THINGVALLA.
The extensive valley called Thingvalla, or the Valley of the "Thing,"
lies at the head of a lake of the same name, some fifteen miles in
length by six or seven in width. The waters of this lake are
beautifully clear, and the scenery around it is of the wildest and
most picturesque character. Rugged mountains rise from its shores in
various directions, and islands reflect their varied outlines in its
glassy surface. Cranes, wild ducks, plovers, and occasionally swans,
abound in the lagoons that open into it from Thingvalla. The bed of
this fine sheet of water corresponds in its configuration with the
surrounding country. It is of volcanic formation throughout, and the
rifts and fissures in the lava can be traced as far as it is
practicable to see through the water.
On passing out of the Almannajau near the lower fall, where the river
breaks out into the main valley, the view toward the lake is extensive
and imposing. Along the course of the river is a succession of
beautiful little green flats, upon which the horses and cattle of the
good pastor graze; and farther down, on the left, lies the church and
farm-house. Still beyond are vast plains of lava, gradually merging
into the waters of the lake; and in the far distance mountain upon
mountain, till the view is lost in the snowy Jokuls of the far
interior.
Descending into this valley we soon crossed the river, which is
fordable at this season, and in a few minutes entered a lane between
the low stone walls that surround the station.
[Illustration: CHURCH AT THINGVALLA.]
The church is of modern construction, and, like all I saw in the
interior, is made of wood, painted a dark color, and roofed with
boards covered with sheets of tarred canvas. It is a very primitive
little affair, only one story high, and not more than fifteen by
twenty feet in dimensions. From the date on the weather-cock it
appears to have been built in 1858.
The congregation is supplied by the few sheep-ranches in the
neighborhood, consisting at most of half a dozen families. These
unpretending little churches are to be seen in the vicinity of every
settlement throughout the whole island. Simple and homely as they are,
they speak well for the pious character of the people.
The pastor of Thingvalla and his family reside in a group of
sod-covered huts close by the church. These cheerless little hovels
are really a curiosity, none of them being over ten or fifteen feet
high, and all huddled together without the slightest regard to
latitude or longitude, like a parcel of sheep in a storm. Some have
windows in the roof, and some have chimneys; grass and weeds grow all
over them, and crooked by-ways and dark alleys run among them and
through them. At the base they are walled up with big lumps of lava,
and two of them have board fronts, painted black, while the remainder
are patched up with turf and rubbish of all sorts, very much in the
style of a stork's nest. A low stone wall encircles the premises, but
seems to be of little use as a barrier against the encroachments of
live-stock, being broken up in gaps every few yards. In front of the
group some attempt has been made at a pavement, which, however, must
have been abandoned soon after the work was commenced. It is now
littered all over with old tubs, pots, dish-cloths, and other articles
of domestic use.
[Illustration: THE PASTOR'S HOUSE.]
The interior of this strange abode is even more complicated than one
would be led to expect from the exterior. Passing through a
dilapidated doorway in one of the smaller cabins, which you would
hardly suppose to be the main entrance, you find yourself in a long
dark passage-way, built of rough stone, and roofed with wooden rafters
and brushwood covered with sod. The sides are ornamented with pegs
stuck in the crevices between the stones, upon which hang saddles,
bridles, horse-shoes, bunches of herbs, dried fish, and various
articles of cast-off clothing, including old shoes and sheepskins.
Wide or narrow, straight or crooked, to suit the sinuosities of the
different cabins into which it forms the entrance, it seems to have
been originally located upon the track of a blind boa-constrictor,
though Bishop Hatton denies the existence of snakes in Iceland. The
best room, or rather house--for every room is a house--is set apart
for the accommodation of travelers. Another cabin is occupied by some
members of the pastor's family, who bundle about like a lot of
rabbits. The kitchen is also the dog-kennel, and occasionally the
sheep-house. A pile of stones in one corner of it, upon which a few
twigs or scraps of sheep-manure serve to make the fire, constitute the
cooking department. The beams overhead are decorated with pots and
kettles, dried fish, stockings, petticoats, and the remains of a pair
of boots that probably belonged to the pastor in his younger days. The
dark turf walls are pleasantly diversified with bags of oil hung on
pegs, scraps of meat, old bottles and jars, and divers rusty-looking
instruments for shearing sheep and cleaning their hoofs. The floor
consists of the original lava-bed, and artificial puddles composed of
slops and offal of divers unctuous kinds. Smoke fills all the cavities
in the air not already occupied by foul odors, and the beams, and
posts, and rickety old bits of furniture are dyed to the core with the
dense and variegated atmosphere around them. This is a fair specimen
of the whole establishment, with the exception of the travelers' room.
The beds in these cabins are the chief articles of luxury. Feathers
being abundant, they are sewed up in prodigious ticks, which are
tumbled topsy-turvy into big boxes on legs that serve for bedsteads,
and then covered over with piles of all the loose blankets,
petticoats, and cast-off rags possible to be gathered up about the
premises. Into these comfortable nests the sleepers dive every night,
and, whether in summer or winter, cover themselves up under the
odorous mountain of rags, and snooze away till morning. During the
long winter nights they spend on an average about sixteen hours out of
the twenty-four in this agreeable manner. When it is borne in mind
that every crevice in the house is carefully stopped up in order to
keep out the cold air, and that whole families frequently occupy a
single apartment not over ten by twelve, the idea of being able to cut
through the atmosphere with a cleaver seems perfectly preposterous. A
night's respiration in such a hole is quite sufficient to saturate the
whole family with the substance of all the fish and sheepskins in the
vicinity; and the marvel of it is that they don't come out next day
wagging their fins or bleating like sheep. I wonder they ever have any
occasion to eat. Absorption must supply them with a large amount of
nutriment; but I suppose what is gained in that way is lost in the
fattening of certain other members of the household. Warmth seems to
be the principal object, and certainly it is no small consideration in
a country where fuel is so scarce.
I can not conceive of more wretched abodes for human beings. They are,
indeed, very little better than fox-holes--certainly not much sweeter.
Yet in such rude habitations as these the priests of Iceland study the
classical languages, and perfect themselves in the early literature of
their country. Many of them become learned, and devote much of their
lives to the pursuits of science. In the northern part of the country
the houses are said to be better and more capacious; but the example I
have given is a fair average of what I saw.
The passionate devotion of the Icelanders to their homes is almost
inconceivable. I have never seen any thing like it. The most favored
nations of the earth can not furnish examples of such intense and
all-absorbing love of home and country. I traveled with a native of
Reykjavik some weeks after my visit to Thingvalla, and had an
opportunity of judging what his impressions were of other countries.
He was a very intelligent man, well versed in Icelandic literature,
and spoke English remarkably well. Both himself and wife were fellow
passengers on the _Arcturus_ from Reykjavik to Grangemouth. I was
curious to know what a well-educated man would think of a civilized
country, and watched him very closely. He had never seen a railway,
locomotive, or carriage of any kind, not even a tree or a good-sized
house. We stopped at Leith, where we took passage by the train to
Edinburg. As soon as the locomotive started he began to laugh
heartily, and by the time we reached Edinburg he and his wife, though
naturally grave people, were nearly in convulsions of laughter. I had
no idea that the emotion of wonder would be manifested in that way by
civilized beings. Of course I laughed to see them laugh, and
altogether it was very funny. We took rooms at the same hotel,
opposite to Sir Walter Scott's monument. Now it is needless to say
that Edinburg is one of the most beautiful cities in the world. Even
Constantinople can scarcely surpass it in picturesque beauty. The
worthy Icelander, be it remembered, had never seen even a town, except
Reykjavik, of which I have already attempted a description. It was
night when we arrived at Edinburg, so that I had no opportunity of
judging what his impressions would be at that time. Next morning I
knocked at his room door. His wife opened it, looking very sad, as I
thought. At the window, gazing out over the magnificent scene,
embracing the Monument, the Castle, and many of the finest of the
public buildings, stood her husband, the big tears coursing down his
face.
"Well," said I, "what do you think of Edinburg?"
"Oh!" he cried, "oh, I am so home-sick! Oh, my dear, dear native land!
Oh, my own beautiful Iceland! Oh that I were back in my beloved
Reykjavik! Oh, I shall die in this desert of houses! Oh that I could
once more breathe the pure fresh air of my own dear, dear island
home!"
Such were literally his expressions. Not one word had he to say about
the beauties of Edinburg! To him it was a hideous nightmare. The fishy
little huts of Reykjavik, the bleak lava-deserts of the neighborhood,
and the raw blasts from the Jokuls, were all he could realize of a
Paradise upon earth. Yet he was a highly-cultivated and intelligent
man, not destitute of refined tastes. Truly, I thought to myself,
"The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone
Boldly proclaims the happiest spot his own."
While I waited outside the pastor's house, enjoying the oddity of the
scene, Zoega busied himself unsaddling the horses. I sat down on a
pile of fagots, and, with some trouble and a little assistance from my
guide, succeeded in getting off my overalls, which had been thoroughly
drenched with rain and saturated with mud. The occasional duckings we
had experienced in crossing the rivers did not add to my comfort. I
was chilled and wet, and would have given a Danish dollar for the
privilege of sitting at a fire. All this time there was no sign of
life about the premises save the barking of an ill-favored little dog
that was energetically disclaiming any acquaintance with Brusa. I
regret to say that Brusa lost much of his bravado air in the presence
of this insignificant cur, but it was quite natural; the cur was at
home and Brusa wasn't. At first our dog seemed disposed to stand his
ground, but upon the near approach of the house-dog he dropped his
tail between his legs and ingloriously sneaked between the legs of the
horses, which of course gave the gentleman of the house a high opinion
of his own prowess--so much so, indeed, that the craven spirit of
Brusa never before appeared in such a despicable light. He cringed and
howled with terror, which so flattered the vanity of the other that a
ferocious attack was the immediate consequence. Fortunately, a kick
from one of the horses laid Brusa's aggressor yelping in the mud, an
advantage of which Brusa promptly availed himself, and the pastor's
dog would have fared badly in the issue but for the interference of
Zoega, who separated the contending parties, and administered a grave
rebuke to the party of our part respecting the impropriety of his
conduct.
Though it occurred to me that I had seen the retreating figure of a
man as we rode up, I was at a loss to understand why nobody appeared
to ask us in or bid us welcome, and suggested to Zoega that I thought
this rather an unfriendly reception. Now, upon this point of Icelandic
hospitality Zoega was peculiarly sensitive. He always maintained that
the people, though poor, are very hospitable--so much so that they
made no complaint when a certain Englishman, whose name he could
mention, stopped with them for days, ate up all their food and drank
up all their coffee, and then went off without offering them even a
small present. "No wonder," said Zoega, "this man told a great many
lies about them, and laughed at them for refusing money, when the
truth was he never offered them money or any thing else. It was
certainly a very cheap way of traveling."
"But what about the pastor, Zoega? I'm certain I caught a glimpse of
him as he darted behind the door."
"Oh, he'll be here directly; he always runs away when strangers come."
"What does he run away for?"
"Why, you see, sir, he is generally a little dirty, and must go wash
himself and put on some decent clothes."
While we were talking the pastor made his appearance, looking somewhat
damp about the face and hair, and rather embarrassed about the shape
of his coat, which was much too large for him, and hung rather low
about his heels. With an awkward shuffling gait he approached us, and,
having shaken hands with Zoega, looked askant at me, and said
something, which my guide interpreted as follows:
"He bids you welcome, sir, and says his house is at your service. It
is a very poor house, but it is the best he has. He wishes to know if
you will take some coffee, and asks what part of the world you are
from. I tell him you are from California, and he says it is a great
way off, clear down on the other side of the world, and may God's
blessing be upon you. Walk in, sir."
[Illustration: THE PASTOR OF THINGVALLA.]
Pleased with these kind words, I stepped up to the good pastor and
cordially shook him by the hand, at the same time desiring Zoega to
say that I thanked him very much, and hoped he would make it
convenient to call and see me some time or other in California, which,
I regret to add, caused him to look both alarmed and embarrassed. A
queer, shy man was this pastor--a sort of living mummy, dried up and
bleached by Icelandic snows. His manner was singularly bashful. There
was something of the recluse in it--a mixture of shyness, awkwardness,
and intelligence, as if his life had been spent chiefly among sheep
and books, which very likely was the case. All the time I was trying
to say something agreeable he was looking about him as if he desired
to make his escape into some Icelandic bog, and there hide himself
during my stay. I followed him through the passage-way already
mentioned into the travelers' room, where he beckoned me to take a
seat, and then, awkwardly seating himself on the edge of a chair as
far away as he could get without backing through the wall, addressed
me in Danish. Finding me not very proficient in that tongue, he
branched off into Latin, which he spoke as fluently as if it had been
his native language. Here again I was at fault. I had gone as far as
_Quosque tandem_ when a boy, but the vicissitudes of time and travel
had knocked it all out of my head. I tried him on the German, and
there, to use a familiar phrase, had the "dead-wood on him." He
couldn't understand a word of that euphonious language. However, a
slight knowledge of the Spanish, picked up in Mexico and California,
enabled me to guess at some of his Latin, and in this way we struggled
into something of conversation. The effort, however, was too great for
the timid recluse. After several pauses and lapses into long fits of
silence, he got up and took his leave. Meantime Zoega was enjoying
himself by the fire in the kitchen, surrounded by the female members
of the family, who no doubt were eagerly listening to the latest news
from Reykjavik. Whenever their voices became audible I strongly
suspected that the ladies were asking whether the steamer had brought
any crinoline from Copenhagen.
The pastor's family appeared to be composed entirely of females. Like
all the Icelandic women I had seen, they do all the work of the
establishment, attend to the cows, make the cheese, cut the hay, carry
the heavy burdens, and perform the manual labor generally. This I
found to be the case at all the farm-houses. Sometimes the men assist,
but they prefer riding about the country or lying idle about the doors
of their cabins. At Reykjavik, it is true, there is a population of
Danish sailors and fishermen, and it would be scarcely fair to form an
opinion from the lazy and thriftless habits of the people there. But I
think the civilization of Iceland is very much like that of Germany in
respect to women. They are not rated very high in the scale of
humanity. Still, overworked and degraded as they are, the natural
proclivities of the sex are not altogether obliterated. In former
times their costume was picturesque and becoming, and some traces of
the old style are yet to be seen throughout the pastoral districts; a
close body, a jaunty little cap on the head, with a heavy tassel,
ornamented with gold or silver bands, silver clasps to their belts,
and filigree buttons down the front, give them a very pleasing
appearance. Of late years, however, fashion has begun to assert her
sway, even in this isolated part of the world, and the native costume
is gradually becoming modernized.
The pastor having joined the more congenial circle of which Zoega was
the admired centre, I was left alone in the chilly little room
allotted to travelers to meditate upon the comforts of Icelandic life.
It was rather a gloomy condition of affairs to be wet to the skin,
shivering with cold, and not a soul at hand to sympathize with me in
my misery. Then the everlasting day--when would it end? Already I had
been awake and traveling some fourteen hours, and it was as broad
daylight as ever. Nothing could be more wearying than the everlasting
daylight that surrounded me--not bright and sunshiny, but dreary and
lead-colored, showing scarcely any perceptible difference between
morning, noon, and night.
The coffee soon came to my relief, and the pastor followed it to wish
me a good appetite and ask if I wanted any thing else. I again renewed
the attempt at conversation, but it was too much for his nervous
temperament and shrinking modesty. He always managed, after a few
words, to slip stealthily away up into the loft or out among the rocks
to avoid the appearance of intrusion, or the labor of understanding
what I said, or communicating his ideas--I could not tell which.
[Illustration: SKELETON VIEW OF THE LOGBERG.]
After a slight repast I walked out to take a look at the Logberg, 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.
[Illustration: THINGVALLA, LOGBERG, ALMANNAJAU.]
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. A diagram, taken from an
elevated point beyond, will give some idea of its form. The surface is
now covered with a fine coating of sod and grass, and furnishes good
pasturage for the sheep belonging to the pastor.
[Illustration: DIAGRAM OF THE LOGBERG.]