HAD that celebrated Pope whose Christian name was Alexander, believed that his immortal Essay would have been translated into Icelandic verse by a native Icelander, and read throughout the country, he would not have vaulted clear over the volcanic isle in his enumeration of places at “the North.” And then, too, our poetical Pope is the only pontiff who has any admirers in this northern land. The last Catholic bishop of the country left few believers of that faith in the island.

Yesterday, under the canvas of an Iceland tent, a party was seated at dinner. It was on the bank of the Thingvalla vatn. The hospitable clergyman furnished us trout, and a good sportsman among the French officers produced several fine birds, plovers and curlews that he had shot on the way, often without leaving his horse. We had excellent milk and cream from the farm, and the packing-cases of the party furnished the balance of as good a dinner as hungry travelers ever sat down to. The Frenchmen—like those in the Peninsular war, who gathered vegetables to boil with their beef, rather than roast it alone as the English soldiers did theirs—our Frenchmen—gathered some plants, that looked to me very like dandelions, and dressed them with oil and vinegar for salad. Though it was rather a failure, it showed that an eye was open to the productions of the country, albeit it was not a perfect garden. I picked a bird for my share of the work—picked him clean, too, and his bones afterwards—and found it as good as a grouse or pheasant. With fine Iceland brushwood from a “forest” hard by, a fire was made in the blacksmith shop, and there we roasted fish, flesh, and fowl. As the rest of the party were to return the next day to Reykjavik, and as I had a long tour before me, they would not allow me to produce any thing towards the feast, but insisted on my dining with them. I was too old a traveler to refuse a good invitation, and accepted at once. The tent was pitched on a smooth plat of grass before the lake, and a quantity of new-mown hay, with our traveling blankets and saddles, made first-rate seats. I know not when I have enjoyed a dinner more than I did this. The Frenchmen conversed with their own tongues in their own language; some of the party spoke Danish, and several Icelandic; I gave them English—and every other language that I knew—the modest Iceland clergyman expressed himself in Latin, and Rector Johnson talked them all. Time flew by—as he always flies, the old bird!—while the big white loaves, the trout, the game-birds, the sardines, ham, and bottles of wine, disappeared rapidly. We drank, not deeply, to all the people in the world—kings and rulers excepted, for they always have enough to drink to their good health and long life; and we toasted, among others, “all travelers of every nation, and in all climes, whether on land or sea,” and hoped that none were “seeing the elephant” more extensively than we were. So passed our dinner. The clergyman was with us; and he appeared to enjoy the foreign luxuries, as we all enjoyed everything about us, viands, company, scenery, &c.

Touching the fish that swim hereabouts, and the so-called “sport” of angling, I am told that the Iceland trout and salmon show a most barbarous indifference to the attractive colors of all artificial flies that are ever thrown them by scientific piscators. Our clerical farmer-fisherman who hauls up the finny tribes in the Thingvalla vatn, uses no barbed piece of steel to tear their innocent gills—“a pole and a string, with a worm at one end and a fool at the other”—but pulls them up in crowds with a net. He seems to think as some others do of the barbarous old angler,

After dinner, the clergyman took us about to show us the “lions” of the place. Thingvalla, in a historical point of view, is by far the most celebrated and interesting locality in Iceland. An account of their republican congress or Althing, that met here, has been given in a former chapter. The meeting of courts and legislative bodies, among all the Scandinavian tribes, was in the open air. The word Thingvalla is from thing, a court of justice, and valla, a plain. Undoubtedly from the same origin are the names of Tingwall, in Shetland, and Dingwall, in the north of Scotland. The cognomen “law” is given to several hills in Scotland, and undoubtedly in consequence of courts of law being held on them in former times. Such is the tradition attached to them.

The place here where the Althing met was a most singular and convenient one. Except from six to twelve inches or more of soil on top, the earth here is solid rock that was once lava. There are two wide and deep seams or cracks in this lava-rock, that meet at an acute angle, and stretch away in different directions into the plain. Between these, in a small hollow, shaped like an amphitheater, is the place where the Althing met. These seams or chasms are like natural canals, from twenty to fifty feet wide, and said to be two hundred feet deep. They are filled up to within twenty or thirty feet of the top, with still, black-looking water, and are said to have a subterranean communication with the lake about half a mile distant. Here, on this triangular piece of ground, covered with grassy turf, the general assembly of the nation gathered once a year, in the summer season. Those connected with the Althing were inside these natural chasms, but spectators were outside, beyond the boundaries of the court. This was, indeed, a primitive house of representatives. Though the Icelanders are a staid, sober, matter-of-fact people, undoubtedly many anecdotes and singular legislative scenes could be related of events that have transpired at this spot. One was told us by the clergyman, which, from its singular character, has been handed down, though it took place long years ago. The Althing, having both legislative and judicial powers, tried criminals and adjusted differences, as well as made laws. A man was undergoing his trial for a capital offense; and, though in irons, he watched his opportunity and ran, and with one fearful leap vaulted clear across one of the chasms that formed the boundary of the court. We were shown the spot. It is twenty feet wide, and on the opposite side the ground was several feet higher than the bank where he started. The legend says he got clear off, and thus saved his life; going on the principle which the Indian adopted, that if you hang a rogue you must catch him first. Near this primitive capitol is a pool of deep, black-looking water, where females convicted of capital crimes were drowned. A little to the west, we were shown an island in the river, where male culprits were beheaded.

Another evidence of the civilization of the people during a former age, was shown, quite as palpable as any similar signs in either Old or New England. This was the spot where witches were burned; as late, too, as the commencement of the eighteenth century. How singular are some cotemporaneous events! As the unseen pestilence sweeps through the atmosphere, from one nation to another, so will a moral plague, like the delusion of witchcraft, enchain the minds of a Christian community, and spread death and devastation before it. There are scenes and events in the history of all nations, that the people would gladly blot out if they could. One of our party, a very intelligent Icelander, told us he had seen, not forty years before, heaps of charred bones, and ashes, on this spot, where innocent people were sacrificed to a belief in witchcraft.

But these assemblies at Thingvalla were principally identified with more pleasant scenes. There was something besides the mere sitting of the supreme court, and the gathering of the people’s congress. Sir George Mackenzie has happily expressed the interest of these gatherings. “At the assemblies at Thingvalla,” he says, “though artificial splendor was wanting, yet the majesty of nature presided, and gave a superior and more impressive solemnity to the scene. On the banks of the river OxerÁ, where its rapid stream enters a lake embosomed among dark and precipitous mountains, was held during more than eight centuries the annual convention of the people. It is a spot of singular wildness and desolation; on every side of which appear the most tremendous effects of ancient convulsion and disorder, while nature now sleeps in a death-like silence which she has formed. Here the legislators, the magistrates, and the people, met together. Their little group of tents, placed beside the stream, was sheltered behind by a rugged precipice of lava; and on a small, grassy spot in the midst of them was held the assembly which provided, by its deliberations, for the happiness and tranquillity of the nation.”

The people looked forward to these annual gatherings with great interest. They met here in large numbers, and from all parts of the country. Friend met friend, sociality prevailed, commodities were interchanged, business was transacted, and all intermingled in agreeable, social intercourse. Many families being here during the time, young men found wives, and maidens obtained husbands; so that the bow of Cupid flung his arrows near the scales of justice. Here, too, idolatry first gave way in Iceland, and here the Christian religion was first publicly acknowledged. This was in the year 1000. At that time, nearly all the people were idolaters. Several zealous Christians were present, and the subject was discussed at the Althing. The debate waxed warm, and while the discussion was going on, a messenger rushed into the assembly with the intelligence that a volcanic eruption had broken out but a short distance to the south. The idolaters declared it was merely the wrath of their gods at the people for turning away from their ancient creed. “But what,” says Snorro Goda, a Christian, “were the gods angry at, when the very rocks where we stand, hundreds of years ago, were melted lava?” The question was unanswerable, the Christians triumphed, and laws were immediately passed protecting all in the exercise of their religion. The ecclesiastical courts were afterwards held here, under the bishop of Skalholt. It is not to be wondered at, that the people wept when the Althing was removed to Reykjavik. Hallowed by the reminiscences of the past, they saw modern innovation and foreign customs break up one of their ancient and venerable institutions. The Althing is forever removed: their council circle is now a meadow, and I see oxen, sheep, and horses grazing around it.

Captain Laborde took me slily by the arm, led me one-side to a cleft in the lava, and waving his hand towards it, said he begged to have the honor of introducing me to an Iceland tree. And sure enough there it stood, green and flourishing, but of such dimensions that, had I not been aware I was in Iceland, I should have been irreverent enough to have called it a mere shrub, a bush, or perhaps a bramble. I find I was very rash in pronouncing the opinion which I did, that the bush, some five feet in height, that I saw in the governor’s garden was probably the largest tree in Iceland. Now, here was one towering alone in the majesty of luxuriant nature, at least six feet perpendicular; and were the various crooks and bends that adorn its trunk, straightened out, I have no doubt but it would be nine or ten inches higher. I took off my hat, and made a low bow to it. In a meadow near the house, was a rather novel sight—two girls milking the ewes. Here, as elsewhere, we were furnished with excellent milk and cream. Many a bowl of rich milk have I drank in this country, and never asked where the article came from. After riding all day, and at night going up to a farm-house, half exhausted with hunger and thirst, and getting what would quench it, I have found something else to think of besides letting my fancy go wool-gathering among snowy fleeces, and bleating lambs that go without their supper. When a man leaves his own fireside and country, and goes abroad, he has no business to take all of his prejudices and fastidiousness along with him.^[2]

With the new hay for a bed, our blankets spread over us, and our saddles for pillows, we enjoyed a most refreshing sleep. At breakfast this morning, the clergyman-farmer’s dairy and fishing-boat were again laid under contribution. A large raven, one of a pair we had noticed frequently, flew slowly up towards our tent, apparently looking for something to break his fast. Our fowler saluted him with a charge of fine shot, that sent him off at a tangent, and left him minus some of his feathers. A word touching these ravens hereafter. They are among the most ancient of the inhabitants of Iceland.

It was with great regret that I parted from my most agreeable and intelligent company—but separate we must. The French officers, Rector Johnson, and the others, prepared to return to Reykjavik, and I to go towards the east, on a tour of several hundred miles in the interior. They would gladly have continued with me as far as the Geysers, but for some good and weighty reasons. One was, they had no guide to return with them who understood the road, and mine must go on with me. Another reason was, we had all made such terrible havoc with their provision chest, that the remainder would scarcely have stood before a Captain Dugald Dalgetty for a day’s campaign. Then, too, fishing-ponds ten miles long and a thousand feet deep, and yielding trout by the boat-load, are not to be found in every valley, even in Iceland. So a hearty shaking of hands, and a buckling of girths, and we were once more in our saddles; they returning to town, and I and my guide, with faces towards the rising sun, going to see those wonders of nature—the great Geysers of Iceland.

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