The two beds were placed end to end on one side of the room. Each was five feet long and not over two and a half in width. How these six-foot men can sleep in any comfort in five-foot beds is a mystery. The mattress is a well stuffed feather bed, the coverlet is of eider down. The down is stuffed into a tick like a pillow and like a pillow it has a white case. One virtually sleeps between two feather beds. In the nightly struggles to kick the foot board out of my short bed, the overgrown pillow, used as a blanket, often fell to the floor and sometimes as a last resort to straighten out, I followed the coverlet to the floor, used it for a mattress and with a steamer rug slept in peace.

Nine in the morning found us at breakfast. An hour later, having paid our host his modest reckoning, with handshaking all round and a hearty góðr á daginn, pronounced as though spelled go-an-dine, meaning literally “good to the day,” an ancient Scandinavian salutation and universal in Iceland for centuries, we started to Thingvellir. After riding for half an hour over the barren plain thickly studded with fragments of the ancient basalt and with eyes steadfastly fixed upon the beauties of the lake, we came to the brink of a mighty chasm. Below our feet is the plain of Thingvellir, the Mecca of Iceland, the seat of the ancient parliament, the resultant of the combined freakishness of earthquake and volcanic forces. It is a remarkable geological formation. The sunken plain is nearly ten miles long and five miles broad.

We stand on the brink of the Almannagjá, All-Men’s-Rift, so named because in ancient days when the nobles and law-makers were assembled in the plain below, the common people met upon the heights along the brink of this chasm for a great national holiday of about two weeks. To our right, south-west, the sunken valley is filled with the waters of the lake. To the left, northeast, rises the abrupt wall of Ármannsfell, a lofty mountain of trap. To the south-east, five miles away and extending from the far side of the lake to Ármannsfell is the Hrafnagjá, Ravens-Rift. This rift is parallel with the one upon whose brink we are now standing. The sunken plain varies in the depth of its depression from twenty-five feet at the northeast to over a hundred feet at the south-west, below the level of the surrounding moorland. The plain itself is rent, rifted and shattered into thousands of fragments as if hot water had been dashed against a plate glass window on a frosty morning. Hundreds of chasms intersect each other in the sunken plain in a huge network. They go deep down to the bed of the lake and the lake follows them up under the lava and the water glimmers at the bottom of these chasms.

How was this formation wrought? In prehistoric times, that is before Iceland was discovered, how much earlier we do not know and the rocks do not reveal the secret save the probable period of the flowing of the lava itself which filled all the valley, the surface cooled and the fluid below this crust was under pressure and forced a passage through the barrier where the lake now lies and drained away. This left a mammoth cavern with a hot, laminated, blistered and shrinking roof. Time passed. The shrinking continued. The stress became sufficient to produce the great fault, an earthquake, and in one mighty tumble the entire roof of the lava chamber collapsed, breaking away from the walls which now form the moorland side of the great parallel rifts. As it fell it was shivered into acre-sized fragments, tilted and turned so as to present a billowy appearance. Time has mercifully clothed the ragged mass with verdure, tangled masses of dwarf birch, which, from the distance of the brink upon which we stand, soften the harsh outlines and partially obscure the chasms. As the roof of the cavern fell it broke away from the mountain walls on either side of the plain and pulled the ragged mass with it. This formed a second wall and between these two walls runs the Álmannagjá on this side of the plain and the Hrafnagjá on yonder side. From the top of the inner walls the slope is gradual down into the plain, much like the inward sloping sides of a platter. On the moorland side enormous niches extend into the wall and protruding from the second wall are masses of lava pulled out of these places which would exactly fit the ancient matrix could they be restored. These are so numerous in each of the rifts that there is no doubt as to the correctness of our view of the formation of the rifts and of Thingvellir.

Over the brink of the tableland and into the Álmannagjá tumbles a fine sheet of water, the Öxerá, Axe-River, which follows the chasm down to a break through the inner wall, spreads over a portion of the plain and enters the lake. At our feet there is a narrow side passage leading from the brink down into the rift which has been laboriously levelled and a good road now leads to the lower level. This pass in ancient days was the strategic point of many a stout fight. In the Burnt Njal we read a vivid description of such a fight when the issue of the trial was unfavorable to one of the factions.

We will now ride down the incline, cross the bridge over the foaming Öxerá and draw rein at the Valhöll, Great-Hall-of-the-King. This was erected when King Frederick of Denmark visited the place in 1907. That the good king toured a portion of Iceland at this time is a blessing to travellers because special roads were built, bridges erected and inns constructed for his accommodation.

We turned the ponies over to Johannes who took them to the pasture upon the moorland above the rift. It was only eleven in the morning and we had ridden but an hour yet we decided to spend the day in a further examination of this historic spot. The time allotted proved inadequate and a year later, on our return from the north, we passed an entire day here. Less than half a dozen people were stopping at the Valhöll. We were assigned a room like a beach bath house with two bunks, one above the other as in a steamer. We did not know till the next summer that this hotel had first, second and third class lodgings. It was the only place in Iceland where we ever found any distinction. On our second summer we had first class accommodations, which meant a large comfortable room with a regulation bed and the meals served privately in the adjoining room in place of on a bench in the large hall.

Immediately we set out to explore the place. A mist was creeping in from the lake and down from the mountains. This soon developed into a “Scotch mist” which is an easy falling rain. We went to the Öxerá, explored the deep rift between the walls, which in places has been fenced off for sheep cotes. We climbed the wall to the top of the falls, peered down into the numerous fissures and were astonished to find snow at the bottom of one of them. It is a narrow chasm, very deep and the sun can not reach the bottom. We followed the wall eastward for two miles where we found a place to descend into the plain. On the return we wandered among the crevasses, dodging blocks of lava and jumping the narrow rifts where down a hundred feet the water glimmered. We returned in the rain for our mid-afternoon meal which consisted of broiled trout from the lake. It rained vigorously and we devoted some time to the neglected notebooks, also to an examination of the guest book. They do not use registers, simply a book in which the parting guest writes his name and any comments he chooses. There is an old Icelandic proverb which runs as follows,—

Island er hin besta land sem sól skina uppi.

Iceland is the best land on which the sun comes up (shines).

This was quoted over one of the signatures. A little later some one had written an addition in German,—“and the rain rains.”

At five in the afternoon the clouds broke away, the sun came smilingly forth and we continued our exploration. We visited the ducking pool, where in ancient days women convicted of heinous crimes were drowned. This is a big noisy basin within the Álmannagjá a little way below the falls. Well would it have been with the noble Gunnar had Halgerða been dipped in this cauldron ere ever he became fascinated with her beauty and caught in her toils. We crossed to the borders of the lake where there is a small tún, the Thingvellir parsonage. An ancient church stands within the enclosing walls of the tún. We obtained the key of the pastor and entered. Until a few years ago the churches throughout the country were turned over to travellers for sleeping quarters. This was a most excellent arrangement as they afforded plenty of room and were always well ventilated. Some English sportsmen once amused themselves by throwing their boots at the candles on the altar and committing other acts of vandalism and the Bishop of Iceland very wisely forbade the future use of the churches as accommodations for travellers. This has put many people to inconvenience since, not only the traveller but the farmer or pastor who has had to discommode himself to find room in an already overcrowded house. Thus do many people suffer for the wanton acts of a few and a nation gets a bad name because of the deeds of a few of its reckless sons. Until Valhóll was erected the pastor at this place cared for the strangers if they were without a tent. What a relief to him has been this little hospice. This parsonage figures prominently in the Prodigal Son, which is Hall Caine’s best work on Iceland. It should be read by all who contemplate a visit to this land or are interested in the country. When he wrote the Bondman he had never been in Iceland and he wrote entirely from imagination and without any local color. This was severely criticised in Iceland and so much fuss was made over the misrepresentations and erroneous paragraphs that Caine visited the country, thoroughly explored the vicinity of Reykjavik and then wrote The Prodigal Son which redeemed himself in the eyes of the people. Icelanders are quite sensitive about misrepresentations made by foreigners. Above all other things the Icelander dreads to be laughed at, scorns falsehoods about himself and his country and is jealous of its reputation. This is deep seated patriotism.

The little church contains a very old altar piece, a Last Supper, painted on wood. The altar itself was constructed in 1683. In the yard there is a monolith of lava erected by man. On its eastern face there are several parallel marks cut deeply into the stone. Like the standard Meter kept in Paris and the standard Yard in London, these lines marked the standard alin, ell, measure of linear distance in the ancient days. It is supposed to be of the tenth century. The measures of the country were adjusted by this standard. Thus the Scandinavians fixed a standard of measurement centuries before Great Britain adopted its arbitrary and unscientific measure or the arc of a meridian had been measured for the French scientific standard.

A little way from the parsonage and beside the recently constructed road is the Lögberg, Mount-of-Laws. Let us ascend it, note the surroundings and recall the past. When the plain fell to its present irregular level and was shattered into hundreds of misshapen masses, here by the lake two of the chasms, like the arcs of intersecting circles, enclosed a long oval fragment of lava which stood high above the surrounding level and overlooked the lake. This is the Law Mount. One of these rifts is known as the Flosigjá. At one point the walls approach within eighteen feet and it is said that when the burner of Njal, Flosi, was hotly pursued by his enemies he leaped this chasm. These chasms, through which an underground river finds its way into the lake, are very picturesque with their lichen encrusted walls, with the crowberry in the niches and the wild thyme hanging over the brink. In the old days it was possible to reach the engirdled mount at only one place. This made it easy of defense and secure to the lawgivers and judges against intrusion by the populace. Frosts and earthquakes have pried off many an angular fragment into the gulf and the place is now easy of access.

Standing on the grassy mound the great wall of Almannajgá reaches its black mass from the border of the lake to Armansfell, the Öxerá plunges in one long white curve over the brink, boils musically within its distant canyon and reappears through the rent in the side of the inner wall flecked with foam. Beyond the moorland Súlur, Stone-Pillars, rears his pinnacles of basalt. Thingvallavatn smiles at our feet. No sail dots its brilliant surface, no houses border its precipitous shore. It is the same as when the Saga heroes fished in its bright depths and these graceful swan and busy ducks enjoy the same tranquility as their remote ancestors. Around the lake a ring of red and purple peaks, robed in transparent atmosphere and embellished with hues unknown in lower latitudes, peep into this molten glimmerglass to behold each others image, while, amid the distance-softened ridges, Hengill sends upward its “columns of white vapor like altar smoke” towards the softened sky. The embosomed isles are skirted with green and at the waters edge are fringed with the aromatic Angelica. Uncounted peaks are around us surpliced with white raiment as though assembled to raise one grand anthem to Nature’s God.

Let us turn back the pages of time 800 years. We stand upon the upper portion of the Lögberg, upon the bloodstone, where the backs of criminals were broken before they were hurled into the abyss at our feet. The Thingmen are in solemn assembly a little lower down the incline. Along the brink of Almannajgá throng the populace in assembled thousands in their annual August festival, gathered from every portion of the island. They await the issue of some vital subject under discussion on the mound. It is the year 1112 and the trial for the Burning of Njal is well under way. That old man with the quiet mien and full flowing beard is Mord. He rises, faces the Court and says,—

“I take witness to this, that I take a Fifth Court oath. I pray God so to help me in this light and in the next, as I shall plead this suit as I know to be most truthful, and just, and lawful. I believe with all my heart that Flosi is truly guilty in this suit, if I may bring forward my proofs; and I have not brought money into this court in this suit, and I will not bring it. I have not taken money and I will not take it, neither for a lawful nor for an unlawful end.”

The great trial proceeds but a flaw is found in the pleading and the technicality destroys all that has been gained. Now men rush to their weapons and Flosi would gain the Great Rift as a place of defense. Snorri, the Priest, forsees the outcome and has quietly stationed another hardy band at this vantage point. The throng upon the moorland press to the brink to watch the fierce fight waged by the contending factions, who attempt to settle at the point of the spear the question which has just failed in the court. Might is still right. Doughty blows are showered as Odin chants the warsong under the shields of his few remaining warriors. Spear and battle axe ring loudly upon shield and helmet. The verdict is rendered. The decree is written in blood upon the grass. A prolonged shout of acclamation mingled with the roar of disapproval rises from the multitude. The clamor dies away, for the sturdy bodies of these iron heroes, who can give and take such blows, can endure no longer and the struggle ends with lifelong feuds.

Upon the sunken plain along the banks of the Öxerá stand the booths of the prominent Thingmen, the priests, the chieftains and the poets. To these the people assemble in noisy factions to cool their blood in long draughts of mead. See, there by the snowy falls near to the perpendicular wall is the booth of Snorri. Down the river a little distance is the booth where Njal so often gave counsel ere the burning; there by the lake is the booth of the fair and treacherous Hallgerða. It was here that Gunnar first spied her sitting in the doorway fresh from her bath in the lake. The bloodshed is not quite over, look where the river foams through its rocky jaws, leaping in two great bounds for the lake, impatient for its victims. In that surging eddy within the rift that group of women convicted of infanticide and adultery are now to be drowned and on that mound where those fagots of birch are piled that witch is to be burned.

The 800 years are passed. The writer stands at eventide alone upon the Lögberg and views with enchanted eye this perfect painting of peace let down from heaven. Mammoth and angular masses, their roughness softened with thyme and forget-me-nots, surround the age-old chasms and live anew in those Nile-green depths. Peaceful it is beyond the power of description. Here the sturdy Viking, wealthy with the spoils of Europe, worked out a constitution, founded a republic, sloughed off the skin of paganism, adopted on the first ballot the Christ-law and crystallized a civilization centuries since. Here in the old and stirring days great minds held sway. What sturdy men they were, mighty in feats of arms, resourceful, inventive, poetic, pregnant with the germs of thought that in their latter day development produced a scholastic, peaceful, Christian nation! What wondrous deeds they wrought, what grand old epics they enacted, let their Sagamen relate.

Beautiful Arctic flowers crown the Lögberg. The plover whistles on the heather and the whimbrel calls as in days of yore. Around this primitive parliament flow the emerald waters in varied shades of prismic green like polished malachite, long since unpolluted with broken-backed criminals.

I fired my revolver into the green-bedded chasm of the Flosigjá to awaken the echoes. Their voices betokened peace. The angry snarl of the bloodthirsty mob, the clash of bill on yielding armor, the wail of drowning women no longer reverberated from chasm to cliff. Echo had but one message, Peace.

Peace to the generations past, whose warriors have long since mouldered in yonder heath! Solemnly, softly, silently the echo fades upon Thingvellir’s plain. So say I.—Peace to the mighty dead! Peace to the little nation now toiling for existence upon this fire-blistered island! Peace, I say, to those Plutonic forces that have wrought far greater havoc and misery in this Arctic realm than all the bloody passions of its first born sons!

CHAPTER VIII
GEYSIR

Morning dawned with a gentle rain. Hour after hour it fell with no promise of abatement until ten, when the clouds were rifted, the sun shone through and the dripping plain glistened. We decided to set out for the long ride to Geysir. The ponies had been in readiness for an hour in anticipation of an earlier start.

We turned into the trail leading across the plain, along the border of the lake towards Hrafnagjá, Johannes following with the train at some distance. When we reached the rift we halted to examine it until Johannes arrived. This chasm is longer than the Almannagjá but not so deep and surely not so impressive. It lacks the beautiful waterfall and the historical associations of the latter. It extends along the side of the mountain which we were about to climb. Many blocks of basalt have tumbled into it in one place and over these a suitable and safe passage has been constructed. As we crossed the chasm the rain began to fall, likewise the temperature. Long before we had reached the summit of the mountain pass the rain was pouring upon us and rolling off in rivulets from horse and rider. This was a good test of our specially made waterproof clothing and it stood the test. Never a drop penetrated save up the sleeve of the bridle hand.

At the summit, the clouds scattered again; this time in earnest and we experienced no more rain during the long trip. It was just one long and glorious summer day and we wandered care-free in full enjoyment of the wonderful country. Near the summit we passed a lonely little farmhouse and the people being absent in the hayfield the lonesome dog came out to make our acquaintance.

At this place the trail winds through an exceedingly rough area of lava, tangled and twisted. It was my first experience with recent volcanic products and it was with absorbing interest that I examined this material, as the ponies climbed the steep gradient and threaded the narrow path through the labyrinth of angular blocks. Above our heads rose a line of peaked and jagged volcanoes, Kálfstindar, Calf-Peaks. This place has been the center of considerable volcanic activity as evidenced by the different forms of lava, i. e. lava of different periods of eruption also by the weathering piles of tufa and conglomerate. Near the trail there is a peculiar formation, a tintron. This is a volcanic chimney, rising about nine feet out of the lava plain. The opening at the top is in the form of an ellipse and the tube extends forty feet down into the solid lava. The sides are blistered and it has the appearance of having been a blow-hole from which thin lava was thrown upward in the form of a fountain as water from the nozzle of a hose. There are several of these unique formations in the north which will be discussed when we reach Mývatn.

Soon after leaving the tintron, the trail wound downward along the side of the mountain and under projecting cliffs of tufa and brought us suddenly in view of the fair valley of Laugardalr, Valley-of-the-Hot-Springs. An entrancing panorama was spread out at our feet. The luxuriant green of the valley contrasted strangely with the scorched and blistered barriers over which we had been climbing. In the distance a smiling lake of no mean proportions cut a large space out of the meadows. On the nearer and the farther shore of Laugarvatn, Hot-Spring-Lake, rose columns of steam in slender spirals quivering in the breeze and vanishing in the upper air. Numerous sheep and cattle marked the valley with dots of white and brown. Besides the nearer hot springs clustered a group of farm buildings and the distance caused their turf roofs to appear like tiny hillocks. This lake and valley appear like a monstrous chrysoprase in a grand setting. The valley is enclosed by the needle spires of the volcanoes which are red, brown, yellow and gray and streaked with a mixture of all these colors on their naked slopes where the melting snows have swept down many an avalanche of ash and cinder.

We descended by a steep path to the lower level, passing many a towering pile of conglomerate of soft texture and wading through many a talus of ash and sand where the myriads of zeolites glistened. The masses of rock protruding from the tufa cliffs give them the appearance of huge plum puddings. Reaching the verdant plain we changed ponies and while waiting for them to graze, we explored a small cavern in the base of the cinder pile. This cave has long been used as a retreat for the sheep in times of storm. It has since been cleaned, a turf dwelling erected before its entrance and it now forms the home of a young Icelandic couple who have set up their housekeeping here since our visit. Remounting we sped away over the meadow, crossing many small brooks and arrived at the farm by the hot springs. This place has many signs of prosperity, such as the quality of the buildings, the numerous flocks around the lake, the abundance of hay and the thrifty patch of potatoes in its special turfed enclosure. We were cordially welcomed, taken to the guest room and served with hot coffee, milk, pastry and delicious griddle cakes, large in area and quite thin, buttered while hot, sprinkled with sugar and then rolled tightly. We found these griddle cakes at many of the farms and can cordially recommend them to a dainty appetite. At the close of the lunch we repaired to the hot springs which always had for us an unfailing interest. They are at the very edge of the lake and have formed small mounds of silicious scinter mingled with lime and alum. Wherever the hot water has fallen upon the land there is an incrustation of fantastic form. Most of the water boils over into the cold water of the lake. The spring furnishes hot water for all domestic purposes and is a great conserver of fuel. The clothes are washed in tubs beside the springs and then rinsed in the lake. Here the wool is cleansed before shipment. In the hot ground the bread is baked, the dough being enclosed in earthen jars. In a fuelless country it is a gift. It is a strange contrast this pouring out of boiling water in the margin of the cold lake.

We hastened across the meadow along the border of the lake to regain the trail leading to Geysir. Hasten is the correct word. No air was stirring and the clouds of tiny mý, midges, that rose out of the long grass as the ponies disturbed them, simply smothered us. They filled the ears of the ponies, crowding in with the long hair and swarmed in patches upon their flanks and legs. Instances are related where the midges so tormented the ponies that they rushed into the water, in spite of the protestations of the riders, that they might get rid of their tormenters. No horse of my knowledge has his ears so completely filled with hair as the Icelandic pony. Doubtless this is an adaptation for a special purpose and I believe that purpose was to protect these delicate organs from these stinging insects. We drew forth our fly veils and put them on with some relief, but as we did it while at a full gallop they were not securely fastened and some of the pests got under the netting. Here they were happy, for we could not drive them away. In desperation I pulled off my veil, for the express purpose of giving all the midges an equal chance. It needed no urging to put the ponies to their best paces, for they well understood that the insects would leave us when we had attained an elevation above the meadow.

We entered a tract of scrubby willow and dwarf birch. Some of the birches were as high as our shoulders while we were on horseback and thus we rode with our heads protruding above the Icelandic forest and there was some free advice given about getting lost in the woods. There are two or three larger forests in the north which we shall visit later. We passed several good farms and every one, men, women and children were busy with the hay harvest. Two hours riding took us to Miðdalr, Middale, church, which is close to the famous Brúará, Bridge-River. Many streams rush out of the mountain gullies and unite up this side valley. Here the Brúará comes foaming down its shelving bed in a passion. Near the crossing it spreads out in a wide sheet over the lava which is full of ugly crevasses. One great rift, of unknown depth, and five feet wide extends through the center of this lava and the river tumbles into it from both sides. Tumbling into lava rifts is a characteristic of Icelandic rivers, some of them entirely disappear. Until the coming of King Frederick in 1907 the traveller rode his pony through the water for about one hundred feet, carefully avoiding the cracks, with the water well up the flanks of the pony. When the rift was reached it was crossed on planks bolted to the rock and often with the water flowing over them. When safely across the “bridge” another passage of one hundred feet through the water brought the traveller once more upon dry ground. This is why it is called “bridge river.” A suspension bridge now spans the stream and the view up the river is excellent. In former days it required some steadiness of purpose to thread this tangled maze of cracks beneath the white water and ride the plank over the foaming stream, and yet, I am sure, I would prefer it to the crossing of the Ölfusà which we made two weeks later.

Here we encountered a large party of Icelanders with numerous pack ponies laden with provisions, timber, and strangest of all, huge piles of fish heads with attached vertebrae. The party had been down to the coast to dispose of their wool and were returning with their supplies for the summer. When the fish are dressed the heads and backbones are cut out and hung upon the fences to dry. In the interior they are pulverized and used for food whenever provisions are short. In the spring when hay becomes scarce fish are often fed to the livestock.

Passing the farm, Utlið, the out-folk or the people beyond, we wound around the shingly side of Bjarnafell, Bear-Mountain,[2] and descended to the plain which proved to be a bog saturated with the recent rain. Lord Dufferin in his Letters from High Latitudes calls this place “an Irish bog.” The crossing was anything but pleasant for the ponies. Many deeply worn trails crossed the plain towards Geysir. Under ordinary conditions of dryness any one of these ditches would have been satisfactory to the ponies, but partly filled with mud the ponies shied at them and without any warning frequently jumped out of one and into another before the rider was aware of what was about to happen. It is in places of this character that the instinct and experience of the pony is more serviceable than the judgment of his rider. It is in the bog, on the rough mountain trail and in the foaming river that the true worth and peculiar qualities of the Icelandic pony is revealed. The ponies prefer the old ruts which often are worn so deeply that his flanks rub the turfed edges and the rider must pay special attention to his own feet if he would not have them jammed into the turf at the angles of the intersecting trails. Attempt to get the pony out of the rut and on to what the rider assumes is a better path, the turf, and the mettle of the steed is immediately aroused. It requires a strong pull upon the rein and a dig of the heel into the ribs of the pony to get him out of the path he has chosen. As soon as this is accomplished to the satisfaction of the rider and he settles down in the saddle conscious of his superior wisdom over the brute creation, without the least warning the pony takes a side step which lands him in the bottom of the forbidden trail. After a few of these unexpected rebuffs the rider is content to let the pony have the choice of trails providing it leads in the general direction of the rider’s choice.

In the distance we saw columns of steam rising from a large area and Johannes assured us that it was from the geysers. It was here that we met an acquaintance from the Laura, Mr. A. V. Manneling, a banker from Helsingfors in Finland, whose company had been very agreeable on the voyage from Leith to Reykjavik. He informed us that Geysir, (pronounced gáy-sir,) had erupted that noon and would probably give another exhibition that evening. We bade him good-bye and hastened on in order to be present during the eruption. A century ago Geysir was quite constant in the periods of its eruption but owing to recent earthquakes which have changed the conditions below it is not at all regular and it is frequently eight days between the displays. We forded several tributaries of the Túngufljót,[3] Tongue-River, rounded the base of Laugarfell, Hot-Mountain, and rode into the midst of the steaming acres, the site of great Geysir and his satellites, a place of awful magnificence, where the water,—

We dismounted at the little inn, which is located in the midst of the boiling and spouting caldrons, glad to leave the saddle after a ride of thirty-five miles across a diversified country. It had been our second day in the saddle but we had become accustomed to the ponies and they had discovered that the riders were their masters. We had had an exceedingly pleasant journey with no discomforts except those attendant upon horseback riding through a rough and roadless country.

This little inn was another creation for the benefit of the King and again we rejoiced that his visit to Iceland preceded ours. There are four rooms on the ground floor, one for dining and the other three for bedrooms. The cooking is done in a little house slightly removed towards the mountain. Formerly all travellers to Geysir took tents with them for use at this place or hired them of the farmer at Haukadalr, Hawk-dale. The Inn was crowded. There was a large company of Icelanders out for a holiday besides several Danes, Germans and those lovers of the Laura, the Swede and the Icelandic maiden. We encountered them several times during the summer and they were having a happy time. It appeared to be a honeymoon preceding the bridal. There was a prolonged conversation between Johannes and the keeper of the Inn in which Johannes expressed himself quite forcibly if we could judge by the determination in his voice. He appeared to be the victor, for he came to us with a beaming face and showed us into one of the corner rooms next to Geysir. Our luggage was brought in, a steaming supper of boiled mutton, potatoes, milk, coffee and black bread was set before us. That Icelandic coffee! The berries are freshly roasted every morning, they are of prime quality, the brewing is expertly done, the cream is real and,—well, it is delicious. Throughout the country it is the same. Halt at a farmhouse at any time in the day and you are invited to Coffee. It is coffee with every meal and frequent potations between meals. In that land the coffee ghost has never risen to be cried down with a score of cereal concoctions. Prepare it here freshly and expertly as they do and there is no reason why conscience should peer over the brim of the steaming cup to bid us beware of the snare of its fragrance.

We were hungry but our curiosity concerning the locality made short work of the supper. We then learned that the discussion in which Johannes became so energetic was precipitated by his stipulation that no one was to use the room except ourselves. In it there were three single beds, bunks built against the wall, and provisions for several more in the middle of the room when occasion required them. We did not know the Icelandic custom, that several men, women and children, whether known to each other or not, sleep in the same room without any inconvenience. The inn-keeper did not understand why this custom should be broken to the inconvenience of the many people who desired shelter that night. We learned more of this custom as our experiences multiplied and we will give the reader a full account in a later chapter.

This place is marked on the map of Iceland as Geysir. The word is from the verb geysa, “to rush forth furiously, to burst out with violence.” It is not applied to all the spouting springs of boiling water as is geyser, the geological term, but is the name of the king of all the spouting springs in Iceland. Scores of these springs are located in this place but each has a special name which is appropriate to some physical peculiarity, such as Strokr, the churn, the tube where the water rises, falls and boils vigorously as the cream rose and fell with a frothy splutter in the ancient dash churn. When we think of the geysers of New Zealand, the Yellowstone National Park or any place in Iceland we must remember that they took this name from Geysir. There is only one Geysir.

The area dominated by the springs is directly at the foot of Laugarfell, indeed the south side of this mountain once formed a portion of the hot section. This portion of the mountain is void of every trace of vegetation, it is marked by ruined geyser mounds, smeared with sticky clay of many colors, punctured with tiny fumaroles whence issue wavering wands of steam, while in many places rivulets of hot water break through the pasty crust. The area of real activity is about 3,000 feet by 1,800 feet. The place is strewn with fragments of geyserite and bits of wood, straw and metal, thinly encrusted with the mineral deposit from the springs. Cast a stick, a straw or a bit of paper where the spray will fall on it and in a day it will have become petrified and cemented to the rock beneath. The entire substratum is intensely heated, the ground is in a constant tremor which often accelerates to a gentle quake. Far down below these hissing, silicious tubes there is unknown latent heat. For ages the thermal capacity of this place has been sufficient to eject untold millions of tons of superheated water, at frequent intervals, in large installments from these stupendous safety valves.

We roamed over the section several times with our attention always fixed on Geysir and ready at the slightest warning to dash madly towards it should it condescend to favor us with a manifestation of its power. In the meantime we plugged the tube of a little geyser with turf and then stood aside to listen to the heavy gurgle of reproach which rattled in its throat and to witness the vomiting of boiling water to a height of twenty-five feet. As soon as it got relief we plugged it up again and as often as we administered the turf so often did it eject it. It was midnight and Mrs. Russell had long since retired, but the weirdness of the place held sleep aloof from my eyes. In company with a German I wandered over the area again, stood on the rim of Geysir to watch our shadows in its depths hoping for the occasion to arise for us to chase those shadows headlong up the mountain slope. We returned to the little spouter and played like a couple of boys. As a parting shot we decided to give it an extra amount of turf and to ram it down the barrel with a pole. We did this with so much success that we waited long for the discharge but there was none. We had loaded it too well. The tube of our gun was too strong to burst, the wadding was packed too tightly for the powder to blow it out. Silently we sat by it for an hour when my companion said,—

“Geyser schlaft.”

To which I replied,—“Ich will schlafen.”

The day after the following it burst out with a fine jet of water at six in the morning and spouted without interruption till nine when we rode away. As we passed over the ridge we looked back and the last sight we had of this place was the top of a column of water pouring from this tube. The extra charge of turf was well worth the trouble.

Morning came but Geysir had not erupted. Its surface betrayed no signs of past disturbances and gave no promise for the future. From the neighboring farms we collected seventy pounds of bar soap which we cast into the center of the basin, where it immediately sank. We were told that during the day there would certainly be an eruption. The soap is kept here expressly for sale for this work. Ask an Icelander what the agency of the soap is and he will reply,—

“I do not know, it always does it and does it thoroughly.” I venture the following explanation. Recalling that the accepted idea of the interior of a geyser is that of a large chamber of heated rock nearly filled with water and that below the water line there is a tube which bends down then upward into a chamber in the rock. The water becomes superheated. The steam and other gases in the dome of the chamber are under terrific pressure on account of the great heat and the weight of the column of water above, (if one thinks of the geyser tube connecting the underground basin with the surface as the letter J). When the pressure in the dome over the water becomes greater than the downward force of the water in the long arm of the tube then there is an upward movement through the tube. The expanding steam throws out some of the water. This reduces the pressure on the superheated water in the basin and some of the water bursts into steam to continue the action. This process goes on till basin, tube, underground chamber and connecting tubes are empty. Distant and cooler underground waters now rush in freely to refill the system and time produces a repetition. It is easy to construct glass apparatus in the laboratory to demonstrate this phenomenon. But what of the soap? This substance is composed of materials which quickly break down into hydrocarbon gases and increase the pressure in the chamber, just like oil spurted into the superheater of a water gas machine.

Many of the boiling springs, spurting jets and fumaroles are alike in this locality but three of them deserve special notice.

Blesi, Blaze, as the white stripe in a horse’s face, is a charming grotto. It is a double basin connected with a tunnel just beneath a narrow bridge near the surface. These basins are about thirty feet deep. One is eighteen by twelve and the other thirty by twenty feet in the longest and shortest diameters respectively. The water is wonderfully transparent and the white silicious lining of the grottoes reflects from the sky the delicate shade of blue transforming it into a huge cavity of lapis lazuli. Blesi is the traveler’s friend. It provides hot water for the bath, cooks his food, warms his couch through the medium of the hot water bag and prepares his coffee. Many a leg of mutton, many a brace of birds and innumerable are the eggs that have been faithfully prepared with its friendly heat. It is an easy method of cooking. Fill a pail with eggs and submerge it till they are soft, medium or hard, the time required is the same as in the kitchen. Place the meat in a cloth bag and do the same. Dip up the water and pour it upon the freshly ground berries, lo! the coffee is prepared and your meal is ready. This spring never erupts but pours out a steady stream which flows down the slope to join the runway from Geysir.

Strokr is another hot spring with a tube ten feet in diameter and over forty feet deep. In former days it was most accommodating and would always give an exhibition of its powers if a couple of bushels of turf were thrown into the tube. The response came in from five to forty minutes. It usually threw out the turf and ejected a column of water upwards of a hundred feet. Again and again would it hurl out the boiling water until its underground system was exhausted. Some years since a party of gentlemen, French I believe, desirous of obtaining an extra high spout threw many stones into the tube on top of the turf. The geyser siphon was doubtless broken or at least fractured so that superheated steam can not be stored, for Strokr spouts no more. It boils furiously all the time with dense clouds of steam and the water rises and falls in the tube in the most violent manner. In looking into the tube one is impressed with the idea that there are safer places, as it seems if Strokr were about to mount into the sky to challenge Geysir which has so long held the palm.

Geysir is the main attraction. The first mention of this phenomenon in literature is in the History of Norway written by Saxo Gramaticus, who lived between 1150 and 1206, so that it has been active for over seven centuries. It has built for itself a mound of geyserite many feet above the level of the plain and has the appearance of an inverted oyster shell in its series of terraces. This mound increases with each eruption by the addition of a film of salts held in solution in the boiling water. The spring is in the form of a saucer with the inward sloping side at an angle of thirty degrees. The diameter of this saucer is nearly seventy feet and the saucer is a true circle. Within a saucer there is a depression at the bottom, a ring to hold the cup. Within the center of Geysir’s saucer there is an opening, ten feet in diameter, which extends straight down to the depth of eighty-four feet. Beyond this the plumb will not go. Whether there are deeper ramifications of tubes or not is a matter of conjecture unless the explanation of geyser action above offered is correct. Again, the shape of Geysir is that of a funnel, i. e. a tube running downward from a flaring reservoir at the top. During the irregular periods between the eruptions, the water wells upwards in the center and overflows the rim of the basin through a foot square opening in the side. This opening has been shaped by the farmer of Haukadalr to confine the escaping hot water to one channel. The water is heavily charged with minerals in solution. An English analysis of a gallon of the water yielded the following:—

During eruptions large volumes of carbon dioxid and some hydrogen sulfid and a little free hydrogen are emitted. In 1909 my maximum recording thermometer was lowered to a depth of eighty feet and the temperature was 110C., or 230 degrees on the Fahrenheit scale.

Words convey but a meager idea of the magnificence of this geyser during eruption, or the awe with which it inspires the witness of its extraordinary display of power. It was six-thirty in the evening, eight hours after we had administered the emetic of soap. Not a cloud dimmed the blueness of the sky and no air was stirring. The glaciers of Láng Jökull, the long ice-covered mountain, loomed beyond the plain of the Hvitá, White-River, the dome of Hekla, Hooded, had momentarily lost its cloud mantle, all the little geysers and fumaroles were boiling merrily and steaming furiously. Even quiet Blesi was sending up showers of carbon dioxid bubbles. The signs were favorable for an exhibition and the people were gathered close about the Inn in expectation. What the condition of the air has to do with the eruption, I do not suggest. Icelanders familiar with Geysir state that “when the wind is from the north there is never an eruption.” I can only add that during our first eighteen hours at this place we had a strong wind from the north and no eruption.

We were at supper. The ground trembled, the building vibrated and a dull rumbling reached the ears.

“Geysir! Geysir!” rose the cry from within and without the building. The supper was never finished. Johannes, who had been watching for these first signs ever since we had administered the emetic, met us as we sprang to the doorway. Everyone rushed to the elevation across from Geysir’s runway. Again the rumble, heavier than before. The water is agitated in the basin, it boils up suddenly, subsides, the earth beneath our feet trembles and a mass of steaming water rises in the center of the basin to an elevation of fifteen feet and overflows the rim with a noisy splash. Then all is quiet. Is this what we had travelled forty miles out of our way to see? Truly a great fuss for nothing. Is this the wonderful Geysir whose manifestation of power had caused the devout Henderson to fall upon his knees and to pour out his “soul in solemn adoration of the Almighty Author of nature, ‘who looketh on the earth, and it trembled; who toucheth the hills, and they smoke?’” Does Geysir demand more tribute in soap? A few moments of quiet expectation followed. Then, without further warning, a column of superheated water, ten feet in diameter, shot like a rocket into the air to the height of one hundred and twenty-five feet and the abysmal forces maintained that column for nine minutes. What a flood of water poured down the sloping cone! What a fountain! Mark Twain said that they “have real fountains in Europe but in America they only leak.” What would he have said could he have witnessed this display? The roar of falling water filled the air to the exclusion of all voices and flowed in hissing cascades down the slope, into the ravine and across the meadow to the river. The sheep fled before the advancing column of steam and from a distance gazed with a foolish stare at a spectacle that they had often witnessed. Volume upon volume of steam, like the cauliflower-shaped clouds of active Vesuvius, belched into the air expanding under the reduced pressure and filled the air to the shutting out of the sun. Fountains of foam well over the brink. Explosion follows explosion and still that lofty tower of boiling water stands erect and masses of water fall to earth with a terrific crash. The column wavers, totters, falls. The eruption is over, the steam clouds lift and we rush up the dripping slope of geyserite, step over the rim into the hot basin and peer down into these depths whence came those rivers of water. The heat penetrates the thick soles of the riding boots but we walk to the edge of the tube and gaze down into the sizzling throat of the monster. A mass of foam is over the bottom, eighty feet below. It rises, we watch its ascent of the tube with the pace of a fly up a wall. It reaches the junction of the tube with the bottom of the basin and we photograph it, just a mass of foam with ascending steam. It wells over into the basin and we retreat. Soon the basin is full and overflows normally and the only evidence of the change that has taken place is the dripping cone and the steam rising from the brook as it rushes to cool itself in the icy river.