“By water shall he die, and take his end.”

HAVING seen the Reykir springs, I prepared to leave. I paid the man the usual sum for the privilege of sleeping in the parish church, and for the grass for our horses, and milk for ourselves. He was evidently dissatisfied; returned no thanks, and did not offer his hand as a token of satisfaction. From his demeanor now, and more from some circumstances hereafter to be related, I think him a bad man. He was of a much darker complexion than the most of the Icelanders, and a morose, churlish-looking fellow. Perhaps, from the fact that he was the landlord of the Reykir Springs—a “fashionable watering-place”—he had grown worldly, and considered a stay on his premises worth more than it is at most caravanseras. He saddled his horse, however, and prepared to accompany us; probably, though, as a favor to the guide, rather than to me, as he would not like to forfeit his future custom. The guide rode ahead with the pack-horses, and I went a little way to the right to see some hot and warm springs—a part of the great family here, that I had not seen the night before. There were two, similar to two that I had seen at the Geysers, large and deep; perhaps twenty feet across, and entirely full of hot water, so clear that I could see perfectly plain to the bottom—about thirty or thirty-five feet, as near as I could judge. These springs did not discharge a very great quantity of water; but there they were level, full, and hot enough to boil a dinner, and there they had been in that state, probably,

A little way off—perhaps twelve rods—was a cold spring, and between that and the hot ones was one of tepid water. “Mine host” rode out near me, to call my attention to this tepid spring. It was more like a well, about ten feet across at the top of the water, which was below the surface of the ground some six or eight feet. I got off my horse, and with some caution went down the steep, sloping side of the well, and felt of the water. It was about blood heat, and no steam escaped from it. The water was pitchy black, and showed no bottom, appearing of unfathomable depth. The Icelander also went down the bank, and felt of the water; and while he did so, his feet gave way, and down he went into the horrible-looking pool. As he sank, he turned his face towards me with a look of terror and fear more horrible than I ever saw on a man’s countenance before. May I never be a witness to another such sight! His death seemed inevitable. To my utmost astonishment, he floated. To go in after him was out of the question, and would only have resulted in drowning us both. He floated over on his back, his face just out of water, and reached his hands imploringly towards me. I stretched my whip to him; and as he caught the end of the lash, I pulled him slowly towards the bank, then grasped his hand, and got him out. The man was drunk! It was brandy that threw him into the water, and no doubt ’twas brandy that kept him afloat. Not being very fond of water, I think ’twould be very difficult to drown an Icelander. Certainly this one did not show the “alacrity in sinking” that Falstaff did. He pulled off his coat, and wrung the water out of it; and then, in his wet clothes, mounted his horse, and we rode on after the guide, who by this time was a long way ahead, crossing the green meadows.

To the left, towards the river HvitÁ and the sea, it was level; and on the right, ranges of hills and mountains. In the course of six or eight miles, we arrived at the little town and church of Hjalli (he-aht-li). It was Sunday, and the people for many miles around were assembling for worship. Every one came on horseback. As for traveling on foot any distance, such a thing is unknown in Iceland. Here the landlord of the Reykir Springs left us. He showed the same ungrateful, unthankful spirit that he did that morning at home, although I had saved his life. Holding forth my hand, to shake his at parting, with a wrathful look he drew his back, and said “Nay.” He had no reason to treat me thus; but according to an old superstition, common in Orkney and Shetland, and I believe in Iceland, I ought to beware of him. It is related by northern journalists—see Scott’s Pirate—that when a ship is wrecked, or under other circumstances, no one must try to save the lives of the unfortunates; for if they do, the person so saved will some day take the life of his benefactor, or in some way prove his evil genius. I don’t think this Icelander can stand much of a chance to be mine, for in all human probability we shall never meet again. He is evidently not born to be drowned, but he better be cautious how he imbibes too much brandy before going to the margin of a deep well. He may not, at another time, have a Yankee to pull him out if he falls in. Leaving Hjalli, we crossed a broad tract of country covered with the beautiful heath, now in full bloom. I stopped and gathered a large bouquet to carry home. This day it rained the most of the time; and, though not near night, I was glad when we arrived at VogsÓsar, where the guide said we were to put up. We rode up to the house—bear in mind, the Iceland towns often consist of just one tenement—and dismounted. The resident was a clergyman—Rev. Mr. Jonson. He came out, and after saluting me, had a long talk, in Icelandic, with the guide. It seemed as if I had fallen on evil men and evil times, for I did not like the appearance of this man at all. Somehow, he had a forbidding look; and I fancied we should have to travel further, as I did not believe his heart or house would open for me that night. How easy it is to be mistaken! He was like all the Iceland clergy—and like almost every one of the Icelanders—one of the most hospitable of men. Having got the history of our former travels—as I presume he did—from the guide, and finding, no doubt, that I was one whose character would bear investigation, he “took me in;” not, however, as the landlady did Dr. Syntax; but he took me into his house, showed me a warm fire, had some fresh trout cooked for me, a fine cup of coffee, and with a change of dry clothes, I was once more “in clover.” This was near the sea-shore, on a lake known as Hlitharvatn, a kind of bottle-like arm of the sea, where the water flowed in, through a neck or strait, at every flow of the tide. About a mile south of the house, with the waves of the Atlantic nearly washing it, stood the church. This bears the name of “Strandar Kirkja,” or, Church on the Strand.

Southeast of this, a mile or two, is a cape known as the “Nes.” These names of “kirk,” “strand,” and “Nes,” show the similarity in the languages in the north of Europe. There is Inverness, on the north coast of Scotland; Cape Lindesness, on the southwest point of Norway; and Reikianess, on the southwest point of Iceland. Mr. Jonson had some good books in his house, and was evidently a gentleman and a scholar. He talked excellent Latin, in which dead language we exchanged our live thoughts. He evidently lived rather comfortably; and, like most of the Iceland clergy, was both farmer and preacher. He made some inquiries about America, but seemed extremely contented, and well satisfied with his own country. He told me, in order to cross the neck or strait that led to the lake, I must start the next morning at six o’clock—“hora sexta”—when it would be low tide. We accordingly made preparations for an early start. I found it totally useless to offer him money for my entertainment. Like all the clergy, not a penny would he take. I offered a piece of silver to one of his servants, who brought up our horses; but a half-dollar had no charms for him; he would not take it. He knew the value of money, but he knew it was not the custom for his master or his household to take money from strangers. Giving him, and his wife and family, our best thanks and a hearty shake of the hand, while the morning sun was gilding the broad Atlantic, and lighting up the mountain tops, we rode away.

Our ride to-day, going west from VogsÓsar, was quite a contrast to yesterday’s journey. At six o’clock we found low tide, and the water nearly out of the arm of the sea that supplies Lake Hlitharvatn with water. A young tern, half fledged, was on a little island near us, as we passed; and the old bird showed great signs of alarm. The little fellow had not been in the world long, but we certainly were not among his enemies. The mother bird swooped down at the dog and then at us, and screamed at the whole party, and kept it up till we were far away from the little one. Skirting the strand for some distance, the guide pointed out with great interest several logs of drift wood that had been washed ashore.

The gales from the southwest bring a good deal of drift wood on shore along here, every stick of which is valuable. The coast being low, there is a long line of breakers pitching their white caps on to the strand. Large numbers of sea-fowl were riding and rocking on the waves,

It seems to me that the life of a sea-fowl must be a continued romance. I would like to fly and swim as they do, if I could. But some of them have floated, and swam, and fished their lives away; for their skeletons lie about on the beach. How black the whole line of coast is along here! How different from the chalky cliffs of old England, or the clear-white sand on the shores of America! Here it is all lava and volcanic sand, and quite black. From VogsÓsar we continued our journey west to Krisuvik, a very small town near the coast, but it has no harbor. Never were the striking features of a volcanic country shown more palpably than where we traveled to-day. We rode on the plain, with the mountains on our right and the sea to the left. Earthquakes, many of them very violent, happen here every few years. Then large fragments of rocks and lava are rolled down from the mountain tops far out into the plain. These were very numerous and of all sizes, some that would weigh fifteen or twenty tons having rolled from one to two miles. Here the old lava, particularly that which had rolled down from the mountains, had a different appearance from any I had before seen in Iceland. Much of this looks like the conglomerate or “plum-pudding stone” found on the coast of Scotland, in our New England States, in California, and in various parts of the world. It looks just as if in the volcanic times, when there was a general melting, that a quantity of sea-worn pebbles and very hard round stones of various sizes would not melt, but became incorporated or rolled up in the dough-like mass, and here they remain like enormous plum-puddings at Christmas time.

Many of the hills and mountains are very abrupt and precipitous, like those near Reykir, and farther east, near Hraungerthi.