ON and about the sulphur mountains are a great many curious sights, and none more singular than the various-colored clays. At the distance of several miles the contrast between the sulphur beds and the different kinds of clay was so great, that the hills looked as if they had been experimented on by a company of painters, so clearly did they show their coats of many colors. I stopped some time admiring the great steam-blast and its blubbering neighbor, the gigantic cauldron of boiling mud. Fury! I wonder how beef and plum pudding would boil, if wrapped in a tight bag and immersed in this boiling clay. Very well, no doubt. Methinks ’twas very wise in the Almighty placing these prominent and numerous exhibitions of internal heat in a “far off” and thinly peopled land, where all the folks are incurious, and not disposed to pry into nature’s sublime secrets farther than she chooses to show them. Now, if these ebullitions of old Dame Nature’s cauldron were in America, some shrewd Yankee or joint-stock company would go to boring right down to the center, to get at the fountain head; and after getting a supply of steam, proceed to let it out in streams, to turn grist-mills, saw logs, cook hotel dinners, pump water, drain marshes, and do many other “acts and things that a free and independent” people “may of right do.” They would dig for gold, and finding it not, be content with fire. With that fire they would cook, roast and boil, warm themselves, and make baths. With the steam they would turn machinery and spin cotton. Whatever compound of metals, mines, or elements they found, of that they would make riches, or at any rate attempt it, and some would succeed. Some, I fear, would come off as the alchemist in Festus did, when the Devil taught him. Lucifer, in the garb of a gentleman, and manners of a scholar, says—

And I wonder where he’ll find himself? Somewhere, no doubt. But I am not going to moralize on what might be, or what will be, when philosophers come to Iceland and bore out artesian wells. Perhaps if they do, they’ll come to the conclusion that some of the Icelanders have, that the entrance to a certain warm region is not far from this country. These good people are very sensible, in leading upright, moral lives.

But a mountain lies before me, and I must ride. We had sharp climbing for nearly a mile, and relieved the ponies by getting off and walking up a portion of the way. On the summit of the mountain pass—perhaps 1,500 feet above the plain—we had an extensive view. A long range of mountains extended far to the east and northeast; on the west were separate peaks; and to the south we could see far out on the ocean. Smoke and steam from hot springs and sulphur mines, rose up in various places.

Our descent on the north side of the sulphur mountains was far more gradual, and quite circuitous. Passing from a plain through a rocky defile, there I saw the foot-prints of a former traveler, and where he had attempted to immortalize himself. It was not President Fillmore, of the United States, but plain Mr. Philmore, of England. He was here the year before, and my present guide had been his. There, on the face of a large rock, he had cut with considerable labor, the letter “P,” the initial of his name. As it happened to be one of the initial letters of my name, I dismounted, and finished the business with my knife, by cutting in the rock my other initial, the letter “M.” The rock was a soft kind of pumice, and soon a gigantic M. stood at the right of the P. Now, future travelers who come this way, will learn with delight that the illustrious “Plinio Myghellz” one day penetrated the rocky defiles, and clambered up the snow clad mountains of Iceland! By the scrupulously conscientious, it may be alleged that I stole another man’s thunder, or at least the P with which he put it down. But of what use is half of a man’s initials? It scarcely means any thing; and, like half a pair of scissors, cannot cut any thing; or like an old bachelor, without t’other half, “isn’t good for nothing.” Now, he put down the P, and I mated it with the M, and there the two, keeping one another company, will flourish to everlasting glory. “Plinio Myghellz,” you are famous; and you, Mr. Philmore, you’re “no whar.”

We now traveled over the most extraordinary road I’ve ever seen on the face of the globe. It must have been a vast labor to make it passable; but passable it was, and that was all. It was a bed of lava several miles in extent, and known as the “horrible lava.” Indeed the road was a horrible one, and I only wonder a road could have been made at all that would be passable for man or beast. Imagine a plain overflowed with melted lava to an indefinite depth, say fifty to a hundred feet. Then on cooling, this broke up in masses of rock of every imaginable shape and size; only none of it was small or smooth or regular,—rough and sharp peaks and edges, twenty feet above the average surface; and deep, yawning cracks or seams appeared, fifty or a hundred feet deep, and large enough to swallow up horse and rider. To make a road, the rocks were broken down, and crevices were filled up, to that extent that the sure-footed Iceland ponies got over it with safety. Sometimes they jumped over the seams, and sometimes they clambered or crawled over the rugged rocks. For five or six miles it was all desolation; not one drop of water, not a single blade of grass, not one living bird, not a house, not a single scrubby tree, nor, apparently, a single specimen of animal or vegetable life, save an inferior kind of moss or lichen that clung to the rocks. We could see, now and then, a patch of stunted heather. Such is the process and progress of nature in Iceland. Lava overflows the land, and for hundreds of years it stands up, cold, black, and naked. Finally, a slight and thin species of moss—one of the most inferior lichens—begins to cover the rocks with a delicate brown or pale green. After a long period—somebody else must tell how long, for I can not,—by the winds carrying on the dust, by the flight and rest of birds, by insects and the growth of mosses, a little soil appears, just sufficient to support a scattering and scanty growth of heather. And now this beautiful little shrub lights up and adorns the desert waste. If you look on Gunnlaugsson’s large map of Iceland—a map made from surveys and observations extending over Iceland for twelve years, it will be seen that the green, or agricultural portion, is not more than one-third of it; and about one-half of the remainder—another third of the island—is a pink color, indicating the growth of the heath; and the balance is snowy mountains, sandy deserts, and black and barren lava. Such is the surface of Iceland. After the bare lava tract has been succeeded by a growth of heath, another long period is necessary to get a sufficient accumulation of soil to support a growth of grass, the most valuable and extensive vegetable product of the country. I have noticed on a beautiful meadow, where the turf had been disturbed, that only six or eight inches below the surface, the rugged lava appeared. I have mentioned that no country shows more beautiful meadows, or produces more fragrant hay than Iceland. It is of short growth, but remarkably sweet, and I am sure more valuable, taken by weight, than the coarser hay grown in England and America.

Soon after getting across the plain of “horrible lava,” we rode over a low mountain; and before us was the town of Hafnarfiorth. This is a nice village, nestled in a quiet little nook; and in its harbor were two or three vessels. To those who have seen the town of Scalloway, in Shetland, this place bears some resemblance. Back of Scalloway, the hills rise more abruptly than here. The village, though apparently near, was several miles away, and we rode by a good many fine farms, with beautiful, green meadows, showing a marked contrast to the lava tract that we had passed. I had been here once before, as mentioned in a former chapter, and made the acquaintance of a very agreeable and hospitable Danish gentleman and his wife. My first visit was with Professor Johnson, and he did the talking on both sides; mine host, whose name also was Johnson, conversing only in Danish and Icelandic. Knocking at the door of the nice little white house, it was opened at once, and there was a house full of young Icelandic ladies,—indeed the prettiest lot of Iceland fair ones that I had seen at one time. Neatly dressed, and beautiful girls they were; not one plain one among them. All were at work, knitting, just as we see the good dames in America, when they “go visiting” in the country. One had on the little Icelandic black woolen cap, with silk tassel, the head-dress of the country; and the others wore nothing on their heads, dressing in the Danish style, which differs but little from the “fashions” in Paris, London, and New York. The good little lady of the house greeted me very cordially; but she was in a terrible fix, for she could not talk with me. She tried Danish, then Icelandic; and I attempted the same, stumbled through two or three sentences, stuck fast, went on again, and finally broke down altogether, ending in a hearty laugh all round, at my expense. Never mind; it’s no hard task to be laughed at by a bevy of pretty girls. Mr. Johnson was not at home, having gone to Reykjavik. Though the poor little lady couldn’t find her tongue, at least to any effect; but I can tell what she did find. She went to her closet and found a bottle of capital wine, and she put it on the table at once; and I shall not tell how many glasses of it went under my jacket before I left.

After partaking of the solids and fluids that my fair hostess set before me, I rose to depart. Wishing them all a very good day in the best Icelandic I could muster, and shaking hands all round—the usual affectionate parting salute I did not dare attempt, being a naturally bashful man!—I mounted my horse and rode off. It was after nine o’clock in the evening, and the sun was bending low toward the Greenland sea. Hafnarfiorth is the finest Iceland town I have seen, except the capital; and it has a fine harbor. It is quite as beautiful in shape, and as secure for shipping, as Sackett’s Harbor, on Lake Ontario. The land nearly surrounds the harbor, forming about three quarters of a circle. Large stacks of codfish were piled up, and great quantities were scattered about on the gravelly beach, drying. After once thoroughly dry, they tell me it does not hurt the fish to rain on them; and they leave them out of doors with impunity. They put boards and heavy stones on the piles to keep them from blowing away. In this primitive community, all goods are safe under the broad canopy of heaven, as “thieves do not break through, nor steal.” Visiting seemed to be the order of the day at Hafnarfiorth. Several horses stood about, with the curiously shaped side-saddles on them—like an arm-chair—peculiar to the country. Boys were holding some of these; and some little girls, having got helped to seats in the large saddles, were galloping the little ponies round in fine style. They were bare-headed, with their long hair streaming in the wind; and they seemed to think riding was capital fun. In fact, I never saw an Icelander, male or female, who was too young to sit in the saddle. These little northern nymphs seem to take to riding as naturally as the South Sea islanders do to swimming. The village of Hafnarfiorth has twenty or thirty houses, and perhaps two hundred inhabitants. There is but one street, and that is bounded on one side by the water, with the houses and stores on the other; and it runs in a circle nearly round the harbor, close to the water’s edge. If any one comes here and wants to know where my friend Johnson lives, I can tell him; always provided he does not move, and no houses are built beyond his. It is the last house—a neat little white, story-and-a-half one—on the southern side of the harbor, the side opposite to Reykjavik. In journeying from here north, we had to climb directly up a very steep ascent, to get on the lava bed that covers the ground for many miles. It was six miles to Reykjavik, the road passing within about a mile of Bessastath, for a great many years the site of the Iceland college. Had I not by this time been accustomed to all sorts of traveling—swimming, tumbling, flying, and ballooning—I should have called this road a bad one. Indeed, it was abominable; but I was accustomed to it. There’s nothing like habit. Long practice may make sleeping on a solid rock go as well as a bed of down.

Rocks were piled on rocks, and deep and broad cracks and seams were seen at intervals. Across one chasm through which, deep in the earth, we could hear a stream of water running, was thrown a natural arch of lava, that served as a bridge where the road crosses. Winding round a couple of deep bays that set back from the sea, we put our ponies through, at the top of their speed; they seemed to appreciate their approach towards home; and at about 11 o’clock, we jumped from our saddles, and with a loud hurrah, dashed into the hotel at Reykjavik, where I met my old friend, President Johnson,

He shook my hand so heartily I thought he would unjoint the elbow: “My dear Yankee friend, how are you; and how is old mount Hekla, and the big Geyser, and all the little Geysers; and how are my friends the sulphur mountains?” “Why, high, hot, and smoking; how should they be, my literary loon?” “And a fine tour you’ve had, I hope.” “Well, I have, my boy; clear to the top of old King Coal. Yes, and a peep into the crater.” “Well, you’re one of the boys; and I wish I could go across the Atlantic, and see old Niagara with you.” And here I had a bed; no more sleeping in churches; a bed on an old-fashioned camp bedstead—two letter X’s; high diddle diddle, the fool in the middle, like the circus clown with a hoop over his head.