From Galtalaekur we turned towards the sea. All the long day we traversed the sands of Hekla and the bordering marshes. In the latter there is an abundance of the sand reed, Elymus arenarius, growing to a height of four feet or more with heavy panicles nodding in the wind. In times of famine the seeds of this plant have often been ground and used to make bread. Innumerable trails cross each other in these plains and exact knowledge of the locality is necessary in order to avoid wandering.

We overtook a girl of fourteen on the back of a pony. To the tail of the pony was tied a string of ponies, nose to tail in the Icelandic fashion. Each pony carried two huge cans of milk, one on either side in a bag suspended from a peg in the pack saddle. The girl made the long ride to the creamery and back each day and alone. She, like the lad at Hruni, was improving her time in study. As the ponies always walked to avoid churning the milk, she had ample time to read. In ways like this the youth of Iceland, deprived of modern educational advantages, employ their time in study for the pleasure it gives. When study is a pleasure, ignorance is baffled. The milk establishment being near our trail, we entered it to compare it with the fine institutions of this character in other lands. The comparison was wholly favorable to Iceland. Within the building extreme cleanliness was manifest in the spotless floor, the white aprons and caps of the dairy-maids and the glistening implements of the industry. The Icelandic creamery is on a sound scientific basis and conducted on a strictly coÖperative plan. Modern machinery is employed which is operated with water power. A laboratory opens out of the weighing and sampling room and it is well equipped for expert testing. The maid in charge showed us the lists of the coÖperating farms, the fat percentages and butter yields. The milk is received on the basis of the yield of butter fats and the skim milk from the separators is returned to the farmers. The butter is shipped in great casks to England and successfully competes with the fine product of Denmark. In the best grazing centers there are several of these creameries under the general supervision of the Agricultural College.

Iceland could produce many more tons of choice butter from the abundance of the nutritious grass which clothes the summer pastures, if the hay crop were of sufficient quantity to warrant the keeping of extra cows through the long winter. Grass grows in abundance but the low temperature and the short summer prevent it from coming to full maturity so that the home fields are cut long before the grass is ripe and often before it forms the seed heads. Frequently it is only six inches high at the time of cutting. Given a little warmer summer to produce more grass and Iceland would become a flourishing dairy land.

These grassy plains border two places of historical importance in Iceland. This is the margin of the Njal Country. At the foot of the trifingered mountain in the fertile plains of the MarkarfljÓt is HlÍÐarendi, Grass-Slope, the home of Gunnar of Saga fame. In his day Hekla had wrought but little of the present desolation and the land was rich in flocks and herds cared for by numerous thralls. The ice-capped mountain rose behind the farm and towards the sea sloped the productive meads. Gunnar and his friend, Kolskegg, were exiled for three winters for the part they had taken in a blood feud. As they rode down to the Lithe on their way to take ship to foreign shores, Gunnar’s horse stumbled and threw him. As he rose to his feet he looked towards his pleasant home and exclaimed,—“Fair is the Lithe; so fair that it has never seemed to me so fair; the corn fields are white to harvest, and the home mead is mown; and now I will ride back home, and will not fare abroad at all.”

If an outlawed man refused within the given time to go into the specified exile, any one could slay him without breaking any law. This his enemies took advantage of and during the following autumn killed him in his house.

Near at hand is Oddi, Point, as of land, made famous by the school of Saemund Sigfusson, the Learned, a popular center of learning in the ancient days of Icelandic glory. Here, also, in 1181 went the youthful Snorri Sturlason then only three years of age, into fostering. This school was called the “highest-head-stead” which signifies that it was not only the wealthiest in Iceland but the most renowned for scholarship. Snorri was an apt pupil, a brilliant scholar and one who delved deeply into the old Latin manuscripts, long since lost, in the rich library at Oddi. It was here that he acquired the knowledge of European history which gave birth to his story of the Round World, Heimskringla, a story of the Kings of Norway. Snorri was the first pragmatic historian who ever wrote in the Teutonic language. To him are indebted the German and the English historians of later days, though they do not always take the trouble to acknowledge it. Without his gleanings from that old library at Oddi many pages of history would be missing. That he was faithful we may well believe when we note the following from his preface:—

“In this book have I let write tales told concerning those chiefs who have borne sway in the Northlands, and spake the Danish tongue, even as I have heard men of lore tell the same; and also certain of their lines of kindred according as they have been taught to me. Some of this is found in the Tales of Forefathers, wherein kings and other men of high degree have traced their kin; but some is written after olden songs or story-lays, which men have had for their joyance. Now though we wot not surely the truth thereof, yet this we know for a truth, that men of lore of old time have ever held such lore for truth.” Again,—

“Now it is the manner of scalds, (poets), to praise those most whom they stand before while giving forth their song, but no one would dare to tell the king himself deeds, which all who harkened, yea and himself withal, wotted well were but windy talk and lying; for no praise would that be, but mocking rather.”

At ThjÓrsÁtÚn, Farm of Bull-River, we found modern buildings constructed of wood with many continental conveniences. The farmer, Ólafur Isleifsson, had lived in Winnipeg about six years and had returned to his native land with many western ideas. He spoke some English and was glad to greet travellers from America. It was a relief to find a bed of sufficient length to permit one to stretch at full length. The food was cooked on a real iron stove and we were treated to a beef steak, the first we had seen in the country. The salmon were fresh and broiled to a turn, the coffee excellent as usual, and with rolls, cheese and eggs we made a substantial meal, having been without food for ten hours. It was a cool night and having a slight chill, I gave the hot water bag to the host with the request that he fill it with hot water. He looked at it with a peculiar expression as if wondering how it could be used as a drinking vessel. On its return it was filled with ice-cold water. As it is the Icelandic custom to bring drinking water to the guest on retiring, the farmer evidently thought we preferred the rubber bag to the customary glass bottle. Anticipating the luxury of the hot water and promising with every shiver to restore quiet to my quivering limbs the disappointment was keen. I had not the courage to call attention to his mistake by asking a second time but replied as cheerfully as I could, “tak,” thanks.

This farm is located on a high bank overlooking the broad expanse of rolling lava and grass lands through which the canyon of the ThjÓrsÁ extends. A fine suspension bridge spans the flood and the view of the white water foaming down the rift is excellent. Beyond the river a good road, the post road, leads all the way to Eyrarbakki, Beach-Bank. The country is level and produces an abundance of grass. This section contains nearly all the made roads in Iceland. When we passed we noticed much activity in road construction and in the erection of telephone lines. These roads will be of great value to the farmers in this section who are just beginning to use carts with two wheels after transporting their produce on the backs of ponies for about twelve hundred years. The ponies do not enjoy the harness, but prefer the saddle. During these days we met many ponies hauling telephone poles and grading material. Every one of them had a dejected look much like that of a new convict. We fancied that the saddle ponies, as they called to the prisoners in the harness, realized the better condition of their own labor and that they looked down upon the plodders in the thills, much as the chauffeur looks upon the pedestrian as he envelopes that individual with dust. The made road is not liked by the pony, accustomed to travel the crooked trails, which in the lowlands are always soft, and he shuns the hard roads whenever he can. The trails are much easier for the rider as there is less pounding in the saddle. After a journey of a thousand miles on the lowland and upland trails, the following summer our last day’s ride was from Thingvellir to Reykjavik a distance of thirty-five miles over a hard macadamed road, and it was the hardest day’s ride of the two summers.

We rode along the base of a lofty table land, a giant block of basalt shaped like a mesa, which is called IngÖlfsfjall, IngÖlf’s-Mountain. At the request of IngÖlfr, who was the first real settler in Iceland, he was buried at the top of this mountain. He said,—

“I wish to be buried there in order that I may behold my vast possessions from its summit at the last day.”

The fata Morgana tantalized us all the afternoon as we rode down to the sea. The village of Eyrarbakki loomed high above the level plain and we were surprised at the extreme height of the houses until they disappeared, all but the tops. Looming up into the vibrating air and sinking into the sand they alternated with the shifting strata of variously heated air. Late in the afternoon the objects on the shore became fixed and real, like other houses in the country. We clattered up the one street by the sea to the home of Fru Eugenia Nielsin. It is the finest house in the village and a portion of it is over two hundred years old. There are stone and turf houses in Iceland that are much older but this one is constructed entirely of wood. The Neilsins are Danish merchants engaged in the wool and fish trade and importers of general supplies for the farmers. We found Fru Neilsin a delightful hostess, who exerted herself to make our short stay one long to be remembered with gratitude. Back of the house was an excellent garden with some splendid potatoes; in front there was a well kept lawn, almost English in character, and here we enjoyed croquet at eleven at night. The village has a population of about three hundred people, mostly engaged in fishing. I examined the lumber yard and noted a high grade of Norway spruce. Although not a stick of timber grows in Iceland it can be purchased at less than half the price asked in New England.

Within the house we found refinement and comfort, culture and hospitality. As fortunes are reckoned in Iceland these people are wealthy. The household furnishings are valuable for their antiquity and the handicraft with which they were constructed. It is not the writer’s intention to describe the furnishings of the different homes in which he has been entertained nor to differentiate in degrees of hospitality. The welcome and the entertainment were sincere and as cordially proffered in the poorest hut in the mountains as in the more favored homes by the sea. This being the only Danish home in the country where we were entertained, justice demands that we make it clear to the reader that the modern Dane is not lacking in the inborn hospitality of his ancient race. We frequently found proof of this on the little Danish ships plying between Iceland and Copenhagen and in Copenhagen itself. And so Fru Neilsin set her table with her finest service and her Icelandic kitchen maid produced a dinner that night for two hungry travellers that would have done credit to the chef of a first class hotel.

Entertainment has a different meaning to an American after he has experienced it in Iceland. What would Americans think if two foreigners, travel-soiled, unable to speak their language, should ride upon their lawns, throw the bridle to the ground, and through an interpreter make a request, much in the nature of a demand, for food and lodging? I fear that in most cases they would be cooly invited to continue their journey. Not so in Iceland. The stranger is taken to the best room, provided with soap, towels and food. His riding habit is taken away to be cleaned and returned in the morning when the morning cup of coffee and the cakes are taken to the bed room. The breakfast, like the dinner, is of the best the house can afford, the ponies are taken to the door, you pay the modest reckoning and ride away conscious of a kindly and generous liberality.

The ÖlfusÁ, as the lower end of the HvitÁ is called, is a mighty river. It receives the waters of Thingvallavatn, the LaxÁ, the TÚngufljÓt, VarmÁ, Warm-River, and several other tributaries. At the sea this lake narrows to half a mile by a projecting bank of sand. The flood of water pours out this narrow channel at low tide with a strong current. The water is icy cold and it is so laden with glacial clay that it is still “HvitÁ,” White River. At Óseyri, Beach-Mouth, we obtained a boat and two local guides, who knew the river, to ferry us across. We waited for low tide as it is impossible to swim the ponies across this broad estuary at high tide. The boat was taken half a mile up stream to allow for the drift of the current in crossing, the ponies were stripped of saddles, bridles and packing cases and Johannes tied a cod line around the lower jaw of each horse and left the lines about eight feet long. All the luggage was placed in the bottom of the leaky boat with the packing boxes at the bottom. We sat on the top of the baggage and the two oarsmen, stout fellows, worked the boat into the stream. Johannes handled the ponies in the following manner. He knelt in the stern of the dory with four of the lines in each hand. The ponies hung back for some time, as the cold and rapidly flowing water frightened them. It required full five minutes of careful coaxing to bring them into the water beyond their depth. This was a delicate bit of oar work as the current tended to sweep the boat sideways towards the shore and against the legs of the ponies. As the ponies were swept off their feet and began to swim the current caught the boat sideways and it required all the energy of the two oarsmen to back water sufficiently to relieve the strain upon the towing lines and at the same time keep the boat pointed across the stream. The tethers were kept sufficiently taut to enable Johannes to keep their noses above the water and we now discovered why Johannes had tied the cords around their jaws. He watched them with care and as soon as one nose plunged below the water he gave that pony his whole attention and with the strong cord pulled the pony’s nostrils to the surface and held it there till it had blown out the water. One after another, and sometimes two at a time, they succumbed to the cold water and to the difficulty of swimming so closely together. Only one of the eight swam the entire distance without sinking and this was the fiery “Jog Joggensen,” my afternoon mount. Away we went down stream, boat and horses together, the ponies checking the stern of the boat, the current swinging the bow downwards, requiring the utmost exertion of the oarsmen to point it towards the opposite shore. It seemed as if we would be swept over the bar and out to sea before we could win the beach. To add to the difficulty the boat leaked frightfully and held over a foot of water by the time we landed. The plunging and snorting ponies, the wild rush of the waters sweeping out of the estuary at low tide, the roar of the breakers just below, the countless gulls and tern circling over our heads, the rapidly sinking boat and the anxiety depicted on the face of Johannes, made this anything but a pleasant crossing. Around us the seal thrust their shining heads above the water, questioned with their eyes our right to invade their ancient domain and dived to reappear on a different quarter. The bow touched the sand, Johannes cast off the eight lines, we jumped into the water and waded ashore and the ponies staggered up the slope and lay down exhausted in the sand. They speedily recovered, rolled repeatedly to dry themselves and we allowed them a brief rest before resaddling.

When the boat touched land at the very verge of the breakers with the sand streaming away from us as the waves crawled back into the sea, at least one member of the party gave a sigh of relief. It has always been a disputed point as to which one of us uttered that sigh. Many ponies have been lost at this crossing by being swept out to sea. We were fortunate in saving all of ours, but Johannes stated that he had lost several in this tide race. As we lifted the packing cases out of the water in the boat it was with grave fears as to the condition of the camera films, for the water had filled all spaces within those cases.

At noon we arrived at a small farm under a high cliff at some distance from the sea. It is called HlÍÐarendi, (not to be confounded with HlÍÐarendi, the home of Gunnar), the usual Icelandic farm in an unusual situation. The buildings stand at the back of an amphitheatre. The surrounding cliffs are five hundred feet in elevation above the buildings. At the base of the cliff three generous streams of water flow out of the mountain. This is water that has sunk into the moorland near the base of the distant mountains and has found a passage through the cracked lava. Climbing to the top of the bluff I found an extensive moorland where numerous sheep were grazing and hundreds of whimbrels and plover. I spent two hours in stalking the plover with the camera. They finally allowed me to approach within fifteen feet of them. In the winter several hundreds of ptarmigan live upon this heath and the farmer shoots them for the English market. They are shipped in a frozen condition and are used in the London Clubs.

The view from the bluffs is extensive. At the foot of the cliffs lay the tÚn dotted with bundles of hay. Beyond the tÚn extends a waste of lava blocks and sand and then the sea, blue and surging. To the north rises range above range of the barren volcanoes of Reykjaness, Smoking Cape. I found the descent of the bluffs much more difficult than the ascent. The cliffs are clothed with a rich carpet of grass and an abundance of flowers in full bloom. Here the Spiraea lifts its purple spikes high above the grass, the dandelions and Arnica sprinkle the area with patches of bright yellow: beside the water pockets and embedded in the sphagnum moss the orchids bloom profusely: wild geraniums fringe the angular lava and many plants peculiar to this high latitude fill in the remainder of the floral scheme.

Mrs. Russell had considerable labor in restoring order to the packing cases and in spreading our clothes upon the rocks to dry. In the passage of the ÓlfusÁ, our cases filled with water though they were supposed to be waterproof. The jog, jog, jog of the ponies had stirred up towels, soap, bread, tobacco, camera films, cocoa, tea, note books and other items and churned these ingredients into one common mass with salt water better than it could have been done with any Yankee washing machine. This was the reason we ended our journey at noon this day. The camera films were uninjured as I had taken the precaution to place each film in a metal box and seal it. These same boxes have since been around the world with another traveller and did similar excellent service for him in the jungles of India. All camera films taken to Iceland for transportation on a pony should be soldered water proof. They are easily opened and the empty tin will take the exposed film. This can may be securely sealed against moisture by winding the joint with several turns of waterproof tape.

I turned to the hayfield and finding an unused rake I went to work, not that I needed the exercise after my climb of the bluffs, but that I might have further excuse for observing the people at their work. I have previously made several observations about the haying and the tools but there remain other items of interest. The rake may be called a fine toothed comb. It is made in the usual form of the American hand rake with the exception of the teeth, which are from an inch to an inch and a half in length and set closely together. They are whittled out of the tough and crooked roots of the Arctic birch. This implement serves its purpose admirably, for it gathers all the short fine hay. The Icelandic scythe has been described, but it remains to mention an instrument not used in America, the reipe, rope. This consists of two eyelets whittled out of wood or more often fashioned from a ram’s horn. The eyelets are connected with a rope a foot long. To each eyelet, and at right angles to the connecting rope, there is attached another rope which is from twelve to eighteen feet in length. In use these two ropes are laid in parallel on the ground, the hay is heaped upon the center to a weight of eighty to one hundred pounds. The eyelets are then brought up to the top of the heap, the corresponding rope from the other side is then brought up to its eyelet and passed through, the free ends are drawn taut by the force of two men, a half hitch is taken in each, the ends are then turned at right angles to their original position and passed round to the other side of the bundle and fastened just as a box is tied in a store. Out of the loose ends is fashioned a loop to hang the bundle on the pin of the hay saddle. The bundle is then thoroughly combed out with the rake and it is ready for transportation to the haystack. If it rains or if the hay is not sufficiently cured, the bundle is left in the field. Hay makes rapidly in these bundles and a long rain will not penetrate. Haying is the only agricultural pursuit in the country. Each farmer keeps account of the number of pony loads taken to the stacks each season. An average crop for the country is about 1,800,000 pony loads which average one hundred and ninety pounds per pony load. Of this hay 1,000,000 loads are taken from the wild land, that is, from the land outside of the tÚn. This wild land is the moorland, unfed patches in the pastures, islands, bogs and meadows. The tÚn is fertilized with the manure from the cow stables. Each day this material is carried out on a stretcher by the milk maids and piled in a heap. This material dries into a hard cake during the summer. When the time comes for spreading it upon the tÚn it is broken up and the fragments are placed in a toothed hopper and ground. There are hundreds of tons of this best of all fertilizers that go to waste as the soil does not need it. If the soil could be sufficiently warmed by the sun to produce garden crops Iceland would become a great market garden for Europe as its soil is exceptionally rich and fertilizer is abundant. Every farm has its potato patch and a bed of turnips in a high walled enclosure near the buildings but the farmer raises only what he needs for his own family. The ground is spaded and the potatoes are planted in beds as we plant beets and lettuce. There may be ploughs, mowing machines, pitchforks and hayracks in Iceland but I have never seen them on any of the many farms I have visited. I have seen a photograph purporting to be from Iceland which shows some of these instruments but there are other items in the picture, such as the costumes of the people, which prove that the negative was made in Sweden.

The ride along the sea coast to Krisuvik is mostly a scramble over a mass of lava which is strangely contorted and blistered. A mountain bluff extends parallel with the coast line about a mile from the shore. Prior to the settlement of the country an eruption of one of the volcanoes in this region poured out a large volume of fluid lava which rolled over this bluff in several places and then meandered in various directions. During an entire day’s ride we saw but two houses, comfortless homes of fishermen on a barren shore and far from neighbors. This is a bird shore. Many thousands of sea birds nest in this rough country, far away from sheep and dogs, in undisputed freedom, for they are seldom disturbed by man. Oftentimes the ground for several square rods was literally covered with them. When our trail led through these patches the old birds resented our intrusion, swooped down and pecked at the horses and at our clothing. We were forced to keep one hand in continual motion about our heads to prevent being violently hit with their wings. Over my desk hangs a quill pen made from the wing feather of the great black backed gull, which I tore from this bird as it swooped against my arm.

We took lunch this day at Stranda Kirkja, Church-by-the-Strand, beside a stream of brackish water which flowed from under the lava wall. It was cool but unsatisfactory as a beverage. We found it too sour to drink. It contained some acid, probably sulfuric, though I had no barium chlorid with which to prove it. After lunch we forded the shallows at the mouth of the nearly land-locked bay of VogsÓsar, Whale-Mouth, and descended to the shore over a billowy mass of ropy lava. Numerous tide pools were scattered about and in them were countless eider duck with their young as well as many other species. It is well for these birds and for the people who gain a livelihood from their eggs, down and feathers that the sportsman knows nothing of these breeding places and that the sound of the shotgun never wakes the echoes of these basaltic cliffs.

We found our way by following a zigzag line of cairns. It was rough travelling. Oftentimes the ponies were forced to raise their fore feet to the edge of a block of stone or lava shelf and then spring to the top like goats, again in descending these stone stairways they crouched like a cat for a spring, carefully lowered one foot into a niche, placed the other fore foot in a similar niche below it and then jumped to the lower level. Never did they slip or make a false step, left to their own guidance they picked the best places and brought us safely across a mass of fractured lava that seemed impossible for them to traverse. Certainly horses of other countries could not have accomplished this feat. Thus climbing and descending, fording shallows and circling tide pools to the annoyance of the birds we traversed ten miles of a wild and interesting country, absolutely primaeval as far as any trace of man’s presence is concerned save in the scattered cairns and the deep grooves of his horses hoofs in the lava. In one place I measured a trail ten rods long across the smooth ledge that had been worn to a depth of seven inches and a width of eight inches by the tiny feet of the ponies during a thousand years of travel along this shore.

Leaving the sea we climbed a ridge of slag and ash debris of brilliant and variegated colors. Great masses of this material, shaped like ropes of molasses candy that has been pulled, were scattered beside the trail and mingled with thousands of volcanic bombs. From this summit we looked across a green valley to Eldborg, Burning-Dome, and beyond to the pleasant farm of Krisuvik.

We were comfortably housed and more than the usual attention was given to our comfort. Here we met an old acquaintance of the Laura, M. phil. Carl KÜchler from Varel in Oldenberg, Germany. We had found him a pleasant acquaintance, a man who had travelled widely in Iceland, speaking the Icelandic and an author of several books in German upon Iceland. We were pleased to renew the acquaintance. He has since been decorated by the King of Denmark for the work he has done in Iceland.

The columns of steam rising from the hills beyond the meadow and the roar of the escaping gases attracted our attention and it was with impatience that we changed the riding habit for a lighter one and started across the fields to examine the spot which Hooker in 1813 described as, “One of the most awfully impressive scenes that the world can furnish, or even imagination can conceive.” This is strong language. Had Hooker visited the solfatara of Krafla his description would have been of interest. We shall see that Krafla is intensely more interesting than Krisuvik.

It seemed but a short walk, a quarter of a mile at most, from the house to the columns of steam belching from the side of the hill. Although we were accustomed to the deceptive distances in this clear atmosphere, this time we were thoroughly deluded. That walk of ten minutes lengthened into one of an hour as the distance proved to be fully three miles. Crossing the meadow we climbed a gentle slope of clay and sulfur to the very edge of the solfatara. What a weird and impressive scene it is! Every beauty of form and color, every horror of sound and odor are here united. Unnumbered tons of sublimed sulfur are piled in banks and pyramids at the base of the cliffs. Great pools of boiling bolus hiss, splutter and stink. The air is foul with hot hydrogen sulfid and stifling with sulfur dioxid. Wavering columns of steam render the walking dangerous as oftentimes one can not see the place where he is about to set his foot. We crunched through the beds of monoclinic crystals and frequently slumped into them to the knee and when we pulled the leg from the hole a new column of steam shot into the air. Geologists who have examined this place have had unpleasant experiences because of approaching too near to the centers of activity. Hooker states that “In endeavoring to avoid one of these unpleasant gusts, (of steam), which threatened to annoy me while I was gathering some specimens, I jumped up to my knees in a semi-liquid mass of hot sulphur.” What a thing of beauty is a hole in these warm sulfur needles! They are like needles, three to six inches long and glisten with the purest amber glow. The viscid mass of clay and mineral earths stick to the boots and it is often a task to withdraw the feet from the clinging mess. The appearance of the surface is deceitful, for often when it seems most secure the crust breaks and a spurt of hot steam shoots up beside the leg in a very unpleasant manner. A thin hard crust of sulfur often conceals a seething mass of the same material and one literally walks, “Perignes, suppositos cineri doloso.”[6] Elevated rims about the sizzling pools hold the viscid mass in place except when a sudden eruption of steam causes the material to slop over the sides of the basins in a frightful manner. Add to this the steam-filled air, the moaning of the cauldrons, the roar of the escaping gases from a hole high up in the side of the talus and the thought that the whole area may collapse into the bowels of the earth or explode with volcanic force and the mental situation is complete.

That vent in the cliff pours out its hot gases with such a force that it sounds like the whistle of a locomotive and the sound is plainly audible in the bedchamber three miles distant. Day after day and century after century this safety valve has been sounding and it is sounding as we write,—an awful sound to unaccustomed ears, a pleasant one to those who live within the radius of this wide belt of volcanic activity, for it signifies safety from violent eruption as long as the generating forces beneath the surface are continually spent.

It has been estimated that there are no less than 250,000 tons of sulfur in this place and it is constantly increasing by sublimation from below. The hot area is on a line with hundreds of others of a like character, active or temporally quiet, extending in a line from Krisuvik to Thingvallavatn, a distance of thirty miles. This line is also on the main diagonal of volcanic activity extending from Reykjaness to MÝvatn in the northeast. Over five hundred square miles of the fire peninsular is of recent volcanic origin and the subarea is highly heated. Numerous hot springs abound, fumaroles are without number, earthquakes are many, lava frequently issues from the fissures in the mountain sides and there is evidently beneath the crust of earth another Phlegethon, that flaming river of the under world in whose channel flowed flames instead of water.

Around Krisuvik there are many extinct craters filled with water. Gestavatn, Guest-Lake, near the solfatara is of this character. It is said to be without a bottom but this is because it is funnel-shaped and very deep in the center, which marks the old volcanic tube. It is strange that in the midst of this heated territory the waters of this lake should be icy cold. It is a beautiful sheet of water, so deep and so clear that it holds the reflected blue of the sky appearing now to be a sheet of lapis lazuli and now a sapphire blaze. Around its margin a rim of grass and flowers thrive but beyond the ring volcanic rubble and patches of sulfur and clay displace the vegetation. At a greater distance the brilliant surface of Kleifavatn, Cliff-Lake, reflects the encircling bluffs and ragged gorges within whose recesses a small herd of reindeer seek seclusion from the traveller. Down by the sea the Eldborg stands, well worthy of inspection. It is a mound-shaped crater with very thin walls. It would seem as if Pluto was sparing of his solid material when he built this funnel, for he made it as frail as possible as if in haste to pour out the molten matter in a flood upon the surrounding plains. The shore side of the mountain is the home of countless puffin, skua and other aquatic birds. Along the sands of the sea the seal bask in the sunshine or crawl back to their element with the retreating tide. Taken as a whole, the Krisuvik region is a place of fascination, even though one stands on the thin crust of sulfur that feebly supports him, with fire and brimstone in incessant action beneath his feet and clouds of stifling and vile smelling gases enveloping him and his ears are closed to all other sounds by the thundering of the exploding steam. The beauty of the lakes and fells, the peacefulness of the little farm and the kindness of its owners make the traveller disposed to linger till the margin of time between the present and the sailing of the steamer from Reykjavik has been reduced to a minimum.

It was a smiling Sunday morning when we reluctantly packed for the last day of Icelandic travel and turned our faithful steeds towards their home pastures for a much needed rest, little thinking that we would return the following season for a more extended tour and then again on the succeeding summer. On our way towards Reykjavik we turned aside for one more gaze at the alluring solfatara, for one more plunge into the viscid sulfur, for one more sniff of its putrid air, then, swinging around the shoulder of the smoking bluffs we wound our tortuous way to the heights above, dismounted and looked down for the last time upon that scene so fair and yet so terrible. Upon the rim of a great crater we held the ponies by the bridle rein and silently absorbed the glories of the panorama. Below,—thousands of tons of yellow sulfur sublimed in Nature’s furnace sloped downward to the grassy fields awaiting the coming of some genius of industry to transmute it into the precious metal,—from the yellow mounds rose the never ending columns of odorous steam filling the air with quivering spirals and vibrating with a weird incessant roar,—beyond, the lazy sea in azure blue mirrored ten thousand waterfowl on its burnished surface,—to the west, Hengill, arrests the eye, its slopes wreathed in a hazy mantle of vapor issuing from the encircling springs and fumaroles,—nearer, the deep cerulean waters of the crater lakes, the home of the wild swan and golden-eyed duck, throw back the smiles of heaven,—southwest, Reykjavik stands white against the black and ponderous cliffs of Esja,—southward, FaxafjÖrÐr cradles a hundred sailing craft upon its bosom and beyond the fiord, great Snaefells JÖkull projects its cone of sparkling ice six thousand feet where the north Atlantic mingles with the icy waters of the Arctic Sea.

The ride of twenty-five miles to the capital city is over a series of craters and across the hraun to HafnarfjÖrÐr, Harbor-Fiord, thence by an excellent road to Reykjavik. The crossing of the craters is of considerable interest to the geologist. The narrow trail winds down the rim, across the floor strewn with ash and scoriae then up the farther side and thus on from crater to crater till the mountain side is reached then down the mountain side by a winding, troublesome trail to the valley. Here is met as wild a scene of desolation as is to be found in the south of Iceland. The lava flowed over the valley in great billows and out to the ocean. What a commotion that was when the fluid rock slipped hissing into the icy sea, what volumes of steam filled the air, what explosions in the cooling lava as the ocean checked its destructive progress! The lava rises in mammoth blisters with numerous caves that shelter the sheep in the autumn storms. Over all is spread a thin mantle of lichens and within the crevices the Arctic willow and dwarf birch are struggling to reclaim for vegetation this awful wilderness. A wilderness it is, a desolation, a place where witches hung their devil’s cauldrons and brewed their fiendish potions. So intense were their fires that their pots were ruined and when they fled they left the curled and contorted fragments to ensnare the feet of the orthodox traveller. The trail winds down the sides of the cliffs and among the towering blocks in a dizzy fashion. A portion of this territory is called SveiflahÁls, Rolling Hills, that is, an undulating mass of lava. On the right rise huge cliffs that have been frost-shattered and at the foot of the narrow ravines that embouche into the plain huge fans of multi-colored rubble are spread above the crumpled rock. From their coverts in the crevices and from within the little caves spring the ptarmigan while the whimbrel’s call is ceaseless from the undulating hillocks. No grass grows here, no sheep scurry before the traveller and not till the KaldÁ, Cold-River, is reached is there anything for the ponies to eat. This is a delightful place to lunch, this grass grown mound within the river, a tiny island in the midst of ice-cold and sparkling water. The river itself is a natural curiosity, as it rises in several springs from under the mountain, like those at HlÍÐarendi, flows merrily for two miles and then plunges into a rift to be lost forever, unless it has an underground passage to the sea.

HafnarfjÖrÐr is a prosperous trading village with a good harbor, a high school and many excellent homes. It contains one house reported to have been built by Snorri Sturlasson. As he was born in 1178 this house is of great age and worthy of a visit. It was doubtless built as reported, for tradition in Iceland is not like Virgil’s Fame, it is truth. The road from this village to Reykjavik is of the best construction and one must admire the skill of the engineer as the pony canters around the curves, ascends the gentle grades and skirts the numerous small inlets of the sea. Many of these tiny bays indent the land, hundreds of piles of peat are drying in the August wind, sheep and cattle are scattered over the upland slopes, the late summer flowers are in full bloom, the tiny fishing craft are rocking on the shimmering sea and the wash of the water in the lava pebbles on the strand adds music to enhance the pleasure of this seaside ride. Out of the austerity of the volcanic passes, into the quiet and serenity of the uncharred meadows, comes the rider, and the load of grandeur and sublimity is lifted that beauty and charm may soothe the mind after the contemplation of these natural creations that astonish and awe. This is the pleasure road of Icelandic youth and those gentlemen who wish to display the points of the latest saddle pony from the great horse fairs of the north. If one has formed the impression that Icelanders are sedate and morose and never given to enjoyment that breeds laughter, he should travel this road on Sunday when it is thronged with country folk and city dwellers alike. Gay groups are here and there, songs that are merry from throats that are attuned fill the air, and seated upon a jutting rock are two young people reciting to each other in this softened light that age-old story, that sweetest of all stories, love. This seaside drive is to the people of Reykjavik what Riverside Drive is to the people of New York City.

One afternoon in Reykjavik we entered the shop of a fish merchant and engaged a boat with two men to row us across the harbor to Engey, Meadow-Island, a few miles from the city. The price agreed upon was three kronur, about seventy-nine cents. We were absent seven hours. The boatmen were so considerate of our pleasure that on the return to the wharf I handed to each a krone, then went to the shop of the merchant and paid the three kronur as agreed. The following afternoon this gentleman met me in the street. He had an interpreter with him who accosted me as follows:—

“Are you the gentleman who engaged my boat to go to Engey yesterday?”

I replied that I was.

“Did you not agree with me for three kronur?”

“I did. Did I not go to your shop on my return and pay you?”

“Yes,” he replied, “but on landing you gave to each of the boatmen a krone, you then paid me three kronur. The men left the money at the office last night. You have overpaid me two kronur and I have come to return them.”

With this statement he handed to me two kronur which I was obliged to accept. This incident taught me that there is one country in Europe where a man makes a price, expects you to pay it and neither expects nor desires any tip. Is there any other place in Europe or in the United States in which hotel servants, railway porters or cabmen would turn their tips over to their employer at night? But, if such a condition can be found, where is the hotel manager, railway official or stable owner who would search the next day to return a tip to the man who dared to give it? Tipping is a violation of a contract; in Iceland contracts are inviolate.

Engey is a delightful place, if one is interested in the eider duck. They breed in thousands on this and the neighboring island of ViÐey, Wide-Island. The birds are tame and will allow one to stroke their feathers or lift them from their nests. The birds are protected for their down which is a large item of export from Iceland. When building their nests the birds pluck the down from their breasts to line the nests; when these are well lined the owner of the land robs the nests; the birds then repluck their breasts and again the nests are robbed. For the third time they pluck their breasts and are not disturbed till after the eggs hatch, when the remaining down is taken. It is interesting to note that every crevice and every space under a bunch of grass or the edge of the turf is occupied with the birds. One must walk with caution so as not to step on them. Down by the water the earliest hatched sport in the pools while the mother sits quietly by with one or two of the puffy balls perched upon her back. Above, the tern, Kria, so named in imitation of their cry, dart close to the nests and in a threatening manner also at the people who intrude, uttering their loud cries of kria, kria, kria.

Late in August we embarked in the little mail boat, the Ceres, homeward bound for Copenhagen. I had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Edward Newton of London, a fellow traveller some years before in Labrador. When we parted in Halifax we had never expected to meet again. But here we were in a remote corner of the world, relating old trials and comparing notes of our Icelandic experiences. It was a quiet Sunday evening and many small boats hovered around the Ceres to bid her farewell as she hoisted her anchor and steamed down the glassy fiord. There were feelings of deep regret in departing from these shores where preconceived ideas had been so pleasantly upset by what we had seen and felt. We were leaving an island, remarkable for its physical characteristics, astonishing for its contrasts, differing greatly from every other spot on the globe. That which had chiefly attached us to Iceland was the display of integrity and moral worth, the high intellectual attainments and the sincere friendliness of its people.