer and
chisel; and there were stones cast a little on one side that still
bear the marks of horses' hoofs--the very horses in all probability
ridden by old Sagas and lawgivers. Through this wild gorge they made
their way into the sheltered solitudes of the Almannajau, where they
pitched their tents and held their feasts previous to their councils
on the Logberg. Here passed the members of the Althing; here the
victims of the Logberg never repassed again.
[Illustration: SKELETON VIEW OF THE ALMANNAJAU.]
There are various theories concerning the original formation of this
wonderful fissure. It is supposed by some that the flood of lava by
which Thingvalla was desolated in times of which history presents no
record must have cooled irregularly, owing to the variation of
thickness in different parts of the valley; that at this point, where
its depth was great, the contracting mass separated, and the inferior
portion gradually settled downward toward the point of greatest
depression.
Others, again, hold the theory that there was a liquid drain of the
molten lava underneath toward the lake, by means of which a great
subterranean cavity was formed as far back as the mountain; that the
crust on top, being of insufficient strength to bear its own great
weight, must have fallen in as the whole mass cooled, and thus created
this vast crack in the earth.
[Illustration: OUTLINE VIEW OF THINGVALLA.]
I incline to the first of these theories myself, as the most
conformable to the contractile laws of heat. There is also something
like practical evidence to sustain it. A careful examination of the
elevations and depressions on each wall of the gap satisfied me that
they bear at least a very striking analogy. Points on one side are
frequently represented by hollows on the other, and even complicated
figures occasionally find a counterpart, the configuration being
always relatively convex or concave. This would seem to indicate very
clearly that the mass had been forcibly rent asunder, either by the
contractile process of heat, or a convulsion of the earth. The most
difficult point to determine is why the bottom should be so flat and
regular, and what kept the great mass on each side so far intact as to
form one clearly-defined fissure a hundred feet wide and nearly five
miles in length? This, however, is not for an unlearned tourist like
myself to go into very deeply.
How many centuries have passed away since all this happened the first
man who "gazed through the rent of ruin" has failed to leave on
record--if he ever knew it. The great walls of the fissure stood grim
and black before the old Icelandic Sagas, just as they now stand
before the astonished eyes of the tourist. History records no material
change in its aspect. It may be older than the Pyramids of Egypt; yet
it looks as if the eruption by which it was caused might have happened
within a lifetime, so little is there to indicate the progress of
ages. I could not but experience the strangest sensations in being
carried so far back toward the beginning of the world.
At the distance of about a mile up the "Jau" a river tumbles over the
upper wall of lava, and rushes down the main fissure for a few hundred
yards, when it suddenly diverges and breaks through a gap in the
inferior wall, and comes down the valley on the outside toward the
lake.
During my stay at Thingvalla I walked up to this part of the
Almannajau, and made a rough sketch of the waterfall.
From the point of rocks upon which I stood the effect was peculiar.
The course of the river, which lies behind the Jau, on the opposite
side, is entirely hidden by the great wall in front, and nothing of it
is visible till the whole river bursts over the dark precipice, and
tumbles, foaming and roaring, into the tremendous depths below, where
it dashes down wildly among the shattered fragments of lava till it
reaches the outlet into the main valley. A mist rises up from the
falling water, and whirls around the base of the cataract in clouds,
forming in the rays of the sun a series of beautiful rainbows. The
grim, jagged rocks, blackened and rifted with fire, make a strange
contrast with the delicate prismatic colors of the rainbows, and their
sharp and rugged outline with the soft, ever-changing clouds of spray.
[Illustration: FALL OF THE ALMANNAJAU.]
The flocks of the good pastor of Thingvalla were quietly browsing
among the rugged declivities where I stood. Here were violence and
peace in striking contrast; the tremendous concussion of the falling
water; the fearful marks of convulsion on the one hand, and on the
other
"The gentle flocks that play upon the green."
As I put away my imperfect sketch, and sauntered back toward the
hospitable cabin of the pastor, a figure emerged from the rocks, and I
stood face to face with an Icelandic shepherdess.
[Illustration: ICELANDIC SHEPHERD-GIRL.]
Well, it is no use to grow poetical over this matter. To be sure, we
were alone in a great wilderness, and she was very pretty, and looked
uncommonly coquettish with her tasseled cap, neat blue bodice, and
short petticoats, to say nothing of a well-turned pair of ankles; but
then, you see, I couldn't speak a word of Icelandic, and if I could,
what had I, a responsible man, to say to a pretty young shepherdess?
At most I could only tell her she was extremely captivating, and
looked for all the world like a flower in the desert, born to blush
unseen, etc. As she skipped shyly away from me over the rocks I was
struck with admiration at the graceful sprightliness of her movements,
and wondered why so much beauty should be wasted upon silly sheep,
when the world is so full of stout, brave young fellows who would fall
dead in love with her at the first sight. But I had better drop the
subject. There is a young man of my acquaintance already gone up to
Norway to look for the post-girl that drove me over the road to
Trondhjem, and at least two of my friends are now on the way to
Hamburg for the express purpose of witnessing the gyrations of the
celebrated wheeling girls. All I hope is, that when they meet with
those enterprising damsels they will follow my example, and behave
with honor and discretion.
Standing upon an eminence overlooking the valley, I was struck with
wonder at the vast field of lava outspread before me. Here is an area
at least eight miles square, all covered with a stony crust, varying
from fifty to a hundred feet in thickness, rent into gaping fissures
and tossed about in tremendous fragments; once a burning flood,
covering the earth with ruin and desolation wherever it flowed; now a
cold, weird desert, whose gloomy monotony is only relieved by stunted
patches of brushwood and dark pools of water--all wrapped in a
death-like silence. Where could this terrible flood have come from?
The mountains in the distance look so peaceful in their snowy robes,
so incapable of the rage from which all this desolation must have
sprung, that I could scarcely reconcile such terrible results with an
origin so apparently inadequate.
I questioned Zoega on this point, but not with much success. How was
it possible, I asked, that millions and billions of tons of lava could
be vomited forth from the crater of any mountain within sight? Here
was a solid bed of lava spread over the valley, and many miles beyond,
which, if piled up, shrunken and dried as it was, would of itself make
a mountain larger than the Skjaldbraid Jokul, from which it is
supposed to have been ejected.
"Now, Zoega," said I, "how do you make it out that this came from the
Skjaldbraid Jokul?"
"Well, sir, I don't know, but I think it came from the inside of the
world."
"Why, Zoega, the world is only a shell--a mere egg-shell in Iceland I
should fancy--filled with fiery gases."
"Is that possible, sir?" cried Zoega, in undisguised astonishment.
"Yes, quite possible--a mere egg-shell!"
"Dear me, I didn't know that! It is a wonderful world, sir."
"Very--especially in Iceland."
"Then, sir, I don't know how this could have happened, unless it was
done by spirits that live in the ground. Some people say they are
great monsters, and live on burnt stones."
"Do you believe in spirits, Zoega?"
"Oh yes, sir; and don't you? I've seen them many a time. I once saw a
spirit nearly as large as the Skjaldbraid. It came up out of the earth
directly before me where I was traveling, and shook its head as if
warning me to go back. I was badly frightened, and turned my horse
around and went back. Then I heard that my best friend was dying. When
he was dead I married his wife. She's a very good woman, sir, and, if
you please, I'll get her to make you some coffee when we get back to
Reykjavik."
So goes the world, thought I, from the Skjaldbraid Jokul to a cup of
coffee! Why bother our heads about these troublesome questions, which
can only result in proving us all equally ignorant. The wisest has
learned nothing save his own ignorance. He "meets with darkness in the
daytime, and gropes in the noonday as in the night."