While all arctic lands are thus wild and desolate, there is one which is especially worthy of attention. Though it is named Iceland it might equally be called the Land of Fire; for it has volcanoes compared with which even Etna is puny. The whole island is of volcanic origin, and the mighty snow-clad peaks have often changed their garments of ice for those of fire, while streams of melted lava have poured into the sea through the valleys but lately filled with huge glaciers. At such times the great river Jokulsa, whose source is in the unknown wastes amid the everlasting snows, comes roaring to the sea swollen to overflowing with the melted ice and discolored with ashes, while at night the red glare from the burning mountain is reflected far and wide over the snows. Since the discovery of the island and its settlement, there have been over twenty-five eruptions of Mt. Hecla alone, and yet this is but one out of many peaks and is far from being the largest. The most serious eruption was from Skaptar Jokull in the year 1783. From this mountain went two great streams of lava. One fifteen miles in breadth extended over fifty miles, and one seven miles wide, reached a length of forty miles. Where these streams were pent in by the mountains, they were six hundred feet in depth and where they reached out over the plains one hundred feet in depth. For one whole year the sun never shone clearly, owing to the vast clouds of smoke that rose into the air, and showers of ashes fell covering the ground in some places to a depth of fourteen feet. Even in countries so far distant as England the sky was perceptibly darkened. The cattle died by thousands, the fish in the sea were poisoned and died, and the poor islanders were reduced to the last extremity by starvation and disease. The volcanic character of the island is shown in other ways than in such outbursts as these. Pools are found of boiling mud, from whose surface clouds of sulphurous vapor are constantly rising. Some are so thick that only occasionally does the surface rise, break, and emit the steam, while others are in a constant state of agitation. But more wonderful are the boiling springs, and especially the Great Geyser, as it is called. It is situated in the centre of a mound of its own creation in the interior of the island, and its basin is perhaps seventy feet in diameter, while in the centre a well in width ten feet, descends to unknown depths. Ordinarily this great basin is filled with perfectly clear boiling water of a temperature of 200 degrees. Presently the water becomes agitated, a rumbling beneath the ground grows louder, and suddenly a vast column of water is raised in the air, surrounded by clouds of steam, till it reaches the height of a hundred feet. Only for a moment or two does this last, when it sinks back and the fountain resumes its former quiet. The Geyser is not by any means regular in its discharges, often a whole day may pass without a single one, but a near neighbor called the Strokr may be made to perform by a simple trick. As its mouth is very small, a few shovelsful of turf completely close it up. It gasps and sputters for a moment and then the turf is hurled high in the air, followed by a column of spray, which after a few moments settles back as before. Though not so large as the Great Geyser, it is thought more graceful, while the ease with which its wrath may be aroused causes it to be far more of a favorite with the spectator.

As the traveller approaches the coast of Iceland, his vessel passes cliff after cliff, standing out into the ocean, until at length she drops anchor in the harbor of the ancient town of Reykjavik. Small though it may be, it can boast of a long existence. Ingolfr, the Northman, in the year 869, flying from the tyranny of his sovereign, resolved to seek a new home in Iceland. Though his countrymen had visited the island, no successful settlement had been made. As he neared the stormy shores, he cast into the sea the sacred pillars of his former home, vowing to build a new town where they should land. At the present day the appearance of Reykjavik, is not such as we should expect from the romance of its foundation. “The town consists of a collection of wooden sheds one story high—rising here and there into a gable end of greater pretensions,—flanked at either end by a suburb of turf huts. On every side of it extends a desolate plain of lava, that once must have boiled up red hot and fallen hissing into the sea. No tree or bush relieves the dreariness of the landscape, but before the door of each merchant’s house there flies a gay little pennon, and as you walk along the silent streets the rows of flower pots that peep out of the windows at once convince you that within each dwelling reigns the comfort of a woman-tended home.”

The domain of which this sturdy little town is the capital is a limited one. Though the whole island is of great extent, yet only one-ninth of it is capable of cultivation. The whole centre and northern part of the country is covered by a desert of lava, so inhospitable that no one has ever explored it and from the parts under cultivation but little can be raised. A few hardy vegetables, such as the potato, are produced in small quantity, and grasses are grown for the support of sheep and horses. Tree life is almost unknown. The pride of the governor’s garden at Reykjavik is a tree which is three inches in diameter at its base, and rises to the imposing height of fourteen feet.

From such a barren soil the Icelander can obtain little. But the very hardships of his life only force him to renewed energy. The island is emphatically the home of birds, over one hundred varieties being found. Some of these afford him food, others furnish covering for his bed, while one is so fat that when its feathers are removed and a wick is run through its body, it is used as a lamp to light his house through the long northern winter. Sheep are raised, and the breeding of ponies for exportation is a very profitable occupation. As there are no carriage roads on the island, all travelling must be done on horseback and all food and baggage must be carried in the same way. Consequently a small party of travellers make a large cavalcade and present a striking appearance as they pass along in single file, each horse tied by the halter to the tail of the one before him.

It is to the sea, however, that the Icelander turns his chief attention, and here he finds a rich harvest, for the waters are fairly alive with fish. Great schools of cod seem to people the deep. On shore, too, they are everywhere. The rafters of the houses are hung with them, dried and smoked ready for use. They are piled up by the roadside like cords of wood, while their bones are either used for fire or are boiled and fed to the horses. Ship loads are sent each year to the cities of Europe, where they find, especially in Roman Catholic countries, a ready sale. It is even said that a new process has been invented by which the fish when dried is ground into powder and so exported as flour.

As may be imagined from what we have said of his surroundings, the Icelander does not when at home live in luxury, and in truth his house is but a poor affair. Of only one story in height, built of lava blocks with peat for mortar, and thatched with peat, entered by a long, narrow, dark passage, and lighted by only a single window in the roof, ventilation is a thing unknown, and the whole place is apt to have an odor of fish. The traveller, therefore, when night overtakes him prefers, as there are no inns to take refuge in, the churches which are everywhere open for this purpose. Tiny buildings they are:—ten feet in width and twenty in length only; and yet owing to the distance apart at which the people live they are rarely filled with worshippers. The flat rafters overhead can be touched with the hands. In these sacred precincts the traveller takes refuge, piling on one side the benches used during service to make room for his blankets upon the floor.

The colony that Ingolfr founded in the year 869 grew to be a mighty one. At a time when all Europe was in feudal slavery and no man could call anything his own, the free Icelanders met in council in the open plain, and each man claimed redress for any injury, without fear or hesitation. Justice was announced from the Logberg, or mount of laws, in the midst of the assembly, and was executed without fear or partiality. Then as now the sea was the scene of their greatest action. A hardier race of mariners and warriors was never known. The name of the Vikings became a terror everywhere. In their frail craft they crossed the wildest oceans, falling suddenly upon the sea-board cities with the sword, and returning home-ward laden with booty. So daring were their deeds, that they even ravaged the shores of the distant Mediterranean, and in the year 1000 Leif Erikson crossed the Atlantic, and landing upon the shores of Massachusetts, passed the winter there. A colony was formed a few years later, which existed for many years. The Icelandic records give us the name of Snorre Thorfinsson, born on the shore of Buzzard’s Bay, who was, so far as we know, the first white child born in the new world.

The hospitality of these early Norsemen was unbounded. There are instances where some of the great chiefs built their houses across the highway, so that no traveller could pass without entering and partaking of their cheer. Their lives were those of men who were bred as warriors from their cradle and who never relapsed into luxury. So, too, their religion partook of the same severe character. Their gods were men of strength, Odin was their head. The sagas or poems which have been preserved to us represent him as an old man with a long gray beard. He rides across the clouds on his horse Sleipner. On his shoulders are perched two ravens, Reflection and Memory, who daily fly abroad into the world, and returning whisper into his ear what they have noted there. At his feet are crouched two wolves. Odin is especially the god of warriors, and it is his care that no hero shall ever die except in battle. From his home Valhalla he sends forth his maids, valkyries, who select the warriors to be summoned to the halls of the blessed. To the Viking death was but a change to a more glorious life.

Thor was another great god. He was the emblem of strength, and passed his time in contests with the frost giants. When the thunder was heard it was said that it was the chariot of Thor rolling overhead. He was girt about with a belt which redoubled his strength; his hand was protected by a mighty gauntlet; while with his great hammer, Mjolner, he could split asunder the hills. The aurora was his beard, and in the storm they seemed to hear him chaunt,

Odin and Thor were the two chief gods, but beside them there were many others of whom we cannot now speak. How strong a hold this religion had over our Saxon ancestors can be seen from our names for the days of the week. Wednesday is but a corruption of the old Odin’s day, Thursday is Thor’s day, while Friday is so called from Freya the goddess of love.

Christianity was first preached in Iceland about the year 981. The earliest missionaries of the cross did not go forth filled with the spirit of meekness that their Master taught, but with sword in hand. Thorwald and Thangbrand were the two first apostles to Iceland. Of the latter an old chronicler says, he “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.” These fiery christians were followed by others who resorted to more gentle means, and as a result large numbers were converted to christianity. So strong had the new religion become that the followers of the old gods were alarmed, and it was feared that civil war would follow. The better sense of the nation, however, prevailed, and it was decided to summon an assembly of the entire people to decide what the national religion should be. In the midst of the meeting, when the debate was at its height, a loud rumble of earthquake beneath their feet shook the ground. “Listen,” said 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 crowd were moved and all seemed lost to the christian party, when one of their chiefs demanded, pointing to the desolation about him, “With whom were the gods angry, when these hills were melted,” a piece of common sense that carried the day, for the assembly declared christianity the religion of the country. Since that day it has never changed.

In the twelfth century monasteries abounded, and Icelanders marched in the armies of the crusaders, but when the Reformation came, the people in a body accepted the doctrines of Luther, and the state religion has ever since been, as it now is, the Lutheran. In their tiny churches, with a salary averaging less than two hundred dollars a year, the faithful clergy labor unceasingly, preferring this rugged life to one of more ease in a more friendly clime, for there is no Icelander great or small who does not firmly believe his own to be “the best land the sun ever shone on.”