Right opposite Reykjavik rises an interesting block of mountains. Bearing due north is Akrafjall, bluff to the sea and sloping with a long dorsum inland; it is the western steeple of the long HvalfjÖrÐ, one of the many digitations, carved by wind and water in the western coast. The eastern is the Esja, which means a “kind of clay;” some travellers miscall it the Esian or Essian, with the definite pronoun suffixed,[32] and sounding much like “the Alcoran” to an Arabist. The southern flank of this precipitous buttress, gashed with deep ravines and still spotted and streaked with snow which will not disappear before mid-August, lies north-east and across the baylet of Reykjavik: in fine weather it looks as though you could see a man upon the summit. Between the two pilasters of the inverted arch, forming the apparent bound of the far vista, is a third, a smaller and a more precipitous block, SkarÐsheiÐi—heath of the col[33]—with five buttresses, waxing whiter and whiter as they leave the warm western aspect. The view is fine albeit somewhat sinister, and you miss it like removing from the Chiaja to the interior of Naples. All this, we must remember, is only a corner of the great south-western FjÖrÐ, whose northern limit is the SnÆfellsjÖkull and whose southern is the Skagi (point) of SuÐrnes: it is called FaxafjÖrÐ, from Fax,[34] the Scot, who believed it to be the estuary of a mighty stream; the same kind of mistake gave a name to glorious Rio de Janeiro.

The eastern or inland view from Reykjavik on a fine day is not less picturesque. The clear cut basaltic line of mountains, here and there broken and jagged, stretches from north-east to south-west. In the former direction it appears a mural range, in the latter the blue wall breaks up into detached features, the regular cone of Helgafell, or holy hill, the pyramid of Keilir, “the wedge,” so well known to sailors, and the four hillocks called the TrÖlladyngjur,[35] or giantesses’ bower. Again this feature reminds me of the Jebel HaurÁn, and we shall find it beautifully displayed from the several mountain-tops.

On June 12 I set out with Major B. and Mr S. to try our prentice-hand upon the Esja. The vehicle was a two-oared boat redolent as usual of fat, fin, and feather; the hour was 6.45 A.M., and the north-easter was biting cold—at this season travellers should prefer post-meridional excursions, as the afternoon wind, during fine weather, invariably shifts to the genial west. The terns and the large Iceland gulls were hurrying home to the several islands, each showing the economical value of early birding.

After adding prospects of Geldinga Ness, Therney, and Lundey to our repertory, and covering in two hours the six miles’ sail, we landed at the usual place on the northern bank of the dwarf Kolla Firth. It showed farm-houses scattered around and a few fishing craft carefully drawn up; a very necessary precaution when the tide is going out. On the left was Esjuberg, where ÖrlÝgr Hreppson, converted by Patrick, Bishop of the Hebrides, built the first Christian chapel, and dedicated it to St Columbkille, Apostle and Thaumaturgus of the Picts. Farther off lay another farm upon the site of the celebrated pagan temple known as the Hof of Kjallarnes—we shall visit Keel-ness by and by.

It is perfectly true in Iceland that

but we cannot say that

Throughout the lowlands Nature, organic as well as inorganic, seems never to be free from moisture: like tropical man it always sits in a damp skin.

Having hauled up our boat we crossed the moss towards the great gash in the hill-flank, the Caldera, so conspicuous from Reykjavik; as usual the ground was shaky bog, and in places like an exaggerated Turkey carpet. The cause is that the shore, formed either of shingle or of vegetation decayed to humus is, as we have seen, higher than the interior, and the people content themselves with dykes for roads, and with trenches never deep enough for thorough drainage. We passed two small farms composed of the normal dwelling-places, stables, byres, and outhouses; plans and elevations of these abodes have been given by every Icelandic traveller who has used pencil as well as pen. Suffice it to observe, that throughout Iceland the dwelling-place, like the “skip,” has seen better days, and that both are now hopelessly degenerate.

At the second farm lived the guide, who was absent in the fields, and we vainly attempted persuading the sailor lad, a regular “lazy,” to accompany us with the provaunt-basket. An English youth would have been delighted with the chance of a climb, but these fainÉants about the capital, timid and apathetic, will do nothing for sport or adventure, and move only when need drives.

After forty-five minutes’ walk we entered the great gorge, which discharges a shallow stream, winding in many veins over its broad and rocky wady: it must be a furious torrent during the thaws of spring. We should have crossed it and ascended a sharp, rocky, zigzag on the right-hand jaw, but we had no reason to regret the error, as the deep section gave us an excellent view of the Esja’s internals. The formation of the mountain is still a disputed point; some hold its base to be basaltic pierced by more modern trachyte, whilst others believe in the greater antiquity of the trachyte. As will be seen, when travelling to Mosfell, or south-east, we found trachyte on a level with the Esja’s foundation and, when coasting along the western flank, we saw Palagonite sandstone, dyked with trap, and underlying as well as overlying the later igneous formation. The sequence, therefore, appeared to be Palagonite, trachyte, and trap. On the KollafjÖrÐ also there is a line of carbonate of lime running from north-east to south-west, and strongly affecting the water: hence it is judged that Iceland spar may be found there.

After a few minutes we came to a place where the gorge was split by a tall chine of rock, and where overfalls and deep inclines rendered the two beds impassable. We climbed up this hogsback, remarking, as others have done before and since, how dangerously brittle is the rubbishy stone which comes away in large fragments under the foot. The same observation constantly occurs in travels through Greenland and Spitzbergen, and the cause is doubtless that which strews the upper heights of the Libanus and Anti-Libanus with natural Macadam—fracture by alternate expansion and contraction. In Iceland, moreover, the dÉbris lies in dry heaps, loosely attached to the surface and not based upon or secured by vegetation or tenacious humus, while the sharp angles of the material produces many a rocking-stone. Hence large masses giving way readily beneath the tread, somewhat surprise the inexperienced. We then fell into a long stiff slope of rock and yellow humus, puffed up under the sun; there was an abundance of water stagnating even on the sharpest declivities, and doubtless percolating from the snow strips above. Where the surface was tolerably level, rough grasses upon which a few sheep were grazing were sprinkled with mosses and with raised patches of bright green studded with pink flowerets (Diapensia), faintly resembling the huge TabbÁn pin-cushions of the Hermon. Animal life appeared to be exceedingly scarce.

Presently the guide, who had followed us, was seen crossing the left-hand or western ravine, and only his Iceland shoes enabled him to do so. Of course, he wore gloves, for what reason we could not divine, except to keep his unwashed hands white; and his alpenstock was an iron stick, some three feet long, with a ring at one end and a half barb at the other. He waddled like an ant-eater when showing his vigour by spurts of running up and down, and his bent and affaissÉ form was a considerable contrast to that of the mountaineer generally. He was like his brethren, the very rudiment of a guide, utterly disregardful of the guided; and in case of difficulty or accident, we expected him at once to skedaddle. When he whooped “ho!” it was the screech of a sea-fowl.

Arriving at the stiffer part of the ascent, about 2400 feet above sea-level, we should have bent to the west towards the largest patch of snow, where the angle is exceptionally easy. But our guide followed us with African docility, as we bent eastward under the tall scarps of submarine trap, which from Reykjavik appear to stand up like a wall. There were several couloirs to cross, mostly slides of icy snow: in August they will appear like broad yellow gutters polished by frost. Here we picked up specimens of red jasper, crystals of lime, and stones whose drusic cavities were charged with calcaire.

Then began the climb up the crest. The stairs, about eight or ten feet high, run with tolerable regularity, whilst breaks here and there allow easy ascent: at the base is kittle dÉbris, where falling blocks may be expected. However hopeless may appear these trap walls, whose copings, straight and regular as if built by man, form the characteristic feature of maritime Iceland, they are generally climbable by creeping along the ledges below the several grades till gaps offer an opportunity of swarming up to the higher tier. If, however, a profile view shows that these traps dip instead of tilting seawards, the normal disposition, attempts will be in vain. Cryptogams were thinly scattered over the blocks; lichens appeared to be rare, and the mosses had not revived from the winter burning—as regards muserlogia there is still much to be done in Iceland.

After a walk of three hours, we stood upon the level summit,[36] about 3000 feet above sea-level, and the ascent was according to the rule of the Alpine Club, a thousand feet per hour. Here rose a number of VarÐas or old men. We crossed a dazzling nÉvÉ, following the guide, who probed as he went on, for here as elsewhere,

I narrowly observed its behaviour. The ground about it was so soft and slushy that even stones would not support our weight, and the shallow edges were icy-hard, the effect of increased evaporation. On sloping surfaces the same effect is caused by pressure, like squeezing a snow-ball, and gelufication is prevented by the little runnels which the sun sets free to trickle down the gorges. The material was glacious rather than flaky or niveous, and promised firm foothold. We have read of travellers sinking to the shoulders, especially in the snow of August, but it is doubtful if this ever takes place above a certain altitude, especially in dry weather, when Iceland snow wastes away in the wind like camphor.

The “raking view” from the summit was a fair physiognomical study of treeless Thule. To the north the mountain is a mere section, a shell with perpendicular falls and steep steps of loose stone, which demand rope ladders. Before it the lowlands fall to the HvalfjÖrÐ, beyond which the Akrafjall dorsum slopes inland, or to north-east, till suddenly arrested on the other side of the smooth green sea-arm by the five buttresses of the sister formation, SkarÐsheiÐi. The latter looks as though a few hours, instead of two days, would reach it; and our friends at Reykjavik showed their belief in the wondrous transparency of the atmosphere by trying to detect, with their opera glasses, our small bodies creeping up the slope at the distance of at least six direct geographical miles. At Quito, under the equator, a horseman’s white poncho may, according to Humboldt, “be distinguished with the naked eye at a horizontal distance of 89,664 feet, and therefore under an angle of thirteen seconds.”

Turning southwards, we found the Esja summit flanked to the east by three regular buttresses, like artificial earthworks, with stepped projections and horizontal lines of the whitest nÉvÉ. Farther down were couloirs filled with a brown snow, in lines too steep for crossing. The highland before us reminded me of the Paramos or deserts of the Cordillera, and the view generally was a wondrous contrast with European ideas of spring beauty. The lowlands at our feet were sprinkled with lakelets and tarns, the Vaud and Soe of Norway, the largest being the Hafravatn and the ElliÐavatn. The formation of the FjÖrÐs lay in panorama, a network of fibres and threads converging to form a main embouchure; whilst the several bays had those hooks and “sickles” of sand, which the “Rob Roy” canoe places in the Sea of Galilee, but which my lamented friend Tyrwhitt-Drake and I were not lucky enough to find. We have already remarked this wealth of “oyce” in the Scotch firths, and Elius Corvinus declares the same to be the case in Dalmatian streams:

From south-east to south the prospect is bounded by the snow-dotted Hraun or lava-run, which in places appears as two parallel ranges. It completely hides the Thingvellir Lake, but in far distance, peeping over the summit to the east, rises the bold and rocky head of the arch-humbug Hekla. The range terminates to the south-west in Laugarfell, a buttressed crest like the Esja, beyond which the Vestmannaeyjar archipelago floats in little lumps below the cup-shaped horizon. The eye rests with pleasure upon the Helgafell cone and the pyramid of Keilir, perfect as the pigmies of Egypt: this shape is common in Iceland, and forms the best of land and surveying marks. Beyond the long, thin point of Reykjavik (Seltjarnarnes) and its scatter of volcanic islets, the dwarfed projections of Skagi and Reykjanes fine away into mere streaks of black upon the pale blue sea. Presently a cloud came over the sun, and the cold air warned us to keep moving. Ugh! how raw it was; the wind seemed to pierce every joint in our harness. We descended by the picknicker’s path, showing the unnecessary trouble we had taken: the line ran between the great gorges or rather rents in the flanks, which gave excellent sections of the interior, stratified beds of newer red and older grey-blue lavas remarkably distinct. At the foot of the mountain the thermometer, placed in reflected heat upon the snowy ground, showed 82°(F.), hardly to be expected in Iceland.

Reaching the guide’s house, we were kindly received by his wife, who gave us coffee, biscuits, and excellent milk, which mixed with Korn-schnapps, even the “water-bewitched” of Reykjavik, is a most satisfactory beverage. We dropped a rixdollar, by way of being “delicate,” into a child’s hand. Two months afterwards, our cicerone wrote to Geir Zoega that he had guided (unbidden be it said) three Englishmen up the mountain, and had given them coffee, etc.; that his fee was $3, whereas they had left only $1 with a servant girl, from whom he could not take it. This little trait—one of many—would not be worth quoting did it not show that the unsophisticated age of the island has, in these parts at least, passed clean away.

It speaks volumes for the excellence of the climate that next morning no one, even after ten months of London life, complained of stiff muscles. We had been baked, chilled, and baked again, yet there was not a trace of “cold catching:” the latter, to resident foreigners, is not unfrequently the result of the glacier winds, but they never seem to adopt such simple precautions as a hareskin or a Manus Dei (poor man’s plaster).

A most interesting part of the Esja mountain is the north-eastern section, where two regularly-shaped cones of golden colour, sharp towering in the milky blue air, attract the eye from Reykjavik. They are conspicuous in snowy caps, which they long retain, whilst the basalts and the dark Palagonites assist the thaws. I was anxious also to inspect the head of the celebrated HvalfjÖrÐ, to ascend SkarÐsheiÐi, and to call upon the Reverend Thorvaldr Bjarnason, who had hospitably invited me to Reynivellir, his parsonage. The excursion took place about mid-July, but I again sacrifice the unity of time to that of place. My companion was Mr Martin Chapman, of New Zealand, now domiciled in the Temple: we had already made the trip to Hekla, and his good gifts as a traveller, his energy and his imperturbable good temper and sang froid, made him an excellent companion. We again secured as guide PÁll EyÚlfsson, of whom more presently. Each had a remount, and a single baggage animal was judged sufficient.

We set out merrily by the eastern road, through a country now familiar to the reader, and soon covered the four miles between the town and the ford of the LaxÁ (ElliÐaÁ). On the way were many signs of glacial action, grooving as well as slickensides, caused by the friction of two rock surfaces: the ice-dressings which I had last seen on Arthur’s Seat are everywhere around Reykjavik. At Hr Thomsen’s farm, ÁrtÚn (river “toon”), we left the inland or Geysir road and turned towards the sea. About Leiruvogr (mud bay) and the mouth of the LeiruvogsÁ the floor was of trachyte, which appeared even in the stream-beds: the material was heat-altered and discoloured by oxides. The little black church of Mossfell (moss-hill), a common name in the island, was the half-way house; and thence we rode up the Svinadalr (swine-vale), to the white pass of MÓ-skarÐa hnjÚkr, also called HÁ-hnjÚkr. Here, after travelling three hours and forty-five minutes, we dismounted and prepared for the ascent.

On our left hand was a rough tooth, or aiguille, a conspicuous object rising perpendicularly from the rapid slope: the lower ground was the usual mixture of bog, moss, and water. This was soon exchanged for an angle too steep for vegetation; yet even on the summit, we picked scattered flowers, and the peculiarity of Iceland in the eyes of an African traveller again repeated itself. Here we find not only genera abnormally numerous compared with species, but also no change of growth from the tropical to the temperate and the polar, as, for instance, on Camarones Mountain. The same flora everywhere appears, the paucity of vegetable corresponding with the poverty of animal forms: only in the upper regions it is of course dwarfed by height and by the comparative thinness of the aqueous vapours which screen the lowlands; and for the same reason it grows and dies later in the year.

The surface of the mountain was purely trachytic, but the one material was Protean in shape and colour. The prevailing tints were red and golden yellow. We recognised the slate of Hekla and the heat-altered material near the great Geysir. As we neared the summit the metal became flaky, like the limestone of the Syrian mountains. After forty minutes of rough climbing over slopes of rubbish—the smaller it was the firmer it proved to the tread—we reached the apex, about 2000 feet above sea-level: like the western Esja, it had the sharpest face to the north, and the crest was a saw, a spiked arÊte, palisaded and bristling with teeth and jags like the many-bladed knife of the cutler’s shop.[37]

Returning to our horses, we descended one of those staircases of earth and stone now so familiar, and fell into the valley of a northern LaxÁ, called for distinction, “of Reynivellir” (the sorb-apple plains). The surface, so fair to sight, is swampy, despite its main-drain, and must be traversed by earthen dykes. The lower part is protected to the north by the ReynivallahÁls (neck of Reynivellir), and to the south by the MiÐfell (mid-mount) and other outliers of the Esja. Here many houses are scattered about; we recognise the sweet scent of hay; and the dock-fringed plots of potatoes and cabbages look exceptionally flourishing. In winter all freezes, but as the grass never protrudes from the ice, however shallow, the neighbouring farmers visit one another on skates, which are those of Europe generally.

At eleven P.M. we reached the parsonage, which showed three gables pointing southwards, and a fourth to the east. A cart and a wheel-jack gave signs that improvements were not unknown. The hour was unusual for calling, but Iceland knows nothing of these fine distinctions: the house dogs bayed the alarm; the host awoke the household; and, before turning in, we supped comfortably at the parsonage.

On the next day SÍra Thorvaldr could not accompany us, having service to read. The only son of a widow, he entered the Church at her desire, but his heart is book-hunting at Copenhagen, and, as his Sanskrit volumes show, his delight would be Orientalism. But what can be done so far from the haunts of learning? and at thirty-four he sees life gradually slipping away from him. Meanwhile he takes pupils, he farms, he flirts with botany, and he refreshes himself by an occasional visit to Reykjavik. He kindly gave me a copy of the ReykholtskirkjumÁldagi, the Authentic Inventory of Reykholt Kirk, facsimile’d by the Icelandic Literary Society:[38] the three specimens bear no date, but the Sagas fix the time between A.D. 1143 and A.D. 1222.

About ten A.M. we were en route and, worried by swarms of flies, in forty minutes we walked up the great ugly prism, ReynivallahÁls, whose winding way was hardly visible from below. The summit is dotted with VÖrÐur, to guide travellers and church-goers through the snow. The descent turned eastward, and showed us in front the familiar forms of the horned and snow-streaked “SÚlur,” the massive umbo of SkjaldbreiÐ, and the white dome of the Ok JÖkull: to the left (north) was SkarÐsheiÐi, veiled in clouds. The lower gullies, where the heavy cold air settles, condense their columns of warmer air into clouds, which simulate water-spouts: at times these vapours, wonderfully resembling smoke-pillars, have been mistaken for a rain of erupted ashes. At our feet lay the head of the HvalfjÖrÐ, looking unusually picturesque in the still, blue air. Great double buttresses pushed peremptorily from behind. The MÚlafjall (mull-hills)[39] and SÍldarmannafjall (sillock-fisher or herring-catcher’s hill) are separated from ReynivallahÁls and from each other by Botnsdalr (bottom-head dale), and by two green vales, Brynjudalr, where the brindled cow was once lost. The river-like surface of the firth was exceptionally tranquil, and a dwarf islet, shaped like a Strasburg

pie, rose from its own reflection. There were other islets, and boats, and eider-ducks temporarily separated a mens et thoro, screaming “crees,” peewits, plovers, and the usual accidents of a firth-view in Iceland.

At the foot of the descent we struck the FossÁ farm, and rode along the northern counterslope of the ReynivallahÁls. The path ran over swamp and rock; it was the malus passus of the whole line, but by no means dangerous as described by Geir Zoega. Fortunately the tide was out, and we easily forded the mouths of the Brynjudalr and Botnsdalr; on our return we exchanged the bad line for two long detours rounding the forked head of the firth. We then ascended to a farm situated under the Thyrill, or egg-kipper, the stick for whipping eggs, milk, or porridge. This remarkable feature forms the westernmost head of the SÍldarmannafjall, and resembles nothing so much as two towers flanking the gateway of a giant’s castle, built after the fashion of Normandy; the superstructure is basalt, and time seems to have tilted it a little awry, as if the proprietor had long been an absentee. This Thyrill takes its name from the mountain gusts which hurl men from their horses, threaten caravans with destruction by frightful whirlwinds, and raise sheets of sea-water high in the air, tearing them to pieces like snow. To look at the peaceful innocent scene we could hardly imagine that it ever lets angry passions rise, or that it had been led to the excesses and atrocities described by Ólafsson and Von Waltershausen.[40]

The farm-people leaned against the walls, sunning themselves like Slavs under similar circumstances; there was no want of church-goers riding to and fro, and generally the travellers were more civil than upon the beaten paths. Iceland mostly reverses the rule of the world, the country folk being less amiable to the stranger than the town folk. From the Thyrill to the Ferstikla farm, a distance of an hour and a half, there are two paths. The short cut lies along the shore of heavy dark sand and rocky points of black basalt studded with white shells; the porous material is in parts full of almonds of lime, hence the white coating which we here observe, as in the Wadys of the HaurÁn. The inner line is the usual mixture of warty surface, swamp, stone, and shaking bog. At Ferstikla, where a path strikes north for Reykholt, we found some grass and rested the ponies.

A couple of hours finished the ride. We turned left, over a shallow divide, the FerstikluhÁls, whose northern counterslope is wooded with birches fully two feet tall, yet hardly equal to the task of pulling us from our saddles. We then fell into another SvÍnadalr (swine-dale), with three lakes disposed north-east to south-west, along the southern base of SkarÐsheiÐi, and drained by another LaxÁ. There was no lack of farm-houses, a sight which cheered the nags whilst floundering through the deep mud-bog. A guide whom we had engaged pro tem., pointed to the cone of the BlÁkoll, a comparatively low formation to the right; but the vaunted mountain with its stepped bluffs is everywhere easy, and “climbing for climb” always suggests to me the African’s “drinkee for drunk.” After a pleasant but very slow ride of seven hours, we made, at 7.30 P.M., the SkarÐ farmlet. After the muggy morning with a “rain-sun,” followed by a chilly evening which threatened a down-pour, we were not sorry to be lodged in the cow-house of a “Sel”[41] and to sleep upon sweet-smelling hay, far preferable to the animal heat of the foul cubicula.

This day we have passed over the Iceland terminus proposed by the Danish telegraph line. Despite the fearful whirlwinds, described as capable of breaking “tegulas imbricesque,” and the rocky bottom of the Whale Firth, it is perhaps the best; it is absolutely free from icebergs (Fjall jakar), floes, and field-ice (Hellu-Ís): Arctic ice appears in the Faxa FjÖrÐ and about Reykjavik only about once a century, the last time being 1763. Here the bay-ice is reduced to a little brash-ice and shore-ice, which are of scanty importance. It is a lee-land defended by the south-western projection and by the north-western digitations from the berg-bearing currents; and the bottom, until the HvalfjÖrÐ is reached, appears to be sand and mud. As Forbes remarks, there is no “eligible spot” for a station between Portland (DyrhÓlaey) and Reykjanes; whilst the submarine volcanic line of rocks, the passage of steamers, and the shallows of Reykjavik, render that port impossible. The Vestmannaeyjar again are too far from the capital, and the east coast is simply not to be thought of.

The project is part of the “north-about line” of Atlantic telegraph, as opposed to the “south-about,” vi the Cap de Verds, St Paul’s Rock, and Brazilian Cape St Roque. Many of us remember hearing it ably advocated some dozen years ago by Colonel T. P. Shaffner of Louisville,[42] Kentucky, who took it up in 1853; travelled to Labrador, Greenland, and Iceland; advertised, expended time and capital, canvassed, obtained concessions from Denmark, Sweden, and Norway, and published and lectured before the Royal Geographical Society, in order to raise a fund of £400,000. The time was propitious. The first attempt of 1857-58 had broken down after sending some 400 messages: in 1860 the longest sub-aqueous circuit was 750 miles. No. 2 cable (1863), carried by the “Great Eastern,” had also failed; and Mr Faraday objected his “retardation” and “return currents,” even to an air-line of a thousand miles. The bankruptcy of Transatlantic telegraphy was therefore confidently predicted; nor was it believed that any section of 2000 miles could possibly be made to last. Presently, by way of a practical jest upon scientific hobbies and croakings, the third cable (1866) succeeded: then came the Valentia-Newfoundland in the same year; and lastly, in 1868, the Brest and New York, or French line. Now (1872) a fourth is talked of, and the next half-a-dozen years may see another half-dozen.

Colonel Shaffner, who is well remembered in eastern Iceland, proposed to cross the Atlantic by four stations, none exceeding 700 miles—namely, Scotland to FÆroes (225-250), to Iceland (240), to Greenland (600-700), and to the coast of Labrador (510); a maximum total of 1700, afterwards reduced to 1645 miles. The project, however, contained two elements of unsuccess. Firstly, it proposed an air-line from DjÚpivogr (east coast) to the capital: I do not know what my friend Dr Rae, who was sent to inspect the route, reported; but the universal opinion of Icelanders is that no telegraphic communication of the kind could resist a single winter-storm, not to speak of earthquakes and eruptions. “How repair the damage?” they ask: “how even carry the posts?” The second objection, the state of the ice about the Greenland coast, was perhaps even more fatal. Thus the scheme gradually fell into oblivion, not, however, before it had done right good service in exploring Newfoundland—a very paradise for anglers, where trout weigh 6 lbs. and where salmon sells at 4 cents. The persevering Danes still cleave to a connection with Iceland, and that is why we saw the gun-boat “Fylla” on her surveying cruise.

On the next morning, as the peasantry rose at three A.M. to ted their hay, we began preparations for ascending SkarÐsheiÐi (scarf-gap-heath) by observing the aneroids.[43] Rain evidently threatened, as at A.M. 7.15 we attacked the slope of dÉbris, green only where two trickling streamlets played hide-and-seek under moss and stones. After an hour’s walk we reached the first ridge, and found in front of us a broken plateau about 2000 feet high, with five lakes and ponds distributed at different altitudes: the waters are all sweet, percolation taking the place of drainage. On our right rose a tall precipitous wall of receding steps, which at a distance resemble string courses and stories. The precipice is streaked with couloirs, very well disposed for falls and cannonades of rocks: high up there are two broad Palagonite bands in the trap, which may sometimes be seen from Reykjavik. Our guide the farmer did the honours of the echo.

We now circled to the north, winding round the grim wall, up and down ridge after ridge of moraine-like dÉbris, and over moss-clad boulders, among which we occasionally sank up to the knees. Here the most conspicuous growths were reindeer moss and Fjall-grÖs (“mountain grass”), the Lichen Islandicus, of which Felligrath sings:

In Iceland I never heard—as old travellers relate—of its being dried, put in bags, beaten, and worked into flour by stamping. Usually it is boiled, and eaten with barley like burghoo, or it is infused in milk, as cacao and matÉ sometimes are: it gives a light tinge of green, and a very pronounced mucilaginous flavour. The simple old days used it as coffee, but it could not stand its ground against the intruder which arrests the waste of tissue, as well as warms the blood. “Iceland grass,” however, is still valued at home as a jelly for poitrinaires; and the last time I saw it was on the Campo-grosso or Dolomite mountains of Italian Recoaro (Vicenza).

After a second hour we reached the north of the bluff. On our left hand was a red and cindery mound, the Stellir,[44] justly famed as a landmark for sailors: ahead, and to east, rose the detached Skessuhorn, which seemed to present no difficulties: it was not till our return that we heard it described as a local Matterhorn, often attacked, but attacked in vain, and still awaiting its vanquisher. Turning to the right, we worked up the quoin by a passage between stone walls of Nature’s make, and in another half-hour we climbed up the stiff slope of decayed trap. Our guide required some little management: he pointed in alarm to the mists rolling up from the north, with a cruel rush of cold air, and though the line was marked with stone-men, he ejaculated “Thoka!” (fog). “Lost in the mists” is often a conclusion to a “tale of Iceland’s Isle.”

The summit of SkarÐsheiÐi, about 3000 feet above sea-level, resembled that of the Esja, and afforded a view quite as extensive, though not now so novel. To the north, under our feet, ran the winding HvitÁ and its outlying waters, draining to the BorgarfjÖrÐ, here a grisly “spiegel,” dotted with black reefs. North-eastwards lay the bare sulphurous grounds of Reykholt (reeky hill), while far to the north-west, bounding the north of the Faxa FjÖrÐ, the knuckles of SnÆfell and the caldrons popularly known as Katlar, the kettles, formed the land horizon. Southward the view ranged clean over Reykjavik, and showed the easiest route to SkarÐsheiÐi: this would be by boat to SaurbÆr, north-east of Akrafjall, whence a walk of five miles places the traveller at the SkarÐ farm.

The ascent and descent had occupied four hours: we then mounted our horses, and returned before night to Reynivellir.

A delightful morning (July 23), when the air was so fine, so clear, so bright that

a morning when one really would have been sorry to die, sent us to bathe at the Reynivellir brook, regardless of slugs and snails, moths and flies. The Reverend left, after a copious breakfast of mashed salmon, with a promise to meet us on the road. He had just lost a parishioner. Since July 11th there has not been a shower, and the sky was that of Italy for a whole fortnight. This abnormally fine weather is equally fatal to the very young and the very old: seven or eight deaths had just taken place at Reykjavik, a large proportion out of an annual average of sixty; and three successive days saw three funerals: the causes are “pituita,” malignant catarrh, and influenza.

We were threatened with a mal pas, and again found it remarkably good. From Reynivellir the path ran down the LaxÁ valley; and where we crossed the stream, it was clear as crystal, and abundant in trout. Here, again, turf has invaded lands once forested; and now we look in vain for a specimen of the sorb-tree, which named the parsonage. Chemin faisant, the Reverend lectured us upon the botany of his native vale. The Dutch or white clover (SmÁri)[45] flourishes: that red-headed cannibal the Lambagras, moss-campion or dwarf catch-fly (Silene acaulis), which rises upwards of 11,000 feet on the Swiss Alps, here prefers the drier soils. The lower lands are covered with the GÚnga-gras (“bag grass,” Bursa pastoris), everywhere common, with the meadow-sweet (MjaÐurt = ???????, SpirÆa ulmeria), which yields a yellow dye, and a grateful perfume in hot weather. The pride of the plain is the thrift or sea-gilly-flower (Statice armeria), with downy stalk and pale pink heads, which the people call Geldingahnappar, “gelding,” that is to say, wether, “button.” The richer and damper grounds are grown with the marsh marigold (Caltha palustris), the Solia or Solveia of the FÆroes, here called LÆkja-sÓley or hÓf-sÓley, from its hoof-shaped leaf; cattle will not eat it, save as a pis-aller; the small green flower-buds when pickled resemble capers, and the inflorescence lasts from early May to the end of summer. It is a congener of the carnivorous Caltha dionÆafolia. There is an abundance of the Engja-rÓs, eyre or meadow rose (Epilobium augustifolium), forming a pink carpet—there are many rosaceÆ in Iceland, but roses are deficient, as in the southern hemisphere, only one having been found;[46] and the traveller must not expect to find the beautiful little “Ward” of the Libanus. Another common growth is the leguminous Um-feÐmingsgras, “holding grass,” the tufted or creeping vetch (Vicia cracca), whose cirri fasten upon neighbours; hence the FÆroese call it Krogyogras, from Kroya, to cling. The solitary Andromeda hypnoides, a small creeper, with heather-like white flowers, acts lily of the valley. We are again reminded of Syria by the chamomile-like BaldursbrÁ (Anthemis cotula), whose snowy petals suggest the White God,[47] Baldur the Beautiful, and whose circular yellow centre assimilates it to the solar orb—it is too bad to call it “stinking camomile.” The common sorrel (Rumex acetosa, locally known as Valla, or Korn-sÚra) is a social plant that prefers the neighbourhood of farms, and flourishes in newly-manured tÚns: the other species are the kidney-shaped mountain sorrel (Oxyria reniformis) and the sheep’s sorrel (R. acetosella). In the more southern islands, where the root gives a red dye, the leaf is said to grow a foot and a half long; it is used to flavour bird soup, and is eaten with meat. An anti-scorbutic, pleasant withal, it should here be used every day, as tomatoes are in the southern United States; but if you advise the Icelander to correct his blood with sorrel, he will probably reply that it is food for cows.

After an hour’s ride, including the inevitable short cut of wrong path and turning back, we reached the MiÐfell farm, which faces cosily west, and is backed by its little range of trap so degraded that it seems to be forming humus. Fronting it is the MiÐfellsvatn lakelet, which drains the north-eastern Esja: it swarms with the SÍlungur trout, but there was no boat for the convenience of fishermen. Whilst the Reverend went to his funeral, we sat upon the grassy warts, and enjoyed the view of SnÆfell, bluish-white in the flickering air. The thermometer stood at 86° (F.) in the sun; and the ghost of a mist tempered, like the glazing of a master-hand, the raw colours and rough forms of the scene. The prospect suggested Tempe, not the grisly defile of reality, but the picture painted by poets—Greek Greece and Syrian Syria contrast wonderfully with the features which naturally form themselves in the northern mind. We argued that a couple of pleasant summer months might be spent at MiÐfell, but that such Æstivation would involve building a fishing-box and stocking it with friends.

Not the least picturesque part of the prospect was the cavalcade of some thirty men and women returning in Indian file from the funeral. At last, wearied with waiting, we rode up the ugly rough ravine of Eilifsdalr, and turned to the right between the Esja and its northern outlier, Eyrarfjall. The latter showed sub-columnar and fan-shaped basalt in the foundations, with Palagonite, here yellow, there dark, overlying and underlying trap, whilst striated rocks everywhere appeared. On the left hand, or under Esja, were mounds mightily resembling moraine:[48] they were probably formed by the streams of frozen mud which carried with them boulder fragments, and either strewed them upon the plain or swept them out to sea. The most conspicuous of the natural tumuli, and crowned with a stone, is called, ‘RÓstuhÓll,[49] “battle holt,” or, as Hooker has it, “duel hill:” here BÚi AndriÐsson, for whom see the Kjalnesinga Saga, kept his foes at bay, and slew half-a-dozen with a sling.

We then forded the streams, and crossed the nasty swamps and the stony patches of the brook which flows to the HvalfjÖrÐ. Farms were scattered everywhere about the sheltered valley. After two hours and a half of slow progress, we were joined by the Reverend, who, gallantly mounted, rode straight as a fox-hunting parson of the last generation, and we soon reached the ladder of red and green lavas which overlooks the firth. The immediate banks show the feature locally called Melarbakki,[50] horizontal lines bare of earth, regular as if heaped up by man, and generally with inclines too stiff to retain vegetation. We shall see the feature well displayed at BorÐeyri and GrafarÓs. In Canada, and New England also, where the snow covering, which prevents radiation of heat, is blown away by winds, and the ground is frozen for a depth of two feet or more, the surface remains brown and barren throughout spring and summer.

Here we dismounted to collect the “Yaspis,” for which the place is famous, and which we had found scattered over the Esja range. The colours are bright red, blue, and blue-green, often prettily striped and branched; the sharp edges cut like obsidian, and the whole appears as impure opaque masses of quartz. According to Dr HjaltalÍn, it remarkably resembles that of Hungary, and the dark spots upon the surface are oxide of copper, copper glance, or argentiferous copper. Zeolites were abundant, so were almonds of lime in basalt; chalcedonies, milk-white, red, yellow, green, and dark-brown, passing into cachalong and grades of chalcedony and quartz, “cloisonnÉs” with crystals of carbonate of lime, and superficially clad with capillary mesotype. We often heard in Iceland of the noble opal, which might be expected in a volcanic land—as at Aden, there are whole sheets of it, but none is noble. The FÆroese consider it to be a transition between zeolite and chalcedony: I was told of fine specimens found there, but failed to see them.[51]

We then trotted merrily past SaurbÆr (sour mud or dirt-farm; perhaps farm of Saur), and were shown the TÍÐa SkarÐ (tide or hour col), so called because the congregation riding to mass could be seen when an hour distant. The path along the shore was tolerable, and we had to dismount only at a single swamp. After a total of four hours’ slow progress from MiÐfell, we reached the main object of our journey, the celebrated Hof of Kjalarnes (Keel-ness), in the KjÓsar or “choice” SÝsla. It was the great place of assembly in the south-west, and the chief of the twelve provincial “Things” before A.D. 928, when the Althing was removed to the confiscated estate of Thingvellir. We expected interesting ruins after reading of “Kialarness, remarkable for the remains of a Hof or idolatrous temple erected towards the close of the ninth century” (Henderson, ii. 3). The CrymogÆa of “Arngrim Jonas” speaks with admiration of two Hofs in the north and south of the island. Each had an inner sacellum, or holy of holies, where the victims were ranged in semicircle about the idol-altar (Stalli): the latter was plated with iron, for protection against the pure, flint-kindled fire, which, as in a Parsee temple, perpetually burned there: it supported a brass bowl (blÓt bolli) to contain the blood, sprinkled with the blood-twig (blÓt grein) or asperges upon the bystanders. There hung up, likewise, a great silver ring, which they stained with blood, and which whoever took an oath on these occasions was required to hold in his hand. The “Baugr,” we are told, weighed two ounces, and was at times worn by the priest: it possibly symbolised Odin’s magic “Draupnir,” made by Brokkur, most skilful of the dwarfs. Till late years a specimen was to be seen at the ReykjahlÍÐ churchlet. The “oath on the ring” was taken by dipping it in blood, often human, and by saying, after the solemn adjuration of heathen old Scandinavia, “So help me Freyr and NjÖrdr, and that almighty Áss!” (ok hinn almÁttki Áss, i.e., Thor);[52] and Norsemen of rank were buried with the Armilla sacred to Odin. “In one of these temples there was also, near the chapel, a deep pit or well into which they cast the victims.”

Mallet, and other trustworthy authors of his day, assimilated the ancient Scandinavian places of worship to those of the Persian Guebres and the old Teutons, who would not offend the gods by immuring them, or by roofing them in, which is not correct. The Hof was an enclosed building, whilst the HÖrg, in whose centre stood the huge sacrificial stone, was open above. The Scandinavian temple, even that gold-plated wonder of the North, the fane of Thor at old Upsala, was nothing but a long wooden hall to contain the worshippers, with a sanctuary at one end, the true Aryan Estika,[53] where the “BlÓt,”[54] or pagan sacrifice, was performed by the priest or pontiff (hof-goÐi). The same was the case with the Kjalarnes temple, a rough timber building, burnt by BÚi AndriÐsson, the slinger.

The situation is right well chosen for effect. This Hof stood at the base of a stony land-tongue separated by swampy ground from the iron shore, lined and faced with diabolitos, or cruel little black rocks. Opposite sleeps the tranquil bay of Reykjavik, backed by its picturesque blue hills—a veritable Sierra, the backbone of this part of Iceland, all cones and pyramids, notches and saw-like teeth, resembling the sky-lines of El SafÁ. To the right is a rough rise of lava pushing out jagged points, and to the left towers the Esja pile, with its network of dykes and slides, an extinct Vesuvius faced by white cliffs. Farms and hay-fields are scattered about, probably occupying the same positions which looked upon the ancient heathen gods, with whose departure prosperity left the land. There is not a trace of the building, but the pasty-faced peasants showed us, below the rise, a bit of deep swamp covered with marsh-marigold, and this they called the BlÓt-Kelda, or victim well—possibly where men and beasts were sacrificially drowned.

After inspecting this humble marvel, we shook hands with the Reverend, and took boat for Reykjavik, where we arrived at 9.30 P.M.

I afterwards was shown the traditional site of the ThÓr Hof near StykkishÓlm; and the utter absence of sign made me neglect to visit that of VopnafjÖrÐ, whose door was translated to the church, the HÖrg, at KrosshÓlar; and the fane of GoÐaborg, with its sacrificial stone where “David of the wilderness” dwelt. In 1770, Uno Von Troil (Letter XVI.) offered a tempting list of northern antiquities, some of them possibly pre-historic or proto-historic.[55] But except in cairns, tumuli, and the kitchen-middens mentioned in various places, especially that near Snorri’s bath at Reykholt, I should expect little yield even from the spade.

The older Edda (SigrdrÍfumÁl, st. 34) speaks of cairns—

and we shall pass not a few during our journeys. It would be interesting to know if any of them have the long adit, the vestibule, and the separate chambers for the dead, which are characteristic of the Mongolian tomb-temples, and of which a splendid specimen is found at Maes Howe.