Iceland: Horseback tours in saga land

During the eruption I caught a glimpse of a dark object in the steam which fell with a thud upon the grass. After the display and the basin had filled I sought that spot and found a mass of geyserite twelve inches square and two inches thick. It was still hot. It is perforated with steam tubes in every direction. I stowed it in the packing case and it is now in the Science Museum at Springfield, Mass.

At nine thirty that evening we were again treated to the same phenomenon by Geysir and again at six the following morning. Three magnificent ejections at a cost of only ten dollars worth of soap. It was worth much more. The final display was the finest of the three and lasted ten minutes. We were dressing when the cry of “Geysir!” again reached the Inn. What did it matter that the toilet was not finished! Travellers from Denmark, Sweden, Norway, America, Germany and distant parts of Iceland were there to see Geysir spout and not to be fastidious about coiffure and raiment. We all assembled hastily at the brink, each unconscious of the others’ presence until the display was over. Then! What a startled and confused company! Several were clad only in sleeping costumes, some had put on one stocking and were holding a shoe and a stocking in the hand, some dragged a skirt by the band and still others trailed their pantaloons by the suspenders. One man held his shirt by the sleeve and had one leg in his trousers while the other was innocent of all clothing. There were Icelandic matrons and maidens barefooted, some with a skirt wrapped around them and others with a sheet. Rows of discarded garments marked the way from the Inn to the mound and during the retreat, which was a blushing and precipitous one, each caught from the grass the clothes that had fallen during the advance. Ludicrous describes it well, but every one was happy and during the breakfast which followed the confusion was forgotten.

Standing upon the rim of the great basin and gazing at the azure surface the peacefulness of the scene belies the turbulence of the hour before. In the distance Láng Jökull glistens in the brilliant sunshine. Yonder, across the Hvitá, cloud-capped and snowy-mantled Hekla rises grand and lonely above its lava-wasted plain. Around us the numerous springs and fumaroles emit their endless columns of vapor and Strokr moans and groans. The little geyser which we packed with turf two nights ago has been spouting without interruption for two hours. What a contrast! Arctic ice and Plutonic fire battling for supremacy as they have done for ages in this land of strange confusion,—and still the conflict wages. Loth are we to turn from this manifestation of power and imposing grandeur of Geysir, even in his hours of rest, but Gullfoss lies beyond the Túngufljót, the Thjorsá and the Ölfusá must be forded, Hekla challenges from the midst of his desolation, the peaceful pastoral plains of the south are calling, the weird and frightful solfataras of Krisuvik entice,—and we must saddle and away.

CHAPTER IX
GULLFOSS

It requires an effort of the will to leave Geysir. There is a fascination in this heated area that is like the sirens in Ulysses’ tale. We mounted in the wind-driven spray of the little geyser and turned towards the Túngufljót, several tributaries of which had to be forded. The quicksands are frequent in these streams and must be avoided. Many ponies have foundered in them and brought their riders to grief. The grass plains are freely sprinkled with flowers and as we left the geyser region behind, the cottongrass, Eriophorum angustifolium, reappeared. This plant waves its white tassel in all the Icelandic meadows, sometimes so abundantly as to make the distant area appear like a patch of snow. It is entirely absent in soil that is under the influence of any of the hot springs. The meadows through which we passed are excellent grass lands and the hay harvest was in progress. The men were swinging the short scythe, the women raking and the boys and ponies carrying the bundles of hay to the stacks.

Gullfoss, Golden-Fall, is distant ten miles from Geysir. The trail leads over a very boggy country, especially after the crossing of the Túngufljót. A good bridge now spans the main river. It was a large and merry cavalcade that spread out upon the rising ground in the bog above the river. All the guests at Geysir, satisfied with having seen the eruptions, were bent upon improving the opportunity to visit the famous falls. The section of bog, to which we have referred, is on an upland slope and it is filled with ruts, hummocks and moss sponges. The hummocks are crowned with several species of Juncus, the cotton-grass points out the moss sponges and the slimy algae locate the wettest spaces. The older ponies with eyes and nose alert always avoid the sloughs. If there is evidence of the recent passage of a pony, another will confidently follow. It is interesting to watch these little fellows sniffing the ground and testing it with the fore feet when no foot marks point a sure way. Leave the rein loose upon the neck, curb your impatience and trust the pony to keep out of a bog; urge him to take a short cut or to increase his chosen pace, and horse and rider are sure to become stuck in the bog, a bad predicament. Some English writers describe this passage as most difficult and dangerous. Take a local guide from Haukadalr and let no traveller who reaches Geysir forbear a visit to Gullfoss on account of the bog. The passage is not so very bad and the falls are worth much more than the effort.

At the summit of the hill, across the muddy area, we paused to view the scene below. The Túngufljót drains the southern slopes of Láng Jökull, its three great arms thrust downward through the alluvial plains, a mighty trident of hydraulic power, forced by the melting glaciers during the continuous shine of the summer sun. It is a delightful view,—the luxuriant green below crossed by the silver threads of the rivers, the whiteness of the glaciers across the valley and the steam clouds hovering over the heated area.

We turned to the north where the thunders of the falls boomed from beyond the cliffs and the mists glistened high in the air. No falls, not even the river is visible, they are embedded in the canyon a mile beyond. The crashing roar of the water increased and turning an angle of the cliffs the steeds paused upon the brink of the Hvitá canyon. The full glory of the falls burst upon us radiant in its sheaf of rainbows. Leaving the ponies to graze upon the brink, we descended the crumbling wall to the level of the triangular area within the canyon. This grassy, mist-washed mass of rock is on a level with the top of the lower falls, the real plunge of the Hvitá into the lava abyss. As far as the mass of water is concerned this fall is the largest, not only in Iceland but in all Europe. Its rival, the Dettifoss, Drop-Falls, has a deeper canyon, a higher fall but there is not so great a mass of water. This waterfall is on the Jökulsá, Ice-Mountain-River, in the northeast of Iceland. The canyon of the Hvitá is V-shaped, about fifty feet wide at the top and not more than a dozen feet at the bottom. Most of the waterfalls in Iceland are formed, like the Öxerá, by a river falling into a Gjá, rift, from the side of the canyon. In the case of the Gullfoss the water falls into the end of the canyon, for this great rift begins at the falls. Just above the main falls the water rushes over a series of ledges, columnar basalt bluffs, fifteen hundred feet wide and fifty feet high. The space between these falls and the main plunge is short. Here the water runs wide and deep with a troubled surface, fretted with foam and impatient for the approaching plunge into the unfathomed depth.

A huge mass of rock divides the main falls at the top with about one hundred feet in width of water on each side. It is from this point that H. Rider Haggard in Eric Brighteyes causes the hero to descend into the canyon of the Hvitá to swim to the lower end in order to win the hand of Gudruðr, the Fair. Of all the strange and imaginative tales which this writer has related this is the most improbable. The water upon the brink of the two arms of the falls is eighty feet deep and the plunge into the canyon is not less than two hundred. What a water power and no syndicate to control it!

The true falls can not be photographed. The triangular plot upon which we have been standing is within the canyon and the walls rise above us to the height of about two hundred feet. Above us the palisaded buttresses, drenched with spray, glisten in the morning sun and hanging over the chasm frown upon the river below as if threatening to prevent its escape. The imprisoned waters boil and foam in their mad contention with the walls ragingly impatient of their restriction, anxious to escape to the rural calmness of the southern plains. So mighty is the mass of water, so narrow are the depths into which it hurls itself that one must believe that subterranean passages exist or the lava rift would fill and quickly choke itself to overflowing. It is possible that these hidden rifts, results of earthquakes, supply the water for the hot springs far away. Perhaps the ramifications of great Geysir’s underground system reach even to the foot of this canyon, even as one end of the drinking horn, out of which Thor drank in the halls of Utgard-Loki, was placed in the sea, so that Thor lost his wager by being unable to empty the horn at a single draught.

Grim, grand and glorious is the Foss, surpassing Niagara in scenic environment. Under suitable conditions Niagara has its well-known rainbow, but Gullfoss has several of them arching the waters one above the other in the dense volume of spray that is hurled two hundred and fifty feet above the surface of the stream. If the fabled pot of gold at the foot of the rainbow arch is to be obtained anywhere, it must be sought for in this place, for within the walls of the upper canyon the rainbows end. One may pass through them and even stand at the springing of the prismatic arch if he is willing to take the drenching of the down-pouring floods of spray, like sheets of water in a New England thunder storm. Grand as is the Gullfoss, its setting is even more impressive. Above the plain Láng Jökull stretches forty miles across the horizon, lifting its unexplored surface of adamantine ice high in air, a perpetual challenge to him who would search the unknown. At its base and near at hand Hvitávatn, White-River-Lake, the source of the river, carries a fleet of icebergs upon its sun-lit surface. In the perpetual sunlight of Iceland’s summer months this vast icefield discharges constant floods down its cliffs. Hence the Hvitá starts upon its turbulent course to the sea a full-grown river laden with glacial clay. Towards the east the peaks of Kerlingafjáll, Old-Woman-Peaks, arrest the eye, around whose skirts hot springs are scattered sending up a mass of vapor like incense to the heroic gods of Scandinavian mythology.

The thunders of Gullfoss diminished as we followed the brink of its canyon southward and descended into the stony waste of Biskuptúngur, Bishop’s-Tongue, a tongue-shaped mass of fertile land in the valley of the Túngufljót formerly belonging to a bishop. Here the foaming of its silt-laden stream was the only evidence of the recent travail of the Hvitá. Of the twenty travellers in the party from Geysir all had returned except one, a German who stayed with us till we reached Skipholt, Ship-Ridge. On the way he told us of an amusing experience he had had with the Icelandic pony. During the first hour of his ride he wished to stop and repeatedly shouted “Whoa!” The pony only went the faster and finally ran away with him. He stated that he had ridden horseback in many lands and no matter what language was spoken this was the first country where “whoa!” did not mean “stop.” Hót or hoa is the Icelandic word at which a pony starts quickly into a trot or gallop and the sound so much resembles “whoa” that the pony was doing his best to be obedient.

About noon we regained the trail that leads from Geysir across the Hvitá towards Hekla. And again we found pleasure in the earlier visit of the King, for a good bridge has been constructed across the Hvitá at this place. This is one of the worst of the Icelandic rivers to ford and many people have been drowned in the attempt. A few miles through a delightful country brought us to Skipholt which we found to be a model farm. It is one of the best in Iceland. During the visit of the King in 1907 he was so well pleased with the conditions at this farm that he presented the owner with a medal in the form of a cross for the excellence of his work and the skill he had displayed in the construction of the buildings and in the management of his flocks and herds. It was the wish of the King that it might prove an incentive to the neighboring farmers to do their best to imitate their more prosperous neighbor.

It was Sunday and no work was in progress. We left the ponies in the lane and went up to the house where we received a cordial welcome and the farmer’s wife set before us an excellent dinner. With a mixture of English, German and French we conversed for an hour over the dinner with our German companion who proved to be a professor at Berlin but spoke no English. The landlady beamed upon us, all the while conscious of our difficulties and had it not been for the Icelandic reserve I have no doubt that she would have proved a good interpreter. It was not till later that we discovered that many of these people can speak several languages. The biscuit, pastry, griddlecakes, mutton and coffee were excellent as well as the butter, cheese and milk and it did seem, by other standards, as if we had eaten more than the value of twenty-five cents each, which was the charge.

At Skipholt there is an excellent set of buildings mostly made of wood, the turf walls are in prime repair, the fields free from stones and smooth, smoothness being a rare condition of Icelandic mowing fields, the flocks are large and the cattle numerous. It is the only farm in the country where I have seen running water supplied to the stables. I must add that there are other farms in the north which the King did not visit that are as prosperous as Skipholt. This was the best one that he visited. If he had gone to Skútustaðir, Kalmungstúnga or Miklibaer he would also have found praiseworthy conditions and no doubt would have rewarded, at least with a word of praise, the industrious farmers at these steads.

Bidding the bondé and the good-wife at Skipholt good bye and receiving in return their hearty góðr á daginn we turned towards Hruni. Our German companion continued southward to Skálholt and we left the road to climb the series of ridges between the valleys of the Hvitá and the Laxá, Salmon-River. The ponies picked their way over ridge after ridge of lava crags with alternate ascent and descent. In some places the declivities were so steep that it was difficult to retain our seat in the pommelless saddles. The surcingles were old and cracked and we put little trust in them. However, they held, else we would have experienced a very undignified descent. I have seen hundreds of saddles and bridles in Iceland and never have I seen a new one. I often wondered if they were ever new. It is remarkable that they seldom break. As we climbed the last ridge we met a barebacked rider, a tall, sun-browned shepherd carrying a lost lamb in his bosom with its head protruding above the rider’s arm and the well known words of Elizabeth Clephane’s hymn came to our lips,—

It was five in the evening when we mounted the last ridge and looked down upon Hruni. It was one of the fairest sights I have ever witnessed,—the basin-shaped valley of verdure surrounded by lofty ridges, the thousand sheep scattered upon the hillsides and through the meadow, the group of houses which constitute the farm buildings, and the little church across the yard, the steam rising from some hot springs near the dwellings, the hundreds of haycocks waiting for the morrow to be taken to the stacks, the songs of the maidens driving the cows home from the pasture,—a picture of prosperity and of peace. Surely this is not Iceland or else the name is a misnomer.

It cost us an hour to pick our way across the hassocky bog, luxuriant with rushes, sedges, and cotton-grass. No frog croaks in the Iceland marshes and no reptile ever glides through the sheltering grass, they are unknown. It seemed as if we might reach the house in ten minutes but it took an hour. We learned that to approach an Icelandic farmhouse it is usually necessary to ride around it in a wide detour. Bogs, streams, fences or hot areas seem ever to lie between the house and the place where the traveller first sees it. During our circuit we saw a flaxen haired, barefooted lad seated upon a hummock with a book and a bundle of plants by his side. A dog was with him and two others watched the sheep from distant points, reclining with noses between their feet with eyes alert for any change in the direction of the feeding sheep. If a group of them started towards the mowing land the dog spoke once or twice and if the sheep did not turn he trotted nearer and spoke again in a more determined tone. The sheep obeyed and the dog returned to his vantage point. I dismounted when the boy saluted us and shook hands with him and returned the Icelandic salutation. I examined the handful of flowers and noticed that some of them were partially dissected. Reaching for the worn and faded book I discovered that it was a Manual of the Icelandic Flora and that it was written entirely in Latin. A lad of twelve or thirteen years of age; his task, the keeping of a thousand sheep with no fences beyond the immediate farm enclosure; his recreation, the study of botany through the medium of Latin. Of such boys are the Icelandic scholars made, not through the medium of costly buildings, fine equipment, luxurious homes, indulgent parents, theaters, parties and secret societies, but through the wiser agencies of paternal love that sternly upholds usefulness, interest in study for the love of knowledge. Though barefoot and clad in vaðmal, the Icelandic lad will obtain an education that surpasses the products of the endowed institutions of other lands.

At six in the afternoon we were welcomed in the guest room of the pastor’s home. Kjartan Helgason, farmer and minister, labors six days upon his large farm and on the seventh preaches in two different churches, riding several miles to meet his distant parishioners. He came soon after our arrival and welcomed us with a cordial, honest welcome. That Icelandic welcome! It comes from the heart and the handshake conveys more than words can express. Hospitality was a sacred word in ancient Scandinavia and though but a filmy covering for hypocrisy in many more favored lands, in Iceland the essence is maintained. Welcome! How often we say it and hear it and do not know the meaning. We welcome some long absent loved one. Is it the same when we welcome a neighbor or a frequent visitor? What about the welcome accorded to a total stranger who brings us nothing but extra work, who calls us from our necessary task, who eats our choicest viands, who uses our guest chamber, consumes our time with questions that pry into our very secrets? Would you know the meaning of this ancient word you must see it exemplified as a dependent stranger in a strange land. Vel-kominn, well-come, it is good that you have come. Unless this meaning rings in the sound and bristles in our every act it is better that we drop from our vocabulary this word which we have borrowed from an ancient race. Not alone at Hruni did we hear and feel Vel-kominn but in every household from the humblest peasant on the borders of the desert to the homes of the highest in the land, even the professors at the University, the venerable poet of the north and the Prime Minister in his mansion.

The Icelandic Sunday ends at six in the afternoon. When we came from the house after supper we were astonished to see the farm maids going to the fields with their ropes and rakes, the mowers sharpening their scythes and the general bustle of a work day. Inquiry of the pastor revealed to us the custom. The method of sharpening the scythe is unique. The Icelandic boy does not have to turn the stone while a strong man leans his weight upon the scythe and slides it back and forth across the revolving stone. As a boy I always regarded the turning of the stone as a man’s job and I still think so. Many disagreeable tasks on the farm are given to the boy just because he is a boy. In Iceland the blade is placed on a flat piece of steel and the edge slips under a presser-foot like that on a sewing machine. A rod of steel with a square end and a half inch in diameter is placed perpendicularly upon the blade between the claws of the presser-foot and is struck a smart blow with a hammer. The blade is slowly advanced under the repeated blows. The blade is thus hammered into an edge rather than ground. I noticed the custom throughout the country. At Hruni there was a machine worked with a treadle and cam that did the pounding while the operator slowly advanced the blade. Two days later I met a gentleman from Worcester, Massachusetts, to whom I mentioned this method. He had not seen it and was doubtful of the accuracy of my observations. While we were discussing it there came from the back of the buildings the sharp clink-clink-clink of the steel and he was soon convinced by observation that I was not joking. The whetstone is used in the same way as with the American farmer. It was interesting to note that all the scythestones in the country were made in New Hampshire, U. S. A. These stones are shipped to Denmark, resold by the Danish merchant and shipped to Iceland; the Icelandic trader sells them to the farmer. The farmer then pays a price that is just half of what the New England farmer pays for the same stone. It is evident that the scythestone industry does not need any tariff protection.

In front of the house an excellent patch of potatoes was in full bloom unravished by the Colorado beetle. A flowering rose bush climbed the house-wall by the door, which was flanked by several species of the old-fashioned flowers that bloom so persistently around the dilapidated dwellings of New England’s abandoned farms. A herd of cows were yielding their milk within a turf enclosure at one end of the house and the newly painted church across the lane added to the peacefulness and thriftiness of the scene.

The hot spring on the farm furnishes the heat for the cooking and the hot clay is used for baking. Rye bread is baked by digging a hole in the clay and inserting a stone jar. This bread reminded us strongly of the fine products of the old brick ovens of our grandmothers. In the evening, pastor Helgason invited us into his study and in a mixture of Icelandic, English and Latin we conversed till midnight. This library contains many volumes of choice literature, theological works, and history. He also showed us a large herbarium in which the plants were mounted accordingly to Linnaeus and named. We then learned more about the favorite occupation of the lad who tends the sheep and studies botany at the same time. Through the labor of father and son several new species of plants have been added to the flora of the country, some of them unknown elsewhere. It was my pleasure on my return to send to these botanists a copy of the last edition of Gray’s Manual and I count among my choicest letters from Iceland a reply from Kjartan Helgason to which was attached a rare and beautiful gentian, Gentiana campestris, L. var. Íslandica.

The bedrooms to which we were assigned were models of neatness and comfort. The eiderdown coverlets, everpresent, were encased in dainty slips and the sheets were artistically embroidered. Embroidery is a pastime on the farms and the industry of girls as well as the women has produced many beautiful pieces that would be given places of honor in the American guest room. Spinning, weaving, knitting are thriving arts in Icelandic homes. The mill and dry goods stores have not driven these delightful occupations from the homes. Delightful? Yes. When labor is performed because of the joy it affords the laborer, then the product is not only useful but it becomes a work of art. William Morris said, “Art is the expression of a man’s joy in his work.” These Icelandic works of art are made for the use of generations. They are not items of common occurrence in the dry goods store, purchased to-day, worn out to-morrow or thrown aside because your neighbor has found a different pattern. Being individual work, no two are alike. Each works into the fabric her own design and with the stitches go thought, care, accuracy and the result is art. No better attraction could be placed in the show window of our linen merchants than some of these tastefully embroidered pillowslips, table covers or other fancy work.

The quality of the hospitality in these Icelandic homes is such as to make the stranger feel as if he were at home and it is all done so quietly and without any display. It is simply natural. Every where there is perfect safety, on the long trail, in the village or on the lonely farm. All one has he may leave exposed in the sheds for days without fear of its being disturbed. Honesty is bred in the race. It is refreshing to have no use for locks and to know that one can not lose anything unless he deliberately casts it into a rift. Whatever one leaves behind him will be forwarded and as Ólafur once said,—

“It is a matter of great pride if an Icelander finds anything to be able to return it to the owner and he will make every effort to do this.”

The people deal honestly with each other and with the stranger. In former days it was customary to entertain the traveller over night and accept no payment. It is not so now and it is better as it is. Supplies must be carried many days over mountains, across the rivers and always on the backs of the ponies so that they are expensive. The Icelanders are not rich, though many of them are quite comfortably situated, as is the farmer at Hruni. Still, it is not right to take of their substance simply because they feel it in their hearts to give it. In spite of the payment for the lodging and the food, the traveller will always depart knowing that he has received kindness, comfort and thoughtfulness for which he can not pay.

The people are quiet in demeanor, often reserved before strangers, but they are not morose and despondent as some writers have stated. They thoroughly enjoy a good time, laugh and joke with the wittiest of people, are fond of singing and have excellent voices. The tone of the voice is soft, refined and pleasant to the ear. There are no dialects. They speak as did their ancestors of twelve centuries ago and the accounts of these people in their ancient Sagas in the main are true to day. Bad manners in children I have never seen: in politeness they are models of a high order. They are the children we have read about, those “that are seen and not heard.” It is worth a cake of chocolate at any time just to see the face of the child light up and have him shyly present his hand to the giver in genuine gratitude. They are affectionate, obedient and watchful for the welfare of the parents in their childish way. Often have I seen a girl of ten or twelve wait upon the table, while the remainder of the family were eating, quietly attending to all the duties at the right time without a word of direction and doing it as well as a maid trained in the service.

Outside of Reykjavik, throughout the country the women do not sit down to eat with the men unless a woman is the guest. In all the homes where we stayed, we never had the hostess sit at the table with us but once, but the men often ate with us. This is an ancient custom of the race. When the meal is over the guest rises and shakes hands with the host or hostess and says “thanks for the meal” and the response is, “may it do you good.”

CHAPTER X
HEKLA

Each day in Iceland brings new scenes. Each morning we found ourselves asking,—“What will be the excitement to-day?” The surprises of the landscape are innumerable. Though we were somewhat accustomed to the wild and strange scenery, each ascent of a ridge, each turning of a mountain angle presented surprising views. This is one of the charms of travel on horseback through a roadless country. The variety of scenes that unfold before the eye is as rich as the changes in New England weather. Day after day in the saddle does not produce monotony, the unexpected lures the traveller onward and when supper is over and he sits down upon some commanding hillside of the farm to record the events of the day he is prompted to write,—“This has been the best day of all.”

We turned southward from Hruni, forded the Laxá and climbed the sheep-pastured ridges that make a gridiron of the territory between the Laxá and the Thjórsá, Bull-River. The farms are widely scattered but they have every appearance of rural prosperity. The grazing lands are extensive, the grass abundant and such masses of flowers in bloom as we trampled during these ten miles I have never seen beyond the influence of cultivation. These pastures are rich in nutritious grass and thousands of sheep and many ponies and cows are grazing on the hillsides. From these slopes we look down upon the busy haying scenes in the tún, strings of ponies laden with hay, a bundle on each side, guided by a child from field to haystack, maidens with rakes turning the fragrant grass, men and women swinging scythes to a merry tune which all are singing,—these are the elements of the Arcadian picture.

At noon as we were working our way over a rough and deeply rutted plot of meadow by the river, the pack horses, in disputing the right of priority to one of the ditches, rubbed their packing cases together so vigorously that the metal hangers of one of the saddles broke and it required an hour of time and all the string and straps we could muster to enable us to proceed. That night the farmer, in a little forge as primitive as that of Tubal Cain, wrought new hangers. Nearly every farmer has one of these little forges for repairing his instruments. When the shop is not in use as a blacksmith’s shop it is often used for smoking meat and fish.

Soon after the accident we reached Thjórsáholt, Bull-Ridge. Here we had our dinner upon the grass between the house and the river, the weather being delightful. The Thjórsá is broad and rapid and its waters are icy cold. The farmer has a small boat and is required by the government to act as ferryman. At the bank of the river, packing cases, saddles and bridles were all piled in a heap into the shaky and leaking boat. We drove the ponies into the water to swim to the other side. The two pack horses fully understood what was expected of them and struck boldly into the current. Some of the saddle ponies, after being swept down stream a short distance, being chilled in the water, returned to the shore. We drove them in again and this time they persevered. How I pitied them in the cold water! The river is nearly a half mile wide, the current runs so rapidly that it breaks into white water and it sweeps the ponies down stream so rapidly that it seems impossible for their strength to endure till they can reach the opposite shore. In the midstream the water swept over their backs so that only their noses and ears were above the water. When the last ones were half way over we followed in the boat, five of us in number, and were swept rather than rowed in a diagonal line down stream. When the ponies reached the opposite bank they rolled in the sand, shook themselves dry and cut capers as if they were yet colts wild and free in their mountain pastures with no experience of curb and strap. Each day revealed some new accomplishment of these hardy beasts and this day my admiration surpassed all previous experiences.

We were nearing Hekla, Hooded, so named from the hood of cloud that nearly always caps the summit. Evidences of its ten centuries and more of destruction were all around us in deserts of ash and sand, ruined farms, once the finest in the land, fragments and masses of lava that had been hurled fifteen and twenty miles in the many violent explosions from the craters of the volcano and the changed water courses that had been blocked by the flowing lava or choked by the drifting sand. In single file the ponies waded through the fine red, yellow and black sand and the dust kicked up by the troup literally obscured the leaders. The wind sifted the fine, gritty material through every needle-hole in our clothing; it filled our hair, blinded the eyes and produced miniature mud-cakes in the mouth. An hour of this work satisfied us and we rejoiced as we edged into a partly turfed section of the plain. Here the sheep in scattered groups of three to fifteen marked the outskirts of the grazing land and turning towards them we soon entered a long, narrow strip of excellent grass land between two masses of the recent lava flow. On approaching a farm we noted how the farmer had constructed a series of wind-breaks of stone to keep the sifting sand from encroaching too vigorously upon the mowing land. There is very little good turf in this section for fence building and the barbed wire has been substituted. How out of place it is in Iceland! It is ugly enough when hidden in the brush of a back pasture in New England but when it stands out bare and threatening above the green turf of an Icelandic meadow and supplants the grass-grown walls of ancient days, which add so much to the charm of the landscape, it is incongruous. There are several farms in the neighborhood of Hekla which are mere fragments of their former size and to traverse the sand and lava debris of this section is to realize a little of the terrible havoc the volcano has spread around its base.

At four in the afternoon we reached Galtalaekur, Boar-Brook, a poor little farm, just a remnant of grass between the black lava and the ash heaps where once a myriad acres of the choicest grazing lands in Iceland supported a large population. The buildings are very old and are strictly of the ancient type, consisting of a series of six stone and turfed walled huts built side by side. Each hut has a gable in front, no two of the same height, but the roof is rounded down to the ground at the back. The eaves of the adjacent roofs coalesce and in the gutters the flowers attain an abnormal development. There is no regularity as to the size of the different sections of the house. Each portion appears to have been added in times of increasing prosperity as needed and built in proportions according to the increment of need. They have been so long constructed that age, even in an Icelandic house, is showing itself and as the building grew from one end, so now, from this same end is it crumbling. The family are retreating from house to house and unless better times come to this farm in the way of grass for cattle and sheep, a few generations more will drive the family to the last enclosure and then,—abandonment.

Let us enter the house. To do so we must stoop beneath the lintel and step down into the passage which has walls of turf, yellow and centuries dry, and an earth floor packed and worn by the trampling of unnumbered generations. There is no light in the passage save what comes through the open door and as we turn to our right, at right angles, blackness faces us. Groping a little further a gleam of light locates a door at the right which we open to enter the guest room. Here there is also evidence of age. The room is well finished with Norway spruce and innocent of paint. Age has given to the wood a dark rich brown which no paint can imitate or equal in richness of color. A triple window lets in a flood of light for there are no such unsanitary things as blinds and curtains. The windows are after the Danish plan, split through the middle, hinged at the sides and open outwards like American blinds. This is an excellent innovation of recent years and is often the only method of ventilation. Wood houses admit an abundance of air through unnumbered cracks and chinks in the joining, especially if built for speculation, but walls of turf two to three feet thick are proof against the slightest drafts. Miss Oswald in 1880 described the windows as being set solidly into the walls with no way to open. She felt the oppression of the foul air so much that she often broke out a light of glass and paid for “the accident” in the morning with an added apology. The influence of the medical officers in their fight to decrease tuberculosis has produced the desired change in window construction. I never found a guest room where the windows did not open as above described. The furniture of this room consisted of a bed three feet wide and the customary scantiness of length, a table and several chairs, numerous boxes in which clothing and valuables are stored, photographs in albums and in wire racks on the walls, and an organ made in Brattleboro, Vermont. We found these organs in every home save one during our two summers of travelling among the farms, no matter how humble the home.

The music most in evidence is sacred with numerous selections from the German and Italian masters and much of the minor lyrical music of the Icelandic school. The people are fond of music and most of them are fine singers, a few of them excellent. We will never forget the quartett and the congregational singing in the Cathedral at Reykjavik which we heard a year later. There are numerous composers, the best known being Sveinbjórn Sveinbjónsson, well known in the musical circles of Europe, who now resides in Edinburgh, Scotland. A large amount of the music has been composed for the love-songs, idyls and pastoral hymns written by the local poets. The themes of the song writers are mostly pastoral, or, they are an appreciation of the charming scenery which inspired such writers as Jonas Hallgrimson and Matthias Jochumsson. The subtlety of the Icelandic language does not permit of accurate translation of the fine meaning into English. To illustrate one of these appreciations combined with ardent love of country, I have rendered into English, without any attempt at alliteration, one stanza from Jonas Hallgrimson,—

There are songs of the meadow and the sheep-tending, of fishing and of the hay-harvest, of returning spring and dying summer, of the happiness of home-life, of sorrow and joy and love and the whole scale of human emotions. In the midst of their poverty and toil they are a cheerful and happy race, singing at their occupations or writing songs in the saddle or at the sheep-tending. The children are taught to appreciate poetry and to write it and the result is that nearly every one makes verses and out of the many attempts there is much that is excellent. Much of the poetry is spontaneous as in the Saga days. The Sagas are replete with impromptu verses witty, ironical, boastful and descriptive. Thus Kari, when Skapti accuses him of “sneaking out of this atonement” after the famous trial of 1112 at the Althing for the burning of Njal, retorts, in part,—

The great Icelandic poets have translated into the Icelandic many of Shakespeare’s plays, the Iliad, Odyssey, Paradise Lost and scores of the minor pieces of English and American poetry as well as the masterpieces of German, French and Scandinavian literature. When we learn that the rules for Icelandic poetry are strict, that not only rhyme and rhythm but a complicated alliteration must be incorporated in the verses, we can understand what a task these translators have had. There are many variations of the alliteration. In the following is noted not only simple alliteration but also that the second hemistich begins with the penultimate syllable of the first. To illustrate note the following:—

The organ in this humble home suggested this digression. Supper over, let us return to the farm. Down by the stream there is a diminutive grist mill with hand-hewn stones fifteen inches in diameter and turned by a most primitive water wheel. The mill never stops. The rye or barley, imported from Europe, is placed in the hopper and ground whole. There is no differentiation of the botanical parts as in America, where the live stock get the nutritious portions and bread is made out of the remainder because it is “white.” When the meal bucket at the house is empty the maid goes down to the brook, removes the flour, refills the hopper and thus in rotation for years, or until the mill must be repaired. To appreciate this mill in all its simplicity one must see it. The stones are placed on the upper end of a vertical shaft. At the lower end of the shaft there are simply two paddle blades attached to turn the shaft under the pressure of the water. Simple, but effective, always at work and producing nutritious flour as long as the grains are added to the miniature hopper.

After an inspection of the mill, the same as found on many farms, I visited the mowers. They were at work with vigor, swinging the scythe with a powerful stroke. This a mower does for about an hour when he suddenly drops it in the swath, goes to the house for a bowl of Skyr, curds, a cup of coffee or lounges on the ground to smoke or take snuff with a companion in a similar degree of exhaustion. After an hour of rest he returns to his scythe and thus from early morning till midnight does he labor during the haying season. There are always some men and a few women mowing but one can usually find two or three scythes deserted by their users in the swath. I had an introduction to the crooked, hand-blistering, ache-producing instrument of America in my tender years which ripened into an acquaintance of great familiarity, which, true to the proverb, bred contempt. I examined this Icelandic turf-parer not without misgivings as to what I could do with so strange an implement. The scythe is twenty inches long, straight and two and a half inches wide. The blade is extremely thin and buckles and bends in contact with the turf. The snath is the peculiar feature. It is made like a rake handle and is six feet long, perfectly straight and attached to the scythe at right angles. The nebs are unlike; that for the right hand is like ours and similarly placed, that for the left is a straight strip about eighteen inches long and is placed on the snath at right angles and just below the shoulder, reaching down to the palm of the left hand. At the end of this strip is a cross piece to fit the palm much like the end of a canoe paddle. The end of the long snath protrudes over the left shoulder.

The men quit their work and watched me with a quizzical expression as I picked up one of these abandoned implements and swung it in the air once or twice before venturing to set it into the grass, after the fashion of a golfer before the drive. When the faces of the mowers had broken into a smile, I knew that I must try it and into the grass it went with the long steady swing of the old habit. After a few strokes I was cutting a wide clean swath and paring to the turf so that the soil showed in the approved Icelandic style. A middle aged man, who had been whetting his scythe, struck in behind me close to my heels while the others stood to watch the race. May I modestly state that my New Hampshire training had not been in vain? I had counted upon the Icelandic custom of slashing vigorously for a distance of about two rods and then stopping to use the whetstone. If I could hold out that distance I knew that my honor would be safe. I did. In his anxiety to mow me out he ran the whole length of the blade into the tough turf and in pulling it out lost several strokes, whereupon he decided to use the stone and I dropped the scythe in the swath and stepped aside. The onlookers burst into a roar of chaffing at their companion and rushed to shake my hand and pat me on the back. On smooth ground I afterwards found that I could hold my own with them but on the rough and hummocky land, which constitutes by far the larger portion of the mowing, I could not cut over as much ground as they. Seeing the thousands of adjacent hummocks the size of a wash tub, covering acres of the best mowing land and caused by the heaving of the turf under the influence of the frost, I understood the reason for the shape of the Icelandic scythe snath. In this kind of mowing the Icelander does not try to cut a straight swath. He mounts a hummock, slashes the grass and a part of the turf from the hummocks around him, mounts the decapitated hummocks and deftly shaves the sides and pares the hollows. There are no stones in the mowing lands; scarcity of hay, the necessity for getting all the short grass during the thousand years of mowing has removed every trace of lava fragments. Whenever we arrived at a farm I worked an hour or more with the haymakers in order to get acquainted with the people and study their methods of work. After a half day in one field the farmer told Johannes that I ought to stay in their country, as I would make a good Icelander. This was after I had had considerable experience with the scythe, the fine-toothed rake and the reipe, rope, for binding hay for transportation.

Evidently no one had occupied the guest room at Galtalaekur for some time. When Icelanders arrive at a farm to stay over night they, according to ancient custom, go to the baðstofa, sitting and sleeping room, where all the people sleep. In early days baðstofa signified “bathroom,” but it has lost that meaning. Mrs. Russell had retired early in anticipation of a hard day on Hekla. When I came in from the hayfield she was sitting up in bed and laughing. On being asked the cause of the merriment, she replied,—

“As soon as I had retired, three women came into the room on tip toe, whispering and pointing to me. I feigned to be asleep and after some hesitation two of them approached the bed and gazed at me a long time. Then one of them quietly drew from between the coverlets several skirts and other articles of wearing apparel. They went out and I heard them giggling in the passage way. In a short time they came in again and this time pulled out from under the bed enough dishes to set a table, and several packages. Then they, thinking I was sound asleep, lifted up the eider-down at the foot of the bed and drew out a big platter laden with what I suppose was smoked fish.”

I had no sooner reached the room and was wondering where I was to sleep, than these ladies came again bringing more eider-down covers and a box. The box was placed at the end of a chest, a bed was made upon the combination and I turned in to await an early call. But those two boxes were possessed to separate and I found myself on the floor between them in a smother of covers. I then made up my bed on the floor and in the morning rearranged the boxes to give them the appearance of having been used as intended. This I did on the following night. The people did the best they could to be hospitable, served us excellent food and attended to every thing possible for our comfort, even to removing our clothes and boots during the night and cleaning them. True hospitality is in the spirit of the service and not in the quantity or quality and this fact must be recognized in order to do justice to these friendly people.

Hekla was our goal. Across the noisy river, out of the folds of its mantle of wrinkled lava ridges, rose the icy shoulders and hooded head which we hoped to win this day. We engaged an additional guide at the farm to go with Johannes and taking our best ponies, Michael Sunlocks and Greba, we left the farm at six in the morning. This is early in Iceland. From ten to one is the usual hour for beginning the ride of the day. A short trot across the field brought us to the Vestr-Rángá, West-Wrong-River. There is an Eastern as well as a Western “Wrong-River,” so named because the eruptions of Hekla have so often changed its course. We passed close to the tún of Noefrhólt, Clever-Stony-Ridge. The stony ridge is there but why “clever” I can not surmise, unless the people have been clever in dodging the big masses of rock that roll down from the mountain. The buildings are close in under the steep lava wall and there are hundreds of great stones around the buildings, any one of which would have destroyed them, that have tumbled down from the mountain wall. Many homes have been demolished in this country and people killed by the rolling stones. This ridge is palagonitic conglomerate, the refuse of preglacial eruptions. The term preglacial in Iceland means the same as in other glaciated countries, but the geological time is much more recent than in North America. More of this when we reach the glaciers. We climbed the ridge beside a beautiful stream of water sluicing down a grooved ledge and saw two pairs of Harlequin ducks, Histrionicus minutus, swimming in the swift water. It is remarkable how these swimmers can hold their position in such strong currents. The bluish-gray plumage of the males slashed with bars of white and the dark brown dress of the females made a pretty picture as the lively birds zigzagged in the glistening stream. They were quite fearless and did not dive until we were within ten feet of them.

Coming to a great quadrangular enclosure in the lava walls we stopped to rest and to feed the ponies, as this is the last spot where grass can be obtained. The great ridge to the right which is deep red and compact like jasper is the lava of the recent eruption. It terminates in a fissure in the mountain side far below the summit. The wall to the left turned in front of us in a long sweep to join the base of the above mentioned rift. From our position no egress appeared from this formidable cul de sac and we expected that the guides would leave the ponies here with the ascent just begun and that we would have this tangled mass of lava ropes to scale as best we could. A mile further on a twist in the flow, where the viscid lava rose in a billow and broke back upon itself, we found a precarious egress which the ponies negotiated with the agility and sure-footedness of mountain sheep. We dodged about between the basalt fragments and over the ash ridges rising higher and higher with every turn. The travelling is somewhat dangerous in places, as I had occasion to testify, the lava is full of cracks and holes and the lichens have woven a treacherous carpet over this floor. High above loom the red walls and the obsidian points bristling like a cheval-de-frise. We had not yet reached the snow line but the fog hung low upon the shoulders of the mountain and we despaired of even a momentary lifting of the mantle should we gain the summit. We next came to an ash ridge so steep that we dismounted and sometimes walking and sometimes riding we gained the top of this ridge, an elevation of 2,000 feet above the sea. Descending into a wild glen of chaotic fragments, like huge masses of broken glass, we found a patch of level sand and here we left the ponies. We tied them in pairs, the head of one to the tail of the other and here we left the poor beasts without food or water till six at night to shiver in the blast.

Hekla is situated thirty miles from the sea on the south shore of the island. In clear weather it is easily seen from the Westman Islands and is a fine spectacle as it lifts its silvery mass above the great plain. It has two peaks, craters. From these peaks extend northeast and southwest a ridge of lava fifteen miles each. This is the material that has belched from these craters and more recently from the rifts deep down in the side of the mountain. We made the ascent from the west. From the eminence which we had gained we looked over the country traversed during the past three days. The base and the middle slopes are composed of contorted and tangled skeins of lava which flowed at different periods, the more recent ones adapting themselves to the older ridges, sometimes filling the gullies and overflowing, sometimes melting down thin barriers or baking the ridges of ash and rubble into conglomerate, which someone has aptly termed a “geological Irish stew.” The rolling, spreading and twisting of these semi-fluid hot streams, the terrible rough and punctured surface of the lava, the sharp and glass-like angles, the pinnacles and crevasses are better imagined than described. No adequate idea can be obtained till one has made the ascent, till one has had many a fall, cut his hands upon the glass, scoured his boots on the needlepoints, lost his breath and almost lost his temper,—till then he will remain in ignorance of the true condition of Hekla’s horrent surface. Now and again a patch of loose sand or a pocket of snow gives respite from the sharp and angular blocks that menace a cut with every step.

The ridge where we left the ponies commands a grand view well worth the ascent to this point, even though the traveller goes no further. Most people who “make the ascent of Hekla” go no further than the summit of this ridge, though it is only two-fifths of the elevation of the mountain. We ate a portion of our lunch, cached the remainder in a crevice under a rock, and picked our way as best we could over a tumbled pile of bristling lava for half an hour when we arrived at the snow which was in exceptionally good condition for walking. It lay in a narrow gulch between two steep ridges of rock which extend up to the steepest portion of the mountains. While we are making this easy portion of the climb let us recount a bit of Hekla’s history.

Hekla is the greatest volcano in Iceland and in some respects the greatest in the world. What makes a volcano great? Is it the area of the base and its altitude? Is it the number of recorded eruptions? Is it the number of people it has destroyed together with their flocks and herds? Is it the space of territory devastated and the duration of any one or any series of its eruptions? This volcano was doubtless active prior to the settlement of the country as shown by the formation of its slopes, but since 1004 there have been twenty-five recorded eruptions, each of a serious nature to the country and destructive of life and property. Some of these eruptions have lasted only a few days and several for months and the one beginning in 1766 lasted two years. The great eruption was in 1845 and lasted seven months. The shortest period between eruptions was from 1294 to 1300, only six years, and previous to this eruption the volcano had been quiet for seventy-two years. The longest period was between the last two eruptions, 1768 to 1845, seventy-seven years and this followed the long eruption of two years. The average period of inactivity from 1004 to 1845 is thirty-two years. These figures do not take into account the frequent flowing of lava from the rifts during the periods of so-called inactivity. The following are the most memorable eruptions,—

[5]1294 Eighth recorded eruption. There were violent and destructive earthquakes throughout the country. Great rifts in the old lava plains were opened. The rivers were covered with pumice and many of them changed their courses. New hot springs came into existence and others disappeared. There was great destruction of life and property.

1300 Ninth recorded eruption and following the short period of six years of rest. This was one of the most violent on record. Ashes covered hundreds of miles of the north country. There were many severe earthquakes and the destruction of the grass and livestock produced a famine with resulting heavy loss of life.

1436 Thirteenth recorded eruption. Many homesteads and much arable land laid waste under a mantle of scorching ashes.

1510 Fifteenth recorded eruption. Enormous volumes of ash and pumice were poured out and myriads of lava bombs were scattered for miles, which in falling demolished houses and killed livestock and people.

1583 Sixteenth recorded eruption. This was excessive in its violence. Thundering explosions were audible throughout the island and continued for twelve days with great violence. Eighteen columns of flaming gases issued from as many different vents in the mountain. Earthquakes destroyed many farms and hundreds of the turf and stone dwellings were demolished. There was a great loss of life.

1845 Twenty-fourth recorded eruption. It began on September second and continued without cessation for seven months. The ashes rose miles in the air and were carried by the wind to the Shetland Islands and to Norway. During this eruption, it is estimated that 500 feet in altitude of the top of the mountain was blown into fragments and hurled in places to a distance of fifteen miles or more. Hot sand, ashes and scoriae were ejected in a constant fountain from the crater and the mountain itself opened lower down, and from this rift came the floods of lava that flowed for seven months destroying everything in its path. It has been estimated by the Danish survey that the mass of melted rock poured out, (not counting sand, ash and scoriae), from this rent is 14,500,000 cubic feet.

1913 Twenty-fifth recorded eruption. At three in the morning of the twenty-fifth of April, Friday, there was a violent earthquake shock in the region of Hekla and several houses fell, notably the ancient one at Galtalaekur, to which special reference has been made in this chapter. Heavy smoke poured from two sources and fine ashes fell between the Thjórsá and the Hvitá. On the thirtieth of April the lava spouted over 1000 feet into the air and on the first of May a rift opened that was over 600 feet in length. Moderate action continued until the eighth of May. During the eighth and the ninth of May the action was violent and the outflowing lava covered an area two miles in length by one in width.

Krakatindr is a small peak on the eastern slope of the Hekla field and Lambafell, Lamb Mountain, is another in the same locality. Here the eruption was central and in the last mentioned ridge the lava broke out in ten distinct places. It must be remembered that the 1913 eruption of Hekla did not come from either of the summit craters, but from the foot hills and buttresses of this mountain. It must be regarded as an eruption of Hekla when dealt with scientifically. The mass of lava, slag and ashes on the summit of Hekla will preclude any future activity within the ancient craters; but, future action, like this of 1913, will take place in rifts in the sides and at the foot of this volcano, since it is in this lower crust that the mountain is weakest.

It was over the ruins of the 1845 eruption that we had travelled for a day and it was those curled and solidified streams of bristling and horrent lava over which we have been making our snail-like pace to the summit. When we speak of a great volcano we unconsciously turn to Vesuvius but this is because of its dramatic position in history and because it has enjoyed more advertising than all other volcanoes in the world. Because of the vineyards and the dense population upon its slopes and the number of lives it has destroyed we thoughtlessly crown it the king of volcanoes. Had the plains of Hekla enjoyed the mild climate of Naples they would have supported many times the population within the radius of the influence of Vesuvius and the destruction of life due to Hekla’s eruption would have totaled an appalling figure. Vesuvius was silent for long centuries prior to 79 A. D. then came its ash and mud eruption, then for about fifteen centuries it was silent. Since that time its activity has been largely spectacular. Lava rifts where molten rock pours out continuously are beyond doubt the most terrible forms of volcanic activity,—such has been the type of Hekla. To answer the questions which introduced this topic,—the things that make a volcano great are not the circumstances of men. Its greatness lies in the number, violence, duration and character of the eruptions, in the quantity of molten material forced out, in the mass of detritus ejected from the crater and the power with which that material is vomited upon the earth. If this definition of greatness is correct, then Hekla is the greatest volcano of recorded time. It has been little studied, never systematically, on account of its remoteness.

At the upper end of the snow covered lava gulch we turned to the right and the real snow climbing commenced. At this place the mountain has a slope of forty-five degrees. The snow was hard, too hard in fact for sure footing, almost ice, and we were forced to dig steps with our feet to support us while making the next step. At the time we were on the mountain there was an unusual amount of snow, which filled the cracks and smoothed the angular projections of this upper portion. On the steepest slopes the snow basely rewarded our confidence and gave us many a backward and ignominious slide.

While we were fastening the ponies, the feasibility of Mrs. Russell’s going further was questioned by Johannes.

“Madam will stay with me till the guide and your man return?”

“I am going to try the climb with Mr. Russell,” she replied.

“The lady go to the top of Hekla! If the lady go then Johannes will go, but I fear the lady will not go far.”

When we were struggling up the steep snow slope, I made steps in advance and Mrs. Russell, importuned by Johannes and weary with the toil was ready to halt, if she had received the least encouragement from me.

“The lady can go no further,” said Johannes to me as he dug a hole in the snow for a seat, “and you must not allow it.”

I replied, “she has travelled two days over a rough country, fording the rivers and now she has almost won the cinder cone. She will always be sorry in America to have to say that she got nearly to the top and gave up the struggle.” This I said, talking to Johannes but for the benefit of “the lady.”

“Well, Johannes can go no further; Johannes is an old man and he has pain in here,” placing his hand over his stomach, “the skyr I ate this morning was little and it not good to do Hekla-climb on.” So saying, he dug his hole deeper and reclined in the snow while we pushed our way over the remaining snow surface to the cinder cone.

Yes, Johannes was an old man and a faithful one. His action this day was a fine bit of Icelandic courtesy and faithful service. Honestly he did not think it wise for a woman to attempt the climb and being confident that Mrs. Russell would not endure, he knew that my climb of the mountain would be defeated if I had had to turn back with her, so he trudged along manfully to be her companion when she ceased climbing and await my return. When we were near enough to the summit so that it was evident that “the lady” would win, he halted and veiled his whole earnest efforts under the excuse of his weakness. He was a faithful man, constantly anticipating our wants and always ready to exert himself for our comfort and pleasure.

When we were on the glassy lava we wished we were on the snow slope, when we were scaling and slipping on the snow we wished we were on the lava. But what of the cinder cone! That was short but it was the worst of all. We made the ascent on a narrow ridge like that of a roof. The loose material rolled away and often took us backward with it. A false step to either side of the ridge carried us down several yards and it became a hand and foot scramble to regain the lost position on the ridge. Near the very top if we had made a false step towards the right we would have been precipitated several rods into the creeping rubble of multi-colored cinders, if the false step had been to the left we would have fallen an equal distance on to the snowbank in the rim of the crater.

During the last hour of the climb we were enveloped in clouds and as we gained the summit snow was falling. A sudden change in the direction of the wind swept the clouds from the top of the mountain and we had ten minutes of clear sky which afforded time for two good photographs and a quick view of the surrounding country. Mrs. Russell unfurled the flag of the Arctic Club of America, the stars and stripes in the upper left hand corner of an ice-green field. This flag had been presented to me for this purpose by the late Rear Admiral W. S. Schley, then president of the Arctic Club. We have every reason to believe that Mrs. Russell was the first woman to gain this point and I know that it was the first time that the stars and stripes ever floated from the summit of a volcano in Iceland.

The reading of the thermometer at the summit was zero, Centigrade; the reading of the aneroid barometer, carefully compared with the standard at the station in Reykjavik before starting and corrected by the same instrument for the same hour when we returned, gave the elevation of Hekla as 5,050 feet. This is not a high mountain but it has features peculiar to itself that render its ascent one of toil. Any person with endurance and thoughtful care can make the ascent and no one who visits Iceland, if at all interested in the topography of the country or in volcanic formations, can afford to miss it.

I climbed down to the brink of the crater upon the snow shelf to view the interior and to photograph the opposite wall. No ascent had been made for four years and at that time the local guide stated that the crater was full of snow and ice. This is the ash crater of 1845. The opening is about 450 by 360 feet. When I looked into its depths on July 20, 1909, there was no snow in the bottom and vapor was ascending. This vapor was doubtless snow evaporation. Yet, there has been some heat radiation from within to clear out this great cavity of ice and snow in four years. Fifteen minutes walk along the ridge brings the traveller to the red crater, which is about the same size as the other or northern crater but unlike it the material is red with considerable sublimated sulfur.

Hekla is by no means dead. Numerous earthquakes have occurred in its vicinity within the past three years and a large area of the ice mantle is reported as having slipped off in 1910. It is sixty-nine years since the great eruption of 1845, which is more than twice the average period of inactivity but it is nine years less than its longest period of rest. An eruption may be expected at any time. The old volcano, in spite of the slander which Burton heaps upon it, is worthy of scientific study and before its next eruption a series of observations should be taken similar to those made by Frank Perret on Vesuvius and other Mediterranean volcanoes.

The view from Hekla is superb. The eye is first arrested by the ridges of lava, black, red, gray, horrent and ill-boding which extend down the mountain slopes and bury themselves in the fertile soil of the distant plains. Each of the two main ridges bisects a well watered section, once fertile and now choked with sand. To the northwest, Láng Jökull raises its two score miles of ice-parapet, four hundred miles of unexplored Iceland; to the northeast is spread out the vast expanse of mighty Vatna Jökull, Mountain-Producing-Waters, an area of ice-covered tableland one hundred miles by sixty; between these two glaciers and directly north of us stands Hofs Jökull, Hof signifying heathen-temple, it is nearly circular and appears like the frosted dome of a mammoth cake. Between the last two Jökulls, stretching away into the northeast, is the Sprengisandur, Bursting-Sands, a mighty desert entirely void of vegetation, a dreary, desolate tract, wind-driven and life-destroying. Nearer, in the emerald plain flow the glacier-born rivers the Thjórsá and the Hvitá and a cloud of saffron sand floats in the air above the desert which we crossed yesterday. We cannot see the travellers but surely there is a train of horses there and the wind is lifting the fine sand into the sun. Turn now to the southward, look down along the tumbled chimneys and the red hornitos of Hekla and the first object to arrest the eye is the beautiful Tindfjallajökull, Peaked-Ice-Mountain, with its two ice-horns resembling the Matterhorn, protruding from an oval mound of lava and casting their blue shadows on the trackless snow. Behind this mountain is the Saga country of the South, the home of the noble Njal and the peerless Gunnar. There was the scene of Iceland’s great Epic, Burnt Njal. Those ribbons of limpid silver that branch from the base of Goðalands Jökull, Land-of-the-Gods, like reins from the hand of a chariot driver, those are the many branches of the Markarfljót, Boundary-Marking-River, pouring down its floods of glacial waters and volcanic sands to choke the passage in an effort to join Heimaey to the mainland. Across the moors, the sheep ranges and the marshes beyond, the North Atlantic, encircling the black masses of the Westman Islands, wreathes those weathered pillars with garlands of snow-white foam.