MY ride along the banks of the ThiorsÁ, before my detour to the south coast, near the Westmann Islands, was a pleasant one. The little green, turf-covered hillocks—not appearing much like houses, though they were so—gave an air of solitude to the landscape, that but few civilized countries possess. The air was vocal with birds, that constantly flew about us. The mournful note of the plover, and the wild scream of the curlew, were constantly heard, as they rested on the signal-cairns by the way-side, or flew away towards a thicket. These birds, as well as the ptarmigan, are quite plentiful in Iceland, and all reckoned as game-birds.

A man could travel through Iceland in the summer, carrying a gun, a few loaves of bread, some tea, coffee, and sugar, get plenty of milk and cream at the farmers’ houses, and shoot game enough for his meat, without once leaving his horse. Some might not consider it a great luxury, after a hard day’s ride, to sit down to a banquet of roasted raven, a fricasseed hawk, or a broiled sea-gull; but it would be quite as good as the buzzard soup that Prince Achille Murat used to get in Florida. Some nice ptarmigan, or plover, with a piece of a loaf, tea or coffee, and butter, would make a feast that many a traveler would be glad to have. Then, too, in the interior are large herds of wild reindeer, where a good marksman could select a nice piece of venison. Henderson, the missionary, saw a large flock, that approached quite near him before offering to retreat. White and blue foxes, seals, and sometimes an importation of white bears from Greenland, who not unfrequently float over on fields of ice, might afford a little sport, and perhaps profit, but would be rather tough eating. I, however, carried no arms, except the “pickers and stealers” that Dame Nature furnished me; so I did not speak to the birds in the loud tones of villainous saltpetre. I have had my murderous propensities—nurtured when a lad, by shooting crows and squirrels—the most excited here, in Iceland, by some old ravens, who seemed to me to act with a very unbecoming familiarity. These birds were sacred to Odin, and I believe the Icelanders never molest them. Odin had two, one for memory, and the other for news. They used to fly abroad during the day, and return at night, bringing intelligence from all parts of the world. One would perch on his right shoulder, and the other on his left, and relate to him every thing that was going on, at the same time refreshing his memory in regard to past events. The old Scandinavians never used to make a voyage, or go a journey, without them. Floki, a Norwegian pirate, one of the first settlers of Iceland, took three of them with him when he started on his voyage, taking them as pilots, to show him the way. After getting some distance beyond the Faroe Isles, he let off one, and he returned to Faroe. Sailing awhile longer, he sent off another; and, after a wide circuit in the air, he returned to the ship. Sailing some days more, he released the third; and he flew away to the north-west. Following him, he soon reached the coast of Iceland. There seems to be a pair of these birds living near almost every house in Iceland. I have never seen a church, with a house near by, where there was not a pair of ravens. They seem to be a much larger bird here, than any of the kind that I ever saw in America. At the little church and farm-house of Haukadalr, near the Geysers, were two; and they would often alight on the church, and sometimes on a gate-post, but a few feet from me. One of them showed a great aversion to Nero, and would sometimes swoop down, and nearly hit the dog’s head. Believing him to be nothing but a heathen, I had a most Christian wish to send a bullet through him. But my Colt’s pistol was far away, and his black ravenship could worship Odin, Thor, or any other deity he pleased.

If these birds are not Christians, there is one excuse for them. They are very long-lived, and, perhaps, having a distinct recollection that some of the buildings now used as places of worship, were built and used for worship during the days of idolatry and heathenism, they have been unconscious of the introduction of Christianity. The ravens here have the same costume as in other countries, dressing in the “inky cloak,” and “customary suits of solemn black.” Their language, too, always being uttered in slow and solemn tones, adds to their appearance of gravity and wisdom.

But as for the corbies, the corn-fed pirates! they never come here. A crow was never seen in Iceland. Here, there are no grain-fields to plunder, nor trees to build their nests in. Ill-bred rascals, living on bread-stuffs, were they to come here and ask for a loaf, they would get a stone.

In my journey to-day, I passed near Skalholt, situated in the forks of the BruarÁ and the HvitÁ rivers. This place, dignified with the title of the “capital” of Iceland, in most of the books of geography that I have seen, is simply a farm, and contains the ruins of one small cathedral church, where one of the bishops of Iceland used to officiate. It is now only interesting as a locality connected with the ecclesiastical history of the country. On the banks of the mighty ThiorsÁ, I traveled some distance. I find it difficult to leave this river. I like its roaring, turbulent torrent—to look at—wouldn’t like to swim it though, unless I desired a much colder bath than I have been accustomed to. I believe it would be difficult to find a river of the magnitude, or strength of current, of this, in an island that only contains 40,000 square miles. The ThiorsÁ is nearly a hundred and fifty miles long, falls over 3,000 feet in less than sixty miles, and carries far more water to the ocean than the Hudson does.

We left the river near the church of Olafsvell, and bore away to the west, through meadows and farms, and one large tract of lava. On our left, for some distance, it was all lava; and on the right was a range of hills and mountains. Our prospective stopping-place for the night, was at the house of the sysselman of the district; and, a part of the day having been rainy, I did not care how soon we arrived there. The roads were tolerably good—that is, for Iceland—and custom had made a seat in the saddle for eight or ten hours in the day, a comparatively easy exercise.

But, ho! the sysselman’s house appears in sight. Some large flocks of ptarmigan seemed to be tokens of good cheer and comfortable quarters. Riding up a long lane between fences, we arrived at the house, a fine framed building, and the only house I had seen in some time, that appeared fit for the home of a Christian. Round it were out-buildings, and a large number of hay-stacks. The afternoon had cleared off finely; and the shining of the western sun, and the presence of a good many well-clad people and children—some piling up the fragrant hay—made one of the most pleasant and comfortable scenes that can be imagined.

We dismounted, and the guide went among the men, and first spoke to a clerical-looking personage, dressed in black. He next saw and talked with the sysselman, who was giving directions about gathering and stacking the hay. The guide returned to me, and I understood him to say the man in black was the parish clergyman. Still the sysselman did not come near me; but he was busy, and his tardiness was only the prelude to a most hearty welcome; for he finally came forward, and shook me cordially by the hand, an operation he repeated several times while walking towards the house. He was a native Icelander, tall, well-dressed, and a man of intelligence. He spoke some English, and was, evidently, a right down, merry, hospitable good fellow. Opening the front door of his house, he ushered me into his parlor, a well-furnished room, having chairs, sofa, a fine carpet, and on the walls several pictures, looking-glass, &c., &c.

Here I was in clover, for once. Visions of down-beds, a plastered and papered room, and capital cheer, crowded thick and fast upon me. The good cheer was not long coming, either—for wine, brandy, hot water, sugar, glasses, silver spoons, et cetera, and sugared cakes, soon covered the table. He spoke most every language under heaven, I have no doubt; but to me it seemed a mixture of Danish, English, Latin, Greek, Icelandic, and French, with some broad patches straight from Babel, that my learning couldn’t exactly sort out. The priest too was present; and mine host characterized him as a finished scholar, and one who could talk excellent Latin. His lingo, though, was many removes from the language of Cicero and Horace. The sysselman poured out some brandy, and mixed a glass of punch; and so did I; and so did the preacher; and we sipped it. I had often heard of the Iceland sysselmen, and their hospitality to travelers; but this was my first experience of it, and it went clear up to the portrait my imagination had drawn.

We drank and ate; and he took me through his house, showed me his library, his sleeping rooms, his handsome wife, and several rosy-cheeked, well-dressed children. He showed me an octavo volume, the journal of their Althing or Assembly; and I saw his name among the national legislators, where he had figured as a statesman. He took down from his library a life of Lord Byron, in Danish, with portraits, and extracts from his works in English and translated, and, writing my name in it, gave it to me.^[5]

Meantime, the liquor seemed to improve him. He gradually grew mellow; was first kind, then cordial, then sociable, then talkative, then argumentative, then jolly, then affectionate, then drunk—or at least rather “how come you so?” We walked out doors, and saw his people building hay-stacks. It was a beautiful approaching sunset. I ran and jumped on to a half-finished stack, to see how it was formed; but I came off again pretty quick, and found I had a small brick in my hat! No matter, however, considering the day’s travel was over. The guide, though, didn’t take the saddles off, and only opened one of the trunks to get a book I wished to show the sysselman. It seemed barely possible we were not to stay all night here, after all. In fact, he hadn’t asked me to stay. He would not have had to ask me but once. Our friend in the clerical garb became very merry too. He made signs of departure, but seemed waiting for me. Was it possible we were not to stay all night at the sysselman’s? The guide had all day told me we should. But the fact began to stare me in the face: so did a very extensive bog meadow, directly to the west. But the sysselman didn’t ask me to stay all night. I wished he had. But he didn’t. And our horses were led to the door, and the saddles adjusted, and every thing got ready; and we mounted and rode off. The jolly, clerical-looking chap accompanied us; though he was no clergyman at all, but a drunken ferry-man, who lived on a river a long way to the west. He was to be our guide over the interesting bogs, to some very nice caravansera, no doubt; but where it could be, I neither knew nor did I inquire. We left—we did—and I gave my kind entertainer a very affectionate and cordial good-night. He is a merry, hospitable, good fellow, I am sure; but I didn’t repose under his eider-down.

Our ride was a cheering one—in a horn! And miles we traveled, and—and—and—wait till the next chapter, and we’ll see what.

FOOTNOTES: