Discovery of the Island by Naddodr in 861.—Gardar.—Floki of the Ravens.—Ingolfr and Leif.—Ulfliot the Lawgiver.—The Althing.—Thingvalla.—Introduction of Christianity into the Island.—Frederick the Saxon and Thorwold the Traveller.—Thangbrand.—Golden Age of Icelandic Literature.—Snorri Sturleson.—The Island submits to Hakon, King of Norway, in 1254.—Long Series of Calamities.—Great Eruption of the Skapta JÖkul in 1783.—Commercial Monopoly.—Better Times in Prospect.

The Norse vikings were, as is well known, the boldest of navigators. They possessed neither the sextant nor the compass; they had neither charts nor chronometers to guide them; but trusting solely to fortune, and to their own indomitable courage, they fearlessly launched forth into the vast ocean. Many of these intrepid corsairs were no doubt lost on their adventurous expeditions, but frequently a favorable chance rewarded their temerity, either with some rich booty or some more glorious discovery.

Thus in the year 861, Naddodr, a Norwegian pirate, while sailing from his native coast to the Faeroe Islands, was drifted by contrary winds far to the north. For several days no land was visible—nothing but an interminable waste of waters; when suddenly the snow-clad mountains of Iceland were seen to rise above the mists of the ocean. Soon after Naddodr landed with part of his crew, but discovered no traces of man in the desert country. The viking tarried but a short time on this unpromising coast, on which he bestowed the appropriate name of Snowland.

Three years later, Gardar, another northern freebooter, while sailing to the Hebrides, was likewise driven by stormy weather to Iceland. He was the first circumnavigator of the island, which he called, after himself, Gardar’s holm, or the island of Gardar. On his return to his native port, he gave his countrymen so flattering an account of the newly-discovered land, that Floki, a famous viking, resolved to settle there. Trusting to the augury of birds, Floki took with him three ravens to direct him on his way. Having sailed a certain distance beyond the Faeroe Islands, he gave liberty to one of them, which immediately returned to the land. Proceeding onward, he loosed the second, which, after circling for a few minutes round the ship, again settled on its cage, as if terrified by the boundless expanse of the sea. The third bird, on obtaining his liberty a few days later, proved at length a faithful pilot, and flying direct to the north, conducted Floki to Iceland. As the sea-king entered the broad bay which is bounded on the left by the huge SnÄfells JÖkul, and on the right by the bold promontory of the Guldbringe Syssel, Faxa, one of his companions, remarked that a land with such noble features must needs be of considerable extent. To reward him for this remark, which flattered the vanity or the ambition of his leader, the bay was immediately named Faxa Fiord, as it is still called to the present day. The new colonists, attracted by the abundance of fish they found in the bay, built their huts on the borders of a small outlet, still bearing the name of Rafna Fiord, or the Raven’s Frith; but as they neglected to make hay for the winter, the horses and cattle they had brought with them died of want. Disappointed in his expectations, Floki returned home in the second year, and, as might naturally have been expected from an unsuccessful settler, gave his countrymen but a dismal account of Iceland, as he definitely named it.

Yet, in spite of his forbidding description, the political disturbances which took place about this time in Norway led to the final colonization of the island. Harold Haarfager, or the Fair-haired, a Scandinavian yarl, having by violence and a successful policy reduced all his brother-yarls to subjection, first consolidated their independent domains into one realm, and made himself absolute master of the whole country. Many of his former equals submitted to his yoke; but others, animated by that unconquerable love of liberty innate in men who for many generations have known no superior, preferred seeking a new home across the ocean to an ignominious vassalage under the detested Harold. Ingolfr and his cousin Leif were the first of these high-minded nobles that emigrated (869–870) to Iceland.

On approaching the southern coast, Ingolfr cast the sacred pillars belonging to his former dwelling into the water, and vowed to establish himself on the spot to which they should be wafted by the waves. His pious intentions were for the time frustrated, as a sudden squall separated him from his penates, and forced him to locate himself on a neighboring promontory, which to this day bears the name of Ingolfrshofde. Here he sojourned three years, until the followers he had sent out in quest of the missing pillars at length brought him the joyful news that they had been found on the beach of the present site of Reykjavik, whither, in obedience to what he supposed to be the divine summons, he instantly removed. Ingolfr’s friend and relative Leif was shortly after assassinated by some Irish slaves whom he had captured in a predatory descent on the Hibernian coast. The surviving chieftain deplored the loss of his kinsman, lamenting “that so valiant a man should fall by such villains,” but found consolation by killing the murderers and annexing the lands of their victim. When, in course of time, he himself felt his end approaching, he requested to be buried on a hill overlooking the fiord, that from that elevated site his spirit might have a better view of the land of which he was the first inhabitant.

Such are the chronicles related in the “Landnama Bok,” or “Book of Occupation,” one of the earliest records of Icelandic history.

Ingolfr and his companions were soon followed by other emigrants desirous of escaping from the tyranny of Harold Haarfager, who at first favored a movement that removed far beyond the sea so many of his turbulent opponents, but subsequently, alarmed at the drain of population, or desirous of profiting by the exodus, levied a fine of four ounces of silver on all who left his dominions to settle in Iceland. Yet such were the attractions which the island at that time presented, that, in spite of all obstacles, not half a century elapsed before all its inhabitable parts were occupied, not only by Norwegians, but also by settlers from Denmark and Sweden, Scotland and Ireland.

The Norwegians brought with them their language and idolatry, their customs and historical records, which the other colonists, but few in numbers, were compelled to adopt. At first the udal, or free land-hold system of their own country, was in vigor, but every leader of a band of emigrants being chosen, by force of circumstances, as the acknowledged chief of the district occupied by himself and companions, speedily paved the way for a demi-feudal system of vassalage and subservience. As the arrival of new settlers rendered the possession of the land more valuable, endless contests between these petty chiefs arose for the better pastures and fisheries. To put an end to this state of anarchy, so injurious to the common weal, Ulfliot the Wise was commissioned to frame a code of laws, which the Icelanders, by a single simultaneous and peaceful effort, accepted as their future constitution.

The island was now divided into four provinces and twelve districts. Each district had its own judge, and its own popular “Thing,” or assembly; but the national will was embodied and represented by the “Althing,” or supreme parliament of Iceland, which annually met at Thingvalla, under an elective president, or “Logmathurman,” the chief magistrate of this northern republic.

On the banks of the river Oxeraa, where the rapid stream, after forming a magnificent cascade, rushes into the lake of Thingvalla, lies the spot where, for many a century, freemen met to debate, while despotic barbarians still reigned over the milder regions of Europe. Isolated on all sides by deep volcanic chasms, which some great revolution of nature has rent in the vast lava-field around, and embosomed in a wide circle of black precipitous hills, the situation of Thingvalla is extremely romantic, but the naked dark-colored rocks, and the traces of subterranean fire visible on every side, impart a stern melancholy to the scene. The lake, the largest sheet of water in the island, is about thirty miles in circumference; its boundaries have undergone many changes, especially during the earthquakes of the past century, when its northern margin collapsed, while the opposite one was raised. The depth of its crystal waters is very great, and in its centre rise two small crater-islands, the result of some unknown eruption. The mountains on its south bank have a picturesque appearance, and large volumes of steam issuing from several hot sources on their sides prove that, though all be tranquil now, the volcanic fires are not extinct. Only a few traces of the ancient Althing are left—three small mounds, where sat in state the chiefs and judges of the land—for as the assembly used to pitch their tents on the borders of the stream, and the deliberations were held in the open air, there are no imposing ruins to bear witness to a glorious past. But though all architectural pomp be absent, the scene hallowed by the recollections of a thousand years is one of deep interest to the traveller. The great features of nature are the same as when the freemen of Iceland assembled to settle the affairs of their little world; but the raven now croaks where the orator appealed to the reason or the passions of his audience, and the sheep of the neighboring pastor crop undisturbed the grass of desecrated Thingvalla.

Mr. Ross Browne thus describes the scene: “After a slight repast I walked out to take a look at the LÖgberg, or Rock of Laws, which is situated about half a mile from the church. This is, perhaps, of all the objects of historical association in Iceland, the most interesting. It was here the judges tried criminals, pronounced judgments, and executed their stern decrees. On a small plateau of lava, separated from the general mass by a profound abyss on every side, save a narrow neck barely wide enough for a foothold, the famous “Thing” assembled once a year, and, secured from intrusion in their deliberations by the terrible chasm around, passed laws for the weal or woe of the people. It was only necessary to guard the causeway by which they entered; all other sides were well protected by the encircling moat, which varies from thirty to forty feet in width, and is half filled with water. The total depth to the bottom, which is distinctly visible through the crystal pool, must be sixty or seventy feet. Into this yawning abyss the unhappy criminals were cast, with stones around their necks, and many a long day did they lie beneath the water, a ghastly spectacle for the crowd that peered at them over the precipice. All was now as silent as the grave. Eight centuries had passed, and yet the strange scenes that had taken place here were vividly before me. I could imagine the gathering crowds, the rising hum of voices; the pause, the shriek, and plunge; the low murmur of horror, and then the stern warning of the lawgivers and the gradual dispersing of the multitude. The dimensions of the plateau are four or five hundred feet in length by an average of sixty or eighty in width. The surface is now covered with a fine coating of sod and grass, and furnishes good pasturage for the sheep belonging to the pastor.”

Christianity was first preached in Iceland about the year 981, by Friedrich, a Saxon bishop, to whom Thorwald the traveller, an Icelander, acted as interpreter. Thorwald having been treated with great severity by his father, Kodran, had fled to Denmark, where he had been converted by Friedrich. He returned with the pious bishop to his paternal home, where the solemn service of the Christians made some impression on Kodran, but still the obstinate pagan could not be prevailed upon to renounce his ancient gods. “He must believe,” said he, “the word of his own priest, who was wont to give him excellent advice.” “Well, then,” replied Thorwald, “this venerable man whom I have brought to thy dwelling is weak and infirm, while thy well-fed priest is full of vigor. Wilt thou believe in the power of our God if the bishop drives him hence?” Friedrich now cast a few drops of holy water on the priest, which immediately burnt deep holes into his skin, so that he fled, uttering dreadful curses. After this convincing proof, Kodran adopted the Christian faith. But persuasion and miracles acted too slowly for the fiery Thorwald, who would willingly have converted all Iceland at once with fire and sword. His sermons were imprecations, and the least contradiction roused him to fury. Unable to bear so irascible an associate, the good bishop Friedrich, giving up his missionary labors, returned to Saxony. As to Thorwald, his restless disposition led him to far-distant lands. He visited Greece and Syria, Jerusalem and Constantinople, and ultimately founded a convent in Russia, where he died in the odor of sanctity.

Soon after Thangbrand was sent by the Norwegian king, Olaf Truggeson, as missionary to Iceland. His method of conversion appears to have been very like that of his erratic predecessor; for while he held the cross in one hand, he grasped the sword with the other. “Thangbrand,” says an ancient chronicler, “was a passionate, ungovernable person, and a great manslayer, but a good scholar and clever. He was two years in Iceland, and was the death of three men before he left it.”

Other missionaries of a more evangelical character took his place, and proved by their success that mild reasoning is frequently a far more effectual means of persuasion than brutal violence. They made a great number of proselytes, and the whole island was now divided into two factions ready to appeal to the sword for the triumph of Christ or of Odin. But before coming to this dreadful extremity, the voice of reason was heard, and the contending parties agreed to submit the question to the decision of the Althing.

The assembly met, and the momentous debate was proceeding, when suddenly a loud crash of subterranean thunder was heard, and the earth shook under their feet. “Listen!” exclaimed a follower of Odin, “and beware of the anger of our gods: they will consume us with their fires, if we venture to question their authority.” The Christian party hesitated; but their confidence was soon restored by the presence of mind of their chief orator, Thorgeir, who, pointing to the lava-fields around, asked with whom the gods were angry when these rocks were melted: a burst of eloquence which at once decided the question in favor of the Cross.

The new faith brought with it a new spirit of intellectual development, which attained its highest splendor in the twelfth century. Classical studies were pursued with the utmost zeal, and learned Icelanders travelled to Germany and France to extend their knowledge in the schools of Paris or Cologne. The Icelandic bards, or scalds, were renowned throughout all Scandinavia; they frequented the courts of Sweden, Denmark, and Norway, and were everywhere received with the highest honors.

The historians, or sagamen, of Iceland were no less renowned than its scalds. They became the annalists of the whole Scandinavian world, and the simplicity and truth by which their works are distinguished fully justify their high reputation. Among the many remarkable men who at that time graced the literature of the Arctic isle, SÄmund Frode, the learned author of the “Voluspa” (a work on the ancient Icelandic mythology) and the “Havamal” (a general chronicle of events from the beginning of the world); Are Thorgilson, whose “Landnama Bok” relates with the utmost accuracy the annals of his native land; and Gissur, who about the year 1180 described his voyages to the distant Orient, deserve to be particularly mentioned; but great above all in genius and fame was Snorri Sturleson, the Herodotus of the North, whose eventful life and tragic end would well deserve to be recounted at greater length.

Gifted with the rarest talents, and chief of the most powerful family of the island, Snorri was elected in 1215 to the high office of Logmathurman; but disgusting his sturdy countrymen by his excessive haughtiness, he was obliged to retire to the court of Hakon, king of Norway. During this exile he collected the materials for his justly celebrated “Heimskringla,” or Chronicle of the Kings of Norway. Returning home in 1221, he was again named Logmathurman; but as he endeavored to pave the way for the annexation of his native country to the Norwegian realm, his foreign intrigues caused a rising against his authority, and he was once more compelled to take refuge in Norway. Here he remained several years, until the triumph of his own faction allowed him to return to his family estate at Reikholt, where he was murdered on a dark September night in the year 1241. Thus perished the most remarkable man Iceland ever has produced. The republic itself did not long survive his fall; for, weary of the interminable feuds of their chiefs, the people voluntarily submitted to Hakon in 1254, and the middle of the thirteenth century was signalized by the transfer of the island to the Norwegian crown, after three hundred and forty years of a turbulent but glorious independence.

From that time the political history of the Icelanders offers but little interest. With their annexation to a European monarchy perished the vigor, restlessness, and activity which had characterized their forefathers; and though the Althing still met at Thingvalla, the national spirit had fled. It was still further subdued by a long chain of calamities—plagues, famines, volcanic eruptions, and piratical invasions—which, following each other in rapid succession, devastated the land and decimated its unfortunate inhabitants.

In 1402 that terrible plague, the memory of which is still preserved under the name of the “Black Death,” carried off nearly two-thirds of the whole population, and was followed by such an inclement winter that nine-tenths of the cattle in the island died. The miseries of a people suffering from pestilence and famine were aggravated by the English fishermen, who, in spite of the remonstrances of the Danish government, frequented the defenseless coast in considerable numbers, and were in fact little better than the old sea-robbers who first colonized the island, plundering and burning on the main, and holding the wealthy inhabitants to ransom. Their predatory incursions were frequently repeated during the seventeenth century, and even the distant Mediterranean sent its Algerine pirates to add to the calamities of Iceland.

The eighteenth century was ushered in by the small-pox, which carried off sixteen thousand of the inhabitants. In the middle of the century—severe winters following in rapid succession—vast numbers of cattle died, inducing a famine that again swept away ten thousand inhabitants.

Since the first colonization of Iceland, its numerous volcanoes had frequently brought ruin upon whole districts—twenty-five times had Hecla, eleven times KÖtlugiÁ, six times TrÖlladyngja, five times Oraefa, vomited forth their torrents of molten stone, without counting a number of submarine volcanic explosions, or where the plain was suddenly rent and flames and ashes burst out of the earth; but the eruption of Skaptar JÖkul in 1783 was the most frightful visitation ever known to have desolated the island. The preceding winter and spring had been unusually mild, and the islanders looked forward to a prosperous summer; but in the beginning of June repeated tremblings of the earth, increasing in violence from day to day, announced that the subterranean powers that had long been slumbering under the icy mantle of the Skaptar were ready to awake. All the neighboring peasants abandoned their huts and erected tents in the open field, anxiously awaiting the result of these terrific warnings. On the 9th, immense pillars of smoke collected over the hill country toward the north, and, rolling down in a southerly direction, covered the whole district of Sitha with darkness. Loud subterranean thunders followed in rapid succession, and innumerable fire-spouts were seen leaping and flaring through the dense canopy of smoke and ashes that enveloped the land. The heat raging in the interior of the volcano melted enormous masses of ice and snow, which caused the river Skapta to rise to a prodigious height; but on the 11th torrents of fire usurped the place of water, for a vast lava-stream breaking forth from the mountains, flowed down in a southerly direction, until reaching the river, a tremendous conflict arose between the two hostile elements. Though the channel was six hundred feet deep and two hundred feet wide, the lava-flood pouring down one fiery wave after another into the yawning abyss, ultimately gained the victory, and, blocking up the stream, overflowed its banks. Crossing the low country of Medalland, it poured into a great lake, which after a few days was likewise completely filled up, and having divided into two streams, the unexhausted torrent again poured on, overflowing in one direction some ancient lava-fields, and in another re-entering the channel of the Skapta and leaping down the lofty cataract of Stapafoss. But this was not all, for while one lava-flood had chosen the Skapta for its bed, another, descending in a different direction, was working similar ruin along the banks of the Hverfisfliot. Whether the same crater gave birth to both, it is impossible to say, as even the extent of the lava-flow can only be measured from the spot where it entered the inhabited districts. The stream which followed the direction of Skapta is calculated to have been about fifty miles in length by twelve or fifteen at its greatest breadth; that which rolled down the Hverfisfliot, at forty miles in length by seven in breadth.

Where it was inclosed between the precipitous banks of the Skapta, the lava is five or six hundred feet thick, but as soon as it spread out into the plain its depth never exceeded one hundred feet. The eruption of sand, ashes, pumice, and lava continued till the end of August, when at length the vast subterranean tumult subsided.

But its direful effects were felt for a long time after, not only in its immediate vicinity, but over the whole of Iceland, and added many a mournful page to her long annals of sorrow. For a whole year a dun canopy of cinder-laden clouds hung over the unhappy island. Sand and ashes, carried to an enormous height into the atmosphere, spread far and wide, and overwhelmed thousands of acres of fertile pasturage. The Faeroes, the Shetlands, and the Orkneys were deluged with volcanic dust which perceptibly contaminated even the skies of England and Holland. Mephitic vapors obscured the rays of the sun, and the sulphurous exhalations tainted both the grass of the field and the waters of the lake, the river, and the sea, so that not only the cattle died by thousands, but the fish also perished in their poisoned element. The unhealthy air, and the want of food—for hunger at last drove them to have recourse to untanned hides and old leather—gave rise to a disease resembling scurvy among the unfortunate Icelanders. The head and limbs began to swell, the bones seemed to be distending. Dreadful cramps forced the patient to strange contortions. The gums loosened, the decomposed blood oozed from the mouth and the ulcerous skin, and a few days of torment and prostration were followed by death.

In many a secluded vale whole families were swept away, and those that escaped the scourge had hardly strength sufficient to bury the dead.

So great was the ruin caused by this one eruption that in the short space of two years no less than 9336 men, 28,000 horses, 11,461 cattle, and 190,000 sheep—a large proportion of the wealth and population of the island—were swept away.

After this dreadful catastrophe followed a long period of volcanic rest, for the next eruption of the Eyjafialla did not take place before 1821. A twelfth eruption of KÖtlugja occurred in 1823, the twenty-sixth of Hecla in 1845–46; and ultimately the thirteenth of KÖtlugja in 1860. Since then there has been repose; but who knows what future disasters may be preparing beneath those icy ridges and fields of snow of Skapta and his frowning compeers, where no human foot has ever wandered, or how soon they may awaken their dormant thunders?

Besides the sufferings caused by the elements, the curse of monopoly weighed for many a long year upon the miserable Icelanders. The Danish kings, to whom on the amalgamation of the three Scandinavian monarchies the allegiance of the people of Iceland was passively transferred, considered their poor dependency as a private domain, to be farmed out to the highest bidder. In the 16th century the Hanseatic Towns purchased the exclusive privilege of trading with Iceland; and in 1594 a Danish company was favored with the monopoly, for which it had to pay the paltry sum of 16 rix-dollars for each of the ports of the island.

In the year 1862 a new company paid 4000 dollars for the Icelandic monopoly; but at the expiration of the contract, each of the ports were farmed out to the highest bidder—a financial improvement which raised the revenue to 16,000 dollars a year, and ultimately to 22,000. The incalculable misery produced by the eruption of the Skapta had at least the beneficial consequence that it somewhat loosened the bonds of monopoly, as it now became free to every Danish merchant to trade with the island; but it is only since April, 1855, that the last restrictions have fallen and the ports of Iceland been opened to the merchants of all nations. It is to be hoped that the beneficial effects of free trade will gradually heal the wounds caused by centuries of neglect and misfortune; but great progress must be made before Iceland can attain the degree of prosperity which she enjoyed in the times of her independence.

Then she had above a hundred thousand inhabitants, now she has scarcely half that number; then she had many rich and powerful families, now mediocrity or poverty is the universal lot; then she was renowned all over the North as the seat of learning and the cradle of literature, now, were it not for her remarkable physical features, no traveller would ever think of landing on her rugged shores.