OUR pleasant stay at the Geysers was finished, the last look taken; the last piece of bacon that we had boiled in Dame Nature’s cauldron, had disappeared; the farmer of Haukadalr had given us his good benediction and a hearty grip of the hand, while he pocketed the dollars that we gave him; and, our ponies being ready, we prepared to leave. The old raven, too,—for here in Iceland “the raven croaks him on the chimney top,” as he did when and where Richard the III. was born,—the old raven had croaked out his farewell. There is no blinking the matter; we have to face it. Mount Hekla is in the distance, and visit it we must. It was two days journey there, and several terrible rivers lay in the route; but hospitable Icelanders lived on the way, and the soft plank floors of orthodox church “hotels” invite the traveler to spread down his blanket and repose. Reader, just glance at a map of Iceland, such a one as Mr. GUNNLAUGSONN’S—but you haven’t got one; then put one “in your mind’s eye,” or imagine yourself in a balloon about “these parts,” and see what a tract of country we have to travel through.

To the north, just about the center of Iceland, the ranges of the Lang Jokull and Hofs Jokull lift their heads and show their crowns of perpetual snow; to the east lies Skaptar Jokull, once terrible, in an eruption the most devastating that ever occurred, but now hushed in grim repose, and covered with a snow-white blanket. Far to the south is Mount Hekla, with a slight bit of snow near the top, and rearing its burning summit near six thousand feet above the level of the sea. Encircled by these mountains is a valley, the most extensive tract of fertile land in Iceland, and drained by its largest rivers. Behind us lay the BruarÁ, and next was the ArbrandsÁ; but the HvitÁ (Wheet-ow), the LaxÁ, and the ThjorsÁ, are far the largest, the last more than 150 miles in length, and draining the extensive glaciers of the Hofs and Skaptar Jokulls. These rivers flow in a southwestern direction, emptying into the Atlantic between the Westmann Islands and Cape Reykjanes. We dashed into the ArbrandsÁ, and were through it in a hurry, our ponies making light of the three feet of water and a swift current. Don’t ask us how we fared. The rain over head, and the rivers, lakes, and hot springs, had made us amphibious before this, about as effectually as if we had been born otters or sea-gulls. What a splendid meadow we pass through, here in the beautiful valley of the HvitÁ! Here the “mower whets his scythe;” and such a scythe!—about two feet long and an inch wide, hung on a straight snath. But don’t he cut the grass clean to the turf? He shaves it down as close as some men reap their chins—those that shave at all, I mean—“let the galled jade wince,” our beard is uncut. But we were speaking of an Iceland meadow. How can grass grow in Iceland? you ask. Why, right out of the ground; for the soil, though shallow, is quite fertile. An Iceland meadow looks very much like a good pasture when nothing has been in it for some six weeks: grass thick, green, and soft; but very little of it running up to seed. The grass looks like our “red top.” White clover would do well, undoubtedly, if they would sow it. Almost every Icelander unites the occupations of farmer and fisherman. In June he goes to sea “to fish for cod,” and in July and August cuts and secures his hay. This is a very important operation with the Icelander, for without hay his animals would die in the winter. The hay is fed to the sheep and cattle; the horses have to do without. How a race of animals like the horse manage to live without a particle of attention, shelter, or food, for a long Iceland winter, except just what they can get out of doors, is more than we can divine. Guess they’re used to it! They eat the dead grass, often having to paw away the snow to get it; they go on the mountains, gather moss, browse the stunted shrubbery; and when driven from the fields and the mountains, they go down on the sea-shore and pick up sea-weed. When badly pushed with hunger, they will eat fish bones, offal, scraps of leather, wood, heath, and shrubbery, and almost every thing but earth and stones. Still, they very seldom die. They seem hardened by the climate, and fitted to endure the changing seasons as they roll. In winter they get reduced to skeletons, mere skin and bones; but towards the last of May, when the grass begins to grow, it is surprising how quick they get fat. Every horse in our troop is literally fat, and no oats did they ever eat; neither have they swallowed the barrel, for you can’t see the hoops on their sides! Were you to offer any grain to an Iceland horse, he would not know what you meant, and undoubtedly would think you joking.

Tell John Gossin, if Tom Spring had been an Iceland pony, Deaf Burke never would have kicked him “where he put his oats.” Of course the horses in the towns that are worked, are fed in the winter. The hay being cut and dried is tied up in large bundles and “toted” off on men’s backs to the stack-yard. If the distance is long, they sling large bundles each side of a pony’s back, and he carries it off. And big loads they will carry; a pony thus loaded looks like a moving hay-stack. The farmer makes a square yard, walls of stone, and turf, and this he fills with long, low stacks, which he covers with long strips of turf cut up from the surface of a tough bog grass-field; and when the stack remains over a second summer, this turf grows, and an Iceland settlement presents the curious appearance of houses, stone walls, and hay-stacks covered with green grass like the meadows and pastures on every side.

Scythes, spades, small rakes with teeth about an inch and a half long, pitchforks and ropes, are all the tools an Icelander uses on his farm. His ropes are made of wool, braided, or wool and hair mixed, the manes and tails of the horses being laid under contribution for the latter article. At the farm of Haukadalr, this traveler astonished the natives considerably, by taking hold of a scythe, and showing them that he could mow. Leaving the fine farm and meadows, we crossed a long stream of lava—a high bleak ridge—and soon reached the bank of the White River, along which we traveled for several miles. Here, for the first time in Iceland, we saw the red-headed pochard (fuligula rufina), the most beautiful of all the duck tribe. This bird, naturalists inform us, is found in North America, near to the Arctic circle, in Europe south, as far as Italy, and east, to the Himalaya mountains in Asia; a pretty wide range for one sweet bird. The pair we saw showed the spirit of ancient Romans by manifesting an unconquerable hatred for Nero, our traveling companion. They doubtless had a nest; for they chased us for miles, and when they got tired of chasing the dog, he would chase them. As beautiful as these birds were, had we carried a gun, it is barely possible that an invitation might have been extended to these pretty creatures to come down and dine with us. Blessed birds: of course I was not so unfeeling as to wish to hurt them!

The pochard is a bird that lives on inland waters, not at sea. His head and neck are reddish brown, with a rich gloss, a “collar” round the neck; back and throat black; other parts brown, white, and mottled. It is about the size of the canvas-back duck. One species of pochard has a beautiful crest of feathers adorning the top of its head. Soon after the pair of birds left us, we saw three or four more. We traveled several miles down the right bank of the HvitÁ, and a magnificent river it is. Twice the size of the Hudson at Poughkeepsie, confined between high banks, it rushes its milky-looking flood onwards to the ocean. Indeed, this is a terrible stream.

The banks of the HvitÁ, for several miles, are from 100 to 150 feet high, and perpendicular. What an explosion there must have been when that crack burst in the lava, and formed the chasm where the river flows! The stream, too, has undoubtedly worn it much deeper than it was at first. And how swift the river runs! Where will streams be swift, if not on mountainous islands? The water, too, like milk; perhaps the snow colors it! Some have dived a little deeper for the cause, and contend the clay on the mountains colors it. We finally emerged on to a broad plain; and here, near the church and farm of BrÆthratunga, the high banks became lower, and we prepared to cross. From certain ominous hints thrown out by the guide, I made up my mind for a swim. The river was nearly a mile wide, but the current was broken by several low islands. We tightened girths, placed the baggage as near on the top of the horses’ backs as possible, and rode in. The first island was gained easily enough, the water not exceeding three feet deep. The next channel was a turbulent and fearful-looking torrent. In we plunged, and as ill luck would have it, my pony was the lowest one of the lot—scarcely twelve hands high. The others were over their backs in the water, and mine went a little lower down the stream, got out of his depth, and away we went down the river. My head and shoulders were out of water, but nothing could be seen of the poor pony except his nose and the tip of his ears. I stuck to him like a kingfisher to a black bass, but let him “gang his ain gait,” and he pulled for the island. Had it not been a long one, and extended well down the stream, we should have missed it, and gone out to sea, or else to Davy Jones’ locker. But we struck the lower end of it, and just saved ourselves. Though I have not experienced cold weather nor snow here, there is one thing that is cold in Iceland, and that is, the milky-looking water in the turbulent rivers. It was a little the coldest bath I ever took. The white pony did the swimming, and he swam like a good fellow, or I should have jumped off and tried my own flippers. The dog, too, had a hard time of it. Poor Nero, he did not find his swim as comfortable as his imperial namesake used to in a Roman bath. He swam after us, but the current carried him so swiftly away that he got below the point of the island, and I thought he must be lost. The poor dog howled in despair, and turned back. He was a noble animal, and I really commiserated his unfortunate situation, for he was beyond any help from us. By hard swimming he gained the shallow water, and got back to the island we last left. Now, look at the sagacity of a dog. He saw he must come to us, or be left the west side of the river, near a hundred miles from home. So he went clear to the upper end of the island, and started again. The diagonal course that his swimming and the current took him, just lodged him on the lower end of the island, where we were. The next two channels were wide, but not deep, and we forded them without difficulty; and after about three-quarters of an hour, we climbed up the eastern bank of the stream. We were now about ten miles northeast of Skalholt, that apocryphal capital of Iceland. I saw a beautiful red flower growing on one of the islands in this river, and I stopped and gathered some seeds. Perhaps they will add one to our floral variety in America.

My swim did me no damage—the rain for some days past having seasoned me, so that, like the skinned eels, I was used to it. Be it here recorded for the benefit of poor, erring, and sinful man, the slave of habit, fashion’s minion, Plato’s biped without feathers—all erring mortals who mar what God hath made, those who scrape their faces with villainous steel, those who doff Dame Nature’s garb, and find no substitute—all these, and any others, if such there be, are informed that this wanderer has never once “caught cold,” not the slightest, since this “beard” of mine had six weeks’ pith. And this with the damp fogs of England, steamboating in the Baltic, coasting by Norway, “schoonering” in the Arctic sea, camping out in Iceland, swimming the cold rivers, sleeping on the ground, climbing snowy mountains, and various “moving accidents by flood and field,”—this is saying something for nearly three years’ experience of throwing away the razor. But I see how it is, my friends will never know what a “magnificent Turk” I am, until I get my phiz engraved—brass on wood!—or else put in “dagger o’ type;” and this will emphatically say to all my miserable, chin-shaven brethren, Go and do likewise. Ahem, where was I? On the east bank of the White River, shivering with the effects of a cold bath. A broad tract of lava was our road, and no vegetable life for a long distance, save the heath that appeared here and there, now in full bloom. A few hours’ ride, part of it through a good farming country, brought us to Hruni. In various directions on our route, we saw the steam of hot springs rising up. Hruni is not a large town. It contains a church, a farm, and the residence of the clergyman. Indeed, I was glad to see a friendly roof. It had rained for hours, and though the rain had warmed the ice-water, still ’twas wet. I felt as if a log cabin would have been a palace; but here was a house, a good one, a framed building with a wooden roof. Never was hospitality more welcome, nor was it ever extended more freely. It was about three o’clock, and we had been in our saddles since nine, and a long, rough, and wet time we had had of it. The clergyman, Herre Johann Briem, one of nature’s noblemen, indeed, gave me a hearty welcome. He set before me bread, butter, cheese, coffee, milk; and a most capital bottle of port wine he uncorked. I shall not tell how many glasses of it went under my jacket before I left. Indeed, I never counted them.

Mr. Briem was physically one of the finest men I have ever seen. At least six feet three inches high, and well-proportioned, he would have been a striking figure among the grenadiers of Frederick the Great. The house had good furniture, and a fine library covered one wall of his parlor. Here I saw, for the first time in Iceland, the “Antiquitates AmericanÆ,” a work issued by the Society of Northern Antiquaries at Copenhagen, giving the full account of the “Ante-Columbian Discovery of America.” Admiring a little book in Mr. Briem’s library, a volume of the “Northurfari,” an Icelandic Annual for 1849, he very politely made me a present of it. I felt ashamed at accepting it; but I could do no otherwise, though I had nothing, not the slightest thing about me, either English or American, that I could present him in return. A fine intellect beamed from Mr. Briem’s countenance, and his hospitalities were as graceful as his person was comely. He showed me a splendidly printed volume, a large octavo Danish and Icelandic Dictionary.

I can inform the old Austrian dame—that Madame Trollope, the conceited Ida Pfeiffer—that all the Iceland clergymen I met, were as hospitable as Mr. Briem. Some of the very same clergymen who entertained her, also opened their houses to me; and not a penny of compensation could I ever get them to take, although she most falsely states they received her money for entertaining her. This is the woman that runs all over the world, and writes books about what she sees, and much that she does not see; and because the governor of Iceland would not be bored by her shallow Highness, then she pens all manner of false and libelous stories of the most kind, hospitable, unoffending race of people that the sun shines upon. The best comment that can be made on her book is, that she describes her journey to Mt. Hekla, and ascent to the summit, when the people here on the ground told me she never put her foot on the mountain at all!